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haadeswrites · 3 years

Text

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it.

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child.

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well.

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call.

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse.

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined.

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her.

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?”

And your traitorous heart skips a beat.

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.”

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?”

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression.

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet…

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following.

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading.

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home.

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions.

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain.

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him.

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi.

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part.

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours.

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea.

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well.

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for.

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to.

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight.

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers.

“Do you mind if I sit?�� you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him.

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight.

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion.

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering.

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms.

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night.

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?”

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be.

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach.

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves.

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head.

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river.

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn.

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired.

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north.

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night.

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore…

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it?

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.”

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island.

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment.

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage.

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside.

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side.

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly.

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head.

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first.

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out.

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes.

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise.

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually.

Time slows.

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at.

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally–

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound.

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips.

It wasn’t him. It was never him.

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.”

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care.

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though.

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch.

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again.

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to.

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you.

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter.

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most.

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood.

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!”

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere oikawa tooru #yandere oikawa #yandere oikawa tooru x reader #cult au #tw: religious themes #tw: dubcon #tw: blood #tw: minor character death #tw: abuse #hades.dark #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader

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myafterlifeisbetterthenyours · 3 years

Text

{This goes out to Feralvoidcatra for giving me my very first request. Hope you enjoy.}

Reader was adopted by Stolas after he found out there parents were abusive.

Stolas is two things.

A Demonic Prince and A proud Family Man.

His daughter Octavia, wass perhaps the most important thing in the seven rings to him.

So the idea that someone could mistreat there child was inconceivable to him.

When he found you, you were in terrible shape. Starving, filthy clothes and a black eye.

Not wanting you walking the streets alone, he escorted you home.

He wondered how you could end up that way, until he saw your home.

Taking you home he was disgusted by the state you lived in, bug infested, rotting carpets and a distinct smell of cheap alcohol. This he could tolerate. It was hell after all.

But, when he saw how your parents treated you. The way they would so callously treat a defenceless child, there own child.

Something in him snapped.

He took you under his wing, Literally, holding you against him as he dealt with your parents.

You didn't see what happened to your parents.

You were pressed against his chest. But the screams and sounds of blood spattering, painted a clear enough picture.

He took you home. He fed you, bathed you and clothed you. He treated you better then your parents ever had.

Stolas had no idea what he was doing.

Of course he took a major part in raising Octavia, but taking care of some random child, especially one that has suffered such abuse, he didn't have experience or knowledge with such things.

Satan! he'd never even changed a diaper before.

But looking down at you, curled up against him, he knew you had no one and nothing.

Completely alone in the world.

How could he abandon you. What if it were Octavia in your position.

So he did the only logical thing he could.

He declared you to be the newest member of the Goetia Family.

Stella had a figurative and quite literal fit.

Octavia was thrilled to have a younger sibling the two of you quickly becoming best friends.

It warmed Stolas' black heart to see the two of you getting along.

It took a lot of political and social manoeuvring to make your membership of the Ars Goetia official.

It was a title you took very serious, doing everything in your power to make him proud.

Outside of your new found royal status, your time in the Goetia household was idealistic.

Stolas was everything you could want from a father, he was caring, compassionate and genuinely wanted only the best for you.

The two of you spent lots of time together.

Both to learn how to act in a royal manner, but also just to bond as father and child.

Having octavia as a big sister would be amazing.

Octavia always wanted a younger sibling, so the two of you would be as close as theives. Of course there was an adjustment period, where Octavia had to get used to no longer being a only child, but over all the two of you were still increadibly close.

Stella... well she couldn't deny your status as a Goetia... not after all Stolas did.

And while initially Stella would see you as no different then the rest of the hellbornes, like scum.

She would eventually warm up to you. After you proved to her that you took the Goetia name seriously.

And for a short while, everything seemed perfect.

You came to truely idolise Stolas, how could you not.

He saved you, raised you as his own flesh and blood and treated you more like family then your ever did.

But when stolas slept with Blitzø.

It devastateed you.

Stolas had always preached that loyalty to your family, to the Geotia family was everything.

So for him to betray such ideals, left you questioning everything he'd ever told you.

Including that he loved you.

Each member of your family reacted a different way.

Stella began screaming a lot, having huge fights with stolas on the regular.

Octavia embraced her moody, rebelious teenage phase, becoming more moody and rebellious.

You became the exact opposite.

You conformed to the Goetia name as much as you could. Doing everything in your power to live up to what was expected of your status. To keep your familys honor intact.

In an almost twisted way, you and your mother became closer through the affair.

It hurt Stolas deeply to see how the repurcussions of the affair had affected his family.

He and octavia were very close before his affair,

But to see your entire personality shift, from a fun loving child, into a cold aristocrat.

Going from idolising him to utterly despising him, really dampened his spirit.

He tried hard to earn the both you and Octavias trust.

Eventually winning Octavia back with the Loo Loo Land fiasco, when he proved he still loved her.

But winning you over would be much, much harder.

When Stolas slept with Blitzø, as far as you were concerned, He had effectively turned his back on your family. He turned his back on you.

But no matter how betrayed you felt, you just couldn't bring yourself hate him.

It would all come to a head when you found out Stella tried to have Stolas assassinated.

You couldn't stand it any more. You just wanted things to go back to the way they were.

So when he found you, alon in your room, on the brink of tears.

He he had to act like a father.

He approached you slowly, pulling you against him, holding you like he did when you were a kid.

He told you how was he sorry.

How he never meant to hurt you.

How out of everyone in your family he never, ever meant to make you feel unwanted.

You told him how you couldn't handle it all.

The separation. The fighting. Having to act like you didn't want to jump into his arms and hold him close.

Holding you against his chest, he sung you the lullaby he used when you had nightmares as a child.

You had so much pent up emotion, you couldn't hold back the wave of emotions, you sobbed into his chest. Stolas just held you close, lulling you off to sleep.

After that you and stolas agree that he'll be more mindful of his actions.

You do not like Blitzø. Not at all.

Stella... stella was difficult, but the two of you were still on good terms and she acted more like a mother then she had before.

Everything settled down, outside of the consistent fighting between your parents.

It was good. Not perfect. but you were family again.

#helluva boss #headcanon #helluva stolas #x reader #helluva boss headcanon #helluva boss x reader #helluva octavia #oc reader

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the-bau-quinjet · 3 years

Note

hiii! i don’t know if you have done this but can you do a hotch x reader where they get kidnapped by tobias instead of reid? xx

4 Months

Warning: Criminal Minds level violence, drugs, torture, rabid dogs

Word Count: 3562

a/n: I decided to switch up some of the specifics, just to make it a bit more fun to read. I hope you like it :) Also, we're pretending Rossi was there bc he is really the father of the group and it fit better than having Gideon 🤷‍♀️

Masterlist

"JJ, we have to split up." You barely looked back at her, missing the nervous expression on her face as you ran toward the cornfield. "I'll take the field, you take the barn."

You slowed to a brisk walk as you neared the cornfield, raising your gun in front of you. You couldn't help but think about how pissed Hotch would be if he knew what you were doing.

You shook off the thought, knowing he would do the same if the roles were reversed.

Spotting movement, you moved farther into the corn, trying to spot any signs indicating which way Tobias went. A bent corn husk was the last thing you saw before the world went black.

"He's not a witness. He's the unsub." Hotch's eyes went wide as he realized you and JJ were there without backup. "Call JJ, now." He instructed Morgan, taking out his own phone to call you.

Hotch's eyes met Morgan's as both calls went unanswered. No words were exchanged as everyone ran out to the SUVS, putting on bulletproof vests as they went.

Hotch was nervously tapping the steering wheel the entire drive to Hankel's house. He couldn't stop replaying your last conversation.

"Y/N, you and JJ go talk to Hankel. Find out if he saw anything." Despite his stern expression, you could tell his eyes were smiling at you.

"Sure thing." You nodded, mouthing 'I love you' before turning to JJ.

That's it. He didn't even have the chance to mouth it back. JJ would've seen, and even though the team has theories about your relationship, you haven't confirmed anything yet.

He pulled into the driveway, running up to the house, gun out before anyone could stop him.

Prentiss followed Hotch, Morgan and Reid took the left, Rossi and a local cop took the right.

They tore through the house, clearing it with fierce determination, but came up empty.

"It's clear." Rossi called, joining Hotch and Prentiss in the living room. "Where are Morgan and Reid?"

Hotch spared a glance out the window, discovering the barn likely being cleared by the missing agents.

Everyone ran out of the house, arriving outside the barn just as Morgan and Reid lead a distressed JJ outside.

"What happened?" Hotch questioned, glancing over JJ's shoulder into the barn. Clearly you weren't there, but he needed to hope.

"We split up. Y/N went into the cornfield... I had- I had to shoot them." Her voice was detached, eyes glazed over.

"The dogs." Morgan clarified, leading JJ to a paramedic.

"Dammit. The house is clear. No sign of Y/N or Hankel." Hotch ran a hand through his hair, trying to clear his mind. The worry was nearly overpowering, but it wouldn't help find you.

The sheriff approached, removing his hat. "A deputy two towns over gave directions to a man matching Hankel's description. He's headed for a hunting lodge."

Morgan nodded to Prentiss. "We'll check it out."

Your head was pounding. A vile scent reached your nose, causing your eyes to flicker open. You flinched at the closeness of the man in front of you.

"Tobias..." The name slipped out in a whisper.

"They're not here. It's just me now." He stated, calmer than you would've expected.

"Who are you?" You asked, trying to portray a fake sense of calm.

"I'm Rafael." He pulled out a revolver, adding a single bullet to the six chambers.

"No. You don't have to do this." Your heart ached, fear gripping your body as he aimed the gun at you.

"It is my duty to enact God's will." He said, right before pulling the trigger.

Hotch pulled back into the driveway, leading Garcia into the house.

"His computer setup is in there. If there's even a hint of where they might've gone, I need you to find it." Hotch gestured to the back room.

Penelope nodded. Carrying her own computer bags, she followed Derek into the depths of the house.

"What've we got?" Hotch questioned those remaining around the table.

"He knew he could throw us off, pretend to be looking for a hunting lodge." Emily spoke quickly.

"We've got piles of information, journals, notebooks. We're still sifting through it all." JJ added, shirt still bloody from yesterday.

Just then, Reid rushed in from another room. "The walls in the bedroom, they are covered in the latin phrase 'honora patrem tuum', honor thy father."

"Garcia, look for anything you can find about his father." Hotch gave out orders, but his focus was elsewhere. What was happening to you?

"Over here!" Morgan called from outside.

The team ran around the house to see Morgan opening a cellar door. Nodding slightly, Hotch and Morgan made there way inside.

"Tobias Hankel, FBI." Morgan shouted, receiving no answer.

They quickly found the dead body of none other than Hankel's father. Even the new information did little to calm the worry brewing inside of Hotch.

"Confess your sins." He ordered.

"My sins? I don't have any sins." You did your best to hold back the tears, trying to figure out who you were talking to.

"Everyone has sins. Confess, and you will be forgiven." He stared you down, waiting for a response.

You simply shook your head, mouth slightly agape. The smell was getting to you. You couldn't think straight with the pain in your head.

"I- I don't know what-"

"YES YOU DO. CONFESS." He hit you, whipping your head to the left.

"Hotch, he took drugs to escape. Dilaudid cut with a psychedelic." Emily relayed the information her and JJ got from Tobias's sponsor.

"We've got something too. The dates in his journals don't add up. He was talking about his father as if he was alive months after he killed him."

"His father beat him, preached about sin." Emily replied, putting the pieces together alongside Hotch.

"Split personality. Profile the father. He could be the key to finding Y/N." Even just saying your name he felt his heart clench.

"Who are you?" You questioned him as soon as he walked through the door, trying to figure out who you were dealing with this time.

"Tobias." He moved about the cabin almost nervously.

"Who was here before?" You knew Rafael, but the other personality was a mystery.

"My father." Definitely the most violent. He was who you had to look out for. "I'm sorry if he hurt you."

Tobias looked over you newly forming bruises before pulling off his belt.

"No. No what are you doing?" You felt your heart rate increase as he wrapped the belt around your arm. You could barely register the words he was saying, something about escaping from the pain.

"Please. I don't want it. I'm fine." You begged, tears brimming your eyes. He ignored your pleas, injecting the drug into your bloodstream.

Despite how much you hated it, you felt the relief he was talking about. The pain was gone, even if just briefly. You thought about your time spent with Hotch. It didn't feel like long enough. You wanted more. You had so much you wanted to do with him.

"Aaron..." You mumbled his name between kisses. "They could see us." You did little to stop him, despite your words.

"We should tell them." He whispered against your mouth, holding you close. "They would be happy for us."

You sighed blissfully, forehead pressed against his. "Really? You know they've got a pool going to see when we'd finally get together. Who do you think had money on 4 months ago?" You laughed into his neck, pulling him closer.

"My bet's on Rossi. He knows us both too well." Aaron smiled, a full genuine smile.

"You're probably right, but just to make it interesting, I'm betting Reid. He's too observant not to have noticed." You squinted at the window, knowing Reid was staring at the closed blinds on the other side.

That earned a laugh, one you could feel in his chest pressed tightly to your own.

"I love you." He kissed your head, content to hold you for a little while longer.

"I love you too." You leaned ever farther into him. "We can tell them when we get back from this next case."

"Deal."

"Get in here!" Reid called from the computer room, pointing to a screen where you were being broadcast. You were handcuffed and tied to a chair, clearly beaten.

"Pick one to die." The voice of Tobias could be heard, despite him not being visible on the screen.

You shook your head, staring into the camera. You wanted to plead for Hotch to save you, but you knew it wouldn't be fair. He didn't need that on his conscience.

"Choose one, and I will free another."

You shook your head again, trying to think of a clue you could give the team. "I won't let you hunt them like a poacher."

"Now. Or I will kill them all." He threatened, lifting you from the ground.

"I'll pick who lives." You stuttered, breaths coming fast and short. "The right screen."

You were forced to watch as he turned off the camera, leaving the screens to show the heinous murders he was about to commit.

Suddenly, Rossi was talking to you through the screen. The sight of him nearly brought you to tears.

"Y/N. This isn't your fault. None of it. You can't blame yourself. We will find you, but I need you to be there when we do."

You knew exactly what he meant. You were already blaming yourself, despite Rossi's father like relationship with you, it was hard to believe him.

It did give you the strength to remember the team though. You needed to see them, all of them, again.

"He's back!" Morgan called everyone in to view the screens again.

"Confess your sins." They watched as he beat you.

You cried. You begged him to stop. You begged Tobias for help, but nothing worked.

Hotch felt his heart break even more with every word.

Suddenly, you were on the ground, still tied to the chair. You were seizing, Charles Hankel watching as it happened.

The screen went dark, causing Hotch to punch the desk.

"Dammit." He shouted. He didn't care if his worry was beginning to poke through the surface. He needed to find you and he needed to do it now.

"The timestamp." Emily's voice drew him out of his head. "There's only a few minutes between the time of death and when it was posted. He's got to be close to the crime scene."

Finally. Something that felt like progress.

They watched the screen as you appeared again.

"Choose one to die." It was Rafael this time.

"I can't. I can't do it." Your face betrayed every emotion you were feeling inside.

"Pick one." He stated again.

"Me. Kill me." You nearly begged.

"You said you weren't one of them. Your team has 7 other members. Choose one of them to die."

You shook your head, fear gripping you once again as he pulled out the revolver.

"Choose." He connected the gone to your forehead, resting it there.

"No." He pulled the trigger, watching as you flinched.

"Choose." You shook your head, tensing as he pulled the trigger again.

Hotch felt his heart in his stomach, internally begging you to just say a name. He couldn't watch you die, not like this.

"Choose." He pulled the trigger yet again at your silence.

"I won't do it." You held firm, knowing you had limited chances.

"Choose one to die."

You opened your mouth, panting as an idea came to you.

"I choose... Aaron Hotchner." Your heart ached even saying it, but you needed to give him a clue. "He's a classic narcissist. Thinks he's better than everyone. He'd go to his grave knowing he was wrong." You winced internally, trying not to give away your plan.

Hotch left the room, trying to understand your words. The two of you had just argued about the definition of classic narcissism.

"I think you're wrong." You laughed at his amused expression.

"Yeah? Or do you just like making me exasperated?" He questioned your motives, pulling you closer as you laid in bed together.

"Maybe a little bit of both." You shrugged, leaning up to kiss him. "Promise me something?" You asked, a nervous expression on your face.

"What?" He looked at you with so much concern, you felt your heart beat a little faster.

"If... If I die, you can't blame yourself." He opened his mouth to protest, but you kept going. "I know you Aaron. You'd take it to grave thinking it was your fault. I can't let you do that. Not when I know you blame yourself for Haley's death." You felt your heart break for him and the pain he had been through. "Promise me." You were nearly begging.

"I promise." He whispered, his throat tight at the idea of losing you.

He was brought back to the present by the sound of Rossi's voice.

"Hotch, you know Y/N didn't mean any of that." Rossi tried gently, unsure of how Hotch was coping with your situation.

"I'm not a narcissist. What's my worst quality?" He looked at the apprehensive looks everyone was giving him. "I'll start, I have no sense of humor."

He nodded along as his team listed his faults.

"None of you said I ever put myself above the team, because I don't. Y/N and I just argued about the definition of classic narcissism." He paced, trying to put it together. "I'd take it to my grave... Grave was a hint."

