#and the worst part is she would have been alive for much longer had it not been for her being technically killed

[713-4th-ward-g]

[atlabeth]

dance until we're bones

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem reader

summary: you and hotch both confront a lifetime of things left unsaid when a case forces your past into the light.

a/n: so i started this. two years ago. got 1k in and left it, came back now for some reason, wrote like a freak until it was done. lol. this is quite heavy and different than most things i usually write and it is SO much longer than expected but im very proud of it 🫶 i didn't really pay attention to the canon timeline so just know that reader and hotch were in their early and late 20s in law school (90s) and early and late 30s in present day (early 2000s). title from i lied by lord huron and allison ponthier

wc: 17.2k

warning(s): a lot of angst. typical bau case stuff, murder (familicide), implied/referenced past child abuse, reader and hotch go at it basically the whole time, character death, kidnapping, slight mention of drugging, injuries, mentions of blood. i wouldn’t say a happy ending but a hopeful one

Hotch can barely stay awake. 

He got the call thirty minutes to 4 a.m, and if he hadn’t already been up, he would likely be in a much worse mood. He can only hope that the rest of the team has gotten used to rude awakenings at this point. 

It’s poor planning on his part—he already got out late due to extra paperwork, and once he got home, he found himself staring at the wall, and then staring at the ceiling. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to sleep on the jet. If things go the way they usually do, he won’t be out until their first night in a hotel. 

He started making calls to the team on his way to the office, but to no one’s surprise, he was the first one there. He had time to wash down a shitty office coffee and get started on a second one by the time everyone’s there. 

Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ all have coffees—JJ comes prepared with her own thermos, but Morgan and Prentiss fall victim to the BAU’s supply—Reid is fighting back yawns as he tries to fix a hastily made tie, Garcia is slightly less energetic than normal as she passes out files, and somehow Rossi looks the same as always. 

Hotch just hopes he’s put together enough to make the team feel better about being here at an ungodly hour. 

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Garcia greets, setting down the last folder in front of Reid before taking her spot next to Hotch at the front. “As lovely as it is to see all of you this morning, I’m afraid that we’ve got a grisly one on our hands, hence the hour.” 

“Great,” Prentiss mutters. “How bad is it?” 

“Three married couples have been murdered in St. Louis, Missouri in the past two months, with the most recent one happening yesterday,” Hotch says, and Garcia grimaces as she clicks onto the pictures. “Mom and dad are killed, but the children are spared.”

“Awful lot of similarities between the parents,” Morgan says dryly as he flips through the folder. “Looks like our killer has some family issues.” 

Reid nods. “The unsub likely stalks these families once they see the similarities. I’m guessing he was abused as a child, seeing as they kill the parents but keep the children alive.”

“Probably has a grudge against his father,” Prentiss remarks. “They make it out the worst every time.”

“There’s no method to the torture,” Morgan says. “It looks like he’s just trying to make it hurt as much as possible.” 

“Our guy probably isn’t trained in anything, then,” Rossi says. 

Reid flips to another page in the file. “Serial killers like to see their victims suffer. If he’s not torturing the mom physically, then he’s likely making her watch.”

“He doesn’t kill children, though,” JJ notes. 

“Maybe he thinks he’s doing them a favor,” Reid says. 

“The unsub sees himself in the kids?” Morgan suggests. “He’s doing what he didn’t get the chance to do.” 

“Whatever it is, we have to keep a tight hold on this,” JJ says. “The press eats this stuff up, and the last thing we need is a terrified city making it harder to do our jobs.”

“Especially with families being killed,” Morgan murmurs. 

JJ sighs. “I’ll draft something on the jet and make some calls when we land.” 

Hotch nods and he closes his file. “Wheels up in thirty. I hope you’re all ready for a long day.” 

-

The jet is silent the entire way to Missouri, full of sleeping agents trying to delay the inevitable—save for JJ scribbling down notes on a legal pad for the first thirty minutes, but even she knocks out sooner rather than later. Thankfully, Hotch manages to fit an hour in himself, though it doesn’t do very much for him. He spends the rest of the time reading through the case file. 

The team settles in quickly at the city’s precinct, and Hotch takes charge as usual. The uniforms are just as tired as they are, but he makes it work. Soon enough, JJ is off to work with the local liaison to craft a narrative, Reid has situated himself in an empty conference room to get to work analyzing maps with Garcia, and Hotch and the rest go to check out the crime scene. 

It’s brutal—much too brutal for this early, but Hotch forces the emotions out of it and gets to work questioning the present officers. Morgan follows suit, with Prentiss and Rossi going to investigate the rest of the house. 

They don’t learn much from the officers that they don’t already know. This is the most recent crime scene—George and Marsha Springfield, undeserving of such a grisly fate. Their two kids, 8 and 9, were off visiting their grandparents in Nebraska when it happened, and though they avoided the same fate, they’re going to deal with a lifetime of guilt. 

It’s all Hotch can think about as he examines the first body. The six children left to deal with the carnage, about their past and future marred against their control. 

All he can think about is Jack, and the dreary fate that awaits him if his father falls in the field.  

Hotch swallows his doubt and his guilt all in one and forces every thought out of his mind. He has to be unshakable for the team, for what’s left of these families, for a city on the brink of hysterics. 

They’ll find whoever did this. That’s what gets him through it. 

They spent early morning at the crime scene, collecting evidence and gathering information from the officers and trying to make sense of the killer’s motive. Progress is slow, partially because of the hour, but they make enough that Hotch feels comfortable moving onto the next job.

Their four a.m. start time was too early to go knock on doors and get interviews, but now it’s a more normal 10 in the morning. After a quick stop back at the station to share information with Reid, Garcia, and JJ and down a few cups of coffee, they get right back on the road.  

Hotch and Prentiss take one van and Morgan and Rossi take the other, splitting up to get what they can from interviews. It’s difficult working with kids, especially with such recent trauma, so they hold off on it for now, allowing the local uniforms that have been with them for a bit longer to set things up before the BAU tries anything. 

First they go to a neighbor’s house, then an alleged eye witness. They don’t get much other than personality reads, but it at least gives them the beginnings of a profile. The third place they hit is their earliest idea of a suspect. 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss reads off the file one of the local officers had put together. “Thirty-nine, born and raised in St. Charles, Missouri. High school degree, but never got to college because he was in and out of jail.” 

“What has he been charged for?” 

“Booked a few times for public intoxication and convicted three times for assault. Once was for third-degree assault, Missouri’s version of aggravated assault,” she says. “He got out of jail a little less than a year ago, and it looks like he’s been living in St. Louis for some of that.”

“Assault and drinking is a far cry from serial killing, even aggravated,” Hotch says. “What makes him a suspect?”

“Both parents are dead,” she says. “And from the looks of it, it was not a happy home while they were around. He’s got a sister, so it fits the initial theory of trying to replicate his family.”

Hotch lets out a loose breath and nods. “We’ll start there. Try and get a story from this guy, build a profile, see if it matches the one Morgan and Rossi have made for their guy.”

“And hope we pin something down before more bodies show up,” Prentiss murmurs. 

They’re at their destination soon enough, and Hotch parks in an open spot on the other side of the road. His eyes dart around as they walk up to the front door, filing things away in the back of his mind. 

The house number and last name—1432, Hartford—on the mailbox plagued with rotting wood. What there is of a yard is poorly cut, and a small garden of wilted flowers has their own corner, victims of the winter weather. One car is parked slightly crooked in a small driveway—there’s no garage, so at least he’s probably home. Two potted plants sit on either side of the door, thankfully alive. 

“Remember,” Prentiss says as they come to a stop together, “be nice.” 

“I’m plenty nice,” he murmurs, and she huffs the slightest laugh. 

Hotch knocks on the door as Prentiss fishes around for her ID, and thankfully, they don’t wait long. The door cracks open after a few seconds to reveal a woman—certainly not their unsub, but something a whole lot more surprising. 

You.

Your brows furrow at the sight of him, and Hotch has to hold back his shock. 

You don’t live in St. Louis. And your last name certainly isn’t Hartford. 

“Aaron?” you ask in disbelief, and he doesn’t even have to look at Prentiss to know the questions he’s going to get later.

He says your name, able to control his surprise with only the slightest crease of his brows giving it away, then corrects himself just as quickly. “Miss Hartford. My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner, and this is SSA Emily Prentiss. We’re here with the FBI.” 

Your frown deepens as they show their IDs, and you actually take it from Hotch, skeptical eyes scanning over it for much too long. You glance back at him as you hand it back over. “What is the FBI doing here?” 

Emily clears her throat as she puts her credentials away. “We’re here investigating the latest murders in St. Louis. Can we come in?”

“The murders?” you ask with exasperation. “What— what murders? And what do I have to do with them?” 

Aaron notices the way your grip tightens on the door just the slightest bit, and a shred of sympathy strikes him before he speaks up.

“We’ll be able to explain everything if you let us in,” he says. 

You swallow thickly in your throat, your gaze darting back to Aaron before you finally nod. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

You move and Hotch and Prentiss walk inside, gesturing with a hand towards your living room as you shut and lock the door behind them. “Take a seat. Uh— do you guys need anything? Water, or coffee, or…” 

You trail off, and Prentiss shakes her head. “Thank you, but that’s not needed.” She takes a seat on the sofa, but Hotch can’t stop himself from looking around the house. 

It’s a small place, one story—likely rented, seeing how paintings sit on countertops and mantels rather than hanging on the wall. It has a certain charm to it, but something is off about it all. 

Two styles clash—decorative pillows at odds with a filled and painted-over hole in the wall, an attempt at neutral tones ruined by dark articles of clothing scattered around, one person’s mess barely being held back by another’s cleaning efforts. You lived with someone else. Likely Lucas Hartford, possibly their unsub. 

“Are you gonna sit down, Aaron?” you ask, snapping him out of his profiling haze. “Or do you want to look around some more?” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat as he walks over and sits down in an open chair near Prentiss. “Just curious.” 

“That makes two of us,” you say, and you cross your arms as you look at him. He notices that you don’t sit down yourself, and there’s still a coldness in your eyes. “You’re FBI now?” 

He nods. “I had a change of heart.” 

You huff a laugh. “Thought at least one of us would be a lawyer by now. I guess not.” 

Hotch frowns, but Prentiss takes over before he can continue on that particular thread. “Miss Hartford—”

You interrupt by saying your first name, and it spurns something strange in his chest. It’s been over a decade since he’s heard your voice. “You can skip the formalities.” 

Prentiss nods and repeats your name. “As you know, we’re investigating the murders that have been occuring in the St. Louis area.” 

“And you think I have something to do with it?” you ask, the accusatory edge to your voice not lost on him. 

“Not you,” Hotch says. “Do you know a Lucas Hartford?”

“He’s my brother,” you say, and your frown deepens. “You’re not saying—”

“No,” Prentiss interrupts, “we’re not saying anything. We’re just asking.”

And just like that, your entire stance, your visage, it all changes. Hotch can sense the walls slamming up around you, and he immediately realizes two things: 

Getting information out of you is going to be much harder than planned, and you’re not anywhere near the same person you used to be. 

Hotch doesn’t know what he expects, really. He graduated with the intent to prosecute for at least a decade—now, he’s with the BAU. It’s not fair to assume you’re that same girl he met in law school. 

“My brother is not a murderer,” you state clearly.

“And we aren’t accusing him or you of anything—” she starts. 

“Me?” you interrupt, and you let out a harsh laugh. “I’m a suspect too?”

“If you would allow Agent Prentiss to finish her sentences, you would be less upset,” Hotch says. 

You glower at him, but you stay silent. 

“We aren’t accusing either of you of anything,” Prentiss finishes. “We’re just trying to gather information with what little we know.” 

“I know my rights,” you say, unflinching gaze still meeting Hotch’s. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Prentiss looks at him as well, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “That’s unfortunate to hear, Miss Hartford.”

“You know my name, Aaron. Use it.”

He does, and the letters feel strange on his tongue after so long. “This is a serious matter. This isn’t an accusation—we’re in the early days of this case and we need all the information we can get.” 

“Ask away,” you say. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss starts. “He’s your brother?” 

You nod. “He lives with me.” 

He lives with me, not we live together. Makes him think that you pay for the place, he came knocking, and you didn’t have the heart to turn him away. 

“Why is that?” Hotch asks. 

You look at him, those scrutinizing eyes attempting to peer into his soul the same way they did all those years ago. But Hotch has changed since law school, and he’s much better at guarding his emotions. It seems you are, too. 

“He’s a student,” you finally say. “He goes to community college. I’m giving him a place to live while he gets his associate’s.”  

“Community college and living with his younger sister at 39?” Prentiss is trying to get information out of you, even if it isn’t in the kindest way. Your jaw clenches, and he knows her words have some effect. You’ve probably heard it more than once, the way things are going. 

“He’s getting his life back on track,” you say defensively. “I’m the only one left that can help him, so I am.” 

“What about your parents?” she asks. “Surely they’re a better option than this.” 

“Both dead,” you answer. “And no one else cares enough to help him. Are you here to do anything other than dig up my past?” 

Hotch feels Prentiss’s eyes on him, likely because it’s a step in the right direction for a really shitty reason, but he can’t look away from you. 

“Really?” 

He knows your parents are dead—it was in your brother’s profile, and by extension it applies to you—but it still hits him. 

He met your mother, had countless lunches and dinners with her. Helped her move out of her old house. Spent two Thanksgivings and a Christmas with her. 

And he didn’t even know when she died. 

You shrug and wrap your arms around yourself, and for the first time you look something other than defensive or standoffish. You look— well… sad. 

