#//given he's dead at the start of the series ^^'

[classygreydove]

kkob/obkk fic recs

5 kkob fics that are criminally underrated - obv we all love rocks fall; scene end, Kamui Blues, and New Recruit, (if you haven't read those, I highly recommend them) but these works deserve some appreciation too!

kakaobi fluff series by Eye_like_trauma - 6k, ONGOING

G, No Archive Warnings Apply. Hatake Kakashi/Uchiha Obito. Just a lot of fluff, crushes, and pining.

[dove's notes: Every single on of these one-shots is just precious. And also makes me laugh so hard. Peak content for this ship.]

2. Hey, Wouldn't It Be Mortifying If We Both Survived This? by Eye_like_trauma - 4k, COMPLETE

T, No Archive Warnings Apply. Hatake Kakashi/Uchiha Obito, Kakashi & Minato & Rin & Obito. Kannabi fix-it, love confessions, feelings realization, first kiss, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort

Obito can’t hear anything beyond the cave crumbling around them, thousands of tons of rock cascading down and crushing everything it can. Can’t see beyond the dust in the air, the vibrations of the world around him. Couldn’t, anyway, because he can barely keep his eyes open. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers into Kakashi’s hair. He knows Kakashi won’t hear him. Wouldn’t, even if he were conscious. That’s okay; the words are as much for him as they’re for Kakashi. He presses himself closer, focuses on the warmth of Kakashi as the world fades in and out, as every bit of remaining light is snuffed and he can feel debris falling on every side of them, huge and heavy and deadly, if they’re hit. He can’t feel Kakashi’s heart beat past the world falling in on itself, but he tells himself it’s there, tells himself that Kakashi’s not dead.

[dove's notes: literally my favorite confession fic. i laughed, cried a little, and felt many fuzzy feelings. bb tsundere kakashi is adorable.]

3. The Things We Found in the Ashes of Our World by shefrommo - 40k, ONGOING

M, Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. Hatake Kakashi/Uchiha Obito, Sukea/Tobi, strangers to friends to enemies, identity shenanigans

Ironically enough, Kakashi didn't start having treasonous thoughts until after he'd already committed treason. __ Or, during a mission gone wrong, Kakashi discovers Obito's alive. He never comes back from that mission. Five years later, Team Seven stumbles across a pair of Akatsuki members--both of whom are working under false identities, both of whom were declared dead years ago.

[dove's notes: Incomplete, but so so good. Tobi and Sukea (and their headspaces) are both very well-written, as is the relationship chemistry. The identity shenanigans are great.]

4. Quiet Revolutions by Anjelle - 68K, ONGOING

T, No Archive Warnings Apply. Hatake Kakashi/Uchiha Obito, Sakumo & Kakashi, Sakumo & Obito. Canon div, dogteeth!kk, Hidden Cloud Village worldbuilding, Identity Shenanigans, Secret Identity, anbu!obito, enemies to friends to lovers

Tensions are running high between Kumo and Konoha. Between the targeting of the Hyuga clan for their Byakugan and an unknown ANBU running interference on missions, their tentative alliance is strained and war is just one slip-up away. Not wanting any part in this, Obito is dragged into it anyway when he's given a mission to find out who instigated the attack. Instead, he gets more than he bargained for when a certain Kumo-nin lies in wait on the other side of Kamui. OR: Due to extenuating circumstances, Kakashi grows up in Kumo and decides that this strange, masked ANBU skulking around his village would make for a fun distraction from his boredom.

[dove's notes: I really enjoyed the dynamics here. obito is bamf but also an idiot. kakashi is bamf but also an idiot. so canon dynamic, pretty much. also identity intrigue, worldbuilding, this fic is full of good stuff.]

5. Truth and what it takes (and what it gives) - 11K, COMPLETE

M, Graphic Depictions of Violence. Hatake Kakashi/Uchiha Obito, TW for mentions of suicide/suicidal ideation, Hurt/Comfort, Blood & Gore

"Kakashi's pupils are wide and fixed, like those of dead animals. The Uchiha has never seen him with that expression before. Obito wonders if he’s dreaming it, then he notices the metallic edges around his frame. The sink. A mirror. He’s looking through Kakashi’s eyes."

[dove's notes: very good relationship study of obkk during kakashi's anbu era, and the writing style is riveting. Dark, so not for fluff fans.]

[serickswrites]

Lonely Place of Longing XVII

Master list link here (includes chapter links, summary, and character bios)

A/N: Alright friends, we have reached the end of yet another longer series. I really, really adored these characters. Like so much. So much to the point that I have completely plotted out (and started writing) the prequel as well as begun to plan a sequel! So there is a lot more Dylan, Halle, and Owen in the future!

And I hurt my own feelings with this series. So yeah, you can be mad at me. Just know that I am already suffering lol

Warnings: blood, wounds, unconsciousness, cpr, mcd, cruelty, grief, dissection mention, captivity, heartbreak

“No. NO. NO. Dylan! PLEASE! GOD NO!” Halle screamed as Dylan’s stuttering breath went out in a quiet exhale. She waited for him to take another wheezing breath. But none came. “Come on, love, come on. Breathe! You have to stay with me.” Halle slid her legs out from underneath Dylan’s body, knelt next to him, and quickly began compressions. “You can’t leave me! You can’t! I need you!”

Each word was punctuated by her pumping his chest. Her vision blurred as she sobbed. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be it. Dylan hadn’t meant any of it. He loved her. He saved her. He was dying. He couldn’t be dying.

But as Halle pumped harder and harder, longer and longer, Dylan didn’t take a breath. Didn’t gasp for air and open his eyes. He lay beneath her hands, body moving as she pumped, eyes closed, features slack. He was still except for Halle’s movement.

Something inside Halle’s chest broke. She couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t happening. She had failed him. She had failed him in so many ways. But he hadn’t failed her. She was safe. She was alive. “Please,” she sobbed as she stopped pumping his chest. “Please, come back.”

But no matter how much she begged, no matter how much she sobbed, Dylan did not come back. And so she sat, for who knew how long, with him, coated in his blood, knowing that this was all her fault. He was dead because of her. Because he loved her. Dylan was dead because of Halle.

Things became blurry after a while. People moved around her. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care that she had made a scene, had exposed her secret, trying to save Dylan. She didn’t care that the others knew how much she loved him. She didn’t care about anything because Dylan was gone.

Somehow, Halle found herself back at Tectus. She had refused to leave his side. Had refused to leave him behind. Though she realized that Thomas, that the Authority, wouldn’t have wanted his body in the wrong hands. Dylan wasn’t free, even in death, of Scutus.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to their empty room. Dried blood flaked from her finger onto the floor. He was never coming back. And she couldn’t even keep him safe after. Though she had tried.

“Do not let the body out of your sight.” Thomas had ordered Aubrey and Lysander to take Dylan’s body away. “The other weapon is a total loss. Totally completely destroyed. It will take us weeks to gather all the pieces. We need to preserve this body. Do not let it out of your sight. Do not let anything happen to it. This is our last chance to understand why this weapon is different. I will not let it ruin all that we have worked for.” Thomas glared at the stretcher. “It may have ended up wasting what it was given, wasting its life. I won’t let it be a waste now. Take it to the research lab. See what they need.”

“NO!” Halle had thrown herself at the stretcher Aubrey and Lysander carried. Someone had thrown the blanket over his face, but hadn’t bothered to be sure he was fully on the stretcher as one arm hung limply, swinging with the movement. “PLEASE!” She screamed as she took his cold hand in hers.

“Return to your quarters until either myself or Samuel summon you,” Thomas said. “We will be discussing your release of duty that Dylan bargained for. Remain in your quarters until you are summoned.”

Halle refused to move. Dylan had given so much for her. What did he give away so she could be free? What did it cost him? He would never be free, so why free her? She didn’t care. She couldn’t let them take Dylan away. She had to protect him. Had to save him of one last thing. She couldn’t let him go. She stared at the blanket, knowing what lay beneath. This wasn’t happening.

Aubrey shifted, trying to move the stretcher away from her. All Aubrey succeeded in doing was pulling the blanket off.

Dylan looked like he was sleeping, his features slack and peaceful. But as Halle fought more and more to stay, to keep his hand in her grip, more and more of the blanket slipped off until Dylan’s body was completely exposed once more. Until she could see the wounds that caused him to bleed out. Until she could see the wounds that he got trying to save her.

Dylan was dead.

Dylan was dead because of her.

Halle dropped to her knees as she began to sob once more. “I’m sorry. Please. Please, love. Please.”

“Take her to her quarters and see that she doesn’t leave,” Thomas ordered. Helena and Andrea stepped forward, ready escort Halle back to her quarters.

“NO!” She screamed as they hooked their arms underneath her arm pits. She fought with everything she had to keep from being separated from Dylan. She was never going to see him again.

“The weapon is dead. It’s useless now. Forget about it.” Helena hissed as she pulled harder on Halle.

“No! NO!” Halle wouldn’t let them talk about Dylan like that. They were all alive because of Dylan.

“You’re making a scene,” Andrea whispered in her ear. “Don’t make this any worse. You’re going to be court martialled if you don’t let go. Do you want his death to be in vain?”

She couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt full of lead. This was real. This was happening. Dylan was dead. Dylan was dead and it was her fault. This was because of her.

“They’re going to dissect the body. Do you want to see what they do to broken weapons in R & D?”

Halle felt nauseous. She was dizzy. She couldn’t see that. Couldn’t let them do that to Dylan. But as she watched Thomas glare at her, she realized she had no power. She dropped Dylan’s hand with a sob. She let Helena and Andrea escort her back. She could barely walk. Could barely breathe. Dylan was dead. Dylan was gone. Dylan died because of her. She didn’t want to be awake for any of it any longer. She flung herself onto the bed as she began to sob once more. Paper crinkled beneath her fingers.

Sweetheart. The outer flap of the envelope read. Dylan had such neat, distinctive writing, there was no mistaking it. Halle didn’t hesitate and ripped the paper from the envelope.

Sweetheart, I’m sorry I had to lie to you. I’m sorry I had to push you away. I thought it would keep you safe. I realize I was wrong now. I wish I had known it sooner. I wish I could have said all of this sooner. I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you.

Tears tracked down Halle’s cheeks. He had known. He had known that this was a suicide mission. And still he came for her. He had walked into the fire knowing he wouldn’t make it out, but that she would.

I was born over a century ago in a small country in the sea that no longer exists. I was poor. I was happy. I had a loving family. I had a life I loved. My world was small, but it was all that I knew. All that we knew. Owen and I were inseparable. Even when the war came we were always together. And when they burned our home to the ground, when the invaders had decimated and destroyed all that we knew, we still had each other.

We were taken back to the invaders’ home, Patricanus. The world was strange. So different from our own. Everything was cold, sterile. We lived in a land of greenery, of land and sea. And this was a dry, stale land. It’s since flourished into a greener place, or at least from what I’ve seen. But one hundred years ago, Patricanus was a desert waste land. And so the powers that be deemed it necessary to invade other places to learn how they cultivated the land. How they kept the land bearing life. And our home was the most fertile of all. I don’t know what they stole from us, but they stole us away, so perhaps that was part of it. I don’t know, it’s not something I ever learned the truth about.

I have never felt pain like I felt being imbued. Words don’t describe the process. My world had been destroyed and Scutus destroyed my body. Scutus destroyed Owen’s mind. There was nothing I could do. I was trapped. I was a prisoner. And I had to do as they ordered or they would destroy the one thing I had left. And so I sold my soul so that he could live. So that the one last thing of my home would remain. I sold the last part of my humanity so the inhuman bastard would live.

I regret that. I should have refused. I should have let them destroy him early. But I was young. I was naive. I thought I could change him back. Could bring him back. But all I brought was pain. I am a wretched, piteous creature, but he was even more so. Life was misery. Time passed so slowly

Until I met you. You breathed life into me after a century of no air. I felt myself coming back to life with you, Halle. You are the best part of my life. The greatest thing to happen to me. And so I wouldn’t take back one miserable moment of my wretched existence because I wouldn’t have met you.

Halle, I’m sorry I’m not here to tell you all of these things. I’m sorry I’m not here to watch you learn the truth, to give you the choice for the next part. We aren’t the only weapons, but you know that. But what you don’t know is that the Authority is the source of all weapons. They sell them to the highest bidder, keep them enslaved, keep them deep in the dark. I bargained for your freedom. You’re free, sweetheart. I only ask that you take the others with you. While I’ll never be able to take you to the sea, you can take them. Be free, Halle, and free the others.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Halle read and reread the letter a hundred times over. Patricanus was the aggressor. The Authority had destroyed a country. Had decimated a people. Had stolen them away and enslaved them. Dylan knew all of that. Knew that and didn’t tell her. Having this knowledge was dangerous. There was more than one reason they kept Dylan locked up and isolated. He was dangerous to the Authority, to Scutus, to the foundations of Patricanus. He knew too much. And he could have destroyed them all.

As Halle gathered what few belongings Dylan had left behind, she made a vow. She was leaving Tectus and so were all the other weapons. She was going to destroy Scutus and the Authority. She was going to ensure the world knew what evil lurked within. And she was going to free them all. For herself. For those that had been lost. But most of all because it was all that Dylan had wanted.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t free you. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I love you. I love you. I love you,” Halle whispered to the empty room. She was getting out of here. She was going to destroy the Authority, expose their secrets and skeletons. And she was getting all the weapons to freedom. Nothing was going to stand in her way.

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[bankofwildflowers]

I have just had thoughts.

We know that Thule will obviously feature again in The Wicked Powers. CC has said that the location of the black volume of the dead, as well as what happened to thule!simon, will be addressed. What i just realized after rereading TDA for the tenth time is that almost all the clues given so far relate to Thule.

The last king of Faerie? In Thule the Unseelie King united the courts and is currently ruling over them with Erec as his heir. And Julian told Thule!Livvy his true name before leaving. And Thule!Liivvy is around seventeen or eighteen, which is the age Kit and Ty will be in TWP. I cant help but assume that Kit and Ty will encounter Thule!Livvy at some point because they're around the same age- maybe by Kit and Ty somehow ending up in Thule!Faerie?

Also, Thule!Mark is missing and we can assume he's with the Wild Hunt in Faerie, which does not have the blight as the mortal world in Thule, meaning there's a strong chance that he and Janus (due to his extra angel blood) are literally the only two candidates for still retaining their Shadowhunter powers, which may tie in to the third book's title- The Last Shadowhunter. And obviously the second book is related to the epilogue of the Lost Book of the White, and the events of the Black Volume of the Dead.

Besides, the problem that Dru goes to Faerie for at the start of TLKoF? I bet it's Jaime being missing. CC said everyone's looking for a solution to the problem, so either everyone at this point knows about the missing Jaime and can't trace him in Faerie (because Kieran would know where he is on Unseelie lands), or it's another demonic problem. I bet the separate problem Kit and Ty are having is related to Livvy's ghost.