"What? How do you know?" Reid shook his head, trying to understand the logic.

"I made a promise. It's a long story." He shook his head, trying to clear the memory so he could focus. "Y/N knew I would remember it."

"A cemetary. It's got to be a cemetary." Morgan added.

"No cemeteries on the map." Garcia was typing away on the computer.

"Like a poacher." Reid whispered, staring at the screen.

"Reid?" Hotch looked at him, eyes pleading for an answer.

"That's what Y/N said in the first video. 'I won't let you hunt them like a poacher.'" He said it louder, more excited than before.

"Garcia, any reports of poaching in the area?" Hotch asked, the idea of finding you causing hope to erupt in his chest.

"Yes, at Marshall Parrish... and there's a cemetery on the grounds." She gave them the address, watching as they ran out to the SUVs.

"I'm sorry." Tobias said it so softly, you were almost certain you didn't hear it at all.

"Wh- why?" Your eyebrows pulled together in confusion, trying to make sense of it.

"He'll win. In the end, he always does." He rose from the crouched position, slowly injecting you with more drugs.

"Hotch!" You screamed, feeling arms restraining you from behind.

You watched as he went into the hostage situation, unarmed and without a vest.

"Derek. Let me go!" You struggled in his grasp, straining to get free.

"There's nothing you can do, he's already inside." He stated the truth, although it did little to calm your nerves.

You settled down, throat tight with worry. You bit your lip, eyes flitting between the door and windows. You just needed a sign, anything to say he was alright.

The sound of a gun firing stunned you. You were frozen in place, fear consuming you. You had just told him you loved him for the first time this morning. What if you never get to say it again? What if that's all the time you got.

You stared in horror as everyone ran toward the house, only to freeze when a voice shouted everything was fine.

"It's fine." He huffed, carrying the small child out of the house toward a waiting EMT. "Baxter is dead."

"Aaron..." You whispered the name, realizing how powerless you felt when he was in danger. The two of you made eye contact across the yard, a reassuring look in his eye.

"Aaron..." You whispered, blinking rapidly as you slowly came to.

"What about Aaron." Charles. Tobias's dad was back.

"I couldn't stop him. I couldn't keep him safe." You muttered to yourself, not fully understanding the situation.

"Is that a confession?" He asked, voice hard.

"Yes." It was more of a breath of air than a word, but it was all he needed to condemn you.

He unlocked your handcuffs, forcing a shovel into your newly freed arms before dragging you outside.

"Dig." he instructed plainly, watching over you as stray tears wet the ground beneath you.

"Clear." Morgan called from one side of the shed.

"Clear" Hotch replied from the other. With the whole team in the small space, it wasn't exactly necessary but it was habit.

Hotch could feel his nerves picking up again as he realized this meant you were still with Tobias. He paced back and forth, feeling powerless.

"Spread out. They have to be on foot." He left without waiting for a response, turning left with JJ to look for you.

You did your best to stall, but Charles wasn't the most patient.

"Dig faster."

"I'm trying. I'm trying." You whimpered, movements speeding up ever so slightly. The massive knife in his hands causing your own to shake.

"You're weak. Move." He huffed, throwing his jacket to the ground before ripping the shovel from your hands.

A flash of light in the trees caught your eye. Flashlights. Your team. Aaron.

Your eyes flickered between the man in front of you and the trees, causing him to turn.

You took the split second he wasn't looking to grab the gun from his jacket, swiftly aiming it as he turned back to you knife raised.

"Only one bullet in that gun." He lunged for you, falling backwards after you pulled the trigger.

You dropped the gun, quickly tossing the knife away.

"Tobias?" You cried, moving back toward him.

"You killed me." He seemed surprised, but grateful at the same time.

You felt the tears pouring down your face as you apologized.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry." You grabbed his hand, watching the light fade from his eyes as he asked one final question.

"You think I'll get to see my mom again?"

You barely registered the arms around you, pulling you to your feet. You couldn't take your eyes off of Tobias. He wasn't the one who hurt you. He helped you, or at least tried.

"I killed him." Your breathing picked up, vision blurring.

"Y/N, look at me." You turned to the voice, blinking rapidly to stop the tears.

"Aaron?" You took a stuttering breath, trying to make sure this was real.

"I'm here. It's okay. You're okay. You're safe now." His words were just as reassuring to himself as they were to you. You caught JJ's eye over Hotch's shoulder, quickly moving to hug her.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry. I never should've-" You cut her off.

"None of this was your fault. It was my idea to split up. I'm so sorry." You cried into her shoulder, knowing how guilty she must've felt.

She hugged you back, tears brimming her own eyes at seeing you alive again.

She lead you to the EMT, not commenting on the look you threw over your shoulder at Aaron. He quickly followed you to the ambulance. JJ left you to talk to Hotch, who stayed beside you the entire time the medics looked you over.

"I didn't mean it." You said when you were finally alone, sitting between the open doors of the ambulance.

"What?" Aaron questioned, his mind not following your own train of thought.

"When... When I had to choose. I didn't mean any of it." You could feel the tears coming, but this time you did nothing to hold them back.

"I know. I knew the whole time." You brushed your tears away, looking you in the eye. "I love you so much." He whispered, his own eyes feeling watery.

"I love you too." You leaned into him, relishing in the feeling of his arm around you. You couldn't help but look over at the team, all of whom quickly pretended not to be watching. You huffed a laugh.

"Yeah, I think they're going to have some questions." Hotch smiled, glad to see you happy even if just for a second.

"After this case, right?" You looked back at him, confirming you still wanted to share your relationship with the team.

"Deal." He smiled, arm tightening around your shoulders to pull you closer.

You couldn't help but bring it up on the jet ride home.

"So, who had money on four months ago?" You questioned, tucked into Aaron's side on the couch.

"What?" Emily raised a brow at your sudden statement.

"That's when we started dating." You grinned at her shocked expression.

"Dammit Reid." Morgan huffed, handing over the money.

"Don't forget Rossi!" Reid high fived the older man, the two grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Looks like we were both right." Hotch smiled into your hair, trying to hide his laugh.

"Yeah. We make a pretty good team." You smiled, leaning into his touch.

"I love you." He murmured, face still in your hair. You turned your face into his chest before responding.

"I love you too."

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holden-caulfield · 3 years

Text

Hatred, you thought.

↪︎ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

SUMMARY: enemies that get trapped in the same room and have no choice but to work together to get out, inevitably leading the two of them to realize their true feelings for each other to lovers.

WARNINGS: is it angsty? i don't think so, fluffy ending tho

WORD COUNT: 1991

A/N: i'm not really sure what this is, but i used my prompt and this came out... i don't think i ever mention draco but i wrote this with him in mind. also, i don't think they are in school, it's an au of some sort and it's very messy :) it will make sense as you read it tho!!

No way out. An empty room. Just you and him.

Oh, how ironic Fate could be, how insensitive, cruel and ironic.

No way out.

You were stuck, how it happened was still a mystery to you. Such a fool for having let yourself be trapped in there.

An empty room.

No windows, just a door, which was now sealed. The only source of lightning was enough to illuminate both of your faces, his features so sharp in the pale light emanated from the dangling lamp above you.

Just you and him.

It could have been anyone, but it had to be him, of course. He wasn't any happier than you, he despised you just as much as you did, if not more.

But there you were, alone together. Words weren't needed because facial expressions were enough to convey each other's feelings: scowls perfectly disclosed any emotion that passed through your minds. Aversion, loathing, abhorrence, hate.

Such a strong word, you never thought you'd have used it to describe someone, but he was worthy of the title. You hated him, so deeply, so violently, so passionately.

He was much more generous with the use of the word, he hated pretty much everyone who didn't agree with him. But with you. Oh, with you it was different. He made sure you knew he actually hated you. It was not playful banter, it was not temporary animosity. It was pure, unfathomable hatred.

Then why did you find yourself there with him? Fate, once more, came into play.

It has such a weird way of playing, Fate. It can conjoin long lost lovers just as easily as it can unite sworn enemies who would happily have nothing to do with each other. And it takes great pleasure in doing the latter; you couldn't help but imagine the Moirai laughing, deriding you as they spun the inexorable thread that was your own Fate. Insensitive and cruel they were as they got their merciless job done.

"What now?" he asked, but he already knew the answer. He didn't want to admit it, admit he needed your help; neither did you.

But the only alternative was waiting, waiting for the inevitable destiny that would have hit you if you hadn't got out of the room. However, that meant more time to share with him, and neither of you was hoping on it.

"We find a way out, isn't it obvious?" you couldn't refrain the sarcasm dripping from your tone. The even deeper scowl decorating his face was worth it.

"How?" it took a lot out of him to stop himself from snapping at you as he analyzed the only object in the chamber, the door.

"Aren't you the one always preaching about his above-average intellect? Put it to good use, then." you knew snarky remarks wouldn't have helped you to find a way out, but they did help improve your mood, even if only in the slightest.

"No lock. No handle. No hinges. What is your great intellect suggesting?" he threw away that last ounce of restraint he had in him and decided to play your game. A challenge, to entertain you while you endured his vile presence.

"Push it. Break it down."

"Ladies first." you took a running start and collided with the door. It didn't budge.

You tried again, this time he joined you. It didn't budge. Useless attempts.

"Great idea." you could feel the smirk in his voice but you didn't give him the satisfaction and stared at the still-closed door instead.

No way out. An empty room. Just you and him.

When suddenly an illumination: while scrutinizing the room, you looked up and, narrowing your eyes, you noticed a square-shaped line, so thin you couldn't have seen it if you hadn't been so focused.

"Give me a hand, quick!" you let of all the hostilities as an opportunity arose and grasped his shoulder, forcing him to look towards the area your finger pointed to.

He joined his hands and helped you reach what you hoped was a trap door.

"God, i thought you were lighter..."

"And i thought you were stronger but look at us." you stretched your arms to reach it but it was still too high up, "Higher!"

"I can't extend myself, you know?" he said, quite irritated.

"Oh woah, something you can't do? Bewildering..." arms still outstretched, you lifted yourself on your toes. A mistake.

You lost balance and could already taste the blood in your mouth from the inevitable contact with the floor, but it never happened.

Because he caught you. You were shocked and from the look in his eyes, he was too.

"Try not to do other stupid things because i won't be there to catch you again." you quickly lifted yourself from his hold and immediately started to study another way to reach the trap door, your only hope, but in your mind thoughts about what had just happened still roamed freely.

There was no explanation other than the fact that he could not work with an injured person; if you had hurt yourself, you would have been weaker and therefore unable to help him get out. Yes, that was the reason.

"Give me a lift again."

"You can't reach it-"

"Give me a lift. Again." your tone was sterner and he complied, but not before scoffing and rolling his eyes.

You climbed on his hands once more, but it was still too high. You lifted your foot tentatively and placed it on his shoulder.

"Woah, are you trying to kill me up there?!"

You didn't answer, instead using the new added height to reach the ledge. You pushed it open and climbed up, successfully exiting the room you had called prison just moments ago.

"Always."

He smirked disapprovingly, a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and signaled for you to help him out now, so you moved to find something, anything to help him.

It was dark, the only light brightening the new corridor that had just appeared was faint and came from the far end of it.

You crossed the entire hallway, looking for a rope or a box strong enough to support your nemesis when it dawned on you: your nemesis. Why were you even helping him? Sure he had helped you, but that was before you were free.

You had now a choice, he didn't have any. If he did, he wouldn't have been so magnanimous. He surely wouldn't.

You kept on going towards the light, strengthening with every step you took when a rope appeared in your way.

The choice was now concrete. You could help him. Or you couldn't.

"Y/l/n! Found anything?" what to do now? He wouldn't have helped you.

"Took you long enough, huh?"

"I was trying to find something, you ungrateful twat." you sneered as you threw him the rope. He grasped it and began climbing, but you had still time. Time to let the thread go and leave him there. Time to save yourself.

But you didn't, an actual reason still missing in your mind. Too much compassion, too much pity, you thought. But you weren't convinced, you couldn't lie to yourself, there was something else.

He climbed all the way up, you offered your hand to finally hoist him on the ledge. He considered it, he refused it.

"We're not friends, y/l/n."

"Believe me, i know. I was just trying to make sure i hadn't to get you up here all over again. I thought you were lighter, you know?" he glowered at you, but it was not the same as before, as always.

One way out. Just you and him.

You treaded that same corridor you had crossed seconds ago, besides him this time. It was narrow and your bodies tried so hard not to touch but it was close to impossible. Shoulders collided, legs bumped, hands grazed. But eyes refused to meet; hatred, you repeated to yourself.

The light seemed to never arrive even as you quickened your step. You were running, striving to reach that light that you so desperately clang to. But then a sudden stop.

The hand that was once ruthlessly brushing against yours, grasped you. It was rushed, it was vital, it was puzzling. But it held you close to him.

He was your enemy, you needed to distance yourself, but you couldn't find the strength in you to do so. Hatred, you repeated in your head and you pushed him away.

"Watch your step." he said, pointing to a hole in the floor, a square one. You were running in circle.

You felt stupid, to think he had forgotten your rivalry so easily, to think things had changed between you.

"Thanks." it came out of your mouth without thinking. Good manners are hard to forget, you reckoned.

A pause.

"You're welcome." could a situation of forced proximity really change the feelings between two people?

Incredibly thin is the line between love and hate.

You didn't love him. You didn't hate him either. Things were evolving, you didn't know whether it was good or bad, but they were.

"We have to find another way." you thought aloud. He agreed with a simple nod, no remarks. The awkward exchange must have had an effect on him just as much as it did on you, or so you thought.

His eyes were lighter than you had ever seen them, his face seemed tense, but it was not a grimace; that was new. He looked quite entrancing when he wasn't too busy glowering at you, his features looked endearing as they attentively surveyed the area.

Sense of guilt took over because you knew you shouldn't have been thinking about such things, but had he always been so tall and captivating? Had you never noticed that sparkle in his eyes that caused the image of crystals glinting in the sun to appear in your mind? Was he thinking the same?

Undecipherable; intriguing. You wanted to know more, was it possible? You pondered no further and returned your gaze to the corridor, unwillingly.

It was his turn to watch you now because when you turned again you caught him staring.

"What are you looking at?" you couldn't help the defensive tone with which you uttered the sentence, but it didn't bother him.

"You saved me. Why?" he was genuine, he was sincere and this had you even more confused than you already were.

"You did too, it's nothing but a temporary truce."

"Is it?" he whispered without missing a beat and suddenly the walls weren't narrow anymore, no, they were far too wide, he was far too distant. As if reading your mind, he took a step closer.

"Of course it is." were you that sure?

"Are you sure?"

"Of course i am."

"But why did you save me?" what game was he playing? Your mind was not able to form any coherent thought as the man in front of you kept on making questions to which you didn't know the answer. You didn't want to admit the answer.

"It's just a truce, we hate each other-"

"Do we?" his questions were quick, it was much simpler making them than answering them.

"Do we?" you repeated.

"You could have left me there..."

"Do we?" you insisted.

"You didn't have to do that, you could have-"

"Do we hate each other?" you were impatient to hear him say it.

He remained silent but his eyes were speaking, only his mouth didn't allow them.

"Do we hate each other or-"

He cut you off, that same mouth that had suddenly become dumb reached yours. Hatred, you repeated in your head.

You kissed him too, logic leaving your mind, hands entangling in his hair, bodies flush against each other.

Love, you admitted.

Maybe Fate wasn't as cruel as you thought.

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wintermelonbear · 3 years

Text

Artistry

Pairing: Damian Al-Ghul Wayne/Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Trope/s: Childhood Friends, No Powers AU

Summary: A story in which two seemingly dissimilar eight-year-olds build bonds through their love for martial arts. Written for the MGI Trope Tussle 2021.

Words: 4808

Damian and Marinette first met when they were 8 at his mother’s Wushu studio. At first glance they were an unlikely duo, before meeting in martial arts class their social circles ran entirely parallel with one another with Damian attending a private school that was a feeder for Gotham academy and Marinette attending a public elementary local to her, but they truly brought out the best in each other.

Damian had grown up inside his mother’s studio, working day in and day out from the tender age of 3 to improve his weaponry and martial arts skill. His mother and father, divorced but trying their best to co-parent for his sake, each preached to him about the importance of self-discipline and concentration. When his mother and her father, Ras himself a master martial artist, had competed in Wushu they were national champions. As a third-generation practitioner of Wushu, Damian had a lot riding on his shoulders.

Marinette’s mother had practiced Wushu as a child in China. When she first arrived in France she found herself disappointed that there were no local Chinese martial arts centers, let alone Wushu training centers. Sabine always thought it would be a passion she could pass down to her future child, but there was only so much she could teach on her own. However, as fate would have it, after a falling out with Tom’s father Roland the Dupain-Chengs found themselves in a city not too far from Gotham, New Jersey. Sabine was pleasantly surprised to find that the martial arts scene was much more alive there than it had been in Paris. However, between the bakery and her young daughter Sabine had little time to spend practicing martial arts. It wasn’t until Marinette’s kindergarten teacher suggested that Marinette be enrolled in a sport to better her hand-eye coordination that Sabine finally put her daughter into formal martial arts courses.