“Mom went a few years after you graduated,” you say, looking at Hotch. “Dad went last year.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Prentiss says. 

You nod your thanks, the notion a bit numb. 

“You never told me,” Hotch says with a slight frown.

“We haven’t talked in ten years,” you say. “Sorry that I didn’t know you still wanted updates.” 

Hotch tries to think of something to say in response, but Prentiss starts getting a call and she stands up. “Excuse me.” 

His jaw clenches for a moment as Prentiss ducks into a nearby bedroom, but he’s recovered by the time you look at him again. Your arms are crossed, but your expression is even. 

“I take it this was as much of a surprise for you as it is for me.” 

Hotch nods. “We came here looking for your brother.” 

“Does your team know about our history?” you ask simply.

“No.” 

“Do you want them to?” 

“…No.” 

You huff a laugh, your eyes narrowing a bit. “‘Course not. Probably counts as conflict of interest.” 

You wait another beat, then ask another question. “How’s Haley?”

“Good, last I heard,” he says, and then he hesitates. “We’re… divorced.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

He nods. “This job isn’t easy for anyone.”

You look like you want to say more, but once again, Hotch is saved by Prentiss as she walks back in. Her phone is closed in her hand and she looks at him. “Morgan and Rossi have a lead. The chief wants everyone back at the precinct to go over everything we’ve found.” 

Hotch nods again and stands up. Prentiss takes her card out of her pocket and holds it out to you. 

“Thank you for your time, Miss Hartford. If you find out any information, or want to tell us anything else, please give me a call.” 

“Pass that along to your brother, too,” Hotch says. 

You reluctantly take the card, but you don’t look at it. “You can see yourselves out.” 

Prentiss nods. “Thank you again. Have a good day, and stay safe.” 

She leads the way, and Hotch follows after her. He fights the urge to look back before he shuts the door. 

Prentiss looks at him as they walk back to the car, and he can only imagine what is going through her mind. But eventually she just shrugs and pulls out her phone again. 

“Garcia?” Prentiss asks after she picks up. 

“You’ve reached the office of all that is holy.” Penelope’s voice comes out through the speaker, and Hotch can’t help the smallest twitch of his lips. “What’s up?” 

“Dig up everything you can find on Lucas Hartford,” Emily says, and her glance at Hotch does not go unnoticed. “And throw in his sister, too. He’s one of our only suspects, and we need to know if she’s in on it.” 

“On it,” Garcia says. “I’ll call you back when I’m done.” 

“You’re the best,” she says, and then she hangs up. They get back to the car, and it only takes Prentiss all of five seconds after they get in for her to start drilling him.

“Alright,” she says, buckling her seatbelt with a click before she sets her attention on him. “What was that back there? You two know each other?”

Hotch busies himself with his own seatbelt and starting the car, answering as casually as possible as the engine revs to life. “We were friends in law school.”

“Sure,” Prentiss nods. “The way you were around her, that’s not just ‘law school friend’ stuff.”

Hotch is once again reminded of how, sometimes, it was a downfall to constantly be around profilers. It was nearly impossible to keep anything a secret. 

“It’s nothing,” he says as he pulls back onto the road. “We knew each other, we fell apart, we’re here now.”

Emily hums. “Is it too far to ask if you were together?”

“Yes,” he says sternly, maybe a bit too hasty. “It is.”

“Fine,” she says breezily, and she looks out the window. “But that tension was thick.” 

Hotch knows what she’s thinking. Hasn’t he been with Haley since high school, what kind of history did you and him have, were you together, would he be okay to work this case— 

He doesn’t really want to answer any of them. You were a part of his past he hadn’t expected to resurface any time soon—if Hotch is being honest, he didn’t know if he would ever see you again once he graduated. Not after the way he broke things off.  

You’ve changed a lot. So has he. 

And now your brother is a murder suspect, and you could be covering up for him. 

That’s the only thing that should be on his mind. 

-

“For the last time,” you huff as you storm down the stairs, “I don’t want to deal with this.” 

“Because you know that Mia is a lying bitch!” Cleo exclaims, following after you. “I’m sick of you stealing my clothes!”

“I’m not stealing your clothes,” Mia scoffs in your wake, just behind Cleo. “They’re too ugly for me to want anyways. I bet I wouldn’t even fit into them.”

“You are! And you’re stealing my fucking jewelry, too!” she yells. “All of my shit is going missing, and I know it’s not Little Miss Law School, so it’s got to be you!” 

Mia draws out a mirthless laugh. “You are not accusing me of this.” 

“I don’t have anyone else to accuse!” Cleo shouts. 

They both look at you, and Mia says your name. “You have to settle this before I kill her.”

“Oh, I’ll kill you first!” she hisses. “At least I’ll get all my stuff back!”

You clench your jaw as your nails dig into your palms, and you’re about to bite back when the doorbell rings. You don’t even try to hide your sigh of relief. 

“That’s Aaron,” you say as you grab your coat and your bag from the table. “I’m leaving. If you kill each other, don’t get blood on the furniture.”

You don’t give them a chance to say anything before you rush to the door, open it, and shut it behind you. 

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” you breathe. 

“What’s going on in there?” Aaron asks, amused. 

“My roommates are fighting again.” You roll your eyes. “It doesn’t matter. You’re much more interesting.”

“You know this is a study date,” he says wryly, and you cut him off with a kiss. 

“Still a date,” you murmur against his lips. “And something seriously needed.”

Aaron chuckles as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side, and the two of you walk to his car. “You’ve gotta get out of this house, honey.”

“I know,” you grumble. “But I can’t afford a place on my own.”

“Doesn’t have to be on your own,” he says as he opens the door for you. “It just has to be away from the girls that are making you miserable.”

“The lease ends at the end of the semester,” you sigh. “Just have to make it until then.”

“You know,” Aaron boxes you in against the car when you lean against the side of it, smiling softly at you, “I do live alone.”

“Oh yeah?” You ruffle his hair with your fingers and grin. “What are you proposing?”

He shrugs, letting his hands linger on your waist. “Just that you hate your roommates, and you don’t hate me. You could spend your time somewhere else.” 

“Careful,” you warn. “You keep saying things like that and we might not make it to the library.” 

“You keep saying things like that, and I might not mind,” Aaron muses. 

You grin as he leans in and kisses you again, once, twice, three times as your back hits the side of his car and you card your hands through his hair. Mia and Cleo are probably killing each other inside, but you don’t really care at this point. They’ve made your life hell for a semester and a half—they can bother each other for once. 

“Aaron,” you whisper against his lips, and he gets one more in between words, “I’ve got a test on Tuesday.”

“And today’s Sunday.” He nips at your neck and you laugh, your eyes falling shut as you lean your head back. “You’ll be fine, honey.”

“You have one on Monday,” you remind him, and he sighs. You feel his hot breath against your neck. 

“Ruining our fun in the name of schoolwork,” he says. “No wonder all your professors love you.”

“Everyone loves me,” you correct. “Including you.”

You steal one more kiss before you open your door yourself and get in, and Aaron lets out a breathy laugh.

“You’ve got that right.”

He closes your door then gets in the other side, and you’re already rifling through the glove box full of cassettes. You pull out the mixtape you made for him for your six month anniversary and pop it into the player, and Aaron smiles as the first few notes of Stairway to Heaven come on. 

“You’re a threat to my grades, y’know.”

“Maybe it’s all part of my plan,” you say. “Distract you with kisses to make sure I’m a shoe-in for this fellowship.”

“A dastardly plan,” he says with mock austerity. 

“I’ve been told I have to be more of a shark,” you muse. “Consider this me taking down my competition.”

Aaron laughs, and you find yourself smiling just at the sound of it. You love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, how they soften just so, how he acts like himself around you, and not some perfected or stoic image that he thinks he needs. 

Falling in love with Aaron Hotchner has been the easiest thing in the world. 

“Don’t let anyone know,” he says, and he reaches over to intertwine your fingers together. “But I’ll happily fall to you every time.”

“As long as you don’t tell everyone how whipped I am for you,” you tease.

“Looks like we’ve both got reputations to keep up.”

“Looks like it.”

You share a smile, yours just on the edge of a grin as you try to bite it back. You hold hands the rest of the way, just soaking in each other’s presence with songs from bands you introduced to each other floating through the air. 

(It is a goddamn struggle to get any work done at the library with that face across from you the whole time.)

- 

You had sky-high aspirations when you were younger. 

Ones that would make your teachers offer a smile and tell you to shoot a little lower, that would make your friends’ eyes widen, that your father would scoff at and your mother would humor you on just to get you to move past it. 

You didn’t listen. You’ve wanted to be a lawyer since you went on a class field trip to a courthouse in elementary school and saw all the attorneys hustling about, dressed to the nines, making last-minute deals outside the courtroom.  

They were just… so confident. So smart, so stoic, always knowing the answer to everything. The good ones had money, sure, but more importantly they had the power to change lives for the better. And as a kid that had to cover up bruises before the school day, nothing sounded more appealing. 

All you’ve ever wanted to do is help people. 

And as you sit in a cold, empty interrogation room, you can’t help but wonder where the hell you went wrong. 

You don’t want to be here, obviously. But you know the FBI won’t stop bugging you until you give them answers—you know Aaron Hotchner won’t stop bugging you. 

Because god— what are the odds? 

What are the fucking odds of your ex-boyfriend from a decade ago showing up at your door with a badge and an attempted case against your brother? 

It’s ridiculous, and it’s such bad luck that you think it could only happen to you. You’ve thought about Aaron Hotchner more than you’d like to admit over the years, especially when you found your old GW crewnecks, and the box of school supplies you used for a decade, and those photo albums from what should’ve been your golden years. 

It’s not like any of it matters, though. You only agreed to come in and talk because you want them off your back and you don’t want them poking around your house. You saw it in Aaron’s eyes—he was profiling you and your place the entire time. 

If the cops want to invade your privacy even further, they can get a goddamn warrant. 

Your thoughts are interrupted when the door opens, and you hold back a mirthless laugh, because of course it’s Aaron. He greets you with your name, and he has a file in his hands. You wonder if it’s on you or your brother. “Thank you for taking the time out of your day to come in and talk with us.”

“Well, you seem to think my brother is a murderer.” You cross your arms as you sit back. “I’m not really gonna let that stand.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked for a lawyer,” he says as he sits down across from you. 

“I don’t plan to be here for very long,” you respond tartly. “But don’t worry—that can always change. I know my rights.” 

“I’m the last person you need to tell that to.” Hotch sets the file down and looks right at you. Though he’s obviously older—more grizzled, more hardened; harsher, sharper lines that define his face; lips set in a taut, unflinching line—you still see that young man from law school. The passion, the care he puts into everything, the penchant for striped ties. 

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. 

“Your last name wasn’t Hartford when I met you,” he says. “Why is it now?” 

“Not one for small talk,” you remark. 

“I never have been.” 

“I remember.” You hold his gaze. “It’s my mom’s maiden name. I changed it to put some distance between me and everything else.” 

You can practically see the gears of his brain working, neural pathways branching off with every word you say to make sense of it and reason a thousand different meanings from it. Aaron’s always been like that, but it’s tenfold now. 

You suppose one has to be like that, to try and get anywhere with the types of criminals they face. 

“How long have you been living in St. Louis?”

“Seven years. I’ve had that house for three.” 

“Rent or own?”

“Rent,” you scoff. “I don’t make enough for a down payment, and I don’t want a place tying me down.”

“What inspired the move?”

“Close enough to home to be familiar, far enough to not be.” 

“And home is?” 

“St. Charles,” you say, and you purse your lips. “Shouldn’t you already know all this?” You nod at the file in front of him. “It’s either on me or my brother, and we share a lot of the same info.” 

“We prefer to get our information from the source,” he says. 

“Sources can lie.” 

Aaron doesn’t waver. “And we can charge you with obstruction if it harms our investigation.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, not entirely without heart. “Ask your questions, Aaron.” 

He opens the folder and slides the first picture over to you—your brother’s first mugshot, taken when he was only twenty-one. You still remember riding your bike to the station in the sweltering August heat to drop off his bail and pick him up. 

You had to catch the bus home together, you had to pay his fare, and his bail drained everything you’d been saving from your waitress job. But your dad refused to pay it, and you refused to be alone in that house any longer than you already had. 

You swallow the memory. It still tastes as sour as the day it happened. 

“Lucas Hartford is our main suspect,” he says. “He matches our initial profile—in and out of jail since his twenties, his parents are dead and he has an unstable home life, and he’s got a sister.”   

“None of those sound like questions,” you say. 

“Where is your brother?” he asks firmly. He’s given you a bit of leniency, but you can tell he’s getting tired of you. Some things never change, you think to yourself bitterly. 

“I don’t know,” you admit. 

“You don’t know,” he repeats. 

“I let him stay with me, and my only requirement is that he goes to his community college classes and stays out of jail,” you say. “He’s done both, so I stay out of his business.”

“And you’re telling me you haven’t questioned it?”

“I called him the other day after you left,” you say. “He didn’t pick up, and I didn’t get a call back until the next night.” 

Aaron’s eyes sharpen. “What did you say to him?” 

“I called to see where he was,” you say evenly. “I think you all are wrong, but I wanted to make sure he was okay.” 

“You didn’t tell him—” 

“No,” you interrupt, “I didn’t tell him about your investigation. If I think you’re wrong, why would I need to let him know?” 

He still has that look in his eyes, and you know you’re getting on his nerves with the constant interrupting, the constant backtalk. But he probably deals with much, much worse. 