Also, remember the dreams Clary had in the early mortal instruments? Of her seeing Jace and Sebastian circle each other, Jace with white wings and Sebastian with white wings? Well, that didn't happen, but there IS someone who looks like Sebastian and has black wings- Ash. And conversely there IS someone who looks like Jace, too- Kit. Who hasn't sprouted white wings yet, but has fey heritage just like Ash. They're technically related, even- the Seelie Queen is Kit's great great great whatever grandmother, so they even partly trace the same lineage. Somehow I think the prophetic dreams Clary had were not of Jace and Sebastian, but Kit and Ash.

All this to say i have no idea how I'm going to wait 1.5 more years for TLKoF. Istg I'll have finished a PhD by the time this series finally ends

[oldestenemy]

Scion, At Rest - in which trust is unshakeable

welcome to me deciding to ignore time order for a moment and post a piece from the epilogue/companion series to Forever Onward, Scion Read on ao3 here <3

Eurydice Nightshade is in the midst of teaching a class about the important difference between historic names, titles, and true names. It’s one of their favorites. Something they remember fixating on for months when it had first been introduced to them—long ago as that now was.

“Professor?”

“Yes—Ironglade isn’t it?” One of Dorothy’s students, only recently starting to pick up Conjuration as a secondary.

“Do people have true names?”

“Everything has a true name—living or dead, though the dead are often unresponsive to non-necromantic influence outside specific circumstances—I can cover the intersections between the two another time—the living on the other hand, do have true names.”

“And they work the same?”

“Using a persons true name would give you complete control over them—similar to that of your summons to the monsters used in battle—assuming you have the power of will to exert that control.” A handful of the students go wide eyed before they finish, making the same jump that always gets made, that the everyday names they use could somehow be used against them. “Fortunately, given names and true names are not the same. A living person’s true name is more than just a word, it’s more than a summons, you must learn even your own through study and meditation. If I were to ask any of you what your true name is, you wouldn’t be able to answer me. It is also exceptionally difficult to acquire a true name belonging to another person without their permission and cooperation.”

“Do you know any?”

A pause while they consider Ironglade’s question, glancing around the class and realizing the little triad of chaos happens to be entirely present. If they feel up to dealing with the inevitable consequences—technically there was an opportunity for demonstration here.

Eurydice nods slowly before they speak, “Opalkeeper, go collect Professor Grimwater for me?”

“Dog what?”

“Darana.” They resist the urge to roll their eyes. This will be worth it.

“I’m going—I’m going!”

~*~

The door to Duncan’s classroom is swung open at full speed, revealing Darana Opalkeeper leant halfway in across the frame. “Daaaaaad—Professor Nightshade wants you for something in their class. The lesson is on True Names, so, what they call you in the privacy of your own home is not the subject of today”

“I’m not your father, Darana.” The response is an ingrained habit at this point, so often does some form of that joke leave the Conjuror’s mouth. He doesn’t grace the latter half of their statement with a response. Which is usually the correct choice. “Mistsong, keep an eye on your classmates until I’m back, no summoning anything until I am back in this room—I’ll know if you’ve lied to me.”

“Do you hear this shit?” Darana crows over their shoulder as Duncan moves past them into the courtyard, “Disowned! Orphaned even!”

“Nobody fucking believes that Daz!” Allison Ashwraith yells back, only to have Darana flip her off before they slam the classroom door, needing to jog to catch back up.

Duncan just shakes his head, taking a breath and training the slight smile back off of his face before Darana is close enough to see it. Titans sake, was this really a good idea? Out of every class this could have been for—was it necessary to choose one Opalkeeper was present for?

…though given their timeline, he wasn’t sure there was a class of Eurydice’s they weren’t in.

~*~

“I take it you have a good reason for interrupting my lecture, Professor Nightshade?” Duncan asks, voice carrying the level of exasperation they’d expected given the request.

Eurydice smiles and doesn’t answer, simply waits for Darana to get back to their seat, “Class, watch carefully.”

And the sound that leaves their mouth is not entirely a word, not fully, not in any language their students can absorb, and they reach out to Duncan’s mind. The pieces that make him up sitting at the forefront of their own, lining up and twisting with their own like puzzle pieces slotting together.

There is a moment of resistance, a soft telepathic really, Eurydice?

Their smile shifts into more of a smirk. You brought this on yourself.

There is a split second where they see a flash of annoyance in Duncan’s expression as they refuse to back down—it’s expected, there was no satisfaction if he didn’t push back at least a little—before his eyes unfocus, pupils blown so wide the grey had nearly disappeared behind them, then they return to normal and he’s given in. They feel his body like an extension of their own. The sharp edges of resistance where part of him is still trying to fight back, not exactly on purpose, more out of instinct. Self preservation.

The room is deathly silent.

None of their students daring even to breathe. Someday they may well regret this particular display falling during a class when they have all three of their most chaotic pupils there to witness it. But not right now.

When they speak again, Duncan follows suit in perfect time. Their words overlapping, not repetition, but complete unison. “True names are as much about respect as they are willpower and control. Especially with living things. The mind of a human person does not like being bent into shape by outside forces.” The odd sensation of sound vibrating through two heads, their own and his. One of the closest things they’d ever experienced to matching that internal echo Raven’s words used to carry. “You have to understand what, and in the case of a person—who—you are commanding. In the case of monsters and myths, you can study them to find answers, you can summon and entreat them outside the confines of battle, build your understanding, as you saw with our lesson on the Minotaur.”

A pause, they tilt their head slightly, one hand outstretched just to help with the focus. Words are easy, actions though—actions required a little more thought. There is more pushback, resistance like heavy duty elastic. “However,” just their own voice now, “once that control has been claimed—”

Admittedly, the spin looks more graceful than it does in their minds eye. Duncan is, after all, not a polar bear in a tutu. But the motion is still the same. Something they can pull from that is both easy to convey—and unlikely to happen under any normal circumstance.

“—it is exceptionally difficult to break from.”

“Holy shit.” Eurydice chances looking away just so that they don’t miss the wide eyed expression on Darana’s face. It’s worth it. On either side of their friend, Zinnia Thunderwhistle and Brecken Bittersweet seem equally enraptured by the display.

“There are, obviously, exceptions.” Eurydice continues, setting their focus back to Duncan, having him come forward until he’s level with them in front of their desk. “For example—impossibilities, I cannot ask him to sprout wings and fly expecting compliance. It’s not that I lack the drive to put behind the order—he simply lacks the ability to follow it.” A pause as they pull their sword from where it is typically sheathed on their hip. An older piece. Fitting here. Belonging to one of the paladins roaming the Labyrinth. “Another being something that would override the mind’s usual faculties—life or death, fight, flight, and freeze reactions do not play well with any form of compulsion—which is often what using the true name of a living person is closest to.”

A breath.

They are perfectly aware he’s capable of breaking this.

But this in particular is just on the edge of nerve wracking.

One strike, aimed well for the side of Duncan’s throat.

A feeling like glass shattering inside their skull.

The hand that catches the blade wreathed in Shadow, a sliver of the Sentinel called up to block it from his skin. A sharp twist and it’s wrenched fully from their grip. Grey eyes narrowed in irritation and focus.

“Welcome back, Professor Grimwater.” Eurydice has to bite back on the grin trying to break through their controlled expression. Settling into what is maybe an approximation of respectable mirth. “That was all, you’re welcome to return to your own classroom—provided you leave my sword behind.”

Read my other wiz fic here <3

[ravarui]

New Muse added (Request only):

Morzan from the book series Inheritance Cycle

Biography of him can be found here Temporary FC is S.ebastian S.tan.

[ssiegfriedsystem]

「A hundred years had passed. So, so much has changed in the world, but not as much to Kazukiー

And the golden vestiges of someone still donning an all too familiar scar, smiling on the back of his mind.」

[unproduciblesmackdown]

love this as posted by goosebumps completionist on twitter as a gtm:pota + gts (series (book) (i also saw the episode but it underwhelmed)) pota enjoyer and also to an extent goosebumps generally (i have only read so many & cue the variation within one zillion of them like "oh right i have only just rediscovered i Did read monster blood b/c a couple details Were familiar to me, but overall it was so unmemorable i forgot this")

noting any of the way being Undead works out here lmao like that basically you're alive and having a mostly typical time. but if you're a ghost you do have that ghost quest to get to, which is why you're a ghost. and if you're having a fully corporeal revived time (which ghosts mostly are. or entirely, as far as anyone ever knew or it was ever mentioned with phantom brian colsen out here) it is also just another tuesday....unless it's not! (welcome to dead house (need to kill some people to sustain you)) (a zombie in trouble (will have to attack with all your fury. do they kill people in a required supernatural way? that's their little secret)) also love the written Goosebumps Humor like this is so funny already. a zombie in trouble. i admit it.

[nightingale-prompts]

Danny lives in a horror movie-DC x DP prompt

Based on my favorite book series "tales from the gas station"

It's not every day that a mission requires the league to travel to middle America in a bid to obtain a highly cursed artifact but it certainly is today.

Locating the Seal of Silent Ashes was a task usually given to Justice League Dark but Constantine was currently busy. So that meant it was left to the poster boys to get this done. They dressed in civilian attire to investigate the last location of the seal starting with the first building on the edge of town. A small dusty gas station near the woods.

The inside had an awful smell, like death and cleaning fluid. The lights gave off a greenish-blue tint. Rats could be seen out of the corner of your eyes. Most of the chips were offbrand and crappy.

Behind the counter was the teenage boy chewing gum. He looked up at the group before going back to reading his book. He had clearly seen better days but didn't show signs of caring about the state of his hair or bags under his eyes. He drank his coffee.

The air felt off.

"Hey kiddo, do you mind giving us directions?" Clark started.

The kid narrowed his eyes as he popped his gum.

"You're not from here. That or you're from that cult in the woods. Listen I'm not joining. Seriously, cosmic nihilism and fatalism sounds doomed. Hey wait-" the teen checked his notes " No, the cult killed themselves in that mass suicide 2 weeks ago. I forgot, sorry."

The teen didn't say anything else as he went back to his book.

The horrified look of the adults shared was almost hilarious. At least to the teen if he looked up.

"Oh, and stay out of the woods. I don't want the police to come back and ask about who saw you last. Seriously if whatever is in there tears you apart I won't feel bad. I put those signs out forever ago and if I get one more girl covered in blood running in here screaming about her dead friends I'll get a headache." The teen shrugged turning the page.

"What do you mean?! Why would-?! Who's killing people?!" Barry asked frantically as Bruce serched for more reports of missing people in the area.

"I don't know. Why would I know? If you want to go in the cursed forest go ahead. I mean that's how they all die. It isn't my job to stop you. My job is to sit here and watch this store." The teen huffed in annoyance.

Before anymore questions were asked the signal of the radio was disrupted and a demonic howl screeched through the radio.

"God damnit. That cunt is back. Stay here." The teen growled as he grabbed his bat from under the counter and walked out the back door. "String bean! Get off the fucking roof you bastard! You know that radio is all I have here!"

A chattering laugh like a death rattle was heard and the sound of 2 sets of feet was heard on the roof then they lept down.

"Come here so I can beat you to death!" The teen ran around the building towards the front of the gas station chasing-what the fuck is that!

It was like a human that was twisted to crabwalk on all fours backwards. Its face was contorted into a black stretched-out smile with no teeth. It had no eyes just black sockets. All its limbs were stretched out to an extra meter in length. It was a skinwalker of some kind with chalk-white skin. It was skittering away from the teen who was swinging his bat at its head.

"Stop running! I told you before what would happen if I found you fucking with me again!" The boy meant it as he finally landed a hit and began wacking it over and over it.

The skin walker screeched and tried to run for its life but couldn't.

After reducing the monster into a black puddle the black-stained teen came back inside to sit back down not paying anymore to the monster blood he was covered in.

"Sorry about that. Most of the freaks around here have learned to stay away from this place. That one is new and he doesn't listen. You'd think they'd learn but Sting Bean thinks he can torment me. Petty bastard." The teen sighed "anyways are going to buy anything or are you going to waste what oxygen we get in here with this shitty ventilation.

Diana couldn't help but admire the boldness of the boy. He had no hesitation or fear against the beasts of this area even if was crude.

"Does Constantine have a cousin or something? Just a more angry one" Barry whispered to Hal.

[criminalamnesia]

Traitor part 8

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

here it is everyone :)) took me forever but it’s finally here! now I can disappear in peace lol. I’ll proofread everything later, but I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations. thank you all for the love you’ve given this series. I hope this gives you some closure.

let me know if you want any drabbles from the series <3

thank you again!

after kyle finally leaves you alone, you slink back against the door, shutting your eyes so tightly stars dot your vision.

it never ends, does it?

apologies. worry. sympathy. pity.

it was in each of their eyes— the one-four-one. each of them trying to mask their pity for you behind sickening sympathy. you were exhausted of that look— not just from them, but from everyone you had walked past or looked at since everything had happened.

you open your eyes, scanning the room. what once had been a haven had become a hell. shattered glass sprinkled the floor near the mirror. clothes were still strewn about. you hadn’t bothered picking up what had been disturbed.

you’d be gone too soon for it to matter.

your phone rings then, the screen lighting up in the dimly lit room. you let the ring tone play for a second longer before you’re moving, reaching for the device on your nightstand.

it’s kate, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“hello?” you say as you answer the call.

“it’s kate,” comes the woman’s familiar voice through the speaker. “im on my way to base. should be there by tomorrow.”

you startle, eyebrows raising in confusion. “you’re coming here? why?”

you hear her sigh. “we can talk about it tomorrow. I need to meet with john, anyways. two birds, one stone and all that.” she tells you.

“can you at least tell me if the paper work is all set for my transfer?” you ask.

she doesn’t answer for a moment, and then:

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, sergeant. get some rest. you sound like you need it.”

you hear a click, and then the line goes dead. you furrow your brows as you look down at the phone in your hand.

why on earth would she come all the way here just to talk?

your mind is moving a mile a minute, and suddenly, it clicks.

laswell is coming here to do damage control.

you huff a mirthless laugh, dropping your phone as your hands come up to run through your hair.

you weren’t being reassigned. you were being discharged.

but was it at her insistence, or someone else’s?

you whip around, wrenching open the door and storming down the hall to price’s office. those you pass in the hallway give you bewildered stares, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re still in that damned robe, but you’re on a mission.

and when you start something, you see it through.

you don’t bother knocking as you reach price’s door. instead, you barge into the office, effectively interrupting an argument between price and simon. their voices die off, heads turning to appraise who had barged in.

price’s eyes widen at the sight of you, but simon’s face is as unreadable as always. the door clicks shut behind you, and you stalk towards the two men, your fists clenched as you seethe.

“you motherfuckers,” you hurl the words at them, “you fucking knew. you knew.”