At first, everything was fine until it became apparent that Marinette was progressing much faster than her peers, despite her typical clumsiness she was surprisingly adept at martial arts. Sabine wasn’t entirely surprised as while Wushu was difficult to teach within the confined space they had at home, she still took the time to practice Tai Chi with her daughter on the weekends, providing Marinette with martial arts fundamentals and self-discipline. With Marinette’s slight inclination for martial arts paired with her hard work she was outperforming her classmates and even some of the older kids at the studio she went to. Eventually, Marinette found herself ostracized by her peers, but her teachers at the studio refused to advance her because they had an in-house rule where children could not be advanced more than two years past their age group. Tom and Sabine knew that pulling Marinette out of the sport entirely was off the table, the pure joy that spread across her face every time she mastered a new trick was proof enough that she was in love with the sport. So they set off to find a new studio to train at, where Marinette’s needs as a budding martial artist would be met. After looking around for a while, they decided to give Talia’s Wushu academy a try despite it being a little over a 30-minute drive from their house.

In regards to the first year of their friendship, Marinette would describe it as very professional, and almost nothing more. It took a while for Damian to become more cordial with her. When asked, Marinette would say “Damian didn’t like me, but he tolerated me enough as a partner because there was only so much practice he could have done alone.”

At first, Damian did not like Marinette at all, in fact, maybe he even hated her. When he first met her, Damian thought she was like every other “talented” kid that came into his mother’s studio, only to realize talent alone would get you nowhere in the sport of Wushu. On her first day, she immediately took up the spot next to him at the front and center of the class and offered him a warm smile, “Hello my name is Marinette, I’m new here.” Damian returned her greeting with a harsh tut of his tongue and the turn of his head, he was there to train, not to make friends. Marinette’s expression was aghast, but she quickly recovered and mumbled a soft “okay not talkative then…this is going great….” Damian suppressed an eye roll, simply because he knew his mother would not tolerate that in her classroom.

Against every one of Damian’s expectations, Marinette proved herself to be a hard-working individual. Eventually, after seeing her work on her technique and tricks after class during open gym hours, seeing that she wasn’t relying purely on natural ability and truly was putting in the effort to become a better martial artist, he began to tolerate her. The first time he returned her daily “Hello” with the nod of his head Marinette’s facial expression went from neutral to shocked to absolutely beaming. Damian simply raised his eyebrow and continued with his pre-class warmup.

Over time Marinette had grown a deep respect for Damian; she wished he was a bit friendlier, but despite their rough start Marinette realized early on that, while gruff and unfriendly, Damian was kind in his own way. He always pointed out when someone’s technique was wrong so that they wouldn’t hurt themselves, he always helped bandage someone up when they were hurt, and he always stayed after class to help his mom clean up. Most people would think he did it out of obligation or his mother’s demands, but Marinette loves people watching, and even after just a few months Marinette has observed that Talia would rather Damian use the time to better himself and will insist that she, or one of their workers, handle the menial tasks.

It was not until Damian saw Marinette work through her struggles that he gained respect for her. While Wushu is a largely performative sport where everyone’s moves are choreographed, Talia wanted to ensure everyone was also learning basic self-defense resulting in regularly held sparring sessions at the end of class. Marinette was a great performer, she was highly expressive and could easily recall choreography, but she had minimal exposure to actual sparring and her reflexes were not as sharp and trained like the others. She managed to win against her opponents in the first few classes by utilizing her creativity, but eventually, her lack of experience caught up with her and in her third month at the studio, she began her losing streak. Looking at her lose to her opponents time and time again he couldn’t help but wonder to himself, “will you still be here tomorrow?” Growing up in the studio, Damian knew that most of the people who were considered to be “gifted” had a tendency to drop out the moment things no longer came naturally to them, they grew frustrated with themselves and then with the sport. At this point, he figured he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead, the stage was set for her to become the most prevalent figure in his life.

Despite being in the same classes for over 3 months Damian and Marinette had never sparred. It was actually quite odd that they hadn’t yet sparred, the pairings for the most part were random. Talia reasoned that with the right circumstances even someone who seems weak could win; it was important to never underestimate an opponent and lower your guard. After bowing to one another their eyes met. If you asked them as adults they would unabashedly say that they love the other’s eyes, it was like staring at the calm before a storm. Their eyes were clear, fierce, and piercing. Despite being clearly disadvantaged Marinette showed no fear. She met his first few strikes blow for blow and even managed to evade a few of his strikes with a few unique tumbling passes – something Damian noted that she excelled in. He could tell she has been studying him, observing his strike patterns from his previous matches. Rather than reacting to his strikes, she was anticipating them – a smart move considering her reflexes were lacking. Unfortunately for Marinette, this meant that one unanticipated fake was all it took to defeat her.

That night during open gym hours Marinette approached Damian on her own for the first time. “There is only so much I can practice on my own, please train with me.”

“Why would I do that?” Damian held his face firm, his mouth in a thin line and his eyebrow slightly quirked.

Marinette’s eyes steeled over with conviction. “Did you know that every time you get up from xie bu you duck your chin down in your struggle to regain balance? It’s obvious you’re trying to shift your center of gravity. Instead, try leaning on your front leg from the beginning. The first few times you try this method, you should put a ball between your chin and neck to keep your head held up until you get used to it.”

“How did you–?”

“Notice? I love observing others, I can help you. There’s only so much we can practice on our own. I need help with my reflexes and you need someone who can review your performances. We can’t do this alone. You don’t have to like me, you just have to work with me. What do you say? Deal?”

“Tch. Deal.”

At first, their conversations mainly consisted of Marinette’s one-sided chatter during their warm-up, breaks, and cool-down stretches. It took a while for Marinette to get Damian to open up, but once she found the right topics she found that he was strongly opinionated about almost everything and shared quite a few hobbies with her. While Wushu was the common interest that brought them together, they were much more alike than they thought. They both enjoyed art, video games, and superhero shows to name a few common interests. Damian would say he would want to be a hero without any powers, someone who relies on their own skill to punish evil-doers. Marinette on the other hand would love to be a magical girl who could save others without causing too much damage. After hotly debating the topic of normal heroes and powered heroes, Damian and Marinette came to an agreement that both sides had their own set of struggles and perks.

Damian and Marinette found themselves spending more time with each other both inside and outside of the studio. After arguing over which type of paint was superior, Marinette was team watercolor because of its varied use, relative cheapness to oil paints, and blendability where Damian was a more traditional artist who believed that the blending capabilities of oil paint were just as good, if not better, and their longevity was worth the cost, the two decided to settle it with a paint off. Art sessions quickly became a biweekly tradition between the two, whenever the Gotham botanical garden would have a new exhibit Marinette would insist they go to sketch the flora. Damian quickly found that Marinette was almost as passionate about plants as he was about animals, with the way she flitted about the garden he couldn’t help but wonder if she had been something like a ladybug in her past life. There were also plenty of weekends spent sketching Damian’s pets, though Marinette would note that no drawings could capture what good boys Titus, Alfred the Cat, Jerry the Turkey, and Bat Cow were.

Together they found new ways to integrate Wushu into their hobbies, Marinette had plenty of friends at school who loved art and plenty of friends who did Wushu at the same center, but Damian was the only one she shared nearly all her passions with.

With their art, they began making flyers and posters for the studio, and banners to cheer on their classmates at competitions – Damian would argue he only did this because it would increase morale, which in turn would produce better results for the studio. Marinette struggled with the posters at first as a lot of proposed designs incorporated traditional Chinese characters, she couldn’t even write in Pinyin! Tom and Sabine had prioritized teaching Marinette about her French roots, in the event that one day they decided to move back to France, and neglected teaching her much about Chinese heritage. Marinette still learned basic conversational phrases: yes, no, please, thank you, and familial titles, but she was nowhere near conversational or fluent. After realizing Marinette did not know how to speak Mandarin Damian made it his personal goal to make her at least conversational before they would begin to travel internationally for competitions. Many of the major Wushu competitions took place in China and if Marinette was going to be his partner in the couples division he was going to make sure she was able to converse with any interviewers they may meet, and that if she were to end up lost – he swears Marinette was born without a sense of direction – that she could find her way back to him or their hotel. He hoped that while working on the banners he could work in a few lessons on traditional Chinese characters and simplified Chinese characters so that Marinette could at least read signs. Apart from art, reenacting scenes from video game cutscenes and superhero movies became one of their favorite activities, it became a way to train while still having plenty of fun. Sometimes after mastering a new move-in Ultimate Mecha Strike, they would break out the crash mats to test if the moves in the game were actually physically possible.

Even the hobbies Damian didn’t share with Marinette he was willing to partake in, and the fact that he was trying meant the world to Marinette. Damian was rarely physically affectionate in the first few years of their friendship, and it was even rarer for him to vocalize his emotions, and so Marinette quickly learned that Damian had a tendency to express himself through his actions. A lot of people failed to see how warm and loving Damian truly was, but Marinette saw it in how he interacted with everyone. For example, when Damian’s eldest brother opened up an acrobatics and gymnastics center Damian immediately volunteered to design and paint a mural on the outside that would more easily catch attention, Marinette watched him alter the design day and night and sort through hundreds of color palettes to ensure the pairing was just right. She saw his kindness through his interactions with his family and hers, the painting of her mom and dad baking, a gift from Damian for their 20th anniversary, hung up in the living room was more physical proof of it. When Marinette began sewing he proudly wore her designs and when she began to take commissions, he always kept her business card on his body in the event someone asked about his apparel.

One of Marinette’s fondest memories with Damian was when they decided to host a bake sale to offset the cost of international travel for the competition team. It was near the Mid-Autumn festival so Marinette and her parents decided to make mooncakes. Damian had some experience in the kitchen helping his mother make baozi and baklava, but he definitely wasn’t as experienced as Marinette who grew up in a bakery, yet he still came over to help them with the first few test batches and to help design packaging. Watching him carefully weigh out the ingredients her parents listed and chat about his favorite flavors with her parents in French filled her with so much warmth. The kitchen was filled with banter as a discourse between traditional baked mooncakes and skin mooncakes arose. Marinette and Sabine preferred snow skin mooncakes, the chewiness pairs well with pastes like red bean and taro, where Damian and Tom were strongly on the side of the more traditionally baked mooncake, arguing that the crumble of the pastry paired with fillings like salted egg and lotus paste was clearly superior. Marinette was unsurprised that Damian was strongly advocating for traditional flavors, but her father? The same man who made mustard macarons? It wasn’t until Marinette suggested thousand-layer mooncakes were simply croissants with a pasty filling that everyone else was willing to set aside their different preferences to unite against her. While the thousand layer mooncakes and traditional mooncakes baked, and the snow skin mooncakes steamed Marinette and Damian got to work on the packaging. In order to reduce cost, they had ordered plain packaging and planned to carve potato stamps with Mid-Autumn festival motifs: the moon, rabbits, flowers, fans, and lanterns. Despite having seen how proficient Damian was with a blade in training, Marinette was pleasantly surprised, if not downright awed, by Damian’s precision with a knife. By the time Marinette had finished carving out one flower Damian had finished three lantern carvings. After finishing stamping the final package Marinette daringly pressed the still paint-laden potato stamp onto Damian’s cheek which quickly devolved into a paint fight. The picture of Damian and Marinette covered head to two in paint was proudly pinned at the top of her corkboard, Marinette would never forget the sound of the kitchen filled with laughter that day.

Damian’s parents were extremely supportive of this arrangement. Talia thought it was a great opportunity, open gym hours were busy and she couldn’t give all her attention to Damian, having a training partner could really help him grow. If they got along well they could even enter paired events together! Bruce was enthralled that his son found someone to spend time with other than his friend Clark’s son, Jon. Jon and Damian were great friends, but Jon lived in Metropolis and so the boys rarely saw each other outside of business galas and Skype calls. It was nice knowing his son had someone he could spend time with in person, Bruce was concerned that Damian’s interpersonal growth would be stunted by his lack of interaction with his classmates at school. To see his son being a kid, laughing freely, filled him with great joy, he knew that being the son of a billionaire and a top-notch martial artist had put a lot of pressure on Damian’s shoulders, but he never knew what he could do to help his son. Seeing the walls in Damian’s room at the manor fill up with pictures of him and Marinette smiling, Damian smiling, made Bruce figure that everything was going to be okay.

Sabine and Tom grew to love Damian like their own son with the more time he spent at each other’s houses. At first, they were a bit skeptical, they didn’t quite understand what their daughter saw in the boy, but they trusted her judgment and boy are they glad they did. Damian was like a missing piece of their family, despite his hard exterior, the boy was extremely loyal and caring, they could always count on him to have Marinette’s back. Sabine especially had a soft spot for him after watching him correct Marinette’s brush strokes on the banners, teaching her the differences between what she wrote and what he was writing. The two watched their daughter give herself wholly to this boy, and in return, he gave himself back to her and that was all they could’ve ever wanted for Marinette, to love and be loved.

As they grew older they shared more than just common interests: their dreams, their fears, and the pressure they faced from their families. Marinette knew what she wanted for herself – something Damian was envious of. When they were 11 to offset the competition costs, Marinette’s mother began designing and sewing their competition outfits. Once Marinette saw what her mother was doing she wanted to help, and she ended up falling in love with fashion design. From the age of 13 and onward Marinette designed all of her own stage wear, as well as Damian’s. Sabine would joke that with such a talented daughter it’s a shame they didn’t stay in Paris. Damian wouldn’t admit it – Marinette would – but the thought of possibly never meeting Marinette made him feel uncomfortably empty; he wonders how he bore with that feeling before becoming close with Marinette. Damian wasn’t sure what he wanted for himself, he would love to take over his mother’s Wushu studio, maybe even expand it, but he was always raised with the expectation that one day he would inherit his father’s corporation. Despite loving both options, loving both his parents, there was also a part of him that wanted something that was completely Damian, he had already spent so much of his life living in the shadow of his parents. It wasn’t until high school that Damian opened up to Marinette about this, as the time to make decisions grew closer Damian naturally grew more anxious about his future. Marinette rarely gets the chance to comfort Damian, oftentimes he bottles his emotions up until they’re ready to burst, and even then Marinette has to slowly coax him into talking about them, even if it is with his brothers and not her, she just wants him to feel safe with his own emotions. The first time Damian opened up to her about the pressure he felt as his parent’s only biological son she immediately swept him into her arms, stroking his hair she began to tell him about how loved he was. She told him “Damian I love you, your family loves you, my family loves you. I just want you to know how loved you are. I speak not only for myself, but for everyone who loves you when I say this, do what makes you happy. Your parents will be happy as long as you are, they trust that they raised you to make good decisions for yourself. Even if you don’t know what it is that makes you happy yet, don’t be afraid to explore your options; I’ll be right here by your side and I’m going to support you no matter what. You’ve told me before that even if you inherit the studio Maya would co-own it with you, or even if you inherit your father’s business you would be working alongside your brothers. You are not alone, the world is not riding on solely your shoulders.” Damian was completely silent, if not for the wetness on her shoulder and his grip tightening around her, Marinette would figure he was unphased. Marinette has known that she loves this boy, far past the platonic love she just expressed, but for Damian, it was at this moment that he realized that not only was he loved, but he was in love with Marinette.

“WELCOME TO THE WORLD WUSHU CHAMPIONSHIPS 2019 LIVE FROM GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY” roared overhead on the speakers.

Damian and Marinette were standing in a hall away from the main room where other contestants were preparing themselves both appearance-wise and physically. Marinette herself was fixing the crown braid in her hair. The women’s event would take place in the morning to late afternoon, where the men’s event in the evening giving Damian ample time before he needs to warm up to support Marinette. He gave Marinette’s ensemble a once over and with his cheeks tinged red he muttered “I like your costume, you look really cute”, quickly averting his gaze.

Marinette immediately flushed, almost as red as the silken top that adorned her torso, and brought the hands that were adjusting her braids down to her hips and leaned forward, exclaiming in a hushed shout as to not disturb the other competitors warming up, “Damian Al-Ghul Wayne, are you making fun of me? I just want to make sure that any pictures taken do not make me look like a hot mess. Could you imagine what could happen if Audrey Bourgeois sees pictures of me completely frumpled looking and cancels my apprenticeship?? Oh my God and then Parson’s will find out and rescind me and then I won’t be able to visit you at NYU!” Marinette’s hands now rested on her cheeks smearing away her perfectly placed blush. How Marinette managed to go from disgruntled to spiraling in less than a minute is still a mystery that still eludes Damian after years of friendship, but it was his duty to calm her down. He understands her nerves, they had spent the last few years dominating the juniors division and as they entered the senior division there was a lot of pressure for them to win there too. Unfortunately, for every person who wanted them to win, another five were praying for them to slip up, but now is not the time to be overcome by nerves, her turn would come soon and she cannot afford to be overwhelmed by nerves.

Damian fully grasped her wrists pulling her hands away from her face, “Marinette, genuinely you look stunning”. After that comment, Damian noted to himself that it seems like there was no more need for the blush she applied anyways. With the soft tut of his tongue, he smoothed out the harsh lines of her smeared blush using the pad of his thumb. He whispered, just loud enough for her to hear, “Don’t worry too much about your hair and makeup, the most important thing is your form”. Marinette leaned into his touch and gave a small nod, calming down from her spiraling thoughts, he always knew how to ground her.

“Contestant number 54 you’re up next!”

“That’s you; you might want to fix up your makeup real quick, but everything is going to be fine.” He handed her a bag with her cosmetics and a wipe and quickly clapped his hands around her shoulders to guide her to the main stage so she could focus on herself.

Fixing her makeup Marinette shot him a cheeky grin, “wish me luck?”