“Good,” he nods. “You could be putting lives in danger if you do—including yours.” 

“Please,” you scoff. “He won’t hurt me. He never has.” 

“Why do you let him stay with you?” Aaron asks. “You’re straight-edge, he’s a borderline alcoholic that’s been in and out of jail for years. You’ve got a law degree, he never made it past high school. You’ve got your life together, his is falling apart.” 

“That’s why I do it,” you say. “Our parents are dead. I’m all he has left, and he’s all I have left. I want him to get better, so I’m trying my best to help him get there. How can Luke put his life back together if he’s got no support?” 

“That’s an awful lot of faith to put in someone who hasn’t earned it.” 

“I’ve gotten good at that over the years,” you reply. 

Aaron stares at you, and you stare back. You let the moment linger. You hope it stings, even fleetingly. 

“And you’re wrong, by the way.” 

“About what?” he asks. Again, unshaken. 

“I don’t have a law degree,” you say. “I dropped out.” 

And for some reason, that is what gets him. He frowns, and you wonder what it means that this is the most unexpected thing he’s gotten out of you. 

“Why? You were only a year out. You had stellar grades.” 

“My mom got cancer,” you say. “Luke was serving his second stint, Dad fucked off to some corner of the country to drink himself to death a couple months before. I was the only one left to take care of her, and I couldn’t do that from DC.” 

“I had no idea.” This is the first time he looks taken aback since you’ve met him again. “And she’s—”

“Dead,” you supply without waiting for an answer. You know he already knows it, but it still seems to have some effect on him. “Went a couple months after I was meant to graduate.” 

“…I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. He’s just repeating what his agent said at your house, but it feels genuine, at least. 

“It’s been a decade,” you say. “I’m just sorry it was her instead of my dad.” 

Aaron’s brows knit together again, and less work goes into covering it up this time. “You seem to have something against your father.” 

You huff a mirthless laugh. “Excellent profiling.” 

“Child abuse is common for serial killers,” Aaron says. “We find it’s typically the root of their problems later in life, or plays a part in their MO.” 

You stare at him again. This isn’t just an interrogation with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner—it’s revealing parts of your past that you never told your ex-boyfriend Aaron. 

“Yeah,” you finally say. “Our dad beat us. Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

“You know th—” 

Aaron cuts himself off before he can finish whatever he wants to say, and he lets out a short sigh with a nod. “It’s valuable information for the profile.” 

The room feels a lot colder all of a sudden. “Sure.” 

He still looks like he wants to say more, but he bites his tongue as he takes the picture back and closes the file. 

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Would you like anything? Water?”

You shake your head and remain silent. He takes the folder and stands up, and you watch him the entire way to the door. Just before he can open it, you find words escaping without you thinking. 

“Look, Aaron,” you blurt out. He pauses, and he turns to look at you. “I know this is your thing, and this is your investigation, but I’m telling you—my brother and I don’t play any part in it.” 

“The profile—” 

“I don’t care what your profile says,” you interrupt. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it.” 

“He’s rough around the edges, I know. In and out of jail isn’t good for anyone.” You hold onto the edge of the table as you continue rambling, needing something to do with your hands. “But he’s working to get better, and he is not the kind of person to do something like this. If you believe anything I say, believe that.” 

“I suppose we’ll find out,” he says evenly. 

He leaves the room, and your hands fall into your lap as your nails dig into your palms. You don’t mean to be desperate, but you feel it. You’ve been defending Lucas at every chance, but you’re terrified of being wrong. You’re terrified that Aaron might be right—that he might be behind all of this. 

For his sake—and your sake, honestly, because you think you deserve to be selfish when he’s all you have left—you hope you’re right. 

You have to be right. 

The room feels even colder. 

Your stare drifts to the one-way mirror, where you know his team is watching. You saw the way Agent Prentiss watched Aaron when they came to your house—he said he doesn’t want them to know, but you think they already do. 

You wonder the kind of things they’ve come up with about you and him. 

-

Morgan whistles when Hotch walks out of the interrogation room. 

“She does not like you.” 

“Did you gather anything else?” he asks placidly. He sets your brother’s file down so he can fix his tie. 

“Abusive dad, dead parents, criminal background,” he says. “Lucas is looking like a stronger suspect. Oh— and she really doesn’t like you.” 

“If you don’t want to go back to building a file on your suspect, move on,” Hotch demands. 

Morgan shrugs, clearly unfazed, but he keeps his mouth shut. Reid, meanwhile, is still staring through the glass at you. You haven’t exactly relaxed, but you’re not as tense as you were while talking to Hotch. You pick at a loose strand of thread on your sweater, and when you pull it out, you let it fall to the floor. 

“Her brother feels like a prime suspect,” Reid murmurs. “I feel like I could just figure it all out if I could talk to him.” 

“I told Penelope to keep an eye on him,” Prentiss contributes. “She’s tracking his cards, the car registered in his name, even called the person in charge of the AA meetings he goes to to keep an eye out—everything. We’ll know if she gets anything.”

“Serial killers want to see the damage they’ve done,” Reid says. “Things are falling apart here—the whole city is terrified. He’s gotta be in St. Louis still.” 

“You��re sure that he’s still in the running.” Hotch glances back at you, and he knows he has to at least ask, for your sake. He doesn’t want to put you through anything more than he has to—not after what you’ve told him. 

And Hotch knows your past is your business—he just can’t believe you never told him. 

He’s turned over your relationship in his head just as many times in these past few days as he did the months after he ended things. 

“I’m sure, sir,” Reid says. “I’ve read over both their files, and Lucas matches with our preliminary profile. His stressor could have been his father dying.”

Morgan frowns. “Explain.”

“Family annihilators typically go after their own family for a myriad of reasons,” he says. “Paranoia, to cover up their lies, to free themselves from what they see as oppression, sometimes just pure jealousy.”

“He’s killing the parents but leaving the children alive,” Hotch says. “Sounds like a liberator to me.”

“That’s what I think,” Reid nods. “If Lucas has been banking on killing his father for that attempt at freedom, and then lost the chance?” He shrugs. “That could be why he started going for other families.” 

“Other fathers to take his place,” Morgan realizes, and he nods again. 

“You should talk to her, Spence,” Prentiss says. “You’ve got a handle on the profile, and you’re pretty good at conveying info. She seems like a reasonable person—just can’t accept her brother doing something like this.” 

“It’s typical for someone to deny their family member’s involvement,” Reid says. “No one wants to think their sibling is a murderer.” 

“If you lay it all out for her like that, with facts and the profile, I think she’ll listen.” Prentiss looks at Hotch. “She’s too closed off with you.”

“That’s how she is,” Hotch claims.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, “but it’s much easier to hate you than it is to hate Reid.” 

Hotch glares at her, and Reid clears his throat to insert himself back into the conversation. 

“I’d be happy to talk to her,” he says. “I know what it’s like to be in this kind of position—I can put her at ease, sympathize with her.” 

They all look at Hotch, and he wants to say no. He wants to be the one to get this out of you—some part of him wants as much time with you as possible. But he decides to swallow his ego. 

“Fine.” He nods, and he hands the folder to Reid. “I trust you to handle it.” 

Reid nods too, far too many times, and he takes the file. “Thank you. Uh— sir. I appreciate your trust.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but it has no bite to it, and Reid walks inside. 

He says your name and sits down across from you. “I’m Spencer Reid. I know we’ve already said it, but thank you for talking to us. It may not seem like it, but it goes a long way towards figuring out this case.”

You nod. You already seem more at ease than you were with him, and it makes Hotch… 

Not jealous, because that would be insane. But it makes him upset that he doesn’t understand you the way he used to—that he doesn’t hold that key to you anymore. God, it feels like he doesn’t know you anymore. 

Hotch doesn’t get why a side of his brain still thinks this way about you. 

“They sent a new one in,” you say. 

“You looked like you needed a break from Hotch,” Reid says. “Don’t worry. We all do sometimes.”

You huff a slight laugh and your posture eases, your expression softens just so. Reid was right, as usual. 

“I can imagine.”

He starts talking to you about the case, laying out all the facts, and though you don’t look happy, you don’t cut him off like you cut Hotch off. 

“She’s pretty,” Morgan offers, glancing at Hotch. “And stubborn. I see why you like her.” 

“Shut up, Morgan,” Hotch mutters.

He chuckles and holds his hands up, and focuses back on the interrogation. 

The rest of it passes in silence, save for the occasional input from Prentiss or Morgan to elaborate on a point. You talk much more with Reid than you did with Hotch, and you don’t stare daggers at him the entire time. 

Time doesn’t always heal all wounds, he thinks. 

When Reid is finishing up inside with you, Morgan glances back at Hotch. “You think she’s part of this?”

He shakes his head. “No. She has no reason to kill, nothing to gain. She talks about her past too plainly—it hurt her, obviously, but it hasn’t taken over her life.”

“What about her brother?” Prentiss asks. 

“The more we learn, the more I suspect him,” Morgan says. 

She nods in agreement. “We just have to find him.”

Hotch isn’t sure yet. 

But for your sake, he hopes his gut feeling is wrong. 

-

Spring has finally sprung in DC, and you couldn’t be happier. 

It’s hard to feel down on your walks to class when the birds are singing and the sun is beaming down on you, when you see students sitting on blankets reading and talking and actually enjoying life for once. 

You’re two years into law school, and it feels like you’ve spent 90% of your time studying in either the library or your room. A bit of a sad existence, but it’s made better with Aaron. 

You’re laying down on a blanket—one you crocheted yourself in undergrad—resting your head on Aaron’s chest as he reads a book, the spring sun shining down on you. It feels like the first moment of relaxation either of you have had since classes started, and you chose to spend it together in the University Yard. 

You should probably be studying or doing some kind of homework, but you don’t care. It has been too damn long since you’ve gotten to just sit around and exist with Aaron, and you’ve got at least a couple days until your next quiz. That’s far enough away for you. 

It’s been a rough semester for both of you, between classes and endless homework, between your internship and your endless family issues—Luke is two years in, and his parole was denied, and your dad still insists on being the reason you stay on campus year-round. 

You don’t think you’re pushing it when you say Aaron’s support has been the only reason you’ve gotten through it, your grades—and your mental state—relatively unscathed. 

Aaron says your name, and you hum. 

“Are you listening?” he asks. 

“Of course,” you say. 

“Your eyes are closed.” 

“I don’t need my eyes to listen,” you say wryly. “What’s up?” 

You feel him tense for a moment, feel him adjust his position slightly. 

“I got a call from Haley,” he says carefully. 

Your eyes open and you frown. 

You know the name, but only in the way that you talked a bit about your past relationships while you were still getting to know each other. She was his high school girlfriend, and it was a big deal then, but they broke up before college because they both wanted different things.

It shouldn’t be a big deal now. But he’s treating it like one, and that makes you hesitate. 

“Yeah? What’d she want?”

“…She’s in DC for the weekend,” he says. “Some conference for school. She asked if we could grab a coffee or something and catch up.”

You finally sit up, his hands falling from where he’d been playing with your hair, and you look at him.

“Your high school girlfriend wants to catch up.”

“An old friend wants to catch up,” he corrects. “I haven’t really talked to her since we graduated high school.” 

“…Okay,” you say slowly. “Do you want to see her?” 

He shrugs. “I thought it would be nice.”

“Do you think she thinks it’ll be more than nice?” you ask. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t even know how she got my landline. I think my mom might have given it to her.” 

Your eyebrows rise. “Your mom gave your ex-girlfriend your number?” 

“It’s the only way I can think of her getting it,” Aaron shrugs. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to her since graduation.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to think as you look at Aaron. 

You’ve met his mom a dozen times. You’re insistent that she doesn’t like you, despite Aaron’s assertions towards the opposite—it wouldn’t surprise you if she gave this girl his new number in an effort to push him in a new direction. 

But that train of thought feels a little crazy. You’re confident in your relationship with Aaron—you love him, and he loves you. God, he made an off-handed comment about marriage the other day. You’re not threatened by a girl from his past wanting to catch up. 

“Go for it,” you finally say. 

He frowns, like he was expecting the worst. “Really?” 

“I trust you, Aaron,” you say. “You say she’s just a friend, I believe it.” 

You lean forward to kiss him, your eyes fluttering shut, and it lasts much longer than it should. When you pull away, Aaron’s smiling softly at you. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“‘Course,” you say, tipping a shoulder. “I’m known to be rational from time to time.” 

He chuckles, and you smile as you lay back down on his chest. Soon after, you feel the weight of his hand on your shoulder. 

“I love you,” he says. It feels more like a reminder than anything. 

You entangle your fingers together and press a kiss to the back of his hand. 

Sometimes you need reminders. 

“I love you too.” 

-

“Four more bodies,” Prentiss mutters. “God.” 

“You can say that again,” Morgan murmurs. 

Hotch is silent as he examines the father’s body. They’ve been so busy the past few days trying to nail down the profile, both on their unsub and geographically, that this happening again hadn’t been at the top of their list. There was a month between the first two, and two weeks between the second and third. 

No one expected this to happen so soon. 

The entire family was killed this time, and once again, the parents look similar to the other victims. It’s the work of their unsub, no doubt. 

Hotch and the team had already been at the precinct for an hour going over all the information they’d found when they got the call at 8 in the morning, the bodies discovered by the family’s maid when she arrived for work. 

An entire family, parents and children, senselessly slaughtered for one man’s deranged quest for liberation. 

Hotch has been in this business for a long time, seen things that most people only imagine in nightmares, and he still has to take a step back when children are involved. 