“love, what are you talkin’ about?” price questions, his brows furrowed as he turns to you.

“laswell,” you say, and price’s eyes widen. he knows. and now he knows you know.

“whatever she told you—”

“she didn’t tell me shit,” you huff. “I figured it out. why the fuck else would she come here just to talk? she’s playing fucking babysitter, isn’t she?”

price doesn’t speak. your gaze flits to simon’s.

“I’m sure you were rooting for this outcome, weren’t you? couldn’t finish me off in that fucking room, but hey, this is just as good, isn’t it? sending me back to fucking nothing.”

“this job is my life,” you turn your attention back to the captain. “and you fuckers just can’t stop ruining it, can you?” your voice is raising, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’re becoming hysteric.

“all because of a fucking lie!” you’re yelling now, jabbing a finger into the chest of your former captain.

“calm down,” the sound of simon’s rough baritone leads your head to snap toward him. your eyes are wide, fury and terror blazing in them.

and he expects you to let loose. scream and hit and scream some more. but you don’t.

you stand there and you stare at him with those wide eyes. the rest of the room— hell, the world falls away— and it’s just him and you.

like it was on patrol during countless nights, your bare fingers dancing over his gloved hands as you prattled on about a show you liked.

on countless nights curled up in his bed, your back to him, pressed so close he could feel the beat of your heart in his own chest. his arms wrapped around you, one of your fingers lazily tracing the ink on his forearm. no words spoken, yet so much said.

in the field, when you and johnny bicker over comms and he takes your side. when you take a bullet to the shoulder and he holds pressure on it until evac arrives.

when he makes eye contact with you as you pin kyle to the training mat, finally able to overcome his strength. when price tells him you’re the rat and he doesn’t want to believe it.

it’s just him and you. a lieutenant and his sergeant. but it’s more than that.

it’s a deep understanding of this job being your life. of losing everything and everyone you hold dear. of finding family again in this team, and doing whatever it takes to keep that family safe.

and he fully realizes, then, what you have been condemned to.

what they condemned you to.

what he condemned you to.

he breaks from his thoughts as you slam your fist into his jaw.

price’s eyes widen, his feet carrying him forward to intervene, but simon waves him off as he cradles a hand to his jaw.

“let ‘em,” he grunts out, and price looks bewildered, but he nods. he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides, and he lets you strike again.

“fuck you,” you seethe, and despite your best efforts, your voice cracks. emotion seeps in, and your eyes are wet as you swipe a leg out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

he falls with no grace, knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. you’d cringe if this were any other circumstance.

instead, you deliver another blow, cracking his nose with the force of it. blood sprays out and wets your robe.

“ghost—” price begins from somewhere off to the side, but simon just shakes his head.

“fuck you, simon! fuck you!” you scream at him, and your fists are flying blindly as tears cloud your eyes.

and he just takes the hits. you subconsciously register the sound of the office door squeaking as it opens and quickly closes. price didn’t want to be a bystander any longer, it seems.

but he still didn’t jump in. was it because of ghost’s insistence? or because your captain didn’t want to watch one of his soldiers finally snap?

you finally stop yourself when blood drips from your knuckles. unsurprisingly, they’ve split again. there’s no doubt in your mind that there will be little scars between each of them once they’ve healed.

more to add to the reminder of everything. god, at this point you knew you’d never forget it even if you wanted to. even if you tried to. even if you did for a brief moment, those little white lines— discolored and jagged skin in the place of what should be smooth and unmarred, would be your reminder.

blood pools on the floor, a mix of yours and simon’s. you pay it no mind as you wipe the backs of your hands on your completely ruined robe. good— now you had a great excuse to throw the damned thing away.

you would’ve thrown it away anyways.

you bring your hands to your eyes, wiping away tears that had freed themselves their cage. you see simon clearly then, his face bloodied and yet still beautiful in that way of his. his nose is obviously broken. lacerations above his eye and on his cheekbones.

his eyes are staring back you, the icy blue of them never more intense than now.

you heave in your breaths as you look at him. his split lip cracks further as he opens his mouth.

“done?”

and you don’t have anything left to give, so you nod. then you slump to your knees, down onto his level, and you don’t look away from what you’ve done.

it’s no different than what you did to the doctor, or to countless enemies in the field. but, at the same time, it is different.

because it’s him, and he let you do this. he could have easily stopped you. he’d shown his strength against you numerous times on the sparring mat, picking you up and tossing you around with ease.

and yet he didn’t stop you.

“why?” you ask him, and it’s a loaded question. your voice is a watery tremble, and the word comes out as a whisper, but he doesn’t shy away.

he shrugs. “you needed it.”

he’s focusing on one aspect of the question— on why he let you hit him. you open your mouth to respond, but he surprises you by speaking again.

“least I could do,” he says.

you close your mouth, your chapped lips pressed into a thin line. why is he doing this now? saying this now? what changed?

“is it your fault, then? that I’m being discharged?” you find yourself asking, and you’re not sure if you want to know the answer.

maybe you just want a reason to hate him more.

“no,” he says, and you know he means it.

he never lied to you, regardless of any pain it may have saved. it was one of the things you had loved about him.

he sighs. “I didn’t want you to go.”

that surprises you. simon was never one to freely speak on his feelings. he had opened up to you during your relationship, but it was as if there was always an invisible line he could never cross. never did he utter the complete truth to his thoughts or feelings. and you had accepted that— because that is who he was.

and you would take him with all his walls if it just meant that you could have him.

“I don’t want you to.” he corrects himself.

the room falls silent around you. the part of you that still holds love for him yearns for his embrace at this moment. but you push that side of you down. you will not go crawling back, not after what happened.

“you’ve been an asshole,” you say, and he gives a curt nod.

“probably.” he concedes. “but I wouldn’ take anythin’ back. I told you, I meant what I said.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask. god, he has a horrible way with words.

“no,” he tells you. “nothin’ I can say can do that.”

you snort. you fall back on you haunches, your hands in your lap as you look at him.

“I am never going to forgive you,” you tell him, words full of so much hurt.

he nods again. “I know. I don’ blame you. don’ expect you to, neither.”

“but I’m…” he starts, and his lips crease in a frown. “im sorry.”

you just look at him. perhaps you had wanted an apology at one moment in time, but now? now none of it mattered.

“I hope so,” you tell him. you move to stand, and he remains still. he hasn’t moved an inch since you’d finished your assault.

“I hope you feel this way for the rest of your lonely life. I hope that you never forget what you did to me, and I hope that it keeps you up at night. because I can tell you with certainty that I will never forget. and I hope the others remember, too. I hope it tears you all apart from the inside. that it follows you around for the rest of your career.”

you breathe in, then out. “and I hope no one ever gives you the chances I did,” your voice is soft. “because I would never wish what you did to me on the next person you think you love.”

his face conveys no emotion other than the small frown still on his lips. his eyes, so cold, have softened the tiniest bit. you used to love when you could bring out that softness inside of him. when it was just the two of you, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

those memories would suffocate you if you let them. what could’ve been will suffocate you. you refuse to let it.

you turn and stalk towards the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. you open it, stepping out into the hallway, coming face-to-face with the rest of the one-four-one.

their eyes are all wide as they take you in. your bloodied hands and robe. the dried tear streaks on your cheeks. you pull the door shut behind you before you speak.

“i don’t care to speak to kate,” you say to price, your eyes meeting his. “fuck her for not giving me a chance. and fuck you for laying down like a damn dog and not fighting for your fucking team.”

you turn to johnny next. “you shove your sorries up your ass, mactavish. I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your pity. I hope your regret eats you alive.”

finally, kyle. “and you,” you glare at him. “if anyone other than simon should’ve defended me, it should’ve been you. I met you first, kyle. you were my closest friend, my brother. and you turned out to be just another fucking lap dog.”

you shake your head, blinking away hot tears. “I want you to get me temporary housing and a car because that’s the least you owe me, after ruining my life. and I don’t want to hear from any of you ever again. if I do, I guarantee you I will not show you the mercy you think you showed me when you had me tied up in that chair.”

none of them spoke, and you didn’t give them a chance to as you pushed past them, heading back toward your room to change.

a yellow cab retrieves you from base the next morning before kate arrives. it’s still dark outside when you leave the shelter that had once been home. rain pours down around you, a raging storm hanging overhead as it had all night prior. perhaps it was a reflection of your mood. you liked to think that it was.

you toss your duffle bag into the trunk, shutting it before climbing into the back seat. you hadn’t bothered to pack anything other than a few pairs of clothes you’d recovered from the floor of your room. everything else could be trashed, especially anything the boys had given you.

the driver doesn’t speak— price had given him all the information he needed— and paid him— before he’d fetched you. it seems your final outburst— and beating simon to a pulp— had finally put some urgency in his movements.

none of them had seen you off, per your request. you thought it was the least they could do for you after continuously disrespecting your boundaries.

(unbeknownst to you, simon had watched you leave through a window.)

the driver turned up the music— some pop song you didn’t know the name of— and you slumped in your seat, your head turned toward the window as you watched the rain race down it.

you found yourself drifting off quickly, and you didn’t try to fight it. you’re finally free of that place and the men you thought were your family. free of the anxiety of seeing them around every corner. free of the hate that sparked in your heart every time you heard their voices.

you sleep, and for the first time since before everything, it’s peaceful.

you wake to the taxi driver talking to you.

“we’re here,” he says, knocking on the glass separating the front and back seats. “can you get out now? I gotta get home. it’s my wife’s birthday.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, nodding before you even register what he’s saying. “sorry,” you mumble as you fumble with the seat belt.

you slip from the car, your boots splashing in a muddy puddle. you grimace as the murky water seeps in, wetting your socks.

you trudge around to the back of the car, opening the trunk and retrieving your bag. you’ve just shut the trunk and stepped back when the car is driving off, kicking up mud that further dirties your boots and jeans.

you pay it little mind as you look at the small cottage before you.

nestled between some trees, it’s beautiful. a shingled roof. light blue paneled siding. a small front porch with a rocking chair and a bench swing. a beautiful dark blue door.

your favorite flowers live in the flower beds surrounding what you can see of the house. it makes you wonder if its a simple coincidence or if simon or price planned it.

how long have they known that you would have to come here? that you would have no where else to go except for where they put you?

you vowed that this house would just be temporary. you would get away from it as soon as possible, putting the rest of the one-four-one behind you. you didn’t want any of them knowing where to find you.

the rain slows to a sad drizzle. drops prick your skin as you make no effort to avoid puddles, splashing carelessly to the front door. you can hear birds beginning to chirp, slipping out of their hiding places as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the earth once more.

a new beginning, you think.

you reach a hand toward the door knob, twisting it open and pushing inside. it’s a cozy little place with wood floors and a brick fireplace. it’s furnished, but there’s no personality to it. it clearly hasn’t been somebody’s home.

the door clicks shut behind you as you toe off your boots and drop your duffle by the door. as you nudge your boots out of the way with a foot, you notice an envelope on the floor.

eyebrows scrunched in confusion, you lean down and scoop it up. your name is written on the front in a scrawl you don’t recognize.

who else knows you’re here?

perhaps you’ll need to leave sooner than you thought.

you push your thumb under the seam, ripping it open with little finesse. inside is a typed letter. it’s an offer, you realize. a job offer.

its got an american stamp on it, and its signed by a phillip graves.

a new beginning indeed.

[mutable-manifestation]

When the password doesn't work, first instinct is either "Babs/Tucker locked me out for enrichment reasons" or "must've changed it sometime in the past..63 hours. oops" and in either the case the follow-up instinct is "time to break into my own laptop again I guess."

They both don't notice the different layouts - Danny has to work on that paper, and he knows as soon as he's back at his dorm (let's say college au) he simply will not be able to stay awake any longer.

Tim has to draft a PowerPoint for a WE meeting scheduled not 5 hours after that, and figures if he bunkers down he can get in a quick nap in the board room before people actually start arriving.

So they both immediately open a document and get typing.

Tim does not notice until later that night, when Damian makes a passing comment about a "new space sticker" on his laptop and Tim - who has since had a full 3 hours of sleep - is suddenly hit by all of the (numerous) ways in which this is clearly Not His Laptop)

It is, instead of black, a very dark shade of purple. It has a Nasa sticker on the back with a nebula in place of the usual blues stars background. Opening it again, he realizes what he'd thought were spots swimming in his vision were actually very tiny dots of lights in random places on the keyboard.

Danny only realizes the next morning, and calls Tucker to remote-fry his info (he keeps backups for everything important, but he does not need some of those files getting out, given that his ghost catalogue includes him. It's very encrypted, but still).

Tim, for his part, has already had plenty of time to access, copy (just in case, and start reading said files (he had to figure out who owned the thing! ...And he was maybe feeling nosy. But look! Ghost stuff! Now he has to know more!). So he only slightly surprised when the laptop suddenly died.

Irrecoverably, he found after cracking it open.

Danny, of course, starts hacking all of the encrypted files on not his computer - gotta know who it belongs to! And all these layers of protection! It's good hacking practice! For fighting Technus! Totally just that and not nosiness, pssh whaaaattt.

Of course once they both start finding Bat & Ghost stuff... the Need To Know hits an all time high.

They both manage to find out each other's favorite times to be at that coffee shop (both are regulars - Danny knowing the details via celebrity news & Tim through hacking the cameras).

They both start going to the coffee shop at the others' usual times, with laptop (or backed up data) and questions along with them.

Their usual times are completely different & they keep missing each other.

They both know who each other are, of course, but Tim is trying to play the "totally normal civilian" angle on the chance this guy doesn't know enough to get through his encryptions (and given Danny learned everything from Tuck & never flaunts it's a reasonable assumption, even if his paranoia only allows it to be a hope) and Danny is trying to play the "unsuspicious college student" angle on the off chance the bats didn't take one look at the laptop & decide it wasn't invasion of privacy time (a slim hope, given that that's exactly what he did. But as the saying goes: deny, deny, deny).

Danny and Tim are both at:

- same coffee shop

- hospital levels of sleep deprivation

- a delusional lack of awareness

where they accidentally slide into the other persons booth and take the other persons laptop; fully not registering the extent of what they’re doing.

Big issues:

- Tim has Top Secret WE documents and batfiles on that computer

- Danny has a majority of his ghost catalog on that computer.

[pathologicalreid]

for the fear of falling apart | part two

returning to Everett Lynch's case, you try to redefine normalcy with Spencer and JJ, but Grace Lynch has other plans for you

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | epilogue

series masterlist

who? spencer reid x jareau!reader category: angst, hurt/comfort content warnings: gun violence, spoilers/references to: 9x6 "in the blood", 9x14 "200", 9x23 "angels", 9x24 "demons", 13x22 "believer", 14x1 "300", 14x15 "truth or dare". rewrite of 15x1 "under the skin", 15x2 "awakenings". a lot of dialogue is pulled directly from the show. hospitals/medical information. diana's alzheimers. marriage talk. roslyn's suicide. the parentification of jennifer jareau. mommy AND daddy issues. fear of drowning. word count: 7.48k a/n: it's two days late, but it's three times longer than part one. welcome to the abyss of my brain. it's scary in here.