“You don’t need luck. Marinette you have the skill, you know that.”

“Next up is Marinette Dupain-Cheng from New Jersey, USA! She is definitely a fan favorite to win today on the Women’s Taolu floor. She is internationally known for competing not only in the women’s division but also in the couples’ scene. She’s been training for the individual event from the age of six and for the partner event from the age of nine with her studio mate Damian Al-Ghul Wayne, who is predicted to win the Men’s Taolu event. While we do not have a couples’ Wushu competition here, since turning 18 they have been dominating the senior international couples’ Wushu scene and have gone undefeated.”

Taking off her team jacket, with a quick nod to her parents, Talia, and of course, Damian Marinette strode to the center stage. Damian would never grow sick of watching her transform on stage, it was strikingly similar to the magical girl shows she had been obsessed with as a child. The moment Marinette stepped onto the mat her whole demeanor changed. Her back straightened up, her head would be held high, and most of all, the look in her eyes was filled with inextinguishable fire.

By the end of the event after getting changed Marinette and Damian were making their way to his car. Once Damian turned 16 and got his license, it became a tradition for them to go out for a celebratory meal together without their parents. “Marinette!” Damian heard a voice call out, Agreste he noted in his head. Marinette had met Agreste and Tsurugi while vacationing in Paris. While they weren’t the worst, in fact, Tsurugi was typically pleasant company, Damian was in no mood to socialize after the several rounds of interviews he had to endure after winning first place in Men’s Taolu. Many of the interviewers failed to understand that while yes, he had more opportunities to train as he is a third-generation Wushu champion, it was his hard work that got him to where he was, not his genetics.

Seeing Damian continue on to his car, not wanting to keep him waiting, Marinette quickly bid them farewell with a promise to see them tomorrow. “Hey wait for me!” Marinette called out, running after Damian. Despite his pride usually preventing him from heeding to his peers’ commands, Damian stopped in his tracks, his breath shallow and wondering why Marinette’s voice still makes his heartthrob despite having heard it call out to him for over 10 years. Feeling her hands latch around his arm gave him a sense of comfort. Her grip was strong and steady, yet still gentle. He couldn’t help but envision his hand in hers instead of his arm. The bouquet and hand-painted card in his car were waiting to see if she felt the same.

#Maribat #MGI Trope Tussle 2021 #Daminette #Damian x Marinette #please send help idk how to write #if by any chance Issa is reading this ILY #Team Childhood Friends

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sohin-ace · 3 years

Text

Dio - Stolen Dance

For immersion, listen to the Dark Waltz Music - Vampire masquerade collection on youtube. Oh boy

Especially 'Tonight Ve' Dance' that shit hits the spot for this fanfic. Trust me.

"Would you honor me with a dance, Y/N?"

'Hell no', was what you craved to answer to this charming yet cruel man. Dancing with him meant selling your very soul. You were about to dance with the Devil.

But you had no choice.

You tried to run away from him, from his toxicity, from his poison, but he always managed to get you back and trap you in his web. And now he offered his warm, destructive hand for a dance, just a single dance with him.

And you had no choice.

You could not refuse. You had no right to. It was oh-so reluctantly that you had put your trembling, cold hand over his possessive one. He pulled you towards him as the music played in the luxurious ballroom.

He laid his large hand around your corseted waist, pulling you to him and bringing your bodies a little too close for your own comfort. Way too close for a gentleman to conventionally be from a lady.

But he didn't seem to care one bit as your heart pounded heavily in your chest. He could probably feel it from this proximity. And he most definitely drowned himself in it.

You hesitantly, and regrettably put one hand over his broad shoulder in what you could only call a ghostly touch. You barely wanted to touch him and potentially show him a form of validation from his wrongdoings.

He engulfed your other hand in his own, relishing in the adorable yet terrifying size difference. If he wanted, he could just close his entire hand on yours and claim it as his. Just how he could easily close the distance between you and claim you just the same.

People were around. The ladies and gentlemen of the World. High class society, partying mondanely through the night. Couples dancing, businessmen meeting, Madames chatting.

Oh but in these decorated mansions, the families yearned to see newfound lovers, for what a sight it was.

Some were watching you in earnest and maybe even admiration, glad to see how the charming, handsome Dio Brando of the Joestar Estate was gracefully swaying in rhythm with the gentle, beautiful Y/N L/N, daughter of the Lord L/N.

Your face felt warm, burning almost and it was not a comfortable feeling. Maybe it was the close proximity between him and you, maybe it was all the unnecessary attention you were receiving, putting pressure and forcing shyness upon you.

Maybe it was the rising anxiety that built viciously within you and made yout heart pump violently in your chest, or maybe it was the pure hatred you felt towards the blonde man holding you captive within this very dance.

It didn't matter what it was, it felt horrible, suffocating. You could barely breathe, the room was spinning.

You were always taught to look at your partner in the eyes when dancing, but now your partner wasn't just anyone. It was Dio Brando. There was no way you could look up at his soul-piercing amber, no, crimson red eyes. Like gems of blood.

If you looked at them, if you even glanced at them...

"You are quite tense, dear." He released your hand briefly to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, letting cool air hitting your now more exposed cheek and temple. "Relax and follow my lead."

You wanted to scoff at his words. How could you relax when your only wish at the moment was to run away from him? Your family was nowhere to be seen, Jonathan was nowhere to be seen. No one was there and no one would help you.

"You stole this dance, Dio," You growled quietly, not wanting to gather even more attention to yourself. "But it will be the last thing that you'll steal from me. Heed my words."

You finally met his eyes to grace him with a glare and he only looked down on you with mockery and a hint of fondness. As if your anger was endearing to him. He hummed in amusement.

"Hmmm...? Do I take it that everything else will be graciously given to me...?"

Before you could even gasp at his scandalous assumptions, you missed a step and fell forward, right against his solid chest. He of course didn't waste a second in wrapping his strong arms around your small form.

You could hear the other guests whispering and chuckling, probably drinking in the sight and preaching how cute you both were. The beautiful Y/N L/N clumsily falling into the arms of the very handsome Dio Brando.

Like a princess and her prince, right from a romance story. It was really fresh to witness and people just couldn't wait to see you both engaged, you looked so perfect together. After all, in this mondane society, it was all about looks.

If only they knew the truth.

You tried to push yourself off of him as you laid your palms flat on his chest, but he held you there firmly. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest and the blonde leaned down to whisper in your ear.

"Let us go somewhere more private darling. I am tired of those curious eyes."

You felt like you were about to faint and really wanted to get out of that busy room, but surely not with Dio. As you didn't have much of a say in this, you let him guide you away, to one of the many chambers in the mansion.

He opened the door wide for you and you entered the empty, cold room bathing in darkness, not sparing him a single glance and went straight ahead to the large windows that lead to a beautifully decorated balcony.

You stayed inside though, as Dio closed the door behind him and went on his way to light a gas lamp that was laid on a night stand.

You gently pushed the silky curtains aside to glance at the moon outside. You stared at her magnificent silver light, completely forgetting where you were and that Dio was still in this very room.

You sighed, comforted by the moonlight. The moon was full on this cold night, it was the end of the year and it felt like the nocturnal satellite decided to show off all of her magic tonight.

Sometimes, you envied those legendary creatures who lived solely by the moonlight. Fantastical beings who could see the moon through all her phases and for as long as they lived. Werewolves, Vampires...

"...Beautiful, isn't it?"

You gasped, startled by his sudden deep voice so close to your ear. You swiftly turned around and glared at him, offended that his appearance tore you off your pleasant rêverie.

"Oh, please do continue. The moon reflects so deliciously on your skin, it is beyond mezmerizing."

"Yo-... you're losing yourself again, Dio!" You tried to sound strong and composed, but you couldn't help the slight whimper from escaping your throat.

"Maybe..." He lifted his large arm next to your head to fully open the curtain behind you, the sudden position flustering you as you felt trapped yet again.

You looked down as you contemplated fleeing. How many attempts was it now? You stopped counting after the 20th, but you wanted to flee again.

Not bearing the sight of his broad chest in front of you, you turned slightly back to the window and side-glanced at the beautiful garden.

There was a large maze in there. The thought of maybe trying to lose Dio there was very appealing. It turned your once melancholic and lonely expression into a softer, more relaxed one.

The moonlit maze alone filling your heart with an ounce of hope, the ghost of a smile reached your lips and eyes.

"What a sweet expression you are sporting, my love." The blond devil put his large hand on your cheek and turned your head to face him as he purred. "Although I delect myself more from your despaired expression."

Disgusting. This man was disgusting. You put a hand over his large wrist as a sign to tell him to let go of you, which he patently ignored.

He leaned forward, hovering dangerously over your face as he lifted your chin up, a soft smirk stretching his lips.

"Now tell me... what could my dove possibly be thinking about to make her look so beautifully blithe?"

You looked downwards to the red brooch on his tie, the ornament suddenly more distracting than his dominating burning gaze on you.

"I was thinking of getting away from you. It gets me going." You spoke the unfiltered truth with bitter sugar dripping from your voice.

The man before you froze upon hearing those words. Were you challenging him? Him?! The Dio Brando?

You drove him so crazy. Oh you drove him to such unfathomable frustration. His blood was boiling and pumping ferociously in his veins.

His entire body cringed, his fists balling tightly. He ground his teeth as his eyes widened in pure rage. Or was it rage? No it was deeper, more twisted than that.

It was lust.

He needed to gather all his self-control to prevent himself from breaking something or rather someone right this instant.

Yes... He could break you. Oh and it would be so easy and so satisfying, too. Nothing could quench his thirst more than destroying every inch of you at that moment.

You were such a nasty pest, you were so terribly problematic, no wonder he was so infatuated with you. So obssessed with you.

You were bad, maybe as bad as him. You pushed on all his buttons like no one ever did and yet, you played the cute little perfect girl in front of everyone else.

You made him so insane, so mad. He wanted you all to himself. He yearned for you to get your revenge on him, to be infuriated with him. He craved you right here, right now. He loved that you hated him.

Swiftly, he pressed his weight against you and pushed your body flush against the window as you gasped in surprise, barely able to even react at the forceful contact.

He was quick to catch your wrist and pin it next to your head as you tried desperately to push him away, your other hand uselessly resting on his much stronger arm.

You tried to squirm away, but his body meddled with yours in an emprisonning cage. You couldn't hide your panicked pants anymore.

"You damn woman..." He breathed in a shaky hiss right next to your heating ear, his tone way darker now and his eyes half-lidded. "Do you even realize what you are doing to me?" He spat with venom but also with dripping excitement. "You are in deep trouble, darling."

He nuzzled his face in your exposed neck, drenching himself in your sweet scent and you shuddered, his hot breath on your skin making the hair at the back of your neck stand.

Your heart hammered alarmingly inside your chest as his malicious hold triggered your Fight or Flight response. This was bad. Real bad. You struggled against his grip, writhing and pushing him.

But struggling against him was futile, useless. So useless, useless, useless...

"I hate you, Dio Brando. There's not a single piece of you that is remotely redeemable!" You growled in his ears through exhausted pants. "Hear me when I say this, I despise every inch of your disgraceful being, Dio-ugh...! I hate you with all my might...!!"

"Yes!" He grunted hungrily as he put his free hand around your hips, leaving no space between your body and his, feeling all of yourself against him. "That's it, that's what I want to hear! One more time... Scream it."

"You disgusting bastard... You have no shame..." You squeezed your eyes shut, you refused to cry. Never for him. He didn't deserve it.

"Y/N, Y/N, Y/N... Please." He was crazed, Dio lost himself, yet again. "Sweet Y/N, let me make you mine... Be mine... I know you want this..."

Just like that, the man above you craddled your body like his most prized possession, teasing the pulsing point of your neck with his lips, tongue and teeth. He clutched your hips and wrist in a bruising grip and you knew there was nothing you could do.

"I'm going to ravish you, destroy you..."

And so he did.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo #jjba #writing #jojo no kimyou na bouken #dio #dio brando #dio x reader #dio brando x reader #jojo part 1 #part 1 #phantom blood #x reader #reader insert #dubcon/noncon

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lokilickedme · 3 years

Text

The Way

I’m writing horror again. I guess it’s that time, you know, that time that has nothing to do with Halloween or the seasons or whatever, that time when it just hits me for some reason. And just like I always do, I’ll say I don’t know why.

Even though I know why, and you know I know why.

Because the truth is always so much weirder and worse and more disquieting than any excuse I could make up for it, and sometimes I just feel the need.

Today I felt the need, and I couldn’t make it go away.

And so I sat down, and words I didn’t want to write were written.

8592 words I would rate this Mature 18+ if it was a fic, strictly because of the subject matter.

Warnings: Death, mostly. Religious trauma, brief descriptions of abuse, mentions of mental illness, domestic violence, grief, familial dysfunction, religious abuse, emotional abuse, medical conditions, brief mentions of drug use/abuse, mild gore in reference to corpse decomposition, psychological unease and mild terror, child abuse (mental/emotional/psychological), brief allusion to physical child abuse, cult references, loss of faith, attempted murder, possible actual murder.

A Note: I love you guys, you’re always so quick and willing to be helpful and offer advice and suggestions and such, and I adore that about you. But on this piece of work I ask that nobody offer any theories about what happened to my brother - medical, criminal, or otherwise - and please no suggestions on things we could do to pursue investigation, that ship has long sailed. It’s been 23 years and he’s a cold case. We spent years trying to sort it out but in the end it’s just something that happened, and we moved on because we had to. There are a lot of open ends, a lot of question marks, a lot of suspicious details that never connected to anything - and we tried, we truly did. If anyone out there knows the truth, they’ve never shown themselves to us. We do have our theories, but my brother was a secretive person living a life none of us knew about, and the people he knew weren’t people we knew. Everyone involved is either dead or moved on or got away with whatever it was they did, and there are only three of us who still care. It’s over.

Until today, I’ve never put these events into words.

It was something I needed to do, finally.

This is PART ONE. There may not be a part two, unless doing this ends up making me feel better.

Please feel free to comment if you wish. As you can see, pretty much nothing triggers me. I just ask that you please refrain from the type of comments noted above.

And thank you.

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This is, regrettably, a true story. Nothing has been changed but the names, because the dead don’t like being talked about, and James was just enough of a shit to haunt me for it.

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They made up their minds And they started packing They left before the sun came up that day An exit to eternal summer slacking But where were they going without ever knowing the way

They drank up the wine And they got to talking They now had more important things to say And when the car broke down They started walking Where were they going without ever knowing the way

Anyone can see the road that they walk on is paved in gold And it's always summer They'll never get cold They'll never get hungry They'll never get old and gray You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today, today

Their children woke up And they couldn't find them They left before the sun came up that day They just drove off and left it all behind them But where were they going without ever knowing the way?

You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today, today

- The Way, Fastball, 1998

That was the year James died in his sleep.

Or that’s what they say, anyway. Asthma, the likely cause based on his medical history, our first and least disturbing assumption. Undetermined, the official determination based on the hastily scraped-together autopsy, the best that could be done under the circumstances. We tell people he had breathing problems, and they nod their heads and agree because they knew he did, and now he’s been gone so long that nobody asks. Most of the people who ever met him have long moved on or disappeared or died themselves, or just remember him as the enigmatic middle son from the Keithley family that nobody really knew very well. You know, the odd one, the one that showed up at meetings maybe once a year and smiled nervously but didn’t really talk to anyone and always seemed anxious to leave? The one who died under mysterious circumstances? That one.

He left the way he always came in. Quietly, unexpected, without anyone being aware of either his entrance or his exit.

But me and mom know some things, and she’s not talking. She probably never will.

So maybe it’s time I did.

December 1998. I’d gotten married two years previous and moved back to the family land with my new husband. He hated it there, but we had an affordable place to live. It wasn’t bad. He’d tell you otherwise. The land never sat right with him, but I’d lived there too many years to see it. I’d been fifteen when my father uprooted his large family from the city and hauled us out to the great back door to nowhere, and even though I’d left several times to wander elsewhere, I always came back.

I didn’t realize why at the time, at any of the multiple times. But now I know. That place gets you, and it holds you, and unless you’re goddamned devoted to staying gone you will always be pulled back. It took me till I was 49 to funnel the necessary amount of devotion away from the religious dedication I’d had jackbooted into me and turn it toward getting out, but against a great number of overwhelming odds I finally did it.

But this isn’t about that, not yet anyway. This is about my brother James, and how he went to sleep one night and found his own way out.

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It was snowing, had been for days, a bit unusual but not unheard of. The part of the state we lived in was notorious for extended ice storms and we knew a bad one was coming, but until it hit we played in the snow like it was a gift and we were deprived children who knew it was all going to be taken away soon. My brothers and I were adults but you wouldn’t know it, watching us sneak around in the woods staging elaborate commando attacks on each other. James was the best of us, a stealth king who could stand in the middle of a room for an hour without a single soul seeing him. Perception bias, he said. Your brain ignores me because I obviously don’t belong, like those puzzles where you circle what’s wrong but it takes you forever to find them.

He crept around in the forest scaring the shit out of people, dropping his long tall self out of trees, appearing from nowhere to administer a well aimed snowball to the face of whoever happened to cross his path and then disappearing just as quickly. We called him a wraith and it wasn’t a good natured jibe. We meant it. He made people nervous. He was the stealthy kind of quiet you associate with danger, and he knew how to do things an average person doesn’t ever have any need to know. It was a quiet cool that we admired him for, because none of the rest of us had it.