He sees Jack in every single one. He can’t help it. 

Hotch took Prentiss and Morgan with him to the crime scene—JJ has a kid, Rossi had a kid, and he just didn’t want Reid to see it. They’ll all be more valuable working together back there anyways, and it’s imperative that JJ controls the narrative before this can break to the press. 

Again, Prentiss talks to the officers at the scene and Morgan helps him examine the bodies. After all, there are double the amount. 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Morgan says as he stands back up. “Our guy is killing surrogate parents to get back at his own, fine. Dad was tortured again, mom was killed with a bullet. But bringing the kids into it isn’t his thing.” 

He uses a gloved hand to gingerly lift the father’s arm away from his body so he can examine the underarm. “Look at this. He’s been stabbed at least ten times, and his arm’s nearly severed from his body.”

“And his neck,” Morgan mutters. “He’s half decapitated.” 

Hotch sets the arm back down. “The unsub always wants the father to suffer, but this is a new level.” He looks up at Morgan. “I don’t think he has a reason for killing the children. I think he’s getting sloppy—he’s getting overwhelmed by his anger.” 

“You think he’s devolving,” he says, catching on. 

“Something tells me we’re coming to the end of the line,” Hotch says. “Whatever he does next, he’s going out with a bang.” 

-

The mood in the precinct has fallen dramatically since the last hit. The uniforms aren’t happy that they’re working around the clock, the chief isn’t happy that the BAU hasn’t figured everything out yet, and the city isn’t happy that ten murders have been committed with what they think is no end in sight. 

JJ and Rossi have gone out to bring in the suspect that he and Morgan found together for the sake of covering their bases—they still haven’t been able to find Lucas, despite Reid calling you every day to check in and upping police presence around the city. 

The rest of the team sits around a conference table, over a dozen coffees between them, going over everything and racking their brains for information. 

“This just isn’t matching up,” Reid complains. “Lucas has just been at home for the first two, but for the third and the fourth he’s got alibis.” 

“What are they?” Hotch asks. 

“He was on the road all night when the third happened,” Reid says. 

“And how do we know?” Prentiss asks. 

“Garcia picked up his debit card being used a couple times from Des Moines back to St. Louis when the third set of murders happened,” Morgan contributes. “Must’ve been a road trip, because there are stops at a gas station, a restaurant, and a rest stop.” 

“The last one happened during an AA meeting he was supposed to attend,” Prentiss says. “I called the leader and she said he was there.”

“Do we have footage from any of those places?” Hotch asks. “We need to make sure.” 

Reid nods. “I asked her to check it all this morning, including the AA meeting. She must still be going through it—I can’t imagine it’s easy to get all that access.” 

“What about a second unsub?” Morgan suggests. 

Hotch shakes his head. “These are all meant to be personal for liberation—catharsis. Involving someone else would take away from the feeling.” 

“What about your suspect?” Prentiss asks, looking at Morgan. “Could he be the unsub?” 

“Patrick Fenton,” Morgan says, and he shrugs. “He fits it—dead parents, jail time, child of abuse. But he’s got two sisters, and his parents died when he was in his twenties from a car accident. I don’t see why he would start killing almost twenty years later.” 

“Maybe we’ll figure something out in questioning,” Reid says hopefully. 

Morgan’s phone suddenly goes off, and he hits the button to answer. “You’re on speaker, babygirl.” 

“I found the security footage from those three places, the ones that Lucas was at on his supposed road trip when the third family was hit,” Garcia says, voice slightly tinny through the phone.  

“And?” Hotch asks. 

“I was getting there,” she says. “Lucas wasn’t there. He wasn’t on any of the footage—his sister was.” 

Hotch frowns. You? 

“You’re sure?” he asks. 

“I’m always sure,” Garcia responds. “And I don’t know if Spencer is there, but he also wasn’t there at the AA meeting—I combed through the whole meeting, and he didn’t show up at any point. Just another guy that looked like him.” 

“And you’re sure about that, too?” Hotch asks again. 

“What is with this questioning of my abilities?” she asks, offended. “Yes. I’ve stared at so many pictures of Lucas Hartford over these past few days that I’ve got him burned into my brain.” 

“Thanks, babygirl,” Morgan says. “We’ll call back if we need anything.” 

“And you’re always welcome in this house of miracles,” she muses. Morgan chuckles before he hangs up. 

“Lucas gave her his card,” Reid realizes. “It’s an easy alibi, but it falls apart when you look into it even a little bit.” 

“Probably seemed solid to him at the time,” Morgan says. “He doesn’t seem like a detail oriented guy.” 

Prentiss frowns. “That means he’s back on the chopping block. We can put him at the scene of every murder.” 

Hotch leans over the table and grabs Lucas’s file, and he pulls out the page compiling his family. “His father died a year ago from liver failure. Hartford got out of jail nine months ago after a six year stint.” 

“If he’s been plotting some elaborate murder of his father for years, just to get out of jail and find out he drank himself to death?” Morgan shakes his head. “He’d snap. It doesn’t feel like justice.” 

“He thinks he’s saving the kids of these parents that he kills,” Reid says. “He sees himself in them—he can’t look past his own childhood, and he assumes those kids must want their parents dead too.” 

“He’s trying to get back at his dad,” Prentiss says. “We know that.” 

“But that’s not his main goal,” Reid insists. “If his dad died when he was a kid, the abuse would have stopped. His mom wouldn’t be the battered wife anymore, and he wouldn’t be the battered kid.” 

“His goal has always been protection,” Hotch realizes. “Yes, he’s getting his revenge by killing his father over and over, but ultimately, he’s trying to save himself.” 

“But he didn’t anticipate the kids being home this time,” Prentiss says. “He had to kill them too.” 

“If he‘s seeing himself in these children, recreating what he never got to do, then that means that he effectively died in this scenario,” Reid says. 

“He didn’t get what he wanted,” Morgan says. “That’s gonna take a toll on him.”

“He’s coming to the end of the line,” Prentiss nods. 

Hotch’s brain is working overtime as they work information off of each other. They’re so damn close—they just need the last piece of the puzzle. If they find Lucas’s next victim, they find him. 

“His next crime will probably be his last before he goes out himself,” Reid says. 

“You think it’ll be a murder-suicide?” Morgan asks. 

“It’s common with family annihilators,” Reid says. “Hell, it’s common with anyone who sees no future beyond their murders. It’s their way out.” 

And then the answer hits Hotch like a ton of bricks. Reid is still rambling next to him. 

“If his dad was still alive, I’d say he would be the target. But the only one left—”

“—is his sister,” Hotch grits out, and he’s dashing out of the conference room before anyone can stop him. 

“Hotch!” Morgan yells, and he turns to Prentiss with wild eyes. “Where the hell is he going?” 

“The last victim,” she says as she starts following him. “The one person he never managed to save.” 

“Goddammit,” Morgan curses, and he grabs his phone from the table, dialing Garcia as fast as she can while he runs. Reid is close behind him.  

“What’s up, sugar?” she asks. “Got anymore leads?” 

He laughs dryly. “We’ve got a big one, babygirl. Lucas has finally reached the end of the road — he’s going for his sister. I need you to call JJ and Rossi and—” 

“Send them the Hartford address and fill them in on everything?” she interrupted, and he could hear her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Already on it.” 

“What would I do without you?” he asks. 

“Be half the man and twice as sad,” she says. “I’ve got to call JJ. Be safe, my love.” 

“Always,” he responds, and he hangs up. 

Hotch distantly registers Prentiss stopping by the chief to alert him of what’s going on, because he’s in the fog of a rampage. He’s in the driver’s seat before he knows it, starting the car, and he sees Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid running out after him. 

Prentiss takes shotgun and Morgan and Reid file into the back, and they’ve all got Kevlar vests in their hands. He didn’t really think of that through his haze. 

“We’ve got an extra one for you,” Reid says, reading his mind. 

“Thank you. I— I know what you’re all thinking—” Hotch starts, but Prentiss shakes her head.

“Just drive.” Her lips set themselves in a taut line. “We’ve got a murder to stop.”  

And he does. 

-

You sit on the curb, surrounded on either side by a box of your things. Packing up everything made you realize how little you had at his place. You thought you’d integrated yourself into his life fully, but it really just took an afternoon while he was in a lecture to disappear. 

Summer has fully turned to winter, and you’re as morose as the weather. This side of town looks so depressing without the warmer months to pick it up—the sidewalks are lined with dead trees, the grass is shriveled up and yellowing, and you feel like you’re living in grayscale. 

A shiver runs through you, the weather only partly to blame. 

Amy is supposed to pick you up, but as usual, she’s running late. You don’t know if it’s a personal issue or DC traffic has just struck again, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way, you’re stuck here, and your bad luck seems intent on making it worse, because you watch a familiar car pull around the corner. 

It parks a distance away—there’s no space in front of the complex, and he always complained that they didn’t do assigned spots—and you have to hold back a scornful scoff. 

Of course you have to deal with this now. 

Aaron picks up his pace when he gets out of the car, surprise—and what you think is shame—painted on his face. He says your name when he slows down. 

“You’re already packed.” 

You shrug. “I’m nothing if not efficient.” 

“I could’ve helped you with all this,” Aaron says, frowning. 

“Why do you think it’s done already?” you ask. 

His throat bobs and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Let me save you the pain of chivalry,” you say. “I’ve got a friend coming to pick me up. I’ve already found a place. I called your property manager the other day and argued my way out of the lease, but I still paid my next month. You’re welcome.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. 

“You know what they say about a clean break,” you intone.  

“I’m sorry,” Aaron tries again. To his credit, he looks like he means it. Against his credit, it’s about the fiftieth time you’ve heard it from him in the past two weeks. 

“I shouldn’t have let you get that coffee,” you say with a grim smile, “should I?” 

His lips pull into a taut line. “I didn’t cheat on you.” 

“I know,” you say. It’s the one thing you do believe. “I just don’t think you ever fell out of love with her.” 

Mercifully, you see Amy’s car pulling up in the distance. She’s your only friend with an SUV, so at least your boxes will fit. 

“My ride’s here,” you say as you stand up, and you pick up one of your boxes. Amy throws on her hazards and she gets out to open her trunk. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she breathes. “Traffic was awful, and Jake has been so annoying—” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you say with a slight smile as you put your box in the back. “You’re already doing me a huge favor.”  

“I want us to still be friends,” Aaron calls. When you turn back, he has your other box in his hands, his expression shamelessly desperate. Amy glares daggers at him. 

“Why?” you ask innocently. “So I can go without talking to you for ten years, ask you for a coffee when I’m in town, and then get you to leave Haley?” 

“That’s not what happened,” he says, but you’re already shaking your head. 

You take the box from him and smile thinly. 

“Have a good rest of your life, Aaron. I hope it doesn’t involve me ever again.”

-

You let out a noise of frustration as you struggle to get the key into the lock, gritting your teeth as you try to fit it in. It’s always been finicky, but you just don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight. Thankfully, just when you start getting annoyed, you get it open. 

You get a few steps in before your eyebrows rise, the sight of your brother at the kitchen table a surprise. He’s got his head in his hands, and your surprise turns to concern.

“Lucas,” you say with a slight smile, shutting the door behind you, “I didn’t know you were gonna be home tonight.”

His attention shoots to you immediately as he says your name, and he looks slightly out of it. “I was wondering when you were gonna get back.”

“Stole the words right out of my mouth,” you say wryly, and you ruffle his hair with your free hand as you walk past him. He swats your hand away in brotherly protest, and you snort. “This place has been quiet without you. Well— except for the cops. They were pretty loud.” 

“They haven’t been back, have they?” 

You look back at him and notice his leg is bobbing up and down insanely fast, and he keeps scratching at the soft wood of your table with his nail. 

Your smile fades. “Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking.”

“Of course I haven’t,” he insists, but you turn on the kitchen light, then move closer to peer into his eyes against his protests. 

“At least you’re not high,” you murmur, taking one last look before you pull away. “And stop ruining the table. I need it to last for the next ten years.” 

He huffs, and you can practically hear him roll his eyes, but he stops. 

“Did you go to class today?”

“You don’t have to act like Mom,” Lucas says, crossing his arms again with another huff. 

“And you don’t have to act like a child.” You roll your eyes as you set your tote bag on the countertop and begin unpacking the groceries you bought. “I’m asking you about your day—that’s definitely not acting like Mom.”

“Yes,” he mocks. “I went to class.”

“Good.” You glance back at him. “I’m proud of you, Luke. You’ve been making progress.” 

His smile is a bit thin, but he nods. “Thanks. How was work?”

You scoff and shake your head as you put a couple things in the pantry. “Don’t even get me started. I swear, Marie’s going to get me fired someday if she keeps her bullshit up.”

“She’s still on it?” Luke asks, and you can’t help but smile a bit. 

“Don’t act like you know what I’m talking about,” you say. “Just agree with me.” 

“I agree with you,” he says. 

“That’s it,” you muse. 

Your eyes fall back on your bag, and you’re reminded of what you meant to do next time your brother showed up. 

“Oh—” You go back over to the kitchen table for your bag and pull out your wallet. You slide a debit card out and hold it out to your brother. “Thanks for letting me use it while I was up in Des Moines. I finally got my bank to get rid of the freeze on my card.” 

“…Of course,” he says, and he takes it back. “Glad I could help.” 

“I’ll pay you back, obviously,” you say as you get back to your groceries. “I just have to wait to get paid again.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “And uh— you never answered me. Did the cops come by again?” 

You huff a mirthless laugh and shake your head. “You have nothing to worry about, Luke. I think they finally realized they were barking up the wrong tree.”