Your name was being called. First, it felt far away, slowly coming closer and closer, lifting you to the surface as if you were being pulled. The sound was muffled until you broke through the barrier, a female voice clearly called your name, prompting your eyes to fly open, and there you were, sitting up on Penelope’s velvet couch, cocooned in a crocheted blanket with what was sure to be a remarkable bedhead.

Lifting your hand and placing it over your racing heart, you looked up at Penelope, the blue streak that you had redone for her last night prominent against her blonde hair. “Hey,” you said, widening your eyes and letting the blanket fall from your shoulders.

She crooked a brow at you suspiciously. For someone who wasn’t a profiler, she did have a knack for reading people, but you supposed it came with the territory. “My darling girl, you are always more than welcome to sleep on my couch, it’s a wonderful couch, I have spent my fair share of nights sleeping on it,” she rambled, sitting down next to you and taking your hands in hers. “You’re hiding,” she told you softly, “What are you hiding from?”

Penelope reached out to you, sweeping a messy strand of hair behind your ear as her big, brown eyes looked at you sympathetically. The gesture and the way she was speaking to you nearly approached being sisterly. At the idea of developing a supplemental sororal relationship with the technical analyst, you pulled away from her. You shook your head, “I’m not hiding,” you told her simply, leaving her with a half-truth as you stood up and began folding the blanket that had kept you warm overnight.

Nodding incredulously, she looked up at you, “If your Luddite boyfriend is blowing up my phone, then something has to be going on.” Her tone was urgent, but she stayed seated, giving you an advantage.

“Nothing’s wrong, Pen,” you reassured her, shaking your head and shrugging simultaneously.

Her face filled with doubt, glancing over at your cellphone as it buzzed on the coffee table, Spencer’s contact flashing on the touchscreen as you ignored the call. “Why didn’t you tell him you were staying with me last night?”

Pressing your lips in a thin white line, you briefly considered coming clean. You envisioned the truth coming out of you in puddles, everything you had been holding close to your chest for the last month pouring out like alphabet soup, but Penelope didn’t deserve that burden. “I just forgot,” you told her, watching the screen go dark.

Spencer was a worrier by the influence of his environment. Adamantly against getting a new phone, he couldn’t see your location at any given moment. His first course of action was usually calling your sister before resorting to Penelope, who not only has your location on her phone but also has access to your location in the bureau database. It wasn’t a fault of his, members of the BAU did have a tendency to disappear in the dead of the night.

She urged you to call him back as her phone started going off, her shoulders slumping forward, a tell-tale sign that the BAU was being pulled in on a case. If you were lucky, you would be able to slip through the cracks, claiming to put all of your focus into the case so that you didn’t need to have an in-depth conversation with your boyfriend. Or your sister, for that matter.

“Where are we headed?” You asked, rolling up your sleeves and crossing your arms in front of your stomach.

Penelope frowned at the tiny screen in front of her, “Baltimore,” she said hesitantly, “Uh, we gotta go. I’ll drive? You can call Spencer on the way,” she suggested before bolting into the bathroom.

You ended up avoiding the call to Spencer yet again, claiming you’d see him at the office anyway, and instead opening yourself up to a barrage of questions.

Was there cheating? Are you pregnant? Were you pregnant? Did he propose? Did you say no? Did you say yes?

The two of you parted as she went to prepare files and you waltzed into the bullpen, clocking the vase of flowers on your desk immediately. They, of course, weren’t just flowers, but a carefully calculated decision made to try and get into your good graces. This was the fifth vase that had been delivered in the last month.

First, there were honeysuckles, a symbol of devoted affection. Red carnations told you that his heart ached for you. A bouquet of daisies because he truly loved you. Last week, white lilies were left on your desk, a symbol of pure love.

Now, a bunch of apple blossoms sat on your desk, telling you that he preferred you before anyone else. How poignant.

Your eyes burned as you looked around the bullpen, hoping he was around so you could return the flowers to him, but the only people you saw were Emily and Rossi, sequestered in her office in the middle of what seemed to be a tense discussion. Choosing to ignore the flowers, you walked over to your desk, tucking your go-bag underneath and starting to power up your computer.

“Hey, Y/N?” Emily called from her office, “Can you head to the file room and pull everything from the Lynch case?” She didn’t even wait for an answer before closing the door again.

Concerned, you turned around and started making your way to the file room. If Everett Lynch was back, that would explain the worried look on Penelope’s face when the case came in. Even more, that would explain why Emily and Rossi were hidden in her office. Every member of the team wanted to see Lynch locked up for what he’s done, but for Dave it was personal.

Opening the file room, you pulled open the drawer of active cases from the past three months, starting to strip the drawer of anything even remotely related to Everett Lynch. The revelation that Grace was his daughter took everyone by surprise, but Spencer still felt responsible for Luke getting knifed. You should talk to him about it, you thought to yourself, if he didn’t talk about it, he’d just continue to internalize it.

“I need to talk to you,” a voice said suddenly from behind you, jolting you away from your train of thought. Spinning on your heel, you looked at Spencer.

Alarmed, you huffed, “You scared me,” you informed him, clutching the files close to your chest as you studied his stature. He looked fine, his hair was a bit of a mess, but he was wearing the red cardigan that you had gotten him for Christmas last year. You didn’t even want to begin to consider the implications of his outfit choice.

He furrowed his brows at you, “I scared you? You disappeared last night without a word, and I scared you?” There wasn’t even a hint of anger in his voice, instead, his words dripped in sweet melancholy, and you couldn’t look away from him.

You thought about your sister, snatched from the nation’s capital in the middle of the night as vengeance for her work with the CIA. Spencer and Penelope, both taken from what should have been a secure FBI building by a cult that bore a decade-long grudge against the BAU. You had frightened him, probably tripping his overactive mind into believing you were destined to meet a similar fate – dying in a warehouse somewhere. Blinking absently, you shook your head at him, “I’m sorry,” you told him, and you meant it.

“You’re punishing me,” he accused, crossing his arms in front of his chest before quickly dropping them, being hypervigilant about his body language.

Skimming your tongue over the backs of your teeth nervously, you hesitantly met his gaze. He seemed to be convinced that you were punishing him for the events that had taken place last month, but you were inclined to believe that you were punishing yourself, he was caught in your crossfire. “It’s not a punishment, Spence,” you whispered, watching how his brown eyes shone under the fluorescent lights.

His shoulders dropped, disappointment plain on his face, “I missed you at the baby shower,” he confessed.

“Sprinkle,” you corrected.

“Semantics,” he retorted, and it almost brought a smile to your face.

You looked down at the files in your arms, not even realizing that you had been white-knuckling the classified information, “I was there,” you disputed. “I saw you. I brought the gift and put both of our names on it. What more could I have done?”

Rolling his eyes, he gave you a tilted look, “Standing together in the group photo would’ve been nice.”

In response, you straightened up your back, “Ah, you were too busy standing with my sister,” you quipped, bringing the conversation back to the root of the conflict.

“Will you come home tonight? Stay with me?” Your heart clenched at his question.

Hesitantly, you nodded, “I’ll be there,” you assured him, securing the last of the files before sneaking around him, skillfully avoiding the remainder of your team as you made your way to the roundtable room.

“I’m worried about Dave,” you whispered, looking at the other end of the couch at your boyfriend, the two of you dressed in pajamas, your old Georgetown sweatshirt frayed at the cuffs, but it remained your favorite.

The orange print of his Caltech t-shirt was peeling up on the edges, sometimes, at night, you’d pick at the emblem – it drove Spencer crazy, especially when he woke up in a pile of picked vinyl. His mug was carefully resting in his hands as the two of you had a nighttime cup of tea, something you used to do when you had just started dating, and that you decided to try to bring back – chamomile for you, lavender for him. “I talked to him tonight,” he told you, turning to face you, “He’s.. he’ll be fine. He has Krystall.”

And I have you, you thought to yourself, lifting your mug to your lips and taking a sip. Sometimes you felt special for getting this side of Spencer, the ratty college t-shirt and flannel pajama pants that he wore while lounging on the worn leather couch.

“Do you want to go to sleep?” He asked when you didn’t respond, leaning forward and setting his mug on the coffee table.

Shaking your head, you followed suit, setting your mug on a coaster next to his before crawling closer to him on the couch, taking him by surprise. “Not yet,” you whispered, sitting down next to him, relieved when he responded by putting an arm around you. “I’m not mad at you,” you told him, “I just needed time.”

His arm was warm and familiar over your shoulders, having the same effect as a weighted blanket, calming you down with a simple touch. “To think,” he said, “you keep saying that. Are you… do you need more time?”

You closed your eyes, leaning into him, “I don’t think so, but I’m,” you faltered, frowning, “I’m having a hard time talking to my sister.” It wasn’t a secret that there had been some sort of falling out between the Jareau sisters, but the reasoning behind the rift remained a mystery to most people.

“I am too,” he admitted, skimming his fingertips up and down your arm. “I keep recalling everything that happened, and I don’t fully understand how everything got so messed up.

Raising your eyebrows, you remained in the crook of his arm, “People say a lot of things with a gun to their head.”

What you hadn’t considered was that following her admission, your sister would avoid Spencer. When you decided to avoid both of them, you had no idea what you were taking from him. “What would your truth have been?”

“I’m afraid that everything surrounding me is destined to fall apart,” you admitted. “I was brought into my family in an attempt to rescue my parents’ marriage, but it didn’t work.” Your sister slit her wrists open when you were only four years old, but somehow your father had put her death on your shoulders. JJ left home as soon as she could, leaving you at twelve years old with your grief-stricken mother, who had spent the last several decades waiting for the day her daughters would all be reunited.

Spencer was quiet for a while before responding to you, “We should go to bed.”

He was probably right, the team was expected to be in early tomorrow morning. After leaving well past dark, the last thing you wanted to think about was going back in before the sun had a chance to rise. “Wait,” you said, “What’s your truth?”

Briefly, his eyes flickered, looking down the length of your body, “My truth is that I’m tired, we should go to sleep,” he told you, herding you toward your shared bedroom.

“Same time tomorrow?” You asked, walking through the bedroom and into the ensuite, grabbing your toothbrush off the counter.

Nodding, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, “I’ll be there.”

Maybe you should’ve taken it as a sign that you were unphased by the revelation of a crazy doctor with a fetish for skinning people. The world had strange ways of telling you that you needed to take a step back, for every sign you had been given, you took a step forward. That was how you ended up in the backseat of an SUV with your sister at the wheel and Spencer in the passenger seat.

Everett Lynch had invaded the BAU’s territory, coming in like an infestation in the district, and he was trying to break his daughter Grace out of jail. You heard through the phone that they were scrambling tactics, using the walkie-talkies in the U.S. Attorney building to prevent their own capture.

The car came to a screeching halt, and the three of you piled out, “There’s no time,” your sister said, looking around, “We’ll cover this one,” she informed Spencer, looking back at you as you adjusted the strap of your Kevlar.

“I’ll take the garage on Piedmont and 10th,” Spencer responded dutifully, nodding at the both of you before turning around and running to the parking garage two blocks over.

You and your sister started to make your way into the larger of the two parking garages, both of you pulling your firearms and pointing them down, keeping yourselves aware of your surroundings. There was movement in front of you, two bodies moving toward a white van with federal plates – the Lynch’s. “Everett Lynch,” you called out, “Drop your weapon and put your hands up, now!”

The man in front of you – the so-called Chameleon – scoffed in disbelief, “Take it easy. There’s no reason to gun down a daddy in front of his little girl, right?” You kept your Glock aimed at him, watching intently as he carefully set his gun on the ground. Sirens started going off in your head, a premonition of things to come.

“Alright,” JJ shouted, “Kick it over. Grace, you too. Drop your backpack and let me see your hands. Come on, now!”

Putting her hands up, Grace let her backpack fall to the ground in a heap of fabric, you kept your gun trained on them as JJ lunged to the side, reaching over to pick up Everett’s gun from the ground. “Grace!” You shouted, watching the girl bring her hands down as she reached for something, “Put your hands back up!”

It was a split-second decision, but you watched as Grace lifted that gun in her hands, and you jumped. You knocked your sister over as three shots rang through the air, the first one grazed her arm. The next two lodged themselves in your side as the two of you fell to the ground, your body rolling along the ground as the father-daughter duo loaded themselves in the van before driving off.

JJ grabbed her weapon and shot after them, hoping to blow out one of their tires or at the very least slow them down, but with only one good arm, her aim was off. She scrambled to her feet, “Come on, Y/N,” she huffed, not checking behind her before running out of the parking garage.

You wanted nothing more than to follow her. Being angry wasn’t worth it anymore, you couldn’t freeze out your older sister anymore. You tried to breathe, you tried to call after her, but when you opened your mouth, the only thing that came out was blood.

For your entire life, you had followed her. When asked what you wanted to be when you grew up, you’d tell them you wanted to be like your big sister. You wanted to follow her, but you couldn’t move.

You followed her from East Allegheny to Washington D.C. You had followed her into this very parking garage. Now, all you could think about was following Roslyn, bleeding out on the cold hard floor, alone.

“Y/N, what’s your location?” Spencer’s voice rang through your radio.

You had never been shot before. You had always thought it would be cold to be shot, but instead, your whole body felt like it had been set on fire.

“Y/N, do you copy?”

The wetness of the blood should have made it cold.

“Y/N?”

Your fire was slowly fading, the blaze that had gone up so quickly began to ebb as you stopped feeling anything at all. The tapping of shoes echoed through the parking garage as you lay on the cement.

“No,” that all too familiar voice said, “Y/N is down, she’s been hit. We need an ambulance now,” Spencer called into the radio, he was out of breath as he looked down at you.

He studied your appearance, clocking the entry wounds on your side and moving his fingers in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. An odd, choked noise escaped your throat as the pressure on your side stoked the fire.

Spencer’s fingers trembled even as he maintained pressure on your side, “I know, I’m sorry, I know it hurts.” He took a deep breath, “here, turn- turn your head,” he instructed gently, using his free hand to coax your face to the side. You choked and came to the horrifying realization that he was trying to stop you from aspirating on your own blood. “Get it all out, baby,” he cajoled as blood spurted from your mouth, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

That would have to be enough. It wasn’t enough for you to hope anymore. You had spent so long with the Anger and Resentment from your Pandora’s Box that you completely failed to notice how Hope had slipped through the cracks, lost in a sea of emotions.

“Do you hear that? That’s the ambulance,” he told you, an unspoken plea in his voice.

But you couldn’t hear the sirens, pretty soon, you couldn’t hear anything at all.