The religion we were raised in kept a tight lid on us, but me and James, we never really let it get into our bones. We were the smart ones, in retrospect. I went through the motions by force of habit and a sense of self preservation, doing what was expected and demanded of me, following the rules and making myself a perfect example of a young member of the church so I wouldn’t bring shame on the congregation and my family. But mostly the congregation. It was always more important than anything else. And I had behaving down to an art form, but mostly when people were looking. Usually also when they weren’t.

But sometimes, not quite.

And then I prayed for forgiveness about it later because God was supposed to forgive you if you asked him to, right? The tenet of willful sin being unforgivable never took root with me even though that was what the church conditioned into us through fear and constant repetition. They said it from the stage two nights a week and again on Sunday to hammer it home. Two nights a week and again on Sunday my head silently disagreed. God’s not like that. And then I did the praying for forgiveness thing even though I knew I was right, because I was disagreeing with the church, and the church was God’s channel here on Earth, wasn’t it? I committed a mortal sin at least three times a week on that subject alone, and though the dread of divine punishment was hardwired into me, I never could reconcile the concept of a loving and forgiving God destroying me simply for knowing better.

I’m not sure the comprehension of an overwatching deity ever actually established itself in James’ brain. A moral code, yes. But isn’t that what God is, really? Maybe he understood more about God and forgiveness than the rest of us. But he was considered an unapproved fringe member of the church because he couldn’t suffer people and noise and being looked at and he refused to preach, and he was soft-shunned as a result. Because if you weren’t all in to the point of being willing to die at any moment for your faith, you were as good as faithless.

And faithless meant condemned. And the congregation couldn’t be bothered with condemned people, regardless of their reasons for not having both feet in the water. The first and only option on their list was to put the person out and let them find their own way back once they realized they had nobody left in the world who cared about them.

James escaped that somehow. He was supposed to be shunned whole scale, but he wasn’t trying to convince anyone to leave the faith and he presented no threat to anyone’s strength of belief, and so far as anyone knew he’d committed no grave sins other than disinterest. So the rule that dictated we cast him out was bent enough to allow him to remain living on the family land, though at one point during a fit of overzealous righteousness my mother had tried to have a family meeting to vote on whether or not we were going to let him stay. I refused to vote and when I walked out of the house the meeting fell apart.

I’ve never forgiven her for that. Her son’s life being put to a vote with her presiding over the proceedings, vengeful and unfeeling and devoid of compassion on behalf of God himself. It takes my breath away, the anger, still to this day. The only thing I ever truly learned from my mother about parenting was a long and intensely detailed list of what not to do to my own children, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. It’s a bitter thank-you to have to give, but it’s something.

We knew James as much as he would allow us to, and not an inch further. Which meant the extent of our knowledge of him pretty much stretched to include the singular fact that he was different. What that meant, I still don’t really know - but it was there from the day he was born, that slight off-ness, the oddly off center calibration that you can’t really see so much as sense in a person. I know now he was likely on the autism spectrum and he walked through life seeing and reacting to everything differently than most of us, but that wasn’t a thing back then. You were just weird, or you weren’t. And I’m not convinced that was a bad thing for him, strictly speaking. But in the confines of our religion and our family’s devout and sometimes violent dedication to it, it took its toll almost daily.

He stood out, and he was very much a person who didn’t want to. He wanted to fade into the background, to not be seen, to not be known. And our religion didn’t tolerate that kind of nonsense, because we were commanded to be bold bearers of The Word Of God, and no exceptions were made.

None.

I’m going to stop calling it a religion now. I beg your indulgence as I shift to calling it what it is, because calling it a religion is an insult to actual religions that don’t destroy peoples’ lives with callous indifference and murderous glee.

We were raised in a doomsday death cult. There’s no other name that fits.

And we were trapped in it and its ugly cycle of neverending mental and emotional manipulation and abuse until we were adults, and some of us are still bound to it. My oldest brother worked his way up to the upper levels of oversight in the local congregation and was solidly entrenched in it until his death, which is a story for later. My youngest brother, the last remaining living blood sibling I have, is still deeply in it to this day and will likely never leave it.

I took the hard way out, three years ago, by walking away.

James, though. He took the easy way. He simply closed his eyes, and he was free.

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December 22, 1998. Three days before Christmas, though that meant nothing to us. The cult told us Christmas was a filthy demonic pagan ritual that was condemned by God, so to us the season was just a nice chilly time of year with lots of time off from work. We’d had an unusual amount of snow, the most we’d had in years. The roads were impassable and everyone was home except my husband, who worked close enough that his boss at the glass shop came and picked him up that morning with chains on his tires. Lots of windshields had shattered from the sudden violent cold that had struck the previous night and Scott had the only glass shop for sixty miles.

I think it must have been around noon, and likely my mother had sent my dad up the hill to see if James wanted to come down for the lunch she was making. He and his wife had split up against the strict rules of the church after a few years of suffering through an ill advised marriage, an important detail to this story that will come into the tale later, and he was alone up there at the top of the hill a lot. Sometimes he forgot to eat, or he got so busy that he just didn’t bother, so our mother always made something for him because even though he was in his 20′s he was still a kid who needed looking after and her zealous fervor against him had died down with time. I think he let her believe he was helpless because it worked in his favor and there was always lunch waiting for him in her kitchen as a result.

He was different, he wasn’t dumb.

We all lived on the hill back then with the exception of our youngest brother. He’d moved to the city with his new wife not long prior. The locals jokingly called the place a commune, and I guess they weren’t completely wrong. Thirty-eight acres of wooded land far beyond the city limits that we’d painstakingly spent years carving a livable space into, with five houses, all built from the ground up and inhabited by an extended family of well known culties from a well known cult. It’s almost comical, looking back on it, knowing now how they kept an eye on us for years to make sure we weren’t doing anything weird up there.

They should have run us off with pitchforks and burning stakes at the very beginning.

Things might have ended differently for us if they had.

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My grandparents lived at one end of the property, an old couple as simple and solid as salted soup, devoutly religious and devoted to the cult and very much cut from the can survive anything and probably will cloth like so many old country folks of their generation. They were waiting out the end of days up there in their little wooden house, expecting the final hour of this old system to come long before their own demise. I liked my grandmother, she had a sweet smile and fell asleep every time granddad started talking about the Bible and she paid me five dollars every Wednesday to drive her into town to get groceries, and years later, when she was dying, she told me she’d had a dream where she met my unborn son. I was four months pregnant and didn’t know yet that I was having a boy. She died before he was born, but to this day, fifteen years later, he tells me he’s sure he met her, he just can’t remember when.

I was scared of my grandfather. Not terrified, but there was nothing grandfatherly to him and I always suspected he never actually liked kids much. He’d once told us a story about the great Fort Worth flood that wiped out most of the city when my mom was a baby, and how he had told my grandmother to let go of my 2-year-old mother while he was struggling to get them across a rushing flooded creek in water up to their shoulders. My grandmother couldn’t swim. We could make another Ruthie, he said. But I couldn’t get another ‘Nita.

He said it proudly, like he was to be admired for his choice. I was young when he told that story, but it settled into me that this was evil.

Even when he was old as dirt and dying of a brain tumor in hospice care, he made me uneasy. I was never close to him. But for some reason, in his final days, he forgot who everyone was except me. I had been living in another state for years and he hadn’t seen me since before the tumor started taking his life. But when I walked into the room he turned his head and looked at me, and he mouthed my name.

He couldn’t speak. I don’t know what he was trying to say, struggling with words that nobody could hear. And I felt bad. I didn’t want to be the last person he recognized. My cousins adored him and had spent the last few years constantly at his side, and they were angry, maybe justifiably, that I was the one he reached for.

I didn’t want that at all.

I don’t believe he was a bad man, but he never spoke of anything except the cult’s interpretation of the Bible, and it was as tiresome as it was terrifying. Granddads are supposed to be fun. Ours quoted doctrine at us in a deep loud commanding voice that you couldn’t interrupt and you couldn’t tune out, and once he got going you had to just settle in and wait for him to run out of zealous steam. And then he would suddenly stop and command grandmother to turn on a John Wayne movie and bring him some ice cream, and it was over until the next time.

I know my mother resented him. She knew grandmother was the one that had refused to let her go, the one that had held onto her even though she almost drowned by the simple act of holding on. She knew her father had been willing to let her wash away and drown. That he thought she was interchangeable with whatever baby they would have next. How she could spend her entire life with that knowledge and not be deeply affected by it was something that never made sense to me, but now, when she’s in her 70′s and I’m in my 50′s, I finally understand. It affected her. She’ll just be damned if she’ll let anyone see it. And she had stood there in that hospice room watching him mouth my name with resentment burning in her eyes, though she would have rather died than let anyone know what it was for. He’d forgotten her weeks ago.

The house in the center of the hill was mom and dad. The homestead. The house we’d all lived in together, that we’d built with our own hands, the first thing that marked that wild overgrown hill as a place where people actually lived. A long path through the woods connected it to the grandparents’ house, and it was the epicenter of everything in our lives. James and I had lived in the upstairs rooms of that house until we both moved out and married our respective mates years later, a reprehensible act on our part that was never okay with my mother and that she never forgave either of us for. She’d wanted us all to stay. We can all live here together until the New System comes, she always said. That’s how the Bible says it’s supposed to be. We can all keep each other safe and on the right path until the end comes, and then we’ll all be here together forever.

A decade later when I sat up on the hill watching that house burn to the ground, there was as much relief as grief billowing into the sky with the black smoke. It was the end of an era, and it was far beyond time for it.

Nobody saw it but me. James was dead, had been for years. Robbie was dead now too. Dad was gone, so was granddad. Me and my youngest brother David were the last two left of the kids, but he had moved to a neighboring city when he got married and he has never seen things the way I see them. We were of different generations, we weren’t raised the same way, and he’d never experienced the abuse I lived with for the first half of my life. And he had dedicated his own life to the cult with all the honesty and lack of guile that I didn’t have when I’d made my own dedication vows at the too-young age of sixteen.

It was the end of an era, but apparently only for me.

James’ house was up the hill, past a clearing where my dad used to keep old cars that he cannibalized for parts. Our oldest brother Robbie, long married with kids of his own, lived at the bottom on the farthest corner of the land. And my house was on the slope to the west, built on the spot where we’d cleared off an old half-fallen homestead from the late 1800′s, dutifully paying no mind to the fact that a grave was nestled into the slope, right where the yellow daffodils grew. The cult told us superstition was tied up with the demons and false religion, so we didn’t have the built-in human instinct that tells most people to stay the hell away from certain things.

We just pretended it wasn’t there, and put no importance on it. It was just an old grave. The soil was good and the garden I planted next to it did well, though those strange daffodils always wound themselves through everything I put in the ground. My husband said something wasn’t right about it, but I didn’t pay any attention to him. He hadn’t been raised as devout as me.

My dad knocked on my door around lunchtime and I opened it. He backed up, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, the fancy leather coat the dealership had awarded him when he was designated a five-star Chrysler technician and given the state’s first and only license to work on the new Vipers that had recently rolled off the prototype line. It was a cool jacket. Made him look like the old pictures my other grandmother had shown me of him from the early 1960′s, when he was young and very much a product of a fancier era. He’d never stopped greasing his hair back and was still so thin that he and I wore the same size jeans.

I’ve never understood the look on his face when I opened the door. To this day I can’t sort it. It wasn’t a blankness like so many people who’ve seen death wear without awareness. It wasn’t grief. It wasn’t even shock.

He was sorry.

Those were the first words out of his mouth.

I’m sorry.

I stood there, not knowing what he was sorry for. It was cold. I couldn’t push the screen door open very far because of the snow blocking it. And my father was standing at the bottom of the steps James had helped my husband build, his hands shoved down far into his pockets like a penitent child about to get in trouble, telling me he was sorry.

James is dead, he finally said. He’s in his house. I went up there and he’s dead.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now - just now, this very moment in fact, I know that I was the first person he told. He came straight from James’ house to mine and told me my brother was dead.

I don’t know what I said back to him, I just remember sitting down on the top step and feeling the cold bite of the snow through my pajama pants. There’s a vague recollection of putting my face in my hands, and the embarrassing knowledge that I did that simply because I didn’t know what else to do. And dad just stood there, nervously stepping from foot to foot in the snow, because he didn’t know what else to do either.

I think I asked How at some point. He said he didn’t know. He had something in his pocket but to this day I don’t know what it was.

I don’t know if it was important. Something tells me it was. Or maybe it was just the eternally present handkerchief he always kept on him.

I’m sorry, he said again. He seemed to feel like it was his fault somehow. I’m sorry.

What do we do? I asked him. I’ve never felt more blank. What are we supposed to do?

I don’t remember what he said, other than he was going to get my older brother. I remember thinking that was a good idea. Robbie would know what to do. He always did. Brash and blustery and bigmouthed, he got things done while other people stood around debating how to do them. He would get on it, whatever needed doing. He would figure it out.

I went back in the house and dad walked away, headed down the path through the woods that connected my house to Robbie’s, hands still shoved deep in his pockets, the big retro vintage Chrysler emblem on the back of his jacket the last thing I saw before I pulled the screen door shut. I stared down for a minute at the mound of snow it had scooped into my livingroom, still with no clue what I was supposed to do.

No clue at all.

I kicked the snow back outside and shut the door.

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It’s an odd thing, watching the coroner’s van drive away with someone you know inside it. Someone you saw just yesterday. Someone who was alive. Someone who should still be alive but isn’t, somehow. And since there’s really no way to earn a ride in a coroner’s van without dying, there’s an awful unsettling sensation to it that you can’t get away from. The last time I saw James he was laughing that devious little laugh of his, his eyes red and bloodshot from the ever present asthma he’d suffered with his entire life. I don’t count the sight of the coroner’s van leaving the hill via our long steep driveway with his cold corpse tucked into a black zippered bag, because I didn’t see him. I never saw him. I didn’t see him dead in his house and I didn’t see them carry him out, I didn’t see them put him in the van. I didn’t see him later, when it was all over with. And if I try hard enough I can imagine that van empty, with that long black bag tossed crumpled in the back without a body in it, and James somewhere else living his life however the hell he pleases.

I hold onto that. Some days it helps. And some days I think I see him, walking by the side of the road or getting out of a car in the post office parking lot, and it makes me happy thinking he escaped. I see him in every hitchhiker, in every wandering traveler making his way down the interstate, in every tall thin man I glimpse from the corner of my eye as I go about my business in town.

He’s out there.

I hope he’s happy.

The ice storm hit the next day.

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For the next two weeks we were stuck on our hill. Power out, no electricity, no heat, no lights, roads iced over and impassable. We all piled up in mom and dad’s house, quietly grieving James, trying to stay warm. Most of the state lost power for days, including the city 150 miles away where his body had been taken to the state coroner’s office. There was no apparent cause of death, so the state ordered an autopsy.

His body had just been placed into cold storage to wait its turn when the power grid went down. And then, by some unholy stroke of nightmarish luck, the facility’s generators failed.

Nobody could make it in to work because of the ice. By the time someone finally got into the morgue the cold storage had been down for four days.

Six bodies melted, including James.

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No viable autopsy could be done, though they tried their best I suppose. The end report was obtained two months later. It was mostly inconclusive due to the long delay and resultant decomposition of tissue. There was apparent scarring on James’ heart, but it was old scarring and had nothing to do with his death. His lungs were scarred as well, but that was no surprise, he’d had severe asthma his entire life. There was no determinable cause of death, no inflicted trauma, no presence of illicit drugs as far as they could tell from the limited toxicology report they managed with what they had to work with.

No reason.

He’d simply died.

It seemed fitting, to me at least, that the end of him be enshrouded in an unsolvable mystery. He was a secretive person, intensely private. He would have loved knowing nobody had a clue what happened to him.

And so we drew our own conclusion as a family. He’d had an asthma attack in his sleep. There had been an inhaler next to his bed, but it was new and still in the box. He simply hadn’t woken up to use it. Dad didn’t participate in the drawing of this conclusion, his input kept stoically to himself, like he knew something the rest of us didn’t.

We pretended not to see it.

He and mom braved the last of the ice a few days later to make the 150 mile drive to see James one last time.

They came back different.

You couldn’t tell it was him, my mother said. He was melted, literally. It was like one of those science fiction movies where they melt you with a laser beam and you turn to goo.

Dad had nothing to say. He went to bed and stayed there until the next day.

You can go see him, mom told me. I’ll go with you if you want to go. But I don’t recommend it.

I decided not to go.

And so I never saw my brother dead. I never saw any proof that he was gone. He just wasn’t there anymore. There was no funeral, he was cremated and his ashes were sent home weeks later, and I went on with my life with the image in my head of James, alive, somewhere else.

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Dad was different from that day on. He’d always been stoic, terse, strict. My childhood had been spent in fear of him, an eternal dread of making him mad and feeling his temper erupt keeping me from showing any hint of a personality during my formative years. The cult had forced him to abide by the violent tenet of Spare the rod, spoil the child and there was never any risk of me being spoiled.

James being gone flipped a switch in him. He was nicer suddenly. Mellow. Kind. After the trauma wore off his humor discovered itself and he was funny. The dour angry demeanor fell off and revealed a man that I was sad never to have known before. He and I became friends. I could sense in his new attitude toward me that he regretted how he’d raised me and respected the way I’d always stood up and been my own person despite it. But my mother was falling off the deep end and for all the newfound easygoingness of my father, she counterbalanced it with an extremism born of the religious fervor of a mother determined to gain enough favor with God to see her dead child again. And she was going to make sure the rest of us did too.