“…Good,” he says. “I can tell they’ve stressing you out.”

“Like that looks any different than my normal state,” you say wryly. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You recall the shock you felt when you opened the door to Aaron, and how nervous you were on the drive to the precinct. It’s almost been a decade, and yet he still has an effect on you that he has no right to. 

“You remember that guy I dated when I was still in law school? Aaron Hotchner?”

“I think? I was in jail, so.” 

You roll your eyes. “I know I told you about him when I visited you while we were together.” 

“I remember you telling me how he broke your heart,” Luke says. 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Then what are you saying?” 

“That he’s with the FBI now. The BAU,” you enunciate, and you huff. “He’s one of the guys on this case, coincidence that it is. They came here—they even brought me in for an interview.”

He frowns. “What’d you say?”

“The truth.” You pull your cutting board and a knife out of a drawer and get to work washing your vegetables. “That I didn’t know anything, and neither of us are involved in either way.” You shake your head with a sigh. “They must believe it, because they haven’t come back.” 

“What have they said about me?” he asks. 

“I’m not supposed to say.” You roll your eyes. “I think you’re innocent, but I could get charged with obstruction, and I really don’t feel like dealing with that…” 

You trail off into a sigh as you finish washing the peppers and set them on a towel. “I hope they find whoever’s doing it, though. It is freaking me out that there’s a murderer out there.” 

You pick up your knife and start cutting them up—they’re not the freshest, but it’s all Kroger had after work—and you glance back at Luke. “You really shouldn’t be going out so often with this going on, y’know. I don’t want you getting hurt.” 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m careful.” 

“I doubt that,” you say wryly. “Still, though. I worry about you.” 

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” he asks. “I’m your older brother.” 

“I worry about everything,” you say. “It’s my thing.” 

You hear him huff a laugh and you smile a bit to yourself. You get through your first pepper before you remember what’s been nagging at you your whole ride home. 

“Oh— can you get the TV?” you ask. “Channel 8, I think. Marcy is getting interviewed for something with her nonprofit, and I told her I’d record it for her.”

Lucas doesn’t respond, though you hear the scrape of the chair as he gets up. 

“Thank you,” you say. “I think they have a fundraiser coming up or something…” you trail off and shake your head as you scrape the cut peppers onto a plate. “God. I need to start paying attention in the break room.”

Another few seconds pass, and you don’t hear the television switch on. You huff and turn your head slightly. “Luke, I’m making dinner tonight. This is the least you could do.” 

“I’m sorry.”

The words come out as a murmur, but you can tell he’s much closer than he was before. 

You don’t even get the chance to turn around before something crashes against your head and your vision goes dark. You feel yourself fall to the ground, and your head hits the floor hard. 

Then, there’s nothing. 

-

Hotch has been breaking every speeding law there is. 

The station isn’t too far from your house, but it’s still too far. All he can see is your body, crippled and lifeless just like every other victim they’ve had to look at. 

It should never have gotten to this point. Lucas has been a suspect for the first day, but they looked to other suspects, got caught up in statements from neighbors and the kids of the victims. 

If Hotch just found him and booked him on the first day, this wouldn’t be happening. Your life wouldn’t be in danger. 

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. 

“I seriously think we’re looking at a murder-suicide if this gets to play out,” Reid speaks up from the backseat. “This is his way of ending this for both of them—the ultimate protection of his sister.”

“No one can hurt her if she’s dead,” Morgan mutters. 

“Hotch,” Prentiss starts, treading carefully, “are you sure you’re okay to lead this?”

“Yes,” he says, though he wants to say what kind of question is that?

You were together a lifetime ago in law school, yes, and he might still have feelings for you that he didn’t even realize were there, yes—but he’s an agent and a professional before all of that. 

It doesn’t matter that you have history. It doesn’t matter that you likely hate him. 

It doesn’t matter that he thought he was going to marry you one day, and then was watching you drive out of his life after he got back with his high school girlfriend another day.  

Aaron Hotchner is not going to let you die. It’s as simple as that. 

Hotch’s phone rings and he picks it up and flips it open immediately. “Talk to me, Garcia.”

“JJ and Rossi are on their way,” she says. “Are you headed to their place?” 

“Yes,” he says, and he puts it on speaker. “I’ve got Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid with me still.” 

“Do you think there’s anywhere else he could be?” Morgan asks. “If he’s going to kill her, he might not want to do it in this house.” 

“Already a step ahead of you, my love,” she says, and he can hear mouse clicks through the phone. “They grew up in a house in St. Charles—it’s abandoned, from the looks of it, some place on the outskirts. Never got another buyer after the past owners moved out. I’m sending the address to Emily right now.”

Prentiss gets a buzz on her phone and she nods in confirmation after flipping it open. Hotch immediately switches lanes and makes a U-turn, his jaw clenching. 

“Tell me how to get there, Prentiss,” he says. “He’s there.”

“You need to get on I-70,” she says, and then her brow furrows. “How do you know?”

“He’s killed everyone else in their homes because he sees it as the source of it all. His sister’s rented place isn’t personal enough.” Hotch shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t he want to go back to theirs to end it all?”

“Hotch.” Penelope’s voice rings out in the car, and he doesn’t even realize he forgot to hang up. 

“What?”

“Be careful,” she says, and he rushes to turn it off speaker and press it to his ear. “I… I know how important this is to you.”

Hotch’s throat bobs and his eyes burn with the beginnings of tears. He blinks them away—he can’t be weak now. He can’t let his team see him be weak now. “Dare I ask how?”

“I found an article about GW’s mock trial team,” she says. “Kind of went down a rabbit hole from there.”

Somehow, he huffs the slightest laugh. It feels like a lifetime ago—it honestly is, at this point. Before he saw carnage and gore on a daily basis and tried to solve it, when he thought the DA’s office was the endpoint, when he came home to your smiling face every night. 

And now… 

Hotch’s spine somehow stiffens, and he knows the other three in the car are watching him. He can’t decide whether he cares or not. 

“Thank you, Garcia.”

“No problem,” she says, and he can almost hear her blink in the pause. “Uh— for what, exactly?” 

For the memory, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. He can’t, not right now, so he tries his best to snap out of it. 

“Keep a watch on the patrol cars,” he says instead. “Update JJ and Rossi on our plan, but tell them to stay on their path. I’m sure I’m right, but we need to cover our bases.” 

“Of course, sir.” He hears her fingers flying across the keys. “I’ve got yours and the squad cars’ locations up—I’ll call them now.” 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“Good luck, Hotch,” Garcia says softly. 

Hotch hangs up before he gets too emotional. Penelope has a way of bringing that side out of him. 

“We’ll get him,” Prentiss assures. She’s been watching him this whole time, he can feel it—she’s been attuned far too keenly on this entire part of the case involving you and him. “And we’ll save her.” 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, and for once, Hotch can’t find the words. 

-

It feels like your head is slowly being cranked in a vice when you eventually wake up, a dull but insistent pain. Your arm stings too, but you don’t know why. 

You blink a few times as you try to figure out where you are, a low groan slipping out as you fully come back into consciousness, and you move to rub the grogginess out of your eyes. 

Your arms don’t move. You try again, panic spiking your heart for a moment, and that’s when you realize you’re in a chair—tied to a chair, your wrists bound together behind you and your ankles bound to the chair legs. 

Now the panic fully sets in. There’s a murderer in St. Louis, but you don’t fit the victimology from what you’ve seen, but does any of that fucking matter when you’re stuck in something out of a horror movie?

Lucas was the only one there with you. So either he’s in the same situation, or he—

“You’re finally awake,” a voice murmurs. When he comes into view and sits down across from you, your heart stops. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare at your brother with wide eyes. You see the gun in his hand through your peripherals, but you don’t look away from his gaze. 

“I was worried I was too rough,” he says softly. “But you’ve always been resilient.” 

“Lucas,” you breathe. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s finally going to be over,” he says, ignoring your panic. “We’ve been hurting our whole lives because of that bastard of a father, and I can finally make it all stop.” 

Your brother is fucking crazy. He’s fucking crazy, and he’s going to kill you.

You’ve spent two weeks telling Aaron he was crazy and your brother was innocent, and now he’s going to be proven right when he finds your dead body. 

You try to tamp down on your panic. You don’t have a law degree, sure, and you never officially practiced, but you’ve been a good speaker, a persuasive one, all your life. 

And if there’s ever been a fucking time to be persuasive, it’s now. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper. “We— we can talk if you want to talk.” You tug at your ankle restraints. “This is unnecessary.” 

He shakes his head. “I know you. You’d run.” 

“Come on.” You manage as much of a smile as you can. “I’ve always been there for you, Luke. Why would this be any different?” 

“…You’ve always been too nice,” he says, and he sets the gun down on his leg. At least he doesn’t have his finger on the trigger. “Anyone rational would’ve kicked me to the curb when I asked you for help.” 

“You’re my brother,” you whisper. “I— I love you, Lucas. I’d never do that to you.” 

“Family’s supposed to be everything, right?” He shakes his head. “You were the only one of us that understood that. You were there to pick me up every time my sentence was up.” 

“I’ve always believed in you,” you say. 

He huffs a monotone laugh as he stares at the ground. “You’re definitely the only one.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.” 

“Mom didn’t care enough to stop anything,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And Dad wished I was dead every goddamn day. He didn’t have the guts to do it himself, but he definitely tried.” 

You can’t defend your parents. Your dad’s a piece of shit, and your mom didn’t stop anything he did—but you could never find it in yourself to fully hate her because he hurt her too, with more than just bruises. 

“I’ve dreamt of killing our dad every day for twenty years,” Lucas says. “And that old bastard had to fuck me over one last time and die while I was in jail.”

You remember when you got the news. You were next of kin—your mother was dead, and your brother was incarcerated—so you got the call from the hospital. You deliberated for hours before you bought a plane ticket to Montana—apparently that was where he fucked off to drink himself to death—and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt more numb than when you were sitting in some lawyer’s office, listening to him drone on about his will and how his estate would be divided. 

“So you killed all of those people?” you asked. “Because you didn’t get to kill our dad first?” 

“I was saving those kids!” Luke yells, and you shrink in on yourself. “Saving them before their parents could fuck them up like ours did to us!” 

“You don’t have to do this,” you repeat. “You’re just letting Dad win. Proving every shitty thing he said about you.” 

“And that’s the zinger, isn’t it? Luke laughs and shakes his head. “He was right. We’re a whole family of fuck-ups. An alcoholic abuser, a battered wife, a nonstop jailbird, and you…” He shakes his head with a sigh. “You should be out there prosecuting people like me.”

“He ruined us,” Luke murmurs. “And I’m finally going to fix it.” 

All you can do is stare at your brother, wide and teary eyed. You can’t find the words, but you don’t have to. 

Police sirens begin to filter through the air as they get closer, and Luke huffs. “Of course.” He eyes you. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

“I wouldn’t dare,” you say weakly. 

When he leaves to peer out the front door, you take a second to look at your surroundings. It takes a second because they’re so decrepit, but you could never forget. 

Luke brought you back to your childhood home—the place in St. Charles, rotten down to its bones. It’s abandoned by now, but the atmosphere is nothing less than oppressive. There’s a reason you graduated high school a year early, why you never came back once you got to college—except with Aaron, to help your mom move her things out. 

You refuse to die here. Even if you have to claw your way back through the gates of Hell inch by inch—you will not die here. 

You hear footsteps, and when Lucas comes back in, he has a crazed glint in his eye. He shakes his head as his finger returns back to the trigger, and you can’t help but flinch. He won’t. Not now. 

“Looks like your friends the FBI are here,” he drawls. “You said you didn’t tell them anything.” 

“I didn’t,” you insist. “They’re profilers—they figure things out.” 

He shakes his head. “They don’t realize that I have to do this.” Luke kneels down in front of you and takes your chin in an iron grip. “This is the only way to end our pain.” 

He lets go of you then stands up, moving behind you—you want to protest, but you don’t get the chance. He presses his gun to your temple and then the door is broken down. Four agents rush in, guns at the ready. Aaron leads them, and he’s got fire blazing in his eyes.

“FBI,” he barks. “Hands up.”

Lucas doesn’t seem fazed, his breathing staying the same. You stare right at Aaron, unfiltered fear in your eyes, and you feel torn bare. He’s going to watch your brother put a bullet in your head. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says smoothly. “This is a family matter.” 

“Put the gun down, Lucas,” Aaron says. 

“You know my name,” he says. “I know yours too, Aaron Hotchner. My sister told me you were with the feds. She also told me you broke her heart.”

“Put the gun down,” he repeats. 

“I don’t think I will,” Luke says. “You see, I don’t go around just kidnapping people for fun. I have a purpose here.” He tilts his head to the side. “But you know that, don’t you? You’re all profilers.” 

“You’ve been targeting families that look like your own,” he says. “You think that killing them will end the pain inside you, and protect those kids in a way that you never got.” 

“I don’t think it,” he bites, “I know it. If my dad had been shot thirty years ago, we wouldn’t be here right now.” 

“This isn’t going to bring you peace,” Aaron says. “Your sister has been the only person to stay by your side through every part of your life. Do you really want to lose that?” 

“Trust me,” Luke says. “I’m not losing her.” 

He flicks the safety off and you flinch. He’s going to kill you. 

“Put the gun down,” another agent warns. 

“If you all don’t leave right now, I’ll shoot her.” Your whole body stiffens as he presses the gun harder into the side of your head, your breathing going off kilter. “Except you, Aaron Hotchner. You can stay.”