The EMTs had all kinds of things to say, none of them were even remotely comforting. The bullets had entered through the thin opening of your Kevlar, a sort of Achilles heel where you couldn’t be protected. He should have double-checked, he should have paused to adjust the straps before running to the other parking garage.

He watched the doctors shock you in the emergency room, looking on in horror as your heart stopped beating. “Are you her husband?” One of the nurses had asked.

Spencer’s mouth had gone completely dry, “I’m- almost,” he answered, earning a sympathetic look from the nurse as she proceeded to ask him questions about next of kin and extraordinary measures. One of the bullets had pierced your lungs, causing catastrophic bleeding.

The nurse guided him to a surgical waiting room, but no one came out to him with updates, leaving him to sit. Someone brought his go-bag by, letting him change into clothes that weren’t blood-soaked.

He sat in a pile of limbs on the hospital’s couch, picking at the crusted blood that he hadn’t quite managed to wash off, and he wondered if he could ask one of the nurses for a surgical scrub brush, wondering if that would get the last flecks of blood from the ridges of his fingernails.

“Spencer,” JJ called out, rushing through the hallway, Will trailing close behind her.

Her arm was wrapped with gauze, probably stitched up before someone told her what had happened to her little sister. “Hey,” Spencer said, standing up as they approached, wiping his clammy hands on his slacks.

JJ held her hands out, “What have you heard? Anything?”

“It’s gonna be a while,” he said, repeating the only words that he had been told. They had taken you to the OR an hour ago, and all they had to do was wait it out.

The clinical white walls of the hospital were enough to make Spencer stir crazy, when Will offered to get him a cup of coffee, he was almost aggressive in his rejection. The sunlight reflected off the drywall as your surgery continued to test his patience.

Eventually, your mother called JJ back, and your sister walked away in order to explain the situation under the guise of privacy, leaving Spencer alone. “Dr. Reid?” Someone said, maintaining the reverent tones of the hospital that were beginning to make him want to pull his hair out.

“Yes,” he said, standing up in front of the nurse.

The nurse gave him a gentle smile, and he braced himself for the worst. “Ms. Jareau is out of surgery,” she informed him.

You had been in there for nearly six hours. “She…” he faltered, “Can I see her?” He asked, looking past the nurse as if he could see all the way into your recovery room from where he stood.

Nodding, the nurse continued to smile at him, “I can take you to her now if you’d like. She’s still under sedation,” she advised, gesturing for Spencer to follow her through the winding hallways of the hospital.

“Is she going to be okay?” He asked, checking to make sure he had his phone in his pocket so he could text JJ if he needed to.

The nurse’s smile tightened, “We won’t be able to know if she’s sustained any neurological damage until she wakes up.”

He frowned slightly, bracing himself for an answer that he wouldn’t like, “Could she hear me if I talk to her?” He asked, stopping in his tracks as the nurse stopped outside of a room – your room.

“It’s unlikely,” the nurse answered.

That made sense to him, there weren’t any studies that could prove that people could hear external stimuli while comatose. At least, there wasn’t enough for the medical community to reach a consensus. “Thank you,” Spencer said, nodding at the nurse as she turned away, letting him know that the doctor would be by to talk to him soon.

Your skin was pallid, a sickly sheen covering your skin as tubes and wires worked together to monitor you and keep your body going. Spencer set your patient bag in the corner of the room before dragging a chair over to your bedside, cringing at the sound the chair made against the linoleum before taking a seat next to you.

The steady beeping of your heart monitor quickly became the only thing preventing him from falling apart entirely. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, keeping his voice down so that no one else would hear him. “I keep going over it in my head and I don’t know how I didn’t realize you were missing sooner,” he spoke to your silent body, chest rising and falling with even breaths. “I’m so sorry,” he echoed, “You should’ve… you should’ve been my priority. Before Grace. Before Lynch. Before any of it.”

He inhaled shakily, glancing over at your vital monitor, taking comfort in the consistency of the numbers, “I should’ve put you first and now I- I can’t take it back,” he said, eyes burning with emotion. “I know things between the two of us have been kind of weird lately… ever since the pawn shop, I mean. I just,” he paused for a moment, giving himself grace, “I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know if she meant it and if she did, what does that mean? When you didn’t bring it up after the wedding I didn’t either because I just didn’t know how to talk to you about it.”

Somewhere along the way, the two of you had gotten lost. In the midst of not talking about the pawn shop, you had stopped talking altogether. “Now, all of a sudden, none of it even matters. All that matters is that I need you to wake up because I need to have more time with you,” he sniffled, the first hot tears rolling down his cheeks. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it,” he whispered.

“Please don’t leave me,” he begged, thinking of all of those nights the two of you had stayed up talking about the future. Your dream wedding. Your children’s names. He needed it. More of it. More of you.

Mindful of you, he laid his arms on the armrest of your hospital bed, lowering his head and watching the consistent rise and fall of your chest, listening to the whistling of your nostrils as he waited for the doctor to come.

The doctor seemed confident that you would wake up, it was just a question of when. He sent JJ, who had gone home to change into fresh clothing, an update once the doctor left.

Every once in a while, your nose would twitch or your finger would tap on the hospital bedding, and he would allow himself to get his hopes up. It never lasted long, once the fluke ended, he went back to thinking about the situation realistically. You were still having blood transfused, there was a tube in your chest depositing fluids into a bag at your bedside, and even if you did wake up, there was a long road to recovery with an injury like this.

He was terrified that you’d wake up alone and in excruciating pain, so he refused to move, having any paperwork brought directly to him in your room. Nearly every fifteen minutes, he smoothed out the blanket that rested on top of you, careful when putting his hands near your body, even though you couldn’t tell whether or not your blanket was wrinkled. Spencer thought of it as tucking you in, keeping you safe, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it was too little too late.

You didn’t make it to the beach as often as you’d like. Spencer hated the beach, and you weren’t interested in swimming in the ocean so much as you wanted to go and people-watch. Families on vacation. Marriage proposals.

The first time you had ever gone to the ocean, you were three years old. JJ and Roslyn hadn’t been in years, but it was all new to you. JJ wanted to bring you to the water, and Roslyn hadn’t even wanted to go on the trip. The water hadn’t scared you then, the endless abyss of blue had seemed more inviting than anything you had ever seen before.

Now, you lay on the sand, all of it cold beneath your skin, the rest of the beach seemingly abandoned. Try as you might, you couldn’t move anything. You wanted to lift your arm to brush hair out of your face. You wanted to sit up. You wanted to go home.

You couldn’t even see the water from where you lay, you opened your mouth, hoping to call for help, but were surprised when the only thing that came out of your mouth was a dark, black sludge. It spurted from your mouth as it ran down your cheeks, staining the white sand of the beach beneath you. You were drowning on dry land, and there was nothing you could do.

Nothing but open your eyes.

The ominous white sky of the beach turned into white walls, as you fluttered your eyes open, the ocean made way for you, parting so that you could return to yourself. Laid in a hospital bed, trying to remember how to breathe, and meeting Spencer’s stare.

“Hi love,” he whispered, gently placing one hand on top of yours, drawing circles on the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb, careful not to knock your pulse oximeter off.

Your brows pinched together as you looked over at him, he looked tired, waiting for you to say something. Your chest felt tight as you looked at him, hundreds of thoughts bubbling to the surface, but only one bubble popped, “I had a nightmare.”

Spencer nodded slowly, messy curls falling over his forehead, “It’s okay, angel. You’re awake now. It can’t hurt you.”

It can’t hurt you. It can’t hurt you. It can’t hurt you.

You watched as Spencer reached over and pushed the call button on your bed. Each moment you spent awake became increasingly painful, signified by the slow rise of your heart rate, the pain only exacerbated when your breathing quickened. Alarm grew, “Shh, hey,” Spencer consoled you, reaching his hand out and smoothing your hair back, looking to the door and hoping someone would come in and help you.

They did, pushing pain medications through your IV and watching your heart rate stabilize before giving you something to help you calm down. Spencer probably knew what they all were, making mental notes to keep track of everything as he kept his hand in yours. Your pain level dwindled from a nine to a six, leveling out in the middle ground.

You settled back into the pillows, cringing as a nurse moved your bed so that you were sitting up slightly, nodding softly at the things that she told you about rest. She checked your vitals, before leaving the two of you alone, silence swirling around the two of you as you constructed a bubble to keep yourselves warm.

“I should’ve found you sooner,” he whispered, looking over at you, a distressed look in his eyes.

Moving at a turtle’s pace, you shook your head, “You saved my life.”

It’s okay. I’ve got you, he had told you in the parking garage, and he did. He still had you, even now. If they had let him, Spencer might’ve waited for you outside the operating room, just to be in the vicinity of you.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you murmured, eyes opening and closing slowly. Your eyelids felt sticky like there was still tape residue on them from your operation, but you didn’t dare move. You didn’t dare agitate any wound on your body. “Is JJ okay?” You asked, your voice tight. Checking in on your sister took all of your strength.

Spencer kept his hand in yours, moving his free hand to wipe at tears that had spilled over your lower lashline. “She’s fine, just a graze,” he reassured you, “I’ll call her when you go back to sleep.”

You swallowed thickly, wondering if you were allowed to have any water, “I missed you,” you breathed, fighting to keep your eyes open. “I wanna talk to you,” you sniffled.

“You should sleep, my sweet girl,” he answered, not wanting you to get into a hefty conversation in your condition. “We have all the time in the world to talk when you wake up.”

Except you didn’t. You had thought there was time for you to be angry, but then you had been shot. As much as you hated the idea of being someone who had a near-death experience and suddenly let bygones be bygones, alienating those close to you seemed exhausting. You took a deep breath, thankful for the nasal cannula on your face, “I’ve been so distant,” you admitted.

Spencer hesitated, not sure if you needed to get into this while so vulnerable, “I don’t know if she meant it,” he breathed.

“I don’t need to know,” you told him, surprising yourself as much as him with your admission. “JJ is… She’s one of the most important people in my life, but so are you. Maybe even more so.”

He frowned, “You can’t possibly mean that.”

You closed your eyes for a few seconds before opening them again, “JJ’s my sister, we share the same family, but I chose you, Spence. I will continue to do so,” you told him, deciding against adding until the day that I die. Watching him as he looked at you with tear-filled eyes, “Oh,” you sighed, “please don’t cry. I never meant to hurt you.”

Waving off your concern, he wiped at his eyes before taking one of your hands in both of his, “I love you so much, but I don’t want you to forget your anger.”

“Huh?” You hummed groggily.

“You’ve been mad for months,” he whispered, the strokes of his thumb on the back of your hand putting you to sleep. “It doesn’t need to fade away in the blink of an eye.”

You let your eyes slip shut once again, “I’ll still give you a hard time.”

He laughed slightly at that, “Good.”

“Spence?” You breathed.

“Yeah, baby?”

Humming, you settled back into the bed, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make our tea date tonight.”

When you woke up again, a familiar blonde was sitting at the foot of your bed, hunched in a plastic hospital chair while Spencer remained at your bedside, hands still intertwined, but sweaty now. “Jennifer,” he said, getting the attention of your sister.

She jumped up from the chair and sat on the edge of your bed, in your periphery, you saw Spencer retreat, ambling into the hallway to talk to Emily. Letting him go, you turned your attention to your sister, “Hey, Jayg,” you greeted, words coming easier now than they did before, the swelling of your throat had gone down.

Her finely chiseled eyebrows pinched together on her face, “I thought you were right behind me,” she admitted miserably, looking at your torso.

“It’s alright now, though,” you tried to reassure her. You had lost half of your blood volume, much of it on the parking garage floor, but you were here now, that had to mean something.

She shook her head in abject self-disappointment, “I should have protected you,” she insisted, scrunching up her nose as she fought back tears.

You were too tired to fight emotions, water falling from your tear ducts as the two of you tried to mend what had previously been torn apart. “You don’t need to protect me,” you insisted. The decision to take the hit had been entirely your own, driven by a need to protect her.

“I always have though,” she reminded you, “When Roz died, dad left, and mom checked out, I took care of you.”

When you were a child, you thought that having your pre-teen sister do everything for you was the way things worked. It didn’t last long, things unraveled from there, but you always had JJ. “I’m all grown up now,” you reminded her. You didn’t need her protection in your early thirties in the same way you needed them as a child.

JJ took a shaky breath, cupping your cheek with her hand affectionately, the way a mother would to their child, “You’re always going to be my little sister.”

You looked at her, seven years your senior, and you sighed, “Do you know why I did it?” You asked her, studying the sad look in her eyes.

She smoothed your hair back, grabbed a cup of water from your bedside, and brought the straw to your lips, “Why, Ducky?”

The childhood nickname chimed in your ears, one of the only things that you retained from your eldest sister. You smiled at her, “Your boys.” The answer came easily to you, “You have Will and your tiny people, and I just thought… I couldn’t let you leave them.”

“But I almost lost you,” she countered, it wasn’t aggressive, it was almost like she was trying to make you see the value in your own life. The people in your life didn’t make you valuable, you had value as an individual.

Shrugging, you looked at her sympathetically, “Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’, “You’re stuck with me.”

She gave you a sisterly, knowing look, “Your heart stopped. Twice.”

You concurred, “Yeah, because you’re just that stuck with me.” You insisted, watching as Spencer answered a phone call in the hallway. “Did you call them?” You asked her, giving her a quick glance as you craned your neck to keep an eye on your boyfriend.

“Mom’s on a flight in tomorrow morning, but dad hasn’t responded to my voicemail,” she informed you, she didn’t look surprised, and you didn’t feel it.

Where your father was concerned, some things were better left unsaid, but you wouldn’t necessarily mind if he never responded to your sister’s calls. There was no reason to drag him and his new wife from their cushy life in Florida. Spencer reentered the room as JJ’s phone started ringing – Will – and the two of them traded off, amicably splitting time with you.

Greeting him with a content smile on your face, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your hairline, “I have to go,” he told you reluctantly.

You tried not to let any disappointment show on your face, “Why? What’s wrong?” You asked, studying his face for any sign of what his phone call had been about.

“That was Brookfield on the phone,” Spencer said, checking all of the monitors that surrounded you.

The grim look on his face made sense to you. Moving his mother into Brookfield had been the right choice for everyone, but her condition was never going to get better. Last time he had gone to visit, Diana hadn’t even recognized him, and you spent the rest of the day holding him, letting him know it was alright. “You have to go,” you echoed his earlier sentiment, nodding reassuringly.

He hesitated to leave you, sitting on the edge of your bed that had been previously occupied by your sister, “But you- you’re…”

You shook your head in dismissal, “Sometimes everything happens all at once, but you have to go.” If Brookfield was telling him to get down there, then he needed to go.

The next several hours passed slowly, Emily gave you an update on the case – the reader’s digest version, avoiding any gnarly details in an attempt to protect you. Will brought you and JJ dinner, eating the meal with them and your nephews, you were grateful to not have to eat the hospital cafeteria food. Slowly, the day came to an end, you sent JJ home when visiting hours ended, letting her know that you didn’t need to be protected while you were in a hospital.