We all had to get good and straight on the path, get completely right and stay that way, or we’d never see James again. He’d be in the New World and we wouldn’t, and how would she explain that to him? She and I worked together in a law office at the time and as she became more unhinged and unpleasant, I reacted by becoming more outgoing and accomplished. Our boss changed my work designation from receptionist to Executive Assistant and started teaching me how to do everything from filing papers at the courthouse to photographing accident scenes. I no longer answered to my mother, the office manager. I answered directly to the boss.

That didn’t go over well. She was a control freak with heavy untreated trauma, and the one person in the world she felt the most obsessive need to control was suddenly no longer under her thumb in a workspace where she considered herself the supreme authority. She countermanded every order the boss gave me and tried to load me up with general office chores that left me no time to do the important assignments he’d given me. I had no choice but to tell her she wasn’t my superior anymore.

She chose that day to have her nervous breakdown over James, jumping out of my car at a red light on the way home and storming angrily through a shopping mall with me trailing frantically along behind her, yelling for security to arrest me while I tried to get her to calm down. I ended up telling her she wasn’t the only person who lost James but that none of the rest of us were allowed to experience our own grief because we were too busy catering to hers.

She sat down on a bench outside the sporting goods store and glared at me with a cold hatred I’ve seen on very few other faces, ever.

I knew it would be you, she hissed at me.

That moment changed our relationship forever. It changed me forever. That was the day I decided my life was my own, that she not only didn’t have authority over me at work, she didn’t have authority over me anywhere else either. She could no longer dictate my actions, my behavior, my thoughts and feelings.

For this she disowned me. It was the first of several disownings over the next few years. I got used to it. We went to work the next day like nothing had happened, and I didn’t do a single thing on the task list she slapped down on my desk. It was a metaphor for the rest of my life, but I didn’t know it yet.

My husband and I moved out of state a couple of months later, away from that hill, away from her increasingly controlling paranoia and bitterness, the first of many small steps toward freedom.

As we were driving away with our trailer full of personal belongings behind us, he said one thing that I tried to argue against, but that somewhere deep inside I knew was probably right.

That land is cursed, he said.

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A few weeks before we moved my youngest brother came to town and we went into James’ house together. It was exactly like it had been the day my dad found him. The only thing that stood out as different was the bare mattress on the bed - the men from the coroner had wrapped him up in the sheet he’d been laying on and took it with them, leaving just the naked springform mattress James had bought for Jessica right before her final breakdown and their subsequent separation.

It took me a while to go in the bedroom, but I knew from the moment I walked into the house that I was going to end up there. I needed to see it, the place where James had closed his eyes and left us.

There was a small puddle of dried blood near the foot of the bed, brown and stained into the fabric. James always slept backwards, with his head at the wrong end. The blood had come from his nose.

I touched it. I don’t know why. It was dry.

He was gone.

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David and I laughed a lot that day. James had been funny in a way that was distinctly him, quiet and of few words, but those words had always counted. And as we sorted through his things and talked about him and moved some of his stuff into boxes to be stored away, I felt as much awed respect as befuddlement at what was around me. He’d never been a conformist, which I knew was why the cult had never gotten a firm grasp on him. He was unknowable and therefore unbindable. But his house was proof that he didn’t conform to any human expectations either, and nothing in it made sense unless you’d spent time around him.

There was an engine in the bathtub. I’m not sure what it went to. Another engine, in the beginning stages of disassemblage, rested on a blue tarp in the center of the livingroom floor, obviously the last project he’d been working on. There wasn’t much furniture - his wife had taken most of it when she left and it would have never entered his mind to replace any of it. Jessica’s cookware was in the kitchen cabinets, unused, some of it still in the original boxes, some not even fully unwrapped from their wedding shower years before. Jessica didn’t cook, she microwaved. David asked me if I thought it would be okay for him to take a glass Pyrex measuring cup because he’d broken his. I told him to take it. It had never been used.

I didn’t want anything, but knew I needed to take something. One of my husband’s solo CDs was sitting on the entertainment center and the cover, the cover I’d designed, caught my eye and brought me to the CD player to pop the tray open.

Inside was a CD single of The Way.

It was the only thing I took.

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My husband told me some time later that my dad and older brother had altered the scene before the police arrived. After the phonecall from me his boss had rushed him home and he’d gone up to James’ house without my knowledge. He’d thought it strange that he’d had to step around at least a dozen empty compressed air cans scattered haphazardly around the place as he entered, like they’d been used and tossed aside one after another. There had been several more on the floor around the bed. My father had told him to go back down and see how mom and I were doing, and when he returned to James’ house after the coroner’s departure, the cans were gone. Other than that he said things seemed different, but he couldn’t say quite how. Just not the same.

He told me my dad didn’t call the police until after he and Robbie had been in there at least an hour, alone with the body.

It’s not something we’ve talked about often, because there’s no satisfactory explanation for it that either of us can come up with. My mother says they probably didn’t want the police to assume the cans meant he was huffing compression fluid and accidentally killed himself, because Look at the shame and reproach that would bring on the congregation if anyone thought such a thing! We all knew he used the compressed air to clear the valves on the engines he was working on, all mechanics do, it’s common. Wouldn’t the police have accepted that explanation? Dad was the only one that spoke to them. They wrote down whatever he said, and then they left, and then the coroner came and took James away and that was that. My father, the most upright straight-and-narrow devoutly dedicated man I’ve ever known in my life, misled the police for a reason that he took with him to his own grave.

The only other person in the world who knew the truth about it took it to his grave too.

At the same time.

In the same car.

Four years later, on October 18, 2002.

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The big garbage bag of empty air cans and whatever else that was removed from James’ house that morning had been stashed in my dad’s garage and stayed there until a few weeks after he and Robbie’s joint funeral, when my mother asked my husband’s old boss to come and dispose of it. Scott was a man who knew people who could do things.

The evidence, whatever it was evidence of, vanished.

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The mystery around James never dissolved and eventually no one talked about it anymore, I guess because there was no way we could ever truly find out what happened without him here to tell us. There were a lot of details that we could never find a way to weave together into anything that made sense and a lot of it was probably inconsequential anyway. There was a girlfriend that he’d tried to keep hidden from us, a woman that was quite a bit older than him who wasn’t a member of the cult and therefore needed to be kept a secret. In the end she had convinced him to stop hiding their relationship and he’d bought her a ring. We met her all of twice before he died, and within days of his passing she left town with her brother and never came back, taking whatever she might have known with her.

James’ ex Jessica had sneaked onto the hill and broken into his house to put a dead raccoon in his kitchen sink a few days prior to his death. We were shocked when he told us she trespassed on the land often without anyone knowing, and my mother made my father fix the electric gate down at the road so that it wouldn’t open without one of three clickers in the possession of herself, my father, and me. James would have to come to her house and get hers any time he needed to leave the hill, an arrangement he agreed to because Jessica stole things from his house all the time, she would absolutely take a gate opener if she saw it.

He told us the gate wouldn’t keep her out though, and that she didn’t come in that way anyway. The only way to protect ourselves from her was to lock her up and he doubted even that would do it.

He died less than a week later, and twenty three years later we still don’t know how or why.

----------

We never felt safe on the hill again. Jessica was deranged in the worst possible way, we’d known it for a while, and James was her obsession. She’d threatened to kill him multiple times and had tried twice. We hadn’t known this, because James, big strong stoic Clint Eastwood type that he was, wasn’t about to tell anyone he was violently abused for years by a skinny little woman that everyone believed was not much more than a meek dormouse with shyness issues and a case of painful awkwardness. But we knew she was evil. We just didn’t have any proof.

The first thing my mother said after the initial emotional breakdown of finding her son dead was Jessica did this, I don’t know how but I know she did it.

I believe she was probably right. But if Jessica was anything she was wily and devious with a strong survival instinct and an uncanny ability to lie convincingly and draw sympathy onto herself. She’d convinced us for years that she was the perfect combination of sweetly harmless and endearingly clueless, but that only lasted until the day she called 911 screaming that James was beating her and then threw herself face first into a tree in their front yard and sat, calmly singing and coloring in a coloring book on the porch with blood running down her forehead, waiting for the police to arrive. The act she put on when they got there was one for the Academy, but the officers didn’t buy it.

James calmly rolled up his sleeves and showed them his scars where she’d burned him and slashed him with a kitchen knife. He pulled up his shirt and pointed out the marks she’d left on him with her teeth and nails. He hooked a finger into his mouth and showed them the empty hole where she’d knocked one of his teeth out with a baseball bat. One of the officers asked him why he hadn’t killed her and buried her somewhere on the land already.

She left in the back of the squad car, and my mother took James to the courthouse to get divorce papers started two days later.

Jessica came to his memorial service when we finally had it, several weeks after his death. She wasn’t invited but we couldn’t keep her from coming. She wore black like a widow and created a dramatic disruption complete with loud wailing and declarations of undying love, and afterward she stood to one side of the room, smirking at us with the kind of icy malice that you only see on the dangerously deranged, and then usually only in the movies. Several people commented in hushed voices, asking why she’d been allowed to come. At one point she started wailing They killed him!!, but everyone with the exception of her mother ignored her.

Her mother, who was still in our congregation, flitted around the room chatting with everyone, sobbing her heart out like it was her own son we’d just memorialized. She was an ER nurse and had been famously fired from her job at the hospital for taking locked-cabinet medications home by the purse load. She claimed she put them in her pocket to use on her shift and forgot to return them to the cabinet before leaving.

Jessica had been staying with her for a while.

----------

We fed the crowd at mom’s later that afternoon with my husband and his boss guarding the gate, making sure she didn’t try to come into my mother’s house. The police were called preemptively, and because this was a town of 300 with not much of anything else to do, a squad car was dispatched and stationed near the inlet to the main drive.

Jessica showed up not much later, like we knew she would. She drove past the police and parked a few yards down from them in plain sight, just sitting there by the side of the road, far enough away from our property that we couldn’t legally do anything about it. The officers got out and talked to her, warned her not to cause us any problems, and she fed them a woeful tale about being banned from her beloved husband’s memorial service and denied the right to say goodbye to him.

The officers knew there was no body at that service to say goodbye to. They also knew her.

My husband came up the hill and told us she was down at the road and that Scott was blocking the driveway with his truck to keep her out. I told my mother it was time to file a restraining order against her. She was living in fear and Jessica was known to be trespassing on our property frequently. No, she told me with tears in her eyes but not a sign of distress on her face. It was a look I knew, because my mother rarely showed emotion unless she was angry and the rest of the time it was this cold detachment. That would bring reproach on the congregation because everyone knows what we are. I can’t do that. I won’t let her win that way. I won’t let her cause us to bring shame on God’s name.

God’s name. I took it in vain that day.

More than once.

I was leaving in a few weeks, moving a thousand miles away. My husband and I weren’t going to be there to help her keep an eye out, and thirty eight acres of heavily wooded land is impossible to protect and easy to sneak onto from a hundred different directions, James had shown us proof of that.

God will protect us as long as we do the right thing and leave it to him, she said. He knows what she is.

I think it was just a coincidence that nothing terrible happened in the following weeks, because my faith was getting tenuous and a lot of prayers were going unanswered. But Jessica quietly disappeared back to her own world after a couple of infuriating weeks of putting herself in our paths every chance she got, and not long after that my husband and I moved away, and as we left the driveway for what we thought would be the last time he sighed and shook his head with the exasperation of a man about to say I told you so.

“That land is cursed,” he said.

I tried to disagree, though I don’t know why.

----------

Less than a mile up the road we passed a man walking. He was tall and thin and covered in the dust of a long journey with a ratty backpack strapped to his back, and as we passed him I caught his reflection in the side mirror.

It was James, I knew it in my heart every bit as strongly as I knew it couldn’t be.

He was walking away from the hill, toward the west. The way we were going. And I swear on whatever holy relic you wish to place under my hand that he raised his head and met eyes with me in the mirror, and he smiled.

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hotchnisslovechild · 3 years

Text

Yin and Yang

When things go wrong while chasing after two unsubs, Emily gets hurt, and Hotch helps ease her pain.

inspired by “sirens” by thegraytigress rating: M for language, adult themes/situations, and canon-typical violence. the violent content could potentially be triggering to some, so read at your own discretion. words: 9140 also posted on ao3

A loud crack echoed through her head as she turned the corner of the alleyway, pain shooting up her jaw as she stumbled to the ground. Hard boots kicked at her head and her sides, causing her lungs to spasm within her and stealing her breath. She prepared herself for the worst. Prepared herself for being left there to bleed out, silently suffering the pain of her injuries alone in that alleyway. That was until he rounded the corner, catching her eye and igniting a small but substantial spark of hope within her.

Never had Emily seen Hotch fight the way he did against these men. He’s not one for hand-to-hand combat, usually letting his Glock do the work for him in taking down most unsubs. But this felt personal. A matter that could be and needed to be dealt with without firing his gun. One of his own was being mercilessly beaten to the ground by two men twice her size.

He preaches about objectivity on the job. He always has. Not letting things get personal. Simply doing what needs to be done to carry out their job. But things changed with Emily. Her sense of humanity rubbed off on him, balancing out his principle of remaining objective. The reverse happened in the same way. Hotch taught her to be objective despite her fight to hold onto her sense of humanity and compassion. They keep each other balanced. She is the yin to his yang. Their opposing forces of objectivity and humanity coming together in wholeness. Interconnected. Interdependent. Complete.

The humanity in him overrode his objectivity at that moment. As Emily lie there on the cold, hard ground, dizzy and bleeding out, she looked up to see her boss take down her attackers with his bare hands. With a vigor and intensity that was unfamiliar to her. She closed her eyes then, the pain shooting from her torso to her jaw almost too much to bear.

When she opened her eyes again, the alleyway was quiet. The worn-out grunts, loud cracks of punches, and rumbling sounds of struggle had disappeared, and the only sound to be heard was Hotch’s rugged breathing. He stood there for a long moment, doubled over cradling his hands in his chest, trying to catch his breath and regain some sense of composure. The last time he lost himself like this was with Foyet. He relentlessly beat his worst enemy to death with his bare hands to protect his son, the one person in his life he loved above everyone else. Putting every ounce of his weight into each blow his fist made to Foyet’s face, rendering him almost unrecognizable.

The adrenaline that coursed through him at the sight of Emily being attacked by these men gave Hotch a near superhuman strength as he fought them off. He used every last bit of his power to protect his subordinate lying helplessly on the ground. And for a man not used to physical confrontation, Hotch did a number on Emily’s attackers.

That adrenaline wore off as he stood above the two unsubs he and Emily were chasing. Both men looked dead, unconscious on the ground covered in blood with broken noses and ribs. For a brief moment, Hotch questioned what it meant that he was willing to go to such an extreme to protect Emily. To inflict more pain on her perpetrators than necessary. But the thought left as quickly as it came, and he finally turned his attention to his subordinate lying motionless in the darkness of the alleyway.

Using whatever strength he still had, he scooped her up bridal style and carried to back to their SUV. His legs ached as he made his way along the streets of the small town. He needed to get her to the hospital, to get her checked out as quickly as possible. If the circumstances were different, he would have called an ambulance. But in this old town, it’s faster if he just takes her himself.

Emily’s eyes drifted shut again once she was in Hotch’s arms. She grasped the fabric of his shirt like her life depended on it. She could feel the ache of his arm muscles underneath her. They twitched every few seconds under the weight of her. She felt safe in his arms. Comfortable despite the sharp pains in her face and stomach. The aches subsided as sleep slowly took over her as she buried her head in Hotch’s neck.

She awoke less than an hour later, blinded by the harsh light over her. When she slowly opened her eyes again, trying to adjust to the bright lights, she looked down at herself. She was still wearing the clothes she wore to work that day, only now they were ripped in several places and covered in her own blood. She looked around the room with squinted eyes, noting it as cramped but clean. Panic started to rise within her as she questioned where she was and where Hotch was. She could feel her entire body ache as she moved her neck to look further around the room. Wincing at the pain, she moved back to her original position. She shut her eyes trying to will the pain away. That’s when she heard the faint sound of footsteps in the room and moved her head up to look at who entered the room. Once again, she flinched at the pain caused by her sudden movements.

“Prentiss, don’t try to move. Please.”

She sees him standing in the doorway in his battered up and bloody shirt, holding a cup of water. She stared at him for a long moment, completely enraptured by him. The way his white dress shirt fit tightly against his shoulders with the sleeves rolled up enough to see the veins of his forearms. Backlit from the even harsher light outside of the door, she couldn’t see his facial features very clearly, but she forced back a smile at his hair flopping over his forehead.

As he stepped out of the light towards her, the beautiful image of him vanished before her eyes. She could make out the features of his face, dark and weary but clean. He must have had time to wash the blood off of his face. He looked sad. Sad like he did just months ago after everything with Foyet. Blaming himself for the loss of so many innocent lives. Being separated from his ex-wife and son. Coping with the death of his ex-wife. She hated seeing him look so miserable—

“How are you feeling?” he said from beside her, interrupting her thoughts.

“Like I just got the shit kicked out of me,” she says matter-of-factly. His face sunk further, looking even more miserable and tired than before. “Am I in the hospital?” she asked weakly.