“We’re not doing that,” the woman says. Agent Prentiss, you think. 

“Really?” Luke chuckles. “You think you hold the cards here?” 

“It’s okay,” Aaron says. “Go.” 

Agent Prentiss frowns, and the other two men look different levels of puzzled. They obviously doubt the decision, but they don’t doubt Aaron, because one by one, they leave. 

“Wow,” Luke muses. “They really trust you.” 

“Because I know you don’t want to hurt her,” Aaron says. “Deep down, you know you’re not protecting her. Not by hurting her.” 

“I’m not hurting her,” he says. “She’s always been the one to keep me safe over the years—I’m finally paying the favor back. I’m finally taking her pain away.”

“You were abused as children. Both of you.” Aaron looks at your brother. “Your sister always tried to protect you, but it never worked. It just made it worse for her, and it made you feel worthless. You’re her older brother. You’re the one that was supposed to protect her.”

“My sister said you’re profilers,” he says, and though his tone is lazy, you know your brother. You can tell it’s starting to get to him. “Is that what you’re doing right now? Profiling me?” 

“You would never be good enough for your father, and your mother would never do anything to stop it,” Aaron continues. “All you had was your sister, and even that wasn’t good enough—you hurt her just as much as your dad did. At least your dad didn’t think he was a good person.” 

Luke growls, and he puts a hand on your shoulder to pull you closer to him. “Shut up.” 

“Your sister has told me you can be more than this,” he says. “And I think she’s right. You’re better than this—better than living between the margins and jail.” 

“I’ve had a hole in my chest since I was born,” Luke mutters. “And I’ve tried to stop it, but it’s just grown and grown and grown. This— this aching pit of pain, and he caused it. You’ve got it too— I know it.” 

“I— I do,” you say. And you’re not lying. You’ve had a pit of despair in you for as long as you can remember. The only difference is that you’ve fought every goddamn day of your life to keep it from consuming you. “And it hurts, Luke. Trust me, I know. It took me so long to even be able to deal with it, but I know how to. I can help you—we can both walk out of here.” 

“No,” he whispers. “No—we can’t.”  

“Yes, we can,” you plead. “I love you, Luke. I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life helping you if that’s what it takes to get rid of that hole.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, you think you’ve gotten through to him. Aaron never takes his eyes away from you. 

“I’ve never been able to protect her,” Luke murmurs. “Not from our dad, not from the world, not even from you, Aaron Hotchner.” He presses the gun harder than ever into your head, like he wants to bury the metal in your skull along with the bullet. “But that all ends now.” 

You screw your eyes shut. You don’t want to see Aaron’s face when your brother kills you. 

And then it happens so quickly you barely process it. 

There’s two gunshots, almost at the same time. You scream, first because of the gunshots, then because of the sudden roaring pain in your side. There’s a thud next to you, your eyes shoot open, and you see your brother’s lifeless body fall to the ground. 

You scream again—you can’t even control it, it just rips out of you at the sight of the hole in his head and the blood pooling beneath it—and Aaron drops his gun to rush forward. The rest of his team thunders in after him, all in guns and bulletproof vests, and they’re talking, but you can’t focus on a single goddamn thing because your brother’s dead body is right next to you. 

Aaron pulls out a pocket knife and begins to cut through your restraints, and the instant he finishes you collapse. He catches you without a second thought, and you immediately wrap your arms around him. 

Torrential sobs wrack your entire body as you bury your face in the crook of his shoulder, every part of you shaking as the reality of it all hits with full force. 

Your brother is a serial killer. He killed ten people, he tried to kill you. And now he’s dead. 

The only part you had left of your family—gone, just like that, with four other families ruined in his wake. 

Aaron’s soft voice in your ear is the only thing bringing you back from the edge of hyperventilation, his own hold on you the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs and he shrugs off his windbreaker to wrap it around your arms. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

“He’s gone,” you choke out, voice muffled as you speak into his chest. “He’s gone, and he tried to—”

A fresh round of emotions hit you, unable to get the words out, and you fully break down in Aaron’s arms. 

“I know.”

Aaron’s fingers linger on your side and you feel some dull pain, but you feel his breath still for a moment. 

“You were shot,” he says with your name. “We have to get you to a hospital.” 

You don’t even feel it. God, you don’t feel anything. There’s a distant ringing in your ears, an insistent pain in your skull, and you finally realize Aaron is right when you pull away and see the blood on his fingers. 

But black spots start to fill your vision. You may not feel it, but your body holds the score. The pain intensifies in your side as your adrenaline starts to slow down, and you collapse against Aaron. 

“Get an EMT in here!” he yells, keeping an arm wrapped around you. “We’ve got a GSW— she’s losing blood fast!” 

You can feel Aaron’s rapid heartbeat, can feel his steady arms as he keeps you propped up. You feel the warmth of his body, feel the warmth draining out of yours. 

“Aaron,” you whisper, your strength fading. You don’t think he hears you.

He helps you up and you’re suddenly hoisted onto a stretcher, and he’s beside you as the EMTs run you out of your childhood home. The night is a blurry canvas of red and blue lights, and your eyelids feel like they’re made of concrete. 

“Aaron,” you try again, and you have enough left in you to grasp his cheek. “Thank you.” 

And as the world goes black around you for the second time, you see his lips form your name. 

It’s not a bad thing, you think before darkness overtakes you, for Aaron Hotchner to be the last thing you see before you die. 

-

You wake up in the hospital alone.  

You don’t know what you expect. You have few acquaintances, fewer friends, and the last part of your family is dead after he tried to kill you. 

The real surprise is that you wake up at all. 

Lucas is dead. 

He tried to kill you. You thought he succeeded. 

You let out a slow, even breath, accompanied only by the sounds of beeping machines. It still doesn’t exactly feel real. 

You’ve spent the last two weeks defending your brother against every accusation, and you ended it in the hospital—well and truly alone for the first time in your life. 

You look at the television. Some muted soccer game is playing, and you’re thankful. You were worried that you and your brother would be the topic of the day. 

Who are you kidding? You’re going to be the topic of the year. He killed ten people. He tried to kill you, and you think he nearly did. He shot you, after all. 

You let your head fall back against the pillow. All of your limbs feel insurmountably heavy, your side aches like hell, and you’ve got the worst headache of your life. 

And you can’t stop playing it all over in your mind. 

He was going to kill you. 

Your own brother, your flesh and blood, the only person you had left, tried to kill you and would have killed you had it not been for the BAU. 

Had it not been for Aaron Hotchner. 

The door opens and someone walks through, your eyes following the movement, and when he sees it, he pauses. And so do you—apparently the devil appears even when you think of him. 

“You’re awake,” Aaron says after a moment. It’s the third time he’s sounded surprised since you’ve met him again. Seeing you, finding out your mom is dead, seeing you. 

But there’s relief there, too.

He has a coffee in his hand and his tie is undone, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his forearms. It makes you realize his suit jacket has been slung over the back of the chair near your bedside. 

“How long have you been here?” you ask, your brows furrowing ever so slightly. 

Aaron closes the door and sets his coffee on the table before he answers you. “Three days.” 

“And how long have I been here?” 

“Three days,” he says. “You suffered head trauma, they discovered drugs in your system, and… you were shot. You had to go into emergency surgery.” 

You frown, and he answers before you can ask any of them. “…Your brother. After he knocked you out, he used something to… keep you out. And after I shot him, he still got one off—thankfully, as he was falling. The bullet hit you in the side instead of the head.”

“How bad was it?” you ask. 

Aaron glances away. “You died on the table. They managed to bring you back, but…” 

“I guess Luke did succeed,” you say absentmindedly. Aaron doesn’t laugh, and you glance away too. “Sorry. Bad time for jokes.” 

He shakes his head. “If anyone’s allowed to joke about this, it’s you.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, but then you look back at him as he takes a seat at your bedside again. He looks— god, he just looks tired. Tired and ragged and downtrod, and you can’t imagine you look much better.  

“You were out for two days after,” he explains. “This is the first time you’ve woken up.”

“Why are you here, Aaron?” you ask quietly. “Why have you been here?” 

Aaron frowns. “Where else would I be?”

Your throat feels like it’s closing up, and you feel the telltale pinpricks of tears. You blink them away before they can start. 

“My brother was a serial killer, Aaron.” Your hands clench into fists as you stare at the wall. “He killed ten people while he was living with me and I— and I didn’t even fucking notice.” Your gaze moves back to him. “I went against all of you because I thought I knew him, and look where it got me.” 

“It’s not a crime to want to see the best in people,” he says. “Especially your family.” 

“It’s a crime to fucking murder people,” you huff, and it’s only slightly unhinged. “I— I thought I knew him, and I didn’t. And if I did, maybe none of these people would’ve had to die.”

“Don’t blame this on yourself,” Aaron demands. “Lucas was lost. Mentally ill. He was on a path for revenge, for his deranged idea of protection—nothing you could have said or done would have stopped him.” 

You shake your head. “It might be easy for you to say that, Aaron, but I— I can’t. He’s my brother. I gave him a place to live, I gave him easy access to families— god, I fought with you all for two weeks about his innocence, all while he was planning his next fucking murder!” 

“It is not your fault,” he repeats, slower and enunciating the words. “He was the only member left of your family, and you loved him. You were just stubborn, and that’s nothing new.” 

“I just don’t know what to do.” You’ve had these walls up for so long, especially this past week, and now that everything’s come to a head and you’re in the hospital and your fucking brother is dead, the floodgates have opened. “I have to plan a funeral because I’m the only one left to plan one, but— but does he even deserve one? He’s a serial killer, and he tried to kill me for god’s sake, but he’s my brother and even though he’s gone he’s still all I have left and—” 

You break off as you suck in a huge breath of air, the notion shaky as you clench your hands into fists to keep the rest of your body from doing the same. 

“And I just don’t know what to do,” you repeat, barely a whisper. 

You meet Aaron’s eyes, almost desperately. You feel like you’ll shatter into a million different pieces if you even breathe wrong and he might be the only solid thing in your life. 

“Whatever you do,” he says, “you don’t have to do it alone. Not if you don’t want to.” 

“Aaron,” you start shakily, but he continues. 

“I know what you think, and that’s not what I’m suggesting.” Aaron pauses for a moment, and it’s obvious how carefully he’s crafting his words. “I’ve… always regretted how we left things. And I regret losing touch with you. This isn’t the way I would’ve liked to meet you again. But I’m thankful I have.”

He pulls a card out of his shirt pocket and holds it out to you. You realize it’s his business card, and it’s got his number. 

“I’m sorry for the formality,” he says dryly, “but I don’t exactly go around prepared to give out my number for purposes other than work.” 

You take it without giving yourself the chance to think about it. You run your finger around the sharp edge of the cardstock, pressing the pad of your thumb against the corner. 

“Years ago, you wished me a good life, and that you didn’t want to be involved in it,” he says, still treading carefully. You can’t believe he remembers the last thing you said to him. “But— but a lot has changed since then, and I hope that has as well.” 

“I’d like you to be a part of my life again,” Aaron finally says, “if you want to be a part of mine.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Two and a half years of law school flash behind your eyes—coffee shop dates and endless hours spent studying at the library. Movie nights cuddled on his couch, hauling boxes out of your house at an ungodly hour to get away from your roommates. An unhealthy amount of all-nighters immediately followed by going out to celebrate a miracle of an A on an exam. Getting through every soul-sucking part of earning a J.D. together, falling apart before either of you could make it to the other side, and somehow…

Somehow, you’ve ended up on a completely different side together. 

“My life isn’t going to be easy,” you say faintly. “Especially… moving through this.” 

“My life isn’t easy either,” he says. “I’m divorced with a kid and I try to solve murders every day.” 

“It’s not a contest.” An attempt at a joke, but it falls flat for you. Aaron’s lips still quirk at the edges the slightest bit. 

“Getting through this certainly won’t be easy,” he agrees. “But I have more experience than most in these sorts of things. So if you ever need anything, call. Please.” 

“I imagine you’re pretty busy,” you murmur. “Unit chief and all.” 

Aaron shrugs. “I make time for the things I care about.” 

Thankfully, you don’t have to figure out how to respond to that, because there’s a knock on the door, and a nurse walks in after you call a come in.

“It’s good to finally see you awake, sweetheart,” the nurse says with a smile. It warms you from the inside out. 

“It’s nice to be awake,” you say. Her smile widens and she moves over to the computer in the side of the room—to add some things before she makes her checkup, you assume. 

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Aaron says.

Before he can stand up, you grab his hand. It’s fully on instinct, and he looks just as surprised as you feel.  

“Don’t go,” you plead, and it’s almost a whisper. “I— just— please.” 

Aaron stares at you for a moment, that shock glinting in his eyes before it transforms into something a lot warmer. He nods and sits down. 

“Okay.” 

And he stays. 

This time, he stays.

[it-was-summer]

Video Killed the Radio Star- Tape #2 (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

A/N: THIS CHAPTER FOCUSES MAINLY ON THE FIRST ENCOUNTERS WITH YOUR KIDNAPPER. I didn't put any warning before the scene starts, but the entire chapter is essentially that. So please keep that in mind. I changed a lot of this from the original version. I have grown okay? I saw inconsistency in my writing and I am trying to fix it. Thank you so much for everyone's kudos, notes, comments, reblogs, bookmarks, EVERYTHING! Please let me know what you think and enjoy.

Video Killed the Radio Star Remake Masterlist

Link to the Ao3: Video Killed the Radio Star

Previous Chapter: Tape #1 > Next Chapter: Tape #3

WARNING: Kidnapping, morphine use, abuse, talks of death, and more. Remember you are not alone if you struggle with this content.