You fell asleep not long after one of your nurses lowered the volume on your vital monitor, the dark peace of the hospital lulling you into a sense of safety. There hadn’t been word from Spencer, and you worried about him and his mother.

A tapping sound dragged you from what was thankfully a dreamless sleep, you recognized the sound of the footsteps, those shoes made a similar sound on the hardwood floor of your apartment, “You’re noisy when you wear your fancy shoes,” you mumbled drowsily, opening your tired eyes and tilting your head in the direction of the sound.

“Hey,” Spencer whispered, “Go back to sleep,” he told you gently, slowly making his way around your hospital bed and to the fold-out chair next to your bed.

You hummed, following him with your eyes as they adjusted in the dark, “No, you woke me up. Now you have to talk to me,” you told him, reaching over to switch on a lamp, cringing at the way the light burned your eyes.

Unprompted, he inspected your vital monitor before reaching out to adjust your nasal cannula, “Where’s JJ?” He asked, cupping your cheek affectionately before taking his seat.

Reaching out for your cup of water, you smiled to yourself when Spencer moved it closer to you, “I made her go home. Our mom will be here in the morning, and she’ll need all the rest she can get.” There was also the fact that Michael had been freaked out by seeing you in a hospital, so he needed some extra love from his parents tonight. “Wait,” you said, “How did you get in here? Visiting hours are over.”

“I might have told a small lie about you needing security,” he admitted sheepishly, but beneath it, he was smug. You didn’t fault him on it, you probably wanted him here just as much as he wanted to be here, if not more.

Smiling in the dim lamplight, you inclined your head toward him, “Did you misrepresent the bureau?”

He rolled his eyes, “I’d do it again if it meant I get to spend the night with you.” Helping you put your water cup back on your tray, Spencer took your hand in his, “How are you doing?”

You were exhausted, not in the sense that you wanted to sleep, although that probably couldn’t hurt, but in the sense that your entire body ached. There was a pinch in your side that wouldn’t ease up, and you didn’t feel comfortable with asking for more pain medication. Part of you was afraid that in the process of being shot, you developed a fear of drowning. You almost died today. Huge strides had been made in an attempt to repair your relationship with Spencer and with your sister. None of these thoughts escaped your lips, you just looked at him sympathetically, “How’s your mom?”

All he gave you was a tight smile, squeezing your hand tightly, “She’s ah… she’s alright,” he told you, your chest tightening at the emotion in his voice. “They’re calling it an awakening,” he continued, sounding unsure of himself.

“Terminal lucidity,” you breathed, a term you had only read about briefly when Diana was first diagnosed. The two of you had made many cross-country calls, trading information while Spencer stayed with her in Las Vegas.

He nodded, “Yeah… they don’t know how long it…”

How long she had left. How long she would remain lucid. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he answered quickly, too quickly for your liking.

You wiggled your fingers in his hand, getting his attention, “I want you to go back tomorrow,” you ordered him. It wasn’t something you were willing to budge on, insisting that he go back to Brookfield tomorrow to spend more time with his mother.

“She asked about you,” he admitted, leaning back in the chair, keeping your hands intertwined, “She wondered why we never got married. I told her it was never the right time. Do you know what she said to that?”

Watching intently as he shared the story with you, you shook your head, “What did she say?”

He chuckled lightly, “She said that might’ve been the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard me say.”

You smiled as he recounted the story for you, mimicking the hand gestures that you were sure his mother had used. “Obviously she’s never seen your Dirty Harry impression,” you reminded him, trying not to giggle at the memory.

“The right time will never come if we keep waiting around for it,” he told you, reciting the words of wisdom that his mother had imparted upon him.

Your breathing hitched in the dark of the night, “Spence?”

He nodded, “Yeah, baby?”

“Are you going to ask me to marry you?” You asked him hesitantly, wondering if that was what he was getting at.

Spencer shook his head, “Not tonight, angel.” He looked around the hospital room, cards and balloons and flowers had made their way in through the afternoon and evening. Penelope had even brought your apple blossoms from your desk. His flower language seemed so inconsequential now. “Go to sleep,” he whispered, “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“Will you tell me a story?” You whispered, settling yourself back into the flat hospital pillows, resigning yourself to the end of the marriage conversation.

He hummed, dimming the lamplight, “Which one?” There were a few stories that he had memorized specifically for you. When work or life or nightmares got to be too much, he would recall them for you.

“Can we do Portrait of a Lady again?” You raised your eyebrows, smiling impishly.

He rolled his eyes sardonically, “Your love for Henry James should be studied in a lab.”

You waved him off, “Okay, and? It’s story time.”

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[charliemwrites]

Good morning! This is just a warm up, not canon to the series.

Anyway — bark, woof, awoo

It’s a cool fall day when you nearly die.

Johnny’s run off into the woods barking - not his scary bark but his excited bark. You’re worried that he’s gonna get his teeth in some poor local wildlife and go hurrying after him, boots unlaced.

Of course it’s hopeless to go chasing after a wolf-dog even running at half speed, but you can’t stand the thought of him coming home with a dead bunny or something. So off you go, clomping through the trees, calling for your big dumb fluffy butt to come home.

But it’s not your Johnny that comes trotting out of the trees. No, it’s an even bigger, wolfier looking dog. Creamy white fur, honey gold eyes, and odd black markings around the face like a skull. You instantly know he’s not like your goofball, a little less human-friendly, perhaps more feral. Looks at you like he’s trying to decide if you’d make a decent meal.

Is someone breeding them and just.., letting them out?? Some weird poorly thought out attempt to reintroduce wolves to the UK? The thought makes you frown, praying that you won’t come out here one day to find some poor pups struggling in the wilderness.

For now though, you’ve got yet another gorgeous animal in front of you.

“Well, hello,” you coo, softening and smoothing your voice. His ears tick forward. “Look at you, handsome thing. Have you seen my Johnny boy?”

The dog tilts his head - your first indication that he is familiar with humans, recognizes the tone of a question. You hum.

“Alright big guy, would you like to come with me to find him or are you doing your own thing?”

He doesn’t respond (of course) except to make a little “ruff” noise. You consider him for another moment, then decide he’s not being aggressive and it’s safe to continue your search.

You turn and continue on the path, calling for Johnny. Don’t get far before your new friend sweeps in front of you, blocking the way forward. You make a noise as you stop quick, nearly losing your balance to avoid stepping on his paws.

“Oh you big jerk,” you huff. He instantly starts pushing at you, big shoulders pressing against your stomach as he shoves a big, wet nose into your neck and face, focusing on your mouth. You roll your eyes and gently push his nose away.

“Knock it off,” you grumble, trying not to laugh. “You wolves are so rude. You don’t need to do that to smell me.”

He moves on to your clothes, all the way down to your crotch. You’re ready this time though, taking a big step back and guiding his face up by the chin.

“No.”

He snorts and shakes off, looking almost annoyed.

“Oh, yeah, how dare I not let you sniff my junk?” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Grow up, you big baby.”

A deep, raspy grumble starts up in his chest. You ignore him, patting at the thick muscle of his shoulder.

“Yeah yeah, you’re a big scary boy,” you joke. “Ya gonna bite me? Show me your big pretty teeth?”

When you reach for his face he takes a step back, ears flicking. Looks almost shellshocked. You finally break, giggling as you croon baby noises at him.

“Oh, poor boy, did I spook you? I’m sorry, baby. No, no you’re very scary. Very intimidating.” You start scooting around him, amused how curves around you almost like he’s afraid you’re going to touch him. “It’s okay, buddy, I just need to find my boy. I’m not out to get you.”

As if on cue, Johnny comes bursting from the trees. He barks when he sees you, then almost comes up short when he realizes the other dog is there.

You become acutely aware that you’re not all too sure how Johnny will respond to another dog - especially one so close to you given his protectiveness. You instantly move between them, calling his attention.

“There you are, Bonnie Johnny! Where have you been?! Naughty boy, you better not have eaten anything fluffy.” His ears go back, a little whine starting up. He ducks his head to let you grab at his muzzle, inspecting him for anything gross. “I do not feel like wrangling you to brush your teeth.”

Luckily, he seems clean. Whatever had him so excited, he must not have caught.

Movement behind you catches your attention, the other dog loping closer. Your eyes bounce between them, watching body language for any aggression or hostility. To your relief, Johnny seems almost excited by this new friend - the other one… well, he seems a bit more subdued, but lets Johnny lick at his chin and bump into his side.

“Okay, ready to head home, baby boy?” you ask, giving Johnny’s collar a gentle tug. “I have to start making dinner.”

He whines, turning those big blue eyes on you and positioning himself behind the other dog. You groan.

“Johnny, really… I don’t know if I can handle two of you. I don’t even think he likes me very much.”

As if to spite you, the other dog sits and leans in, licking at your hand. And damn it, it’s cute.

“Alright, hold on, let’s just see if…”

This time, the other dog lets you touch, feels around his neck for a collar that unsurprisingly isn’t there. You feel around his shoulders too, hoping for that tiny bump that means he has a microchip, but nope.

“If I have a nickel for every time I found a wolf-dog in the woods…” you sigh, turning back for home. “It would be two nickels but it’s weird that it happened twice.”

When you notice both pups stalling, you whistle sharply.

“Come. It’s getting cold.”

Johnny instantly bounds ahead with excitement while your new companion is slightly slower, staying just a bit behind and to the side of you so that you can see him from the corner of your eye.

Back at home, Johnny leads the way inside. The strange dog looks around curiously, sniffs at a few spots. It’s then that you remember Johnny marking the house his first couple days and notice that Mystery Dog is also unaltered.

“Hey.” Both dogs turn to you. You point at the new one sternly. “If you pee on anything in here - anything - I’m dying you pink. By god I’ll do it, there are dog safe hair dyes.”

You get a sneeze for that and he walks away with disinterest, but at least he keeps his leg down. You’ll take it.

Dinner is interesting, no fussing or fighting over food from either of them. When they’re done, you retire to the couch, Johnny happy to follow up until he sees that his new friend isn’t coming as well.

He starts yipping, bouncing, bowing, trying to get the new one to follow. You’re amused up until Johnny nips and the bigger dog growls, showing teeth. You plant yourself instantly between them.

“Hey.” You look the new dog in the eye, get into his space and back him away from Johnny. “No the hell you’re not.”

The new dog stares, eyes locked on yours, ears swiveling. You don’t back down, watching and looking waiting, still bodily between him and Johnny. Until finally his ears go back and he sneezes, laying down.

“Good.” You soften your voice, sigh. “Good boy.”

You offer your hand. Get a sniff and a resigned lick, then scratch at your new boy’s ears.

“You be nice, big boy. Everyone in this house is mine. I take care of everyone.”

His eyes do a weird thing then. You’re not sure how to describe it, combined with the way his head tilts. But you just chalk it up to Weird Dog Things and finally return to the couch, an oddly subdued Johnny clambering up with you.

“You can join us, honey,” you call to the other dog. “You’re welcome up here if you behave.”

He doesn’t take you up on it for awhile. You and Johnny settle in for your usual nightly shows. And then, about an hour later, movement draws your eye. The Mystery Dog, standing at the edge of the couch with his tail down, ears neutral.

Earlier drama forgotten, you smile at him.

“Hi there,” you chirp, “you want up? C’mon, bud. Up.”

He hops up with surprisingly gentleness, picking his way around your limbs and Johnny’s. He ends up crawling over your dog and settling half on top of him, and half on top of you, his chin settled between Johnny’s stupid perky ears. Johnny seems thrilled so you laugh a bit.

“What good boys,” you coo, giving them each a scratch and receiving a kiss in return. “Alright, this isn’t so bad.”

You fall asleep there, already trying to come up with name for your new pup. Maybe Phantom.

Main Story | Konig pt. 1

Masterlist

[cute-sucker]

MUST'VE BEEN THE WIND— IN WHICH you lose your memory after a fatal car accident—only to wake up and find out that the kook king, rafe cameron is your husband. [series]

PROLOGUE—♡

"ms. cameron."

white lights.

"she'll be regaining consciousness in a few minutes, don't worry about that folks. look at that!"

loud voices.

lights blurred in front of you, as you tried to wiggle your toes. there was something about those blinding white and blue lights that made your heart pace. your hands were clammy, and you felt your throat close up. your tongue felt like sandpaper as you tried to whisper something. nothing seemed right, the way that the place smelled all off as you tried to move.

"ms. cameron?"

you coughed finally peeling open your eyes and looking around the place. shit, where were you? the blue signs and the doctors gave a dead giveaway. you were at the hospital, but what messed with you the most was why you were there. the last memory you had was—hell, you couldn't remember anything.  your head hurt, as you coughed. bleary eyed, you tried to get up only to have warm hands push you down again.

"calm down, ms. cameron. we need you to calm down."

you scrunched your nose, before gasping in more air, "get off me. get the hell off me!" then you heard a bemused laugh, as you tried to get up. a sharp nudge at your side knocked you down. you sucked in more air, as you held a hand to your hip. your whole body hurt so much, you could barely take it.

finally, you opened your eyes properly. your hands materialised in front of you, "what's going on?" you croaked, as you tried to push the people away. at last, you saw the doctor look at you with triumph in his eyes. he seemed to quickly control his emotions before coughing into his elbow.

"we'll do a few tests now, mr. cameron," the doctor muttered, "just to be on the safe side. after all it's been a while she's been conscious. it would be best if you left the room for now."

it was then you noticed the man at your side. his buzzed cut, and harsh brown eyes. there was something cold and hungry in his eyes as he looked at you, a terse smile on his face. you shivered trying to stay away from him. you couldn't get caught up in this, god no, after all everything in your body told you there was something wrong about the man in front of you.

he finally stopped looking at you before putting a hand on the doctors shoulder, "i'd like to stay. i'm sure my wife would appreciate it." you gasped before starting to cough again.

the doctor nodded stiffly before getting back to you, "can you hear me? if you can hear me, please squeeze my hand." his voice is coarse, and you nodd, and squeeze his hand. he makes a low noise of understanding, marking something on his chart.

"could you tell me your name?"

you whisper your name, voice scratchy. at this, the doctor gives you a slight look of interest before looking back at mr. cameron. you used your maidan name instead of the one given to you before you got "married." god, you could use some water.  

"well, we'll take this with baby steps," the doctor muttered before giving you a sharp nod and gesturing to mr. cameron, "i will leave the two of you alone for now. we have a few things to run by before you can leave ms. cameron."   

you were left alone with him for the first time.

"i don't know who you are mr. cameron, but you have to leave me alone. i'm not ms. cameron," you spat out, weakly moving away from him. mr. cameron gave you a proper look. you saw the way that his jaw clenched, before he moved closer to you, caressing your cheek.