“Yes, I drove you here because an ambulance would have taken too long,” he said as he set the glass of water down on the table beside her. “The doctor should be here in a minute.”

“Where is everyone else?”

“I called them once we got to the SUV and told them where the unsubs were. They took care of everything and should be headed back to the hotel by now.”

She shifted higher on the bed so she could take a much-needed sip of water. As her mind became less and less foggy, her head throbbed more and more, and the bed became increasingly uncomfortable.

Hotch watched her carefully as she took a sip of water from the cup he brought her. Her arms were clearly weak, shaking as they brought the cup to her lips. He wanted so badly to reach out and hold the cup for her, to help her in any way he could. But he knew she would hate that. She doesn’t like to be coddled. Much like him, she doesn’t want to be dependent on someone else or feel like she’s a burden. That’s just one of the many things he saw in her that he felt mirrored himself.

When the doctor strode through the door, Hotch took the cup from Emily’s hands, setting it back down on the bedside table. Emily frowned as she lay back against the bed, wanting at least one more sip. She almost felt addicted to the way the water gave her some relief.

The doctor took a look at her, clearly in a rush for some reason or another. She asked Emily a series of questions, palpated her abdomen, and examined some of the cuts on her face and stomach. It took everything in Emily to remain calm as the doctor prodded at her stomach with her cold hands. She never did like hospitals. The atmosphere of pain, fear, and helplessness. The harsh smells and sounds. It made her feel cold and closed in. She wanted nothing more than a reassuring look from her boss, telling her it’ll all be okay. But Hotch, ever the gentleman, faced the other direction when the doctor lifted Emily’s shirt to examine her chest and stomach.

The doctor quickly concluded, telling them that Emily has a concussion and some bruised ribs. No bones were broken and none of the cuts on her needed stitches. She left the room in a hurry, and a nurse came in with some pain medication and a plastic bag with ointment, wipes, and bandages to treat and soothe Emily’s gashes and scrapes. The nurse also brought in a wheelchair to help Hotch take Emily back to the SUV.

“I don’t need a wheelchair,” Emily said trying to shoo the nurse out of the room.

“We will take the wheelchair. Thank you,” Hotch said giving the nurse an apologetic look. She passed him the wheelchair and left as fast as she could, clearly not wanting to have anything to do with these two adults griping at one another over a wheelchair.

“Hotch, I don’t—”

“Please, Prentiss, just let me help you into the wheelchair,” he said slowly and tiredly. She was too worn out to put up much of a fight. She also didn’t want to put Hotch out more than she already had by trying to argue with him.

He slid his arms underneath her legs and back and lifted her into the wheelchair. She reveled in the feeling of his toned and solid arms around her, supportive and protective. Emily had no idea how he still had enough strength in his arms to lift her up again. She was doing nothing to help him either, practically dead weight in his arms. She figured his arms would be dead tired after fighting off two grown men and then carrying her sleeping body to the SUV and into the hospital. He was always surprising her really. She was constantly in awe of his resilience and toughness. Wearing suits to work each day did nothing but hide the true robustness of his body and what it was capable of. She was grateful any time she got to see him in something other than a perfectly tailored suit. Nothing compared to the private excitement she felt seeing his bare forearms and biceps on days he wore polos to work in the field. Often finding herself staring for much longer than deemed appropriate, especially in a workplace setting, wondering what it felt like to be held in those arms. She never thought that when she would finally be held by him, it would be like this. Both of them feeling weak and exhausted, wanting nothing more than to just fall asleep.

Emily didn’t say a word as he wheeled her out of the hospital to the SUV. Too drained to even ask to give a penny for her thoughts, he let the comfortable silence remain amongst them all the way back to the hotel. Because it was nearing 2 A.M, the rest of the team was already asleep in their rooms by the time Emily and Hotch got back.

Hotch took her by surprise once again when he followed her to her hotel room. A strange feeling of anxiety rose within her, as she started to feel like an annoyance. She doesn’t like asking for help, much less needing help. But Hotch was being so patient, so attentive. While he looked tired, he gave no signs that would suggest him feeling like Emily was in any way a burden. So really, her anxiety was unnecessary. And she knows Hotch. She knows he takes care of people fiercely and persistently no matter what. He feels responsible for people, especially his teammates. Even so, Emily still felt guilty making him feel like he has to take care of her.

“You didn’t have to walk me in here, you know.”

“I know,” he said casually as he set her medication and the plastic bag down on the bedside table.

Emily was instantly reminded of this same exchange that happened several months ago in Hotch’s apartment.

“You didn’t have to walk me up here, you know.”

“I know.”

Only that time, the roles were reversed. It was Emily taking care of Hotch. Going out of her way to make sure he wasn’t alone when he was hurting. She told him he wasn’t alone, that he had her. Of course not outright. Hotch and Emily had developed a unique way of communicating with one another. A sort of secret language where they can communicate so much with so few words. Or have a conversation within another conversation, like they had that day in his apartment. Emily didn’t have to tell hotch she was helping him through one of the darkest, saddest, most traumatic times in his life. Instead, she was a gentle voice of support. A presence of healing for him. She didn’t need to explicitly tell him she’s there for him and will never leave his side because he already knew.

Within the walls of that small, dilapidated hotel room, the tables had been turned. Now, it was Hotch comforting Emily willingly and fearlessly when she needed it most. He’s subtle, not overbearing. Offing himself as a rock for her to help her ground herself and get better.

But Emily was hesitant to accept this offer. Because it meant letting someone in, breaking down her walls, being vulnerable, needing help. Hotch had been through enough trauma that year. She didn’t want to add to that. Because she knows he would take on a part of her trauma and pain as his. She couldn’t live with herself if she was ever part of the reason he was unhappy.

“Seriously, Hotch, I don’t want to put you out more than I already have tonight. Go to your room and sleep. You’re just as beaten up as I am,” she tried, wincing as she sat on the bed. Her legs were too wobbly for her to keep standing. It hit her then that Hotch never asked to get checked out by a doctor at the hospital despite having been in a brawl with two large men. It made her stomach lurch with guilt thinking that Hotch was ignoring his own injuries just so he could help her with hers.

“I’m fine,” He wasn’t. But that didn’t matter, not right now. “I’ll get you some water so you can take your pain meds,” he continued, walking towards her bathroom.

Done trying to override his stubbornness with her own, she sighed in submission. Flinching as she did so, a sharp pain shooting through her ribs to her chest. She had no clue how she’d made it so long without taking some of that pain medication. The doctors and nurses were in such a hurry to get the two of them out of there that they didn’t even administer her any medication. She felt a soreness in her chest every time she breathed, forcing her to only take shallow breaths.

Hotch returned with a full cup of water, handing it to Emily then retrieving two pills of her prescribed pain meds.

“Tilt your head ba—”

“I can take my own pills,” she snapped, snatching the two pills from the palm of his large hand. After quickly swallowing the two white pills, she was hit with a pang of guilt yet again. This time for snapping at Hotch. He didn’t deserve that. He was just trying to help.

“Hotch, I’m sorry I snapped I know you’re just trying to—”

“It’s fine,” he stopped her. The look on his face had softened. His eyes were patient, composed. “Really. Let’s get you cleaned up and take care of some of these gashes,” he continued, gesturing towards her face.

Emily hated herself for snapping at him. Suddenly she felt like more a burden than she did before. More like a pain in Hotch’s ass at this point. What was she doing bitching and moaning at him? He was being everything she needed at that moment, offering to be her rock, and she kept trying to shut him down. She wasn’t used to this, having someone attend to her so persistently and remain patient with her when she starts being difficult. She’s used to people leaving. Abandoning her when she becomes too much to handle, too much for someone else to bear. She’d grown to deal with it, learned to just take care of herself, not put her trust in anyone else but herself. But Hotch stayed. And he wanted to stay.

He reached for the bag on the bedside table with everything he needed to dress the cuts all over her. He knelt before her, wiping off his hands with one of the wipes from the bag. Taking a new, clean wipe he held it over the gash on her cheek. “This is probably going to hurt,” he warned. She nodded slowly, closing her eyes to brace herself. He wiped away the dried blood on and around the wound. Her eyes started to water. Not from the pain or soreness. But because of how gentle he was. He held her chin and cleaned her swollen face like she was the most precious thing in the world, like she could break at any moment, crumble underneath his fingers.

He watched as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, biting back tears. The thought of causing her pain made his heart ache inside his chest. He wanted nothing more than to soothe her pain, help her heal. He grabbed the tube of antiseptic and squeezed some onto the tip of his finger. “This is going to sting,” he said firmly, trying to hide how much it hurt him seeing her in pain and discomfort. She didn’t say anything, just squeezed her eyes shut a little tighter than before. He slowly dabbed a bit of the clear ointment on her cheek.

“Ow! Fuck,” Emily cried, pulling away from him.

“I need you to hold still—”

“Just forget it, Hotch. I don’t even need it,” she tried, still facing away from him. The gash on her cheekbone began to throb and sting. It felt like fire spreading across the entire left side of her face. She started to feel ridiculous. She’s suffered through pain more intolerable and agonizing than this. “You can just go. I can do this on my own.” She didn’t really want him to leave, to abandon her like everyone else always did. She found comfort in his presence, under his care.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly, his tone still soft and reassuring despite his deep, baritone voice. If he was feeling annoyed or impatient, he certainly didn’t show it. “Now, please just try to hold still. I know it hurts.”

Pain pulsated through Emily’s chest as she took a deep breath trying to calm herself. She hated losing her temper, especially with Hotch, especially when he was trying to help her. This was now the third time she’s lost her cool at him tonight. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, turning her head to face him again. She blinked away her tears, trying to regroup. Only for the urge to cry to come rushing back when Hotch continued to smear the antiseptic over her wound, once again feeling overwhelmed by the tenderness with which he touched her face. She stared at him, mesmerized by his focus. He caught her staring, meeting her eyes as he pulled his hand away from her face. Neither of them looked away for what felt like forever. The intimacy of it all made Emily’s heart race, even though they found themselves in this situation often, completely absorbed in mutual eye contact, unable to look away, allowing themselves to feel the uncomfortable excitement and unease turn into a sense of peace and closeness.

The moment ended as Hotch turned away, feeling inexplicably shy under her intense gaze. He quickly busied himself with the gauze and tape to dress her wound. With the same attentiveness and focus as before, he held the gauze against her cheek and taped it in place.

Everything just became too much. Emily’s eyes quickly welled up with tears, a rush of emotions overwhelming her. She was sad, angry, hurting in every sense of the word.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concern and worry apparent in his voice. “Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head as she broke down into a violent sob. Fear and panic immediately displayed across Hotch’s face. He wasn’t hurting her, and she didn’t want him to think he was. But it was all too much. Pain burned and ripped through her whole body. She felt so weak, so frail. The pain medication doing nothing to relieve her of the torment of aches that spread from her face down to her legs. She saw him get up from his position on the floor, moving to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. The feeling of his hand starting to rub her back only caused her flood gates to open further, her sobs growing even more violent. Even sitting up straight became too much, took a level of energy and effort she could not give. So she leaned into him, buried her swollen face into his shoulder. He automatically brought one of his hands to her head and kept the other on her back, holding her against him, careful with his touch as if he were handling a fragile baby bird.

Sobbed continued to rack through her whole body. She was shaking, trembling, gasping for air against Hotch’s shoulder. “Shhh,” he whispered, so quiet that she could barely hear it. His hands moved in slow, gentle circles across her back. “It’s going to be okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. I got you. I’m right here,” he soothed with a slight hitch, trying to hold back tears of his own. She doesn’t say anything, just cries and cries, not knowing if she will ever be able to stop. With each sob, Hotch’s heart broke, cracking into pieces. He rarely saw her break down like this. She was an expert at compartmentalizing her emotions, filing them away to be dealt with at a later time, alone. He could see how their job affected her. The way madness pervaded her mind, how turmoil infiltrated her heart. Yet, there was a stillness in her soul. A sense of hope and courage that radiated from her and could be felt by everyone in her wake. She put on a brave face, a strong and confident exterior. Her world could be falling apart at the seams and even those closest to her would hardly suspect anything was wrong.

The fear and panic in Hotch’s chest only grew as she sobbed into him. “Everything hurts, Hotch,” she said, almost incoherently.

He was taken back to Colorado. The sounds of Emily getting kicked and thrown around by Benjamin Cyrus replaying in this head. Images of a broken and battered Emily emerging from the compound. He remembered the bruising on the palm of his hands left from digging his fingers into them as he heard Emily get thrown against a wall, knowing he could do nothing to help her or save her without jeopardizing the lives of everyone inside the compound. To him, she was worth the risk. The only thing that kept him from risking everything to save her was her reassuring “I can take it.” He remembered the guilt he felt listening to Emily take each blow. If he hadn’t sent them undercover, she wouldn’t have been in that position in the first place. If he had been more careful about restricting media coverage of the hostage situation, her cover wouldn’t have been compromised. He blamed himself for everything that happened to Emily that day, and now, with her crying in his arms, history repeats itself. He felt responsible for her getting hurt again.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Hotch whispered into her hair. The comfort of his words and his touch made her breathing slow, her sobs grow quieter, her hands stop shaking. “This is all my fault,” he breathed. Her heart split in two the moment those words fell from his lips. Her sobs came to a halt as she slowly pulled away from him, noticing the huge wet spot on the shoulder of his shirt from her tears.

She couldn’t let him blame himself for this. He was the one who saved her for God’s sake. He had no reason to feel guilty. “It’s not your fault, Hotch,” she tried, searching his face and only finding guilt and shame across his features.

“If I hadn’t got caught up in the crowds on the side of the street I would have gotten to that alley first. It should’ve been me.”

“That wasn’t in your control, Hotch. This is no one’s fault but the men who attacked me,” she said, her voice quiet and weak.

“Even if I had just gotten to the alley sooner—”

“Hotch,” she interrupted, starting to get a little agitated, “it really doesn’t matter. There was nothing you could have done. You can’t pin this on yourself.”

He locks eyes with her. “But it does matter” he hesitates, “because you got hurt.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say anything. She only looked down at her hands in her lap. Everything started to hurt all over again. Her head and heart ached from having to talk him down. She missed his touch, his warmth as he held her close to him. Her ribs and stomach still hurt with each breath she took. She was physically and emotionally drained. She just wanted to sleep the pain away.

It startled her when he suddenly stood up from the bed, causing it to creak loudly in the quiet room. She flinched at the sound, her concussion making her sensitive.

“Lay down,” he instructed gently. She complied willingly, trying to make up for being so damn difficult the past hour, hating that he felt guilty for her getting hurt, also wanting to just lay down finally. As she moved to lay down on the bed, though, she wavered, suddenly feeling incredibly dizzy. The whole room spun and moved around her. “Hey, hey, hey,” he whispered, gently holding her head between his hands to steady her. “Are you okay? Are you feeling dizzy?” he asked worriedly. She couldn’t answer, the blows she took to her head catching up to her. The bed felt like it was moving underneath her. She closed her eyes in an attempt to will away the vertigo. “Hey, hey, look at me,” Hotch said in the softest tone Emily had ever heard from a man. “Emily, please look at me.”

Emily.

Her eyes snapped open. That sure got her attention. And almost made her even more lightheaded. There was something so… intimate about Hotch calling her by her first name. Especially in this position with Hotch holding her face less than a foot away from his own, searching for her eyes, trying to make eye contact. He always called her Prentiss, always had. Even though he’s called her Emily on a few occasions, it still sounded a bit foreign to her coming from him. She’d never quite understood why he religiously called her by her last name. Her guess was that he was trying to distance himself from her. Didn’t want to get too close, too involved. Needed to set boundaries.

At least, that’s what she hoped the reason was.

Because that would mean he felt something between them the way she did. After Foyet, things changed between them. They spent more time together, blurred the line between being coworkers and being friends. She spent time at his apartment, helping him with household chores he couldn’t do without stretching the stitches in his chest and stomach. She took him to and from work much more than could be deemed necessary. They shared drinks after hours in his office, sometimes with the company of Dave as well. They were no longer just coworkers, speaking to one another only at work and about work. They grew into something more, and Emily wondered if Hotch felt that way about them too. She hoped he felt that way, hoped it explained why he still only called her Prentiss.

“Emily,” he repeated, eyes finally meeting hers. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” she manages, “I just got a little dizzy there for a sec.”

“Okay. Are you able to lie down now?”

“Yeah, I think so.” God, she felt so pathetic.

“Just take it slow, okay? Take your time,” he said moving his hand to the back of her head to guide it down slowly onto the pillow. If it could even be called a pillow. It was hard and lumpy, did nothing to make Emily feel comfortable in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar town. He watched as she tried to reposition her head on the pillow, wincing as she did so. “Feel better?” he asked.

She nodded, taking a shaky and painful deep breath. After laying down for a few seconds, the throbbing in her ribs and back faded into a weak soreness. She closed her eyes, savoring the relief she felt. She wanted to fall asleep right then and there, to take advantage of this brief moment of stillness.

Hotch observed the way her face relaxed. Her brow no longer creased; her jaw no longer clenched. She looked so peaceful lying there with her hands over her heart. He felt the corners of his lips curl up slightly. He didn’t want to disturb her, but he still needed to clean and dress some of the cuts and scrapes on her torso. His heart started to race when he thought about what that meant. He would have to undress her. His subordinate.