Tape Contents: The team starts to comb through your apartment. Meanwhile, you spend your time in a less fiery version of hell.

Word Count: 3,721

March 2, 20XX 

After recording the video, you were damn near catatonic. Your eyes were having a hard time pulling away from the corner of your living room, staring at the fading white paint as it met the trim. You tried to turn on the television for some sort of distraction, but every time you heard a sound a little too close for comfort, you would pause the screen and comb through your apartment like a mad woman. You had locked the windows, the door, hell, you even considered shoving a chair under the knob of the front door. 

You didn’t, though. Sitting in a silently lit room with your legs to your chest. You were trying to remember to breathe in the correct order: in, then out, out, then in. Every so often, your breathing would hitch, and you would start over again. You tried to find something to keep you grounded in the moment, a texture to rub your hands over, but the dread kept building. 

It kept building until it was two in the morning, and you couldn’t handle it anymore. 

You were turning off lights slowly, fingers lingering on the switches before you turned them off, dashing into your apartment’s bedroom and shutting the door behind you. Your body was moving as if it thought the darkness was going to kidnap you. Maybe it would, maybe that fate would be better than what the depths of your mind were producing as you found a light to plug into the wall. The old wall plug-in emitted just enough light in the room that you let yourself relax in the dark of your bedroom. 

When you called your mother earlier, she reassured you that the police were there for you, patrolling the neighborhood every weekend. You tried to tell her that their cars were dwindling, and now it seemed like only one was bothering to make the rounds, but she didn’t listen. One was enough for her, so why couldn’t it be enough for you? 

It was wrong to be angry with her, wrong to be angry with the police, wrong to be angry with yourself. The worst part was being angry with Adeline, the way she was trying so hard to be supportive despite her daughter dying of cancer. The guilt felt like a prod: scorching, agonizing, pushing its way into your chest, where it made its home near your heart. You didn’t want to be angry, not with her, not with anyone, but the feeling of isolation had you crying tears of frustration in your bed.

Maybe they were all right, maybe you were just being crazy. You would go into work tomorrow exhausted and weary, but alive. Everything would be fine. You told yourself this mantra over and over again as your tears slowed, your eyelids became heavy, and your breathing got deeper. Everything would be fine.

Dawn crept into your bedroom window. The sun had yet to rise, its glow just dim on the horizon. You couldn’t have been asleep for longer than two hours or so when you heard soft breathing. Your eyes were heavy and slow to open as you listened to the sound. 

Liquid bubbling with a soft ‘ glug’ sound had you stirring a little, eyes fighting you as you tried to open them and focus on the sound. As your body stirred, a hard hand grabbed your mouth, pressing down on your lips as your eyes snapped awake. The last thing you remembered was a gloved hand shoving a handkerchief to your face and the smell of ether before your world went dark. 

March 5, 20XX

Garcia was smiling. It didn’t take long for the field techs to bring back your computer adorned with pink and green sticky notes with passwords, notes, and to-do lists. She always liked a woman who had a plan and stuck to it. “This girl just made my job easier,” she chuckled softly as she logged into your computer with ease. “Not that it was ever hard, but it was sweet of her to help me out.” 

The whole thing seemed clear of any suspicious emails, apps, or spying devices. She frowned as she moved to your phone logs that she received earlier that day; the most recent call was from an unknown number. The voicemail that followed sent chills down her spine, the sound of sobs before the line went dead. She shared with the team her favorite member, actually, Derek, who was listening to her intensely over the phone while the rest of the team combed through your apartment. 

To say they felt a little shocked was an understatement. You were more prepared than you had let on. Each ‘gift’ was labeled and in baggies in the drawers of your desk. Emily was the first to see a folder in a nook of the desk; as she opened it, she was greeted with a picture of… herself. She let out a huff of a laugh as she started to pull out photos. Spencer, David, Derek, JJ, and Aaron. “She’s got everyone but Penelope.” She said, waving Spencer and Aaron over with a slight flick of her wrist. 

Spencer tilted his head at the blurry photo of himself on the desk, an amused look in his eyes as he read out loud, “‘Give this man a pair of glasses, now!’” He looked over at Hotch and spoke in a curious tone, “Do I really have the kind of face that tells everyone I need glasses?” 

Aaron looked up from his photo and gave Spencer a slight grin. "Do you want me to lie?” he asked, much to Spencer’s dismay. 

Emily spoke up, “At least yours says that she’s asking for my number on mine.” She turned the photo of herself over to them and pointed at the writing. She pointed to Hotch’s photo and grinned, “‘Give us a smile, baby’ is kind of funny, come on.” 

Hotch's frown deepened as he looked at the writing, “She was trying to have a sense of humor,” 

“A sense of humor in stressful situations could indicate that she approaches them in a light-hearted way, she’s optimistic. The type to never give up.” Reid spoke softly beside her. 

“It could also mean that she’s the kind of person who draws people in with her personality,” Prentiss suggested softly against Reid’s anecdote, “She’s easy to love.” 

She let her words sink into the air around them like a cloud, watching the gears turn in the minds of the two men near her. Her gears also started up as she set the picture back on the desk, leaning against the wood gently when her eye caught a glimpse of color on the floor. 

She maneuvered away from the desk and towards your nightstand, crouching down to the floor as she picked up a small beaded keychain off the floor. She smiled softly as she turned a beaded keychain over in her gloved hands, reading the words aloud, “‘or die.’” 

“What, like ride or die?” Hotch called over the question from the desk in the corner of your room. 

“The term ride or die was originally used as slang among bikers, but in recent years, it has been used in hip-hop culture and music,” Spencer said as he stared at the colorful beaded keychain in Emily’s hand. 

“Since when did you start listening to hip-hop music?” She asked with a laugh. 

Spencer smiled a little and shook his head, “I don’t,” 

“Then where did you hear the phrase ‘ride or die’?” 

“Derek has a ride or die,” 

“Who?” Hotch’s voice joined in curiously as his eyes flicked over towards the bedroom doorway, where Derek was standing, still on the phone with Garcia. 

Nonetheless, he was still listening in on their conversation as he pulled his head away from the phone a little and looked over his shoulder. “Garcia, obviously.” He said simply before bringing the phone back up to his ear. “Nothing, baby girl. We were just talking about you.” 

March 3, 2024

You assumed it was the next day, or at least the day you wanted it to be. Not that you wished for this day, but it being the next day meant you were still alive. Your eyes were slow to open as your fingers twitched, grazing against something suspiciously softer than your duvet. The question was alive where? 

Your eyes were catching glimpses of light, pink light. As you let your eyes focus a little more, you realize the whole room was pink, or the lighting made it seem that way. 

Your body felt… hot, like heat was spreading through your veins, making your head dizzy. You felt good. Then, it plateaued. 

Your body, sluggish as it was, moved slowly. You were trying to sit up but found your upper body strength failing to cooperate. Your elbows failed to provide much support, and you fell back on the soft duvet with a soft ‘oof.’  

Eventually, you managed to scoot your body back till your head hit a headboard… that, from this angle, you could see it was in the shape of a vibrant pink heart. Soon, your back was resting against the headboard. You went to move your leg to help achieve a more comfortable position when a sudden sharp pain cut through the heat in your veins. 

Your eyes traveled down your leg, grateful to see pajama pants covering your skin until you reached your bare foot. Your ankle was a horrible black and blue color. The bones looked swollen and deformed against the skin. You felt sick. 

Your body was moving fast to lean off the side of the bed as you felt your chest squeeze, your mouth opening to vomit off the side of the bed. As your broken ankle lay with you on the bed, your head hung slightly off the edge. You turned your head to see an IV stand next to the bed. When you followed the drip tube, you felt sick once more, seeing how it was professionally attached to the back of your hand. 

A whimper could be heard in the empty pink room as you wiped your lips clean with your non-IV hand and again sat up against the headboard. And you waited. Time seemed to be still in this place, moving at a sluggish pace that made your body twitch and buzz with anxiety.

There was no sunlight, just a hue of pink. A pink dresser, heart decor on the walls, plush heart-shaped pillows by your sides, and chains around your good ankle linked you to the heart-shaped bed, along with some other decor you didn’t care to look at for too long. It looked like a room straight out of a fever dream. You were still trying to determine if it was just that, a fever dream.

You swallowed thick spit roughly as your eyes stayed glued to the heavily locked door. You kept counting the locks, four. Your head tilted to the side as you tried to imagine your kidnapper coming in, how many clicks you would hear, the turning of locks, or the jingle of how many keys. How many keys would it take for you to get out of here? 

Unfortunately, you would know the answer soon as the sound of keys jingling hit your ears. One. You didn’t know if you should start screaming. Would they be angry with you if you started to scream? 

Two. Your breathing was getting faster, coming in short, shaky bursts. Your eyes looked down at your chained ankle and then toward your broken one. Would you even be able to move? The morphine was making it hard anyway. What would it be like to walk or run with the full pain of a broken ankle coursing through you? How would you even get unchained from the bed?

Three. You were trying to remember everything you had read about true crime, but none of it seemed helpful now. Did you beg for your life? Should you tell them about your family? Would they care about any of it? Were they going to kill you or scar you in ways you could never imagine? You knew that there were fates worse than death. At least dying carried some dignity. 

Four. You tried to steady your breathing and convince yourself that you still stood a chance of getting out of here alive. You scooted your body against the headboard as much as possible, trying to get the greatest amount of distance from the door you could, given the circumstances. 

The door was creaking open with a gentle turn of the knob. A flash of white light filled the room before it was ripped away from your line of sight, and the door was shut again. The person –a woman– was holding a small tray in her hands. You were blinking rapidly as you stared at the tray, a pain in your stomach making you realize how hungry you were. 

Slowly, your eyes tore away from the tray and up to her face—a very familiar face, but one you could quite place. Pretty blonde hair, curls framing her face, her full lips drawn into a pleased smile. When your eyes met her pale blue ones, you could see nothing but… empathy. No, it wasn’t that. It seemed to be adoration. She was wearing a pair of scrubs, fun scrubs, little rainbows, and animals sprawling across the material as she walked over to you. 

Maybe she was an accomplice, a wife, a girlfriend, or a sister who got caught up in this. The thought made the muscles straining in your back relax a little as she set the tray down on a nearby side table. Your eyes never left her as she moved gracefully through the room. 

“Oh, sweetie,” Her voice was saccharine, “Did the morphine make you sick?” She asked with a light tilt of her head, turning on her heel toward the dresser to pull out a small towel. “That’s okay, it's a common side effect.”  

You gave a numb nod as you watched her get down to the floor and clean up the vomit without complaint. “I didn’t mean to,” Your voice was hoarse and weak, sounding slightly childish as you spoke out the weak excuse. 

She stood up, walked the towel to the hamper, and tossed the pink rag in with a little laugh: “No one ever means to, baby.” She sounded familiar, too. Your eyes traced over her fit frame, which you could barely make out from under her scrubs. “Let’s get you eating,” She said as she let out a soft hum of relaxation, sitting in a nearby plush chair. 

As she buttered some bread, you eyed the rest of the food on the tray: soup in a plastic bowl, water in a plastic bottle, and a plastic cup for the butter. The silverware was the only thing on the tray that didn’t seem to be plastic. 

You glanced away from the food and back to the familiar woman. “If someone is making you do this, a boyfriend or husband or something, you don’t have to do this. Yo-You and I, we could plan a way to fight back,” you offered, your voice soft and quick. Hope was creeping into you as she listened to you speak, the butterknife scraping gently against the bread in her hands. 

“Well, for starters,” she set down the butterknife and bread, crossing her legs over each other. “My husband doesn’t know a thing about you. As for brothers or boyfriends, I’m afraid you're out of luck there, too. There’s only me, Catherine.” 

You felt the hope draining out of you, and she must’ve seen it in how your shoulders tensed and breathing quickened, “Oh, I knew you were going to have a hard time remembering me, but I didn’t think it would be that hard.” Then it all clicked. 

She grew up well, Heather did. Back in college, she was shy and slightly intense, a shell compared to the woman sitting beside you. She started as a botany major and then suddenly changed universities, her major, and you never saw her again. You could dimly remember seeing her in the dining hall that first month of college, and you were overzealous. Sometimes, to make friends, if you saw someone lost and looking for a table, you’d offer them an empty seat at your table. Heather was one of those cases. Your act of optimistic kindness seemed to haunt you as you stared at her. 

“Heather Alexander,” 

She beamed and clapped her hands together excitedly, “You remembered! I knew you would. I’d expect nothing less from you, my Catherine.” She sighed happily, reaching over for the spoon and bowl of soup. 

“My name isn’t Catherine, you know that.” Your voice had a certain sternness now, hardening as you remembered inviting this monster into your life all those years ago. 

Heather scoffed a little and rolled her eyes, “Duh,” she said as she spooned some of the tomato soup and held it up to your lips, “Open.” 

As you stared at the spoon, you didn’t feel hungry anymore, but your lips moved against your will. You needed your strength. Your lips closed around the spoon gently as she fed you the soup. The steps repeated themselves slowly, your eyes staring her down. 

“I didn’t mean to get so physical with our little game, but I just,” She laughed a sweet sound, the dull pain thumping against your ankle as you heard the sound. “I couldn’t help myself, I guess. I hate playing cat and mouse. I was a little impatient.” She set down the empty bowl and spoon with a smile. “Come on, don’t be angry with me.” 

“You can still let me go. It’s only my ankle. You can take care of me at the hospital. That’s where you work, right? We can tell everyone that you found me in an alleyway or something. I won’t tell anyone.” 