" i won't be taking this behaviour," then his voice became sugary sweet, but you could hear the bite in it, "you're my wife. act like it."

[mikareo]

“ ࣭⸰ ★ THE MOON SAYS HELLO. . . ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀呪術廻船; geto suguru x fem reader ⠀ ꒰ . . part one of three ꒱ . . . word count; 3.6k

⊹ ⠀⠀despite his insistence on never falling in love, suguru fails to stop himself from becoming smitten with his best friend’s beloved. you’ve become a flicker of hope in his darkness— though you’re someone who can never and will never be his to have and to hold.

series contains; if gojo didn’t kill geto n geto was given a chance to redeem himself, redemption arc!geto, human caretaker!reader, kind of e2l but also not really, love triangle, gojo x reader, fluff, major angst, heartbreak, wedding at the end, swearing probably, geto refers to humans as monkeys per usual author's note; rewritten fic, will be 3 parts in total (i'm half done pls be patient w me im a slow writer...)

YEAR ONE, DAY ONE

His face is sore. So sore. It’s red, swollen, and sore after he’s spent the last three hours screaming in frustration with his current predicament. This is absurd, Satoru should’ve just killed him when he had the chance. Geto’s lost count of how many times his palms have slapped his own face; over and over again with wishes that he can wake up from this hellish nightmare the higher ups call ‘rehabilitation’— though he can somewhat still recall the first slap that he’d given himself around the half-hour mark. He’s got a pretty good memory…that doesn’t stop him from hoping his veins aren’t too noticeable as they angrily protrude from his forehead in crimson currents.

He’d rather be dead than imprisoned like this…like an animal…like one of those damn useless monkeys.

The intensity of his wails continue to bounce off of the barren walls— barren aside from the dark mark he’d punched in earlier— and echo like a party of lost ghouls in the bottom of an empty well. Geto feels like a mad man.

He’s only just begun his isolation and he’s already growing mad with boredom. 

A huff escapes his lips as he plops himself down onto the twin-sized bed that’s nestled in the corner of his so-called ‘suite’. With linen sheets and a dark maroon comforter, it’s almost a cozy living situation; in another life, Geto could imagine himself cuddling beneath the covers with his favorite book and a soft record playing in the background for some ambience. That world is far far away now. Even if he asked for a record player, he doubts the higher ups would grant him one. He’s their most valuable prisoner, and they’re sure to keep him as miserable as possible until he’s one-hundred-percent pure hearted once more. However, despite their reluctance to grant him the things he wants, these aren’t the worst living arrangements he’s ever encountered and he knows that Gojo did his best to give him the best commodities he could to���well…a highly dangerous criminal. 

This is the only path to forgiveness, he reminds himself, constantly trying to be optimistic about the utter absurdity of it all. 

Optimism hasn’t been his specialty in a long time; anyone with a working pair of eyes would be able to deduce that, and he despises it. He’s quite rusty with the characteristic and has looked on the darker side for a while now— but wishes that he could be as reckless as he once was as a teenager. He can vividly remember how loud his laughter was with Gojo and Shoko, laughing as they chased each other throughout the school yard and using each other's cursed energy to their advantage in games of tag— but that would be near impossible now. His two best friends can barely look him in the eyes after the treason he’s committed. Gojo views him as a ticking time bomb and Shoko’s healed too many people to count that he’s harmed.

If he stepped one foot out of this room, he believes he’d be smothered on sight.

The Jujutsu Society fears Geto Suguru..

…and Geto Suguru fears himself. 

In all fairness, he deserves everything that’s come to him. What he did was awful; mass murdering humans…trying to murder even more humans…harming innocent students…starting a war during the holiday season…the whole gist. There are obviously bad actions from the past that continue to haunt Geto to this day and will continue haunting him so long as he breathes— but that’s all it is now…the past. He wants redemption. He needs redemption. If Gojo managed to reach clarity within Geto’s awful decisions, then maybe he can too. 

Geto wants to get better, to be better…not only for Gojo…but for himself. 

This is exactly why he and his best friend has devised a plan, one that will hopefully help lead Geto on a better path— a five-year path that will only be completed if he truly wants it to, and a half a decade seems like quite a bit of time to most; but for Geto, he doesn’t know if it will be enough. 

For Satoru…do it for Satoru…

He wraps his arms around himself in an attempt to comfort his heart that beats with fear every second of every day. It’s been so long since he’s been hugged by another, and he doubts he’ll ever feel that love and comfort from someone in his life. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s been alone with his thoughts with no one else to turn to; and if he’s being honest, there’s nothing in the entire world that scares him more than his own mind. 

“Geto Suguru?”

He doesn’t recognize that voice.

The soft sound comes from seemingly nowhere, startling Geto with a slight jump. Whomever it is sounds frail and weak, obviously intimidated by whom they’re going to be in the presence of in mere minutes; and Geto already finds nothing but annoyance at his new companion. Of course they’re going to have prior judgment. He bets you already hate him for the rumors and stories. He doesn’t really have a choice whether or not you come in, though. Gojo insisted on a caretaker— someone to talk to so he doesn’t go insane by himself— and Geto will do anything to make his best friend happy. So, he stands up and dusts his pants off, making sure to look more presentable, and stalks towards the entryway. His hand meets the knob, yanking it open, and ready to meet the stranger on the other side. 

Standing before him is you, a woman around his age. You can’t possibly be older than twenty-six, but perhaps you’re a few years younger. In your hands are various sweets and snacks that Gojo knows Geto loves, balancing on a silver tray that shines more light in the room than he’d care for. The reflections dazzle straight into his eyes, blinding him briefly with a scowl on his face. Of course Gojo would know to send you in with his favorites. He’s so predictable. His best friend is less surprising than he thinks, causing Geto to roll his eyes to the top of his head; though he appreciates the kind gesture. It’s far past dinner, though. Gojo must’ve struggled to convince the others to allow him a proper meal. 

“Don’t just stand there, monkey.” Geto commands whilst gesturing to the small dining table in the center of his confined space. “Come inside.”

The instant you stepped into his presence, it was horribly noticeable that you have no cursed energy. Zero. Not a lick of it…and he struggles to hide the disgust with his body language. He can’t help but be annoyed that a monkey such as yourself is going to be in his company for the next five years. 

With his distaste for you clear as day, he pulls out a chair for himself and disregards the kind option of pulling out yours prior; expectantly looking towards you with the expectation that you’re going to serve him his meal like a servant. 

“Well, monkey…” he trails off disinterested, “I’m waiting.”

You hustle towards him, quickly and efficiently placing the special grade sorcerer’s meal on the placemat before him and taking the empty seat opposite. There’s a small breath you’re holding in, Geto can see it in your throat— it’s suffocating you with fear for your life as your fingers lightly tap the dark wood in a nervous fit. 

You’re completely pathetic. As if a monkey would ever have the courage to speak to him. This is ridiculous.

His hands slam against the table with a loud bang. “What are you doing?” he questions, heavily interrogating you as you cower in your seat like a meak mouse. “Does Satoru expect you to monitor my meals?”

He really is nothing but a prisoner, isn’t he?

“What damage could I possibly do with this slob that’s been served to me by the scum of the earth? Start a food fight in the halls? Overthrow the Jujutsu world with a biscuit?” (If that is the case, in your defense, the biscuits are quite hard. There must be a new kitchen hand in training who based them.) This is a horrible day.

As Geto impatiently awaits your answer, a deep breath escapes your lips— perhaps a way to soothe your heartbeat into something less than a record-breaking speed— and you attempt to focus your stress and fear into a fleeting moment of zen. Your large eyes shut for a total of three seconds; one, two, three…before opening again. This time, as his own eyes make contact with yours, they’re shining with slightly more confidence than before as you swallow hard and settle your gaze on Geto— the look in your eyes evolving from that of anxiety to empathy. 

“Actually,” your lips rise into a thin smile, “Gojo Satoru didn’t send me here, the higher ups did.”

Your eyes search Geto’s for any signs of discomfort or inner rage that could be boiling beneath the surface of his poker face. It appears that he’s grown even stronger at hiding his true emotions towards humans; however, you can see through the veil. Yes, it’s thick and difficult to brush past, but there’s a slight opening in the center that you peek inside— and what you can see in his heart is a man who simply wants to finally do what’s right. 

“The higher ups are aware that Gojo Satoru has a soft spot for you— hell, everyone who knows your name is aware that when it comes to you, he has no reason. He has no right of mind. I’m only here to monitor and report your progress in an honest manner. That’s it. That’s all. I promise I won’t intrude on your life more than necessary.” 

Shit.

“I’m sorry, Geto Suguru…but you’re stuck with me.”

It’s as if his left and right sides are arguing between themselves. His good conscience says that he should give you a chance, perhaps you could be different than the monstrous humans that attempted to kill his beloved Mimiko and Nanako; while his bad conscience tells him to let out one of his cursed spirits to devour you where you stand. Listening to his right side would definitely get him his best case scenario…a chance to see his girls again…but the left side would be so much more enjoyable. Oh well. At least the higher ups sent someone somewhat his age and not an ancient and decaying corpse like themselves. That’s a disgusting thought. He’d rather be hugged by a hundred humans than be forced to befriend a higher up. A shiver runs through Geto’s spine as a newfound appreciation for you is birthed within him.

“Do you have a name?” Geto taunts as he begins to pick at his meal, slightly disgusted with the stale quality of some of the snacks but nevertheless thankful that he at least has something to subside his aching hunger. “Or should I just call you ‘monkey’ as I do with the rest of your kind?”

That sound?

You’re laughing?

Your giggles are surprisingly pleasant to Geto’s ears as they harmonize into a song that he can imagine himself listening to each morning. Why did you find that funny? He was quite literally insulting your entire existence. Geto is dumbfounded by the strange humor you seem to have, considering that he was being entirely serious with his question. Humans are so strange. He’s never really been able to understand how your peoples’ minds work, but perhaps he could begin to learn the basics. It’s not like he has anything better to do, and some entertainment would be nice. 

He’ll keep you around…it wouldn’t hurt and you can be his companion kind of like a pet.

Pets are cute…

…your smile is cute too.

You smile once more, answering his question with a blush on your face. “Please,” your cheeks redden, “Call me by my name, Suguru.”

YEAR ONE, DAY NINETY-FOUR

“You’re late.” Geto crosses his arms over his chest, exhaling a large breath of air in a loud and annoyed huff as he attempts to seem seriously angered by his new friend’s awful timing. 

It’s nearly twenty minutes past the time that you were supposed to be here; emphasis on supposed. He’s been waiting with his eyes staring at the clock, watching it tick and tick as the time passed by with no you knocking on his door. That’s twenty whole minutes of time in which he was forced to entertain himself rather than listen to your rambles and rants about whatever the latest scandal is in the outside world. You love that pop culture gossip stuff that social media and magazines rave about, and in a weird way, you somewhat remind him of his daughters— personality-wise…not attraction wise…that would be weird. 

Over the past few months, Geto’s grown severely accustomed to the daily routine that you’ve developed, becoming so fond of you that he strangely pictures your smile and recalls your laughter when you aren’t even here. Friendship is a funny thing. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a friend like yourself; yes, Satoru will always be his closest confidant…but his relationship with you is different in a way that he can’t quite put his finger on. He’s never considered anyone else the highlight of his every day like he does you. Your company is the kind of presence that he overwhelmingly enjoys; with such a positive and warm nature exuding comfort to Geto’s loneliness, and your judgment-free outlook on life rivaling his pessimism in a perfect mixture of negativity and optimism. He wishes he’d met you sooner, perhaps when he was a child— and if he had, maybe he wouldn’t have turned out the way he did. 

It’s too bad you would’ve only been an awful human to him back then…he would’ve called you his infamous nickname without batting an eye…a monkey…

…a mere monkey whom he never ever thought he’d develop unwanted feelings for.

For his entire life, Geto always told himself not to fall in love. That love isn’t real. It isn’t obtainable, not when there are people like Satoru in the world— people that you can’t help but love— and then people like him; people who you can’t help but hate. With that being said, he’s never necessarily been looking forward to any potential love matches in his future.

…no matter who he was involved with…

…until he met you.

“Sorry about that, Suguru!” you hustle through the doorway, your appearance a tangled mess with dusty dirt particles littered with gravel. 

There’s a large scratch on your right cheek, not deep or in danger of infection in any way, but noticeable enough that he’s able to see it from a distance. Knowing you, it’s most likely accidentally self-inflicted in some sort of way; you being notorious for tripping or snagging your skin on the sharp end of a table. How do you always manage to be so uncoordinated? Geto can’t help but let out a short laugh, his eyes scrolling up and down your body and taking in your entire appearance, dirt and all. You even manage to make dirt look good. What the fuck? He hates this.

Your voice carries on as you approach him. “I was running on time, but then I saw this adorable shop downtown and I just had to make a stop.” The overexaggerated tone you hold is amusing as your hands wave through the air in a physical storytelling of your experience. The skin of your cheeks is flushed red from your sprint through the city, looking beautiful in resemblance to that of a blooming rose. 

Geto can feel his own face heating up at the sight of you, choosing to shrug nonchalantly in an attempt to seem as if he doesn’t care at all about your dilemma…

…as if he doesn’t care about every second of your everyday…

…as if your overall excitement isn’t the only thing that truly keeps him going nowadays. 

“You tell me these things as if what you do outside of this room matters to me.” He hopes his words mask his rising blush. (Spoiler alert: They don’t.)

Flawlessly, you brush off Geto’s phony disinterest without the slightest acknowledgement. It’s as if the phrase had never even left his lips, with no evidence and proof of insult. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence when the topic of what you do when you’re not with him comes up in conversation, as the prisoner typically tries to ignore his interest in your daily shenanigans— and you can’t deny that it hurts. Most of the time, it feels as if Geto never actually listens to anything you say, and you were able to quickly realize that in the early weeks of your arrangement when the pain began to torment your heart; ripping and shredding it to bits with every eye roll and mocking scoff. You don’t seem to matter in Geto’s point of view. He doesn’t care…at least that’s what you believe. 

In contrast to Geto, you’re an emotional spirit— you crave love.Love is all you’ve ever wanted, needed, and desired. In your time with him, you’ve developed inklings of feelings as well. However, you’ve chosen to let your feelings grow and blossom out of the dirtied patch of grass they were planted in— ignoring the warnings every single person in your life has given you in advance. Despite that, Geto continues to stomp on your budding flowers. He takes a heavy watering can, filled to the brim with hose water, and drowns your garden in the tears that you shed in the privacy of your bedroom. Those tears that are a never ending waterfall due to the fact that you know it isn’t your job to fall in love with your client. Your duty to Jujutsu Society is to help Geto learn to love humans and sorcerers as one in the same and to gain the trust of his community once more— not to love you.