He would be lying if he said he never took notice of her looks before. She was a beautiful woman, radiantly so. She lit up every room she entered. It was impossible not to look at her, notice her. He would be ashamed to admit he’s caught himself looking at her in ways no boss should look at their subordinate. On days where she wore that one red tank top, he had to actively keep himself from staring at her chest, watching how it rose and fell with each breath she took. On nights off at a bar with the team, he found himself entranced by the way her hips would sway to the music, wearing a pair of tight, skinny jeans. He felt guilty looking at her like that. He doubts she would appreciate her boss checking her out. Even in the hospital room a few hours ago, he turned his back to her when the doctor lifted Emily’s shirt. He’d hate to make her feel awkward or uncomfortable. Now, he would have to be the one to lift her shirt and tend to her wounds.

He carefully placed a hand on her shoulder to get her attention, not wanting to startle her and add to the stress her body was already experiencing. “Hey,” he whispered, “I’m going to need to lift your shirt okay?” She slowly opened her eyes. “I need to clean and cover up some of the cuts and scrapes you have,” he said shyly, hoping he wasn’t coming off as awkward as he felt.

She nodded slowly, slightly amused by Hotch’s clear discomfort. He was cute when he was flustered and awkward.

He didn’t waste any more time, moving to lift the hem of her shirt up towards her chest. He was caught off guard by the look her torso, cut up and scraped with black and blue bruises starting to form around her ribs. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes. He hadn’t seen the extent of her injuries beyond her face. He wasn’t expecting it to be as bad as it was.

She noticed him staring at her with tears in his eyes, the pain from seeing such a horrified look on his face is almost worse than her injuries. “It’s not as bad as it looks, Hotch,” she tried. She remembered saying those exact words to Reid at the compound in Colorado, her face swollen and bruised from sacrificing her life for him. No matter what she said, Reid still blamed himself for what happened to her, much like Hotch does now. She lifted her head slightly to get a look for herself, quickly seeing how much darker her bruises had become since the doctor checked them out in the hospital. No wonder breathing and the mere thought of moving hurt so badly.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, not able to tear his eyes away from the injuries across her entire torso. She lifted her hand, with whatever strength she had left, to stop him from apologizing any further. She just couldn’t bear it, couldn’t handle listening to him beat himself up for something that was not his fault.

Blinking away tears and snapping himself out of his daze, he composed himself enough to grab another wet wipe to clean her torso. “This is going to hurt,” he warned again, “Let me know if it’s too much.”

She nodded, once again closing her eyes to prepare herself for the inevitable pain that would come from any pressure applied to her stomach. He slowly wiped at the skin across her ribs. He was so unbelievably careful, but it was agonizing. A muffled groan escaped her lips before she could stop it. “Too much?” he asked. She shook her head, encouraging him to continue. She wanted to get this over with, and she was sure he did too. The sooner he got this done, the sooner she could go to sleep and forget about the pain for a while. He continued cleaning her skin and the cuts just under her bra. She bit back her moans as best she could, not wanting to alarm him. She’d done enough of that the past few hours.

“I need to lift your shirt further up. Is that okay?” he asked timidly. He’s so damn polite she thought to herself.

“Just take it off,” she said, not thinking much of it. That was, until she saw his look of confusion and uncertainly. “It’ll make it easier,” she suggested, trying to relieve him of his doubts, “and I want to change out of it anyway. It’s all torn up and bloody.” He nodded, still feeling hesitant. In any other context, this would be so wrong. Undressing his subordinate while alone in a hotel room. But he wasn’t going to deny her request. If it made her more comfortable, he would do it. He would do anything for her. Anything.

As she lifted her arms above her head, he stripped the shirt from her, leaving her in only her bra and slacks. It would be a total lie if she said she never fantasized about this moment. She frequently indulged in the thought of him, her boss, undressing her. Never did she think it would happen under these circumstances. There was nothing sexy about what happened to them, what brought them to this moment.

There was a bruise across the swell of one of her breasts and a small scrape on the other. With the same gentleness as before, he cleaned the dried blood from her chest. When he began to wipe the other side of her chest, Emily let out a hiss, the skin and tissue there particularly tender and sore to the touch.

“This is the worst part. I’m sorry in advance,” he said, referring to the ointment he would have to put on the cuts and scraped all over her torso.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she assured him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

As he did minutes before, he squeezed some of the clear gel onto his finger. Emily yelped the moment the cool gel made contact with her angry, swollen skin. “Here,” he said handing her the shirt he had just discarded from her moments ago, “Bite into this.” She closed her teeth around the fabric, clenching tightly as she waited for him to continue. A muffled cry coming from her mouth when he applied more of the gel to her inflamed cuts and scrapes. He worked as quickly as he could while keeping his touch soft and light. He hoped she couldn’t tell how much this was affecting him. Hearing her muffled cries, touching her broken and swollen skin, feeling her body tense under his care, it was almost unbearable.

He started bandaging up some of the deeper cuts on her torso, both of them relieved that the worst of it was over for now.

Emily’s usually not one to be shy, especially about her body, but she felt incredibly vulnerable and anxious lying there in only her bra and work pants, covered in ugly bruises and scrapes. She felt exposed, her wounds fresh, open, and throbbing, her flesh sore and tender. As much as she wanted to cover herself, the thought of moving was painful in and of itself. So she declined when he offered to help her into a new shirt from her go bag. “I really just want to sleep right now,” she said, exhausted from the pain and the pain medication making her drowsy. He nodded, taking her bloody shirt from her and putting all of the supplies back into the plastic bag they came in.

The world slowly dimmed as she nodded off to sleep, her hands returning to the position over her heart like before. The all-consuming pain from moments ago faded into nothing when sleep finally took over.

He watched her as she slept, once again transfixed by her peaceful expression. He couldn’t find it in him to sleep despite how much his body practically begged for it. He was devoted to watching over her. Like a kind of vigil, a reverent and purposeful wakefulness, making sure no more harm could be inflicted upon her.

Several months ago, the roles were reversed. Emily watched over Hotch as he slept, worried and waiting. Her face was the first thing he saw when he woke. Her presence a comforting light despite the panic that rose within him from waking up in a hospital room not remembering any of the events that brought him there. If he was being honest, there’s no other face he would have wanted to see at that moment.

When Emily woke a few hours later, she saw him, sitting in an armchair in the dark, watching her. Has he been here the whole fucking time? she thought to herself, somewhat pissed at him for not getting some rest himself. He needed it just as much as she did.

“What the hell, Hotch,” she groans into the silence of the room. “You didn’t have to stay here.”

“I wanted to. How are you feeling?”

“Still hurts to move. Or breathe,” she responded frankly. “How long was I out?”

“Only a few hours. The sun’s not even up yet.”

She sighed, her chest twitching in discomfort. Thankfully, the pain meds had yet to wear off, and the pain extending from her stomach to her head was reduced to dull aches.

She reached up to feel the bandage on her cheek, only to be reprimanded by Hotch, telling her not to touch it so it stays clean. “But it itches,” she grumbled, still feeling tired and agitated even after sleeping for a few hours. He stared at her, getting up from his seat in the armchair and walking towards her. He calmly pulled her hand away from her face and set it back onto her chest. The gesture caused her eyes to brim with tears, once again overwhelmed by the gentleness of him, of his hands. It amazed her that the same strong hands that took down evil in the world each day were the same gentle hands that touched her, cared for her.

He sat on the edge of the bed looking down at her, seeing the way her eyes got shiny with tears. “What’s wrong?”

She sniffled and tried blinking away her tears, feeling silly for crying over the gentleness of his hands. “Nothing. It’s all just,” she sniffled again, “it’s just a lot. And I’m still tired. Did you even sleep?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“How am I not supposed to worry? You brawled with two men twice my size, carried me in your arms for like a half-mile, and you still haven’t slept.”

“Emily,” he started.

“Don’t ‘Emily’ me,” she interrupted with a little too much bitterness in her voice. “I’m not going to sit by and watch you kill yourself just to help me. It’s not worth it.”

“But you are.”

Her eyes shot open. She stared at him in disbelief. Her whole body goes numb, and she can hardly breathe. There are no words that could express how she felt then. She’s terrified, stunned, and completely speechless. It’s just not possible. He can’t feel that way. He just can’t. She’s not worth that. She could never be worth that.

Sensing her shock, he placed his hand over hers on her chest, not sure if it would do anything to help, but it felt right. She shifted up on the bed, wincing slightly as she sat against the headboard, his hand still over hers in her lap. He mindlessly ran the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand.

“Hotch, you can’t say that,” she said, shaking her head, staring at their hands in her lap. “I’m not your burden to carry.”

“You’re not a burden. Sure, you can be a piece of work sometimes, but you’re worth the work. It’s work I’m willing to do. It’s work I want to do. You still deserve to be cared for. You deserve someone who is willing to do the work to care for you. It doesn’t make you a burden,” he squeezed her hand, silently telling her to look at him, “You are not a burden,” he repeated once she looked him in the eyes, tearing falling down her cheeks. He reached up to gently wipe away a heavy tear from her cheek.

The intimacy of the whole situation made Emily’s head spin. Excitement, nausea, fear, and anticipation bubbled up inside her. Before she could stop herself, she brought her lips to his in a tentative kiss. For a moment she panics, thinking that maybe she read him completely wrong, and she just ruined their entire friendship. But when she pulled away, his head followed hers, leaning in for more, craving more of her. Their lips met again, timid and hesitant at first, but the kiss quickly grew more intense, full of passion, need, and desire.

She had wanted this for so long, wanted him for so long, but he was always off-limits. He was her boss for Christ’s sake. It was explicitly against fraternization policies to be involved like this. It was wrong on so many levels, but no matter how foolish, crazy, and reckless this was, she didn’t care, and neither did he. This hungry and desperate kiss felt like an explosion of pent-up emotions, feelings they’ve had to stifle for months, years even. This kiss set them free.

He moved his hand behind her head with his lips still on her, guiding her head back down to the useless pillow beneath her. His heart pounded loudly in his ears. This was such a bad idea. This could ruin the friendship they’ve created and fostered in the past year. It could ruin any sense of professionalism between them at work. It was a risk, but it was a risk he wanted to take.

He climbed over her, covering her body with his, careful not to crush her fragile frame. He opened his mouth up to hers, letting her explore him, taste him. The feel of her tongue against his sent waves of electricity down his spine. He felt sparks between his hands and her skin with every touch. She was electrifying. He had never felt more alive than he did then, with her.

He broke the kiss to lean back and strip himself of his shirt, revealing his muscular, toned torso with a number of scars and some light bruises from the events of that night. Emily was transfixed, staring in wonderment at the beautiful man above her. She reached out to lightly run her hands down his chest, feeling his skin and muscles react under her touch. “Perfect,” she whispered so softly only she could hear it. He leaned back down to capture her lips again with his own. She ran her hands up his chest and shoulders, reveling in the firmness of him. She brought her hands to his back, feeling his muscles tense and relax as he moved his lips against hers. The feel of him was intoxicating. The taste of him was intoxicating. She never wanted this to end.

She let out a shaky breath as he kissed down the column of her neck. He sucked lightly on her vibrating pulse, tasting her skin, inhaling her scent. She gasped when he placed a feather-light kiss over the bruise on the swell of her breast. Waves of pleasure washing through her, drowning out the pain. He pulled away as he brought his arm around her back, looking at her for permission to remove her bra. She nodded breathlessly, missing the feel of his lips. He made quick work of unclasping her bra, discarding it onto the floor as he reunited his lips with her skin. He lightly licked at the skin between her breasts then moved his mouth to cover her nipple. She threw her head back with a moan and ran her fingers through his hair, holding him to her, anchoring herself to him.

He moved his attention to her other breast, licking and sucking at her nipple. Her skin was soft and warm under his tongue. He kissed every inch of her chest. “Perfect,” he whispered back to her against her skin, letting her know he heard her just moments before. She was just that. Perfect. He continued worshipping her skin, kissing every bruise, licking every curve.

She writhed beneath him, ribs too sore to arch into his touch, tape from her bandages tugging at her skin. She failed to bite back a cry, making him stop in his tracks, pulling away to look at her, to make sure she’s okay. Her eyes pleaded him to continue as she brought her hands to his belt, unbuckling and removing it swiftly despite her shaking hands. She grasped him through the fabric of his pants. His hips bucked into her hand, searching for friction to relieve him from the ache of his erection. She slid her hand into his boxers to grab the length of him. He was hot and heavy in her hand as she stroked him slowly, agonizingly so.

He leaned back down to plant slow, wet kisses across the sensitive skin of her neck. She had never been kissed with such affection and reverence before. It sent shockwaves of pleasure through her, desire rushing to her core, a throbbing ache between her legs. He slid his hand between them, unbuttoning and unzipping her slacks. He found her wet and ready for him when he slipped his hand beneath her legs. Her desire for him became frantic and frenzied. She slid her hand from his pants to hurriedly remove her own.

She wanted him, and she wanted him now.

She wiggled out of her pants as much as her aching body would allow. Hotch slid her pants and panties the rest of the way down her legs and threw them to the floor. He stepped off the bed to remove his own pants and boxers. She whined at the loss of his heat over her. It was almost torturous being separated from his body, from his touch.

He joined her back on the bed, crushing her lips with a deep, bruising kiss. The weight of him above her kept her grounded and secure, blanketing over her small and fragile form. She gripped him once more, impressed by the length and thickness of him. He groaned into her mouth, his cock painfully hard, throbbing and dripping in her hand.

His hand trailed across her chest to her stomach, finally reaching her folds. His touch sent shivers up her spine. She threw her head back against the pillow beneath her, letting out a breathy moan. His touch was as gentle as it had been all night, his soft strokes contrasting his rough, firm hands. He eased one finger into her, kissing her as he did so, stifling her moan. She clawed at the skin on his back as he fingered her with a precision and dexterity she had never experienced with another man. It was achingly intimate. He brushed his thumb against her clit with each gentle stroke. The sensation had her shuddering underneath him, writhing into his skillful hand.

“Please,” she whispered against his lips, aching for him to be inside her. She spread her legs wider and wrapped them around his waist, urging him closer to her. He slowly drew his finger from her, bringing his hand up to cradle her face, as his other rubbed up the back of her thigh. Reaching down she lined him up with her core.

She gasped when he entered her, the thickness of him almost too much to handle at first. He stilled, letting her adjust to his size. When she licked her lips and nodded, he pushed in further with a groan, sheathing himself completely inside her.

After months of silent longing and waiting, they were finally one, two souls fused together to make a whole.

She had never felt so full, so complete. The pleasure was all-consuming, a raging fire burning within her. When he began to thrust into her, she held onto him, grasping at his back as if holding on for dear life. With only a hair’s breadth between them, she basked in the heart of his form. The pressure of him on top of her, inside of her, it was a blissful pain. There was nothing like it, nothing that could compare to the pleasure of it.

Hotch shook above her, overwhelmed by the feeling of her beneath him and around him. His thrusts were deep, slow, and careful. It took all of his strength not to increase to the frantic pace he craved. He wanted this to last, but this slow rhythm didn’t match his frenzied, borderline feral, need for her.

He wrapped his hand around her ankle and moved it over his shoulder, changing the angle of his thrusts. Capturing her mouth with his own, he muffled her cry at the angle change. With each stroke, he brushed against the sweet spot inside her, making her tremble beneath him. When he felt her walls tighten around him, he sped up his pace, throwing caution to the wind. She felt so good around him, and it had been so long. He completely lost any and all semblance of control. Sensing her impending orgasm, he brought his hand between them to flick her clit.

She felt the familiar heat build in her stomach as he worked her higher and higher. She convulsed when he lowered his head to suck on her pulse point. Her orgasm ripped through her with a strength she didn’t know was possible. “Aaron,” she cried out. The name slipped from her lips so naturally it was as if she had been calling him that her whole life when really, this was the first time.

He loved the way his name sounded on her lips, the intimacy of it making his head spin.

He pulled away to watch in awe as her body shook at the force of her orgasm, slowing his pace, gently moving in and out of her as she rode out the waves of fire tearing through her.

Her moan echoed in the small room. Hotch brought his lips to hers once more to swallow each groan and cry, feeling her body begin to relax. He began to drive into her at a frantic pace, chasing his own release. He was so close, and she was so tight around him, the sensation was almost too much. He panted in her ear, on the edge, on the brink of falling over. “Let go,” she whispered in his ear, still breathless from her own climax.

“Emily,” he groaned as his body tensed, bowstring tight as he trembled at the intensity of his orgasm. The tension left his body as quickly as it came, and he fell limp beside her, still conscious of her injuries, careful not to crush her body with his own.

He pulled her into his embrace, kissing down her neck as the pleasure faded. She didn’t want it to end. She knew that once the pleasure left, the pain would return. So, she drifted off the sleep, the only thing she could do to hold off the pain that was sure to engulf her.

The room fell silent. He held her as she slept, listened to her breath become even and her heart rate slow within her chest. He wanted this feeling to last forever. What that feeling was? Comfort. Security. Happiness. Trust. Healing.

Love.

He loved her. She completed him. She made him feel one again, after all he had lost. He wanted to be with her forever. He wanted to live the rest of his life with her. The yin to his yang. Together embracing the dualities of each other and life. The ups and the downs. The beautiful and the ugly. The good times and the bad. The joys and the challenges. The light and the dark.

#hotchniss #hotchniss fanfiction #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #hotchniss fic #hurt/comfort #angst #eventual smut #oneshot #my first fic longer than 1k words #i hope it doesnt suck

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