“Okay, before you judge me, at least give me a chance to explain myself.” Stumbling towards Geto, you accidentally trip over your own feet in embarrassment, and proceed to hold out a single flower not yet in bloom. “It’s freshly cut. I saw a bouquet in the window and it caught my eye, because it reminded me of you; but I knew you’d hate a flashy bunch of them so I just bought the one.”

It reminded you of him?

Taking the gift into his own hands, Geto studies it intensely. The rose is a dark shade of red, crimson, or scarlet depending on your vocabulary. The petals are a brighter color while the plushness near the stem turns dark, more sinister as it approaches the thorns lining the sides. Just by looking at the rose, he can understand why it made you think of him. It’s gorgeous, but practically untouchable figuratively and literally. There’s only one angle that he can hold the stem at that doesn’t prick his fingers. Ouch. And he just did the very thing he was being so careful of avoiding.

All his life, he’s never been the kind of person who longed for gifts or compliments, but when coming from the right person…perhaps he is. 

Whilst he struggles to come up with a reply— a simple ‘thank you’ or ‘i appreciate this’— you mentally applaud yourself as you’ve finally found a way to make him speechless…

…but your praise for yourself is short-lived.

He can’t be weak. Not even for you.“I guess it’s not terrible.” Geto throws the flower to the ground and lightly kicks it away with his right foot. As one of the beautiful petals drifts away from the lonely flower, he turns away, not being able to endure the heartbroken look on your face and the offended rose on the floor. Why does he have to be like this? “I’m sure that garbage is all a monkey like you can afford anyways.” Why is he so cruel?

His eyes clench shut as he hears the door begin to close. You’re so gentle even when upset. He admires that about you— you’re the calm to his ever-raging storm, the sailor to his tsunami, and the lifeboat to his wreckage— you’re the most pure-hearted person he knows, and you don’t deserve this awful anger he holds within him. 

Is he…crying?

As tears begin to drip down his cheeks, Geto collapses against the wall with his knees buckling beneath him and his weight crumbling down to a pile of patheticness. He’s just a shell of a man undeserving of someone like you. Soft sobs escape his lips and silent cries fill the hollow room, absent of your joy, crying out until he notices the faint outline of the young rose beside him. With the flick of his hand, he snatches the flower off the ground and lifts the thorny plant with careful hands— finally and truly understanding your meaning behind the gift. This is how you see him? He’s dreadful and hurtful to others on the outside, prickling kind people away with his thorns…but when encouraged and supported, he has the potential to become something beautiful.

Someone that could one day be compared to the beauty that is of a blooming rose. 

With the budding rose in his grasp, Geto sits alone. He realizes that he’s only able to become that person with the help of you. You’re the only person that has even come close to seeing him for who he truly is; aside from Satoru you’re the only person who would think of giving such a gift to the number one enemy of the Jujutsu world. You’re the only person who he’s ever come to feel true and honest romantic love towards. 

Geto has to become better. Not only for himself and Satoru…but now, for you.

⋆⋆⋆⠀ ⠀thank you for reading! reblogs are greatly appreciated! ⋆⋆⋆⠀ ⠀i promise i'll post the next 2 parts soon pls be patient :3

[vivwritesfics]

Set The World On Fire

Chapter One

Lando Norris had been incredibly angry when they met. Incredibly angry, but sweet enough to help her. Turns out he just needed somebody to talk to, somebody to be there for him.

He was easy to fall for, and that put her in a world of danger

Mafia AU

1.9K

Series Masterlist

PLEASE READ!!: While this story is a part of the NNTA universe, the reader is no longer Lando's sister. To not spoil how people read NNTA, Lando's sister will not be given a name in this story. She will be referred to, but only as his sister (because it's very key for the plot)

They went on three dates before she worked out who he was. He was attractive, sure, but there wasn't much else to him. On the third date, she worked out what a waste of space he was.

The first instance was when she wolf whistled a waitress. It was disgusting, she was disgusted, and the waitress was definitely going to spit in their food. But she stuck it out, making a promise to herself that she wasn't going to call him after that date.

"Well," she said somewhat awkwardly after they had paid their bill, splitting it down the middle (he definitely had more drinks and the more expensive meal, but whatever. If she had to pay more than she owed to get away from him, then so be it). "Are you still okay to drive me home?"

"Sure thing, babe," he said as they walked across the car park, heading towards his shitbox of a car.

She scrunched up her face at that. Why did he have to call her babe? She wasn't anything to him and she never would be.

He got into his car and started his engine. For a moment she thought he was going to drive away without her, leave her stranded at the restaurant.

She quickly got into the car, kept her small back on her lap as he sped away. Everything was a blur, to the point where she couldn't tell which way they were going.

Turns out, it was the wrong way. The car stopped outside of a building with bright, neon lights. It was near blinding, and it definitely wasn't where she lived. "What the fuck," she couldn't stop herself from saying. "Why are we at a strip club?"

"Relax, baby." There was that word again. "Just come in with me. I'll by you a drink and then I'll take you home."

Yeah, she wasn't moving from the car. Anger simmered just bellow her skin as she fished through her bag and pulled out her phone. The phone she was sure she had charged before she left the house. So why the fuck was it dead?

She was at her wits end. "Well, you can stay here if you want," her date said. "But, uh, make sure you keep the car door locked."

It was the way he said it that had her climbing out of the car with him. She kept a tight hold of her bag as she followed him into the nearly empty club. It would be nearly empty, it was 7pm on a Thursday.

As soon as they were into the strip club, her date made a beeline for the bar. She followed him, out of necessity. After getting himself a drink, he sat himself in front of the stage.

Looking a little like a lost dog, she followed him to the stage. This was his regular spot, this much was clear by the way he greeted the other men around him. "The big boss is here," One of the men said to him. He nodded and looked back of his date, but she didn't hear it.

He smirked. How was the big boss going to act now that there was a woman in the club, one that wasn't working for him. He was known for being an asshole and abrupt when talking to people in his club. Lets just say, nobody stuck around for his friendly demeaner.

Whether the pair could feel the bosses eyes on them or not, he was watching. He sipped his whisky from his private booth at the back of the club as he watched.

She wasn't comfortable, that was for sure. She looked so uncomfortable sat in front of the stage, her eyes fixated on her shoes. She didn't once glance at the girls on the stage.

Lando felt so fucking sorry for her.

But he sat back and watched for just a few minutes more. Maybe they were just stopping in on their way to do something else. He didn't take his eyes off of her though.

They weren't going anywhere. After a good twenty minutes they hadn't moved, and she still looked uncomfortable.

Lando put his almost finished whisky down onto his table and stood up. Nobody would touch it if he left it there, he knew. Not if they wanted to keep their lives. He ran his fingers through his curls, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strode over.

The men sat around her were looking around at the others girls spread around the club. When they spotted Lando they visibly stiffened up and turned back around, facing the stage in front of them.

Lando was noticeably calm as he walked over, something they weren't used to. Normally, when Lando was walking over, it was to throw somebody out of his club. Normally, when Lando walked over, he was visibly angry.

But not this time. People moved their legs out of his way so that Lando could get past them, get to the girl sat in the middle of his club. Nobody looked at him as he tapped the girl on her shoulder.

"Excuse me," he said and she turned towards him, looking up at him. Unlike everybody else in the club, she didn't look terrified of him. "Can I help you, Darling?" He asked, although he didn't quite pronounce the 'g'.

He was... wow. Dressed in a black suit with the top few buttons of his white shirt opened, his blue eyes staring into her own. His skin was naturally tanned and his hair in dark curls. He was gorgeous. Once she saw him, it was impossible to look away from him.

"I don't work here." Why the fuck did she just say that? She hadn't meant to say that, but she couldn't stop herself. If this man was after a lap dance, she couldn't help him out.

Lando chuckled as he shook his head. But it wasn't a proper chuckle, one designed to make her feel foolish. "I asked if I can help you. Are you okay?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I'm just waiting to be taken home."

Again, that wasn't what Lando asked. But he didn't push on the matter. Instead, he offered her his hand. "Come with me to the back office and I'll call you a cab," he said.

She didn't know anything about this man. He didn't look old enough to be the club owner, but he certainly looked rich enough to own a club. There wasn't a lot to lose at this point, she realised as she took his hand and stood up. And, if he ended up being a creep, she could always just kick him where the sun doesn't shine and make a run for it.

In the back office of the club, he offered Y/N some water. She accepted the bottle (which had never been opened) and sat on the couch opposite his desk.

She watched as he called up a cab and gave the company the address. As soon as he had confirmation, he put the phone down and looked across the desk, looking at her. "Bad date?" He guessed.

"Bad date," she answered. He kept looking at her as he came around to lean against his desk. So, she continued speaking. "I wasn't going to call him again after tonight, and I think he knew that," she muttered, resting her back against the couch cushions.

"I don't think I've been on a date in years," he said and laughed to himself. But, again, it wasn't a genuine laugh.

That was when she properly looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles beneath them. His knuckled were bruised and bloody, as though he had been punching at walls. "Hey," she said as she put her bottle of water down. "Are you okay?"

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Didn't get close. "Just life," he answered simply. But she kept looking at him, the way she moved her head towards him urging him on. "Do you really wanna hear my problems?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm just a stranger in a strip club with nothing better to do but wait. Of course I want to hear your problems."

So, Lando told her. He told her all about the arranged marriage between his sister and another man, something set up by his parents. He told her that his step mother was dead and his father was close, and there was no way to get out of it. He didn't tell her who his family was, what they did, of course. The pretty stranger in his club didn't need to know that.

When he was finished, she let out a low whistle. "That was... heavy. Do you even know the guy?"

He let out a dry laugh. "Yeah," he answered. "Yeah, we know him." But he didn't elaborate.

Suddenly his phone rang on his desk. He twisted his body, picked it up and placed it against his ear. His conversation was quick, just a few words exchanged between both parties. "That was your cab," he said to her. "They're outside."

Picking up her bag and the bottle of water, she walked out of the back office. He had his hand on the small of her back as he gently pushed her through the club, towards the doors.

Just as he had said, the cab was outside. He pulled open the door for her, holding her bag as she climbed in. "Thank you," she said before he shut the door.

He smiled, but this one seemed a little more genuine. He didn't shut the car door right away, instead leaning forward. "If you ever find yourself in need of company late at night, this door is always open," he said as he pointed his thumb back towards the club.

She looked past him, looking at the club. "Will you be there?" She asked, looking at him through her lashes.

He said something quickly to the cab driver and reached inside of his suit jacket, reaching into the inside pocket. He quickly pulled out a small white card and placed it into her hand.

"Call this number first and I definitely will be," he said and went to shut the door.

But she stopped him. "Who am I asking for?"

"Lando."

The car drove off, driving away from the club. She kept looking back at the club, looking back at the handsome man shrouded in neon. He stayed standing outside of the club, watching the car, until it turned the corner and disappeared.

Soft music filled the car. Y/N kept her head against the window as she told the driver her address as he took her home. He didn't try to make conversation, which she was grateful for.

When he stopped outside of her home she climbed out of the car and fished around in her bag for some money. But the cab driver held up his hand. "It's already been taken care of, Ma'am," he said.

"Really?" Y/N asked. How could a strangers kindness stretch this far?

The cab driver nodded his head. "Mr Norris must really like you."

Mr Norris.

Who the fuck was Mr Norris?

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Series Taglist (OPEN): @millinorrizz @cinnamongirlontv @sainzluvrr @urfavnoirette

[harunayuuka2060]

WHB Series #1 (Cont.)

Gabriel: God has allowed me to be close to them. While it brings me happiness, I can't help but wonder what led them to give me a second chance.

Gabriel: ...

Gabriel: God, do I have permission to speak?

MC: Sure.

Gabriel: ...

Gabriel: I've noticed you've been distancing yourself from Michael. Has he done something to bother you?

MC: ...

MC: I suppose I should tell you.

MC: It's not unusual for angels to be devoted to me, but Michael, on the other hand, has confessed his love for me as a descendant of Solomon.

Gabriel: ...

MC: It seems that Michael is seeking a "different" kind of relationship.

Gabriel: ...

MC: *could tell that he was seething with anger*

MC: Gabriel, come here closer.

Gabriel: ...

Gabriel: *leans close*

MC: ...

MC: *plants a soft kiss on his cheek*

Gabriel: !!!

MC: Look at you—one kiss was all it took to make you happy.

Gabriel: *blushing like crazy*

MC: Ah, but I'm sure Michael's happiness can't compare to yours.

MC: After all, he touched me.

Gabriel: ...

Gabriel: MICHAEL!!!!!!!!!

Michael: Hm?

Gabriel: *storms up to him*

Michael: What's the matter?

Gabriel: You've committed the gravest sin of all—trying to covet god while viewing them as just another person!

Michael: ...

Michael: Heh. They're a descendant of Solomon, a human. I've fallen in love with that human, not with their image as god.

Michael: If I do say so myself, I have every right to claim what’s been given to me by god.

Gabriel: NONSENSE! *draws out his weapon*

Michael: *is prepared to fight as well*

Raphael: That's enough! *has arrived to stop them*

Gabriel: Don't stop me, Raphael!

Raphael: You are in the presence of younger angels, and you're not setting a good example.

Raphael: What will god say if they learn about this?

Michael and Gabriel: ...

Gabriel: *glares at Michael then leaves*

Michael: ...

Michael: *about to take his leave as well when Raphael stopped him*

Michael: What is it you want?

Raphael: Banish every impure thought you have about god.

Michael: *smiles*

Michael: Don't worry. Mine only lies with the descendant of Solomon.

Raphael: ...

Raphael and Gabriel: What?

MC: *has announced that they will be away to visit a friend from the human world*

Raphael: ...

Raphael: God, that won't be possible.

MC: Hm? Why not?

Gabriel: No human has ever seen god. Your friend will die if you meet him.

MC: That's true; however, I'm in the body of a mortal. *smiles* And I have a separate identity.

Raphael and Gabriel: ...

Raphael: But still, what will we do while you're gone?

Gabriel: Can't we go with you?

MC: It seems you two don't trust that I'll return.

Raphael and Gabriel: ...

MC: I’ll definitely return. In the meantime, I need you to ensure everything stays in order here. Do you understand?

Raphael and Gabriel: Yes, god.

Minhyeok: *missing and worried sick about MC*

Minhyeok: Ppyong has stopped coming by.

Minhyeok: Does that mean something happened to them?

MC: Are you having sadboi hours?

Minhyeok: !!!

Minhyeok: MC?

MC: Who else?

Minhyeok: ...

Minhyeok: You're not Ppyong pretending to be them, are you?

MC: *rolls their eyes*

Minhyeok: ...

Minhyeok: *his eyes start to water* MC...

MC: Nuh-uh. *turns around and approaches the door* I didn't come back for this.

Minhyeok: Wait! *stood up immediately and runs to hug them*

MC: *not amused when he started crying on their shoulder*

MC: Dude, I'm not dead.

Minhyeok: Yes... And I'm glad that you aren't...