“Catherine, do you think I’m stupid?” she asked with a frown, venom in her voice, as she reached for the bottled water. “I know that the second the police get you in a room alone, without me, you’ll tell them everything.” 

“My name isn’t Catherine,” 

“I mean, come on! I work in pediatrics, for Christ's sake! Do you think trauma will let me stay to take care of you? Use your head, Catherine! No, they won’t.”

“My name is not Catherine,” 

Her eyes quickly met yours, the softness they once had now gone as she swallowed hard, “That must be it, then. You think that I’m that fucking stupid, hm? You think I went to fucking, nursing school just for some librarian to call me stupid?”  

“I didn’t say that, Heather. I’m just saying there’s a way out of this before it gets worse. The worst that can happen is-” 

“The worst that can happen, Catherine, is I lose my license. I get arrested. I never see you again. My shit husband could,” She cut herself off and let out a frustrated sound, throwing the bottle of water at you, the bottle hitting your side harshly. 

“Name’s not Catherine,” You replied once more as your hands grabbed at the water, tucking it behind your back, trying to hide it from Heather as her face buried in her hands. 

“Shut the fuck up about the name thing! You don’t fucking get it do you?” She screamed into her hands before she pulled her head away from them and stood up from her chair. She grabbed the plastic bowl and threw the dirty dish at your head. 

You almost felt like deliriously laughing as the plastic hit your head with a soft ‘thud,’ but you didn’t. Your face managed to stay straight as you looked up at her. “You’re who I say you are. You got my gifts, the novels. You’re my Catherine, my Emma, my Jane. Get that through your,” she picked up the butterknife and threw it toward your chest. “Stupid,” Then the tray was lifted in her hands, and your body braced for the impact, but it never came. 

You squeezed your eyes together as you waited for the tray to hit you. Slowly, you opened one eye to look up at her, staring down at you with the tray still above her head. Her hands slowly dropped down as she held onto the tray. A slow smile came back to her face now: “Catherine, you know I love you.” 

“You have a funny way of showing it, Heather.” 

Her smile twitched a little at that, and she scoffed softly before walking closer to you. Her hands were quick to grab the butterknife in your lap. She jammed the silverware into your sternum, a gasp leaving you as she did so. 

“You’ve got a big mouth on you, Emma.” Her face was inches from yours as she jammed the handle of the butterknife deeper into your chest, your own hands reaching up to try and pull her off. 

She was breathing heavily, your breath hitching as fear flooded your senses as she leaned in closer toward your face. The look in her eyes told you everything you needed to know. If it's up to her, which it currently was, you weren’t getting out. Her lips were close to your quivering ones as her force lightened softly, “Think about this next time you decide to talk back, Emma.” Her lips brushed yours slightly as she spoke, you nodded quickly. 

Then she pulled away and gathered her utensils before she gave you another sweet smile, “See you tomorrow, my love.” She said in an airy tone as she reached over to the morphine drip and upped the intake with a quick flick of her wrist. The sound of keys jingling against each other filled your ears as she did so. The door opened quickly, and she walked out of the room, locks clicking swiftly. 

And just like that, you were alone again. You felt your bottom lip shake softly before tears started to fall from your eyes, your hands reaching behind your back as you cried. When your hands found the water bottle, you drank it slowly, tears falling down your face, and a dull and sharp pain in your chest slowly fading.

TAG LIST: @babyspiderling @cocobean16 @kodzukenie333

[wwilsonbarness]

stay?

pairings:  bucky barnes x reader

summary: after one date with Bucky Barnes your life takes a turn for the worst.

warnings: awkward first date (kinda), violence, angst, fluff, sexual assault (warning just in case), kidnapping, sad bucky, sad reader, sadness lol (let me know if i forgot anything pleasee)

word count: 4170

a/n: enjoy :)

Feedback, likes and reblogs are much appreciated :) 

I do not give permission for my work to be copied, reposted or translated on any other platform.

masterlist

Your pinky finger was slowly inching towards his as he walked you up the steps to your door. It had been the perfect evening, starting off with a dinner at one of the fanciest restaurants in the city, then a couple games of mini golf followed by cheeseburgers because both of you agreed the portions at “WOZ” were nowhere near enough. You’d met Bucky through one of your friends, and if you were being honest the idea of dating an Avenger was very intimidating but she insisted you would be ‘perfect together’. 

“Thank you for tonight Bucky, I had a really good time.” You’d grown more confident as the night went on but now that the date was ending you were back to your shy self. You didn’t want the night to end and even though you’d only met Bucky a few hours ago you had felt an instant connection. It really felt like how the movies made first dates look. 

“I had a good time too, would..” He stops himself and you can tell he’s feeling nervous, so you smile up at him, silently asking him to continue. You see his shoulders loosen once he sees your smile, “..would you maybe wanna do this aga-..?” 

“Yes.” You answer before he can even finish his sentence. 

“You do?” 

“I do.” You were internally beating yourself up for being so awkward but you couldn’t help but jump at the chance at seeing Bucky again. What you didn’t know that was Bucky was doing the same thing, Steve had always described him as being smooth with the ladies but right now it was like all his flirting skills had completely disappeared. 

“I erm, I better get going, but I’ll call you!” 

“I’ll be waiting!” You cringed at yourself, why did you have to be so awkward? 

“See you doll.” Bucky flashes you a smile - which has become one of your favourite sights in the very short time you’ve known him - before he starts to walk down the steps. You wave to him as he walks away and wait until you can no longer see him before you close your door. 

You drop your bag on the counter, untie your shoes and start to unzip your dress as you walk to your bedroom before a knock at your door stops you. You don’t think twice before going over and opening the knock, the only logical person it could be was Bucky. Right? 

“Back alrea- Oh. Hi?” It wasn’t Bucky, it was a man with short black hair and tattoos and a black hood covering most of his face. “Can I help you?”

“You Y/N Y/L/N?” The man grunts at you in return.

“I am.. Who are you?” As soon as you answer him you regret it, it goes against every piece of advice you’d been given about being safe as a woman in the city. 

“You don’t need to know who I am sweetheart.” Your heartbeat was beginning to speed up now, panic setting in fast. You try to close your door as quickly as you can but his foot stops you. 

He begins to shake his head, “Uh uh, I don’t think so.” he pushes forward and you fall backwards landing on the floor. 

Your eyes were beginning to well up and you were frozen in fear, this was it wasn’t it? You’re gonna die right here. 

“Stop being such a baby jesus fucking christ.” He paced around your apartment a little, his jacket moving slightly which makes the gun he has in the back of his jeans become visible.

“P-Please, you can take anything you want. Just please don’t hurt me” You pleaded to him, hoping somehow there was a tiny part of him that would listen. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” You sighed deeply thinking there was a chance you’d get out of this alive, but if he wasn’t going to hurt you what was he planning to do?

“What do..what do you want from me?” 

“I’m just here to take ya to the big man.” 

You didn’t think you could feel any more scared than you already did, but the mention of “the big man” terrified you. Why were they targeting you? 

“Do me a favour, would ya sweetheart? Stop talking.” He smirked down at you which only made you feel worse, it looked like he was enjoying this. 

You were too scared to say anything else, and he was focusing on his phone instead of you. Part of you was tempted to try and escape but you were still frozen in fear, you had no defence skills and probably wouldn’t get very far and you really didn’t wanna piss this guy off anymore. 

Around 10 minutes pass of you sitting on the floor, wracking your brain to find any reason as to why someone would want to kidnap you. You weren't anything special, and you hadn’t even lived in New York for that long. 

“Get up. He’s ready for ya.” You get to your feet shakily and wait for him to tell you what to do next. 

“Go on then.” He shoves you towards the door, and follows behind you. As you near the door you feel something hard against your back. “Make any noise and I’ll use it.” Shit. You didn’t say anything back, just nodding to show you understood.

After you get into his car he drives for what feels like hours to an underground garage, you tried to memorise the route you went but it was hopeless. You’d never been to this side of the city before. A few minutes walk later and you’re standing outside an office, you assume this is the guy who sent someone to hunt you down. 

The door opens and you get pushed in, stumbling a little before you find your balance. There are two men waiting in there, who look you up and down before smirking. 

“Soldier chooses them well.” The taller one says to his shorter friend. 

“Sure does. Shame he’ll never see her again.” 

Soldier? Are they talking about Bucky? 

“What do you want from me?” You tried to keep your voice calm but you could tell it came out laced with fear. 

“You’ll find out soon enough.” The shorter man walks towards you and trials his finger over the edge of your dress. “All you need to worry about is standing here and looking pretty, sweetheart.” 

—----- 

On the other side of the city the soldier in question was sitting discussing ‘the best night of his life’ with Sam, who was silently judging how his friend was acting. 

“And everytime she told me a joke she'd wait a couple seconds before laughing to make sure I found it funny first. And when she laughs her nose scrunches up, it’s so adorable. And everytime i told her she looked nice she’d do this thing where she bites her lip and she can’t look me in the eye. It’s ad-“

“Adorable. I get it, Buck.”

Bucky blushes as he realises how long he’d been speaking about you, but he can’t help it. He’s never met someone like you before and he can’t stop thinking about you since he left your doorstep. 

“How long is an acceptable time before I call her?” Bucky knows Sam is probably sick of hearing about you but he’s Bucky’s favourite (and only) person he feels safe enough to talk to, not that he’d ever tell Sam that. 

Sam looks at the imaginary watch on his wrist before answering. “Not 3 hours Buck.” A frown appears on Bucky’s face to which Sam snickers at. “I thought you were a ladies man.” 

“I was. Things are different now.” Bucky tries to force a smile out but he can’t. His voice grows a lot quieter as he continues. “Do you think she doesn’t want me to call?” 

“Hey, I didn’t say that! The way you’ve described the night, it sounds like she feels the same as you.” 

“Hm. Maybe.” 

“Buck I’m serious, I was just joking before. I’m sure she’s waiting for your call.” 

“So tomorrow?” Bucky asks with his smirk growing again. 

Sam laughs, “Yeah, tomorrow.”

Safe to say Bucky does not wait until tomorrow, actually he doesn’t even make it another hour before texting you.” 

Hey, it’s Bucky! Sorry if this is too soon but I had a really good time tonight. We need a rematch soon! 

He spent a further 2 hours staring at the screen, with every minute that passed that the message was left on ‘delivered’ he picked apart his message more. He finally locks his phone and heads to his room for the night. But not without a lecture from Sam first. “You called her didn’t you?” 

“No!” Bucky rushes to defend himself. “But hypothetically if someone was to text their date 4 hours after the date. How would that look?”

“Bucky! I thought you were waiting until tomorrow.” 

“I tried.” 

“Has she responded?” 

Bucky shakes his head. “Is this what ghosting is? Oh god. Am I being ghosted?” 

“Please for the love of god stop letting Peter teach you modern slang. You’re not being ghosted, it’s late she’s probably just sleeping. Bucky looks at the clock behind Sam and sighs in relief. 

“You’re right. Okay, I’m gonna sleep too.” It was nearing 3am, no wonder you haven't replied to him he thought to himself.

Bucky gets around 4 hours of sleep before he gets woken up by his phone ringing. He answers it without looking at who it is. “You’ve got 3 hours to give me back my brother, or else your girl gets a bullet through her pretty little face.” 

That wakes Bucky up faster than he ever has before. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“You heard me, Soldier. Clock’s ticking.” The call ends. 

Bucky freezes for a second trying to gain a little bit of understanding of what the fuck just happened. He pulls on the first piece of clothing he can find and runs towards the common room, hoping to find someone who can help him. Luckily the whole team is there, which is strange, normally the only time that happens is when there’s a mission going on. 

Before Bucky can even begin to explain what’s happening, Fury pipes up. “Barnes, what do you know about a Y/N Y/L/N?”

“Fuck!” This means he wasn’t imagining that phone call. We had one date, literally just last night. What the fuck is going on?” 

Half of the team moves so Bucky can see the big screen, and on it there’s a blown up picture of you, tied to a seat. Your dress is ripped, there’s blood dripping down the side of your face and your eyes are red, as if you’d been crying non stop for hours. Bucky walks slowly towards the screen and stops for a second to take in the picture, and almost instantly his brain switches to fighter mode. 

“What do we know?” 

“Bucky, maybe you should sit this one out.” Sam tries to reason with him, but Bucky doesn’t listen. 

“What the fuck do we know?”

Fury begins to tell Bucky all the information they have. “It seems your girlfriend wa-“

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Bucky wishes that statement wasn’t true, he wishes he could say you were his girl, but after this he was 100% sure that would never be the case.

“Okay.” Nick continues, wary of pissing Bucky off any more. “It seems Ms Y/L/N was taken from her home at around 11.30 last night. Her neighbours report seeing a black Audi sitting outside her apartment before she got home and say it left 30 minutes after you dropped her off. There’s no cameras in the area, her phone was left in her apartment so there is no way of tracking her. And just 30 minutes ago this picture was sent to my email. Along with a threat to her life if Zemo is not released from the raft in 3 hours.” 

Bucky tries to process all the information, you were taken just 30 minutes after he left? Guilt. Zemo has a brother? Anger. They were threatening to kill you? Fear. 

“I got a phone call a few minutes ago, said the same thing. Any leads on who this bastard is?” 

“None. No one is aware of Zemo having a brother.” 

Bucky nods along, “What’s the plan?”  

“You said you got a call? We’ll get tech to try and track it..” Nat suggests, knowing it most likely won’t work but it’s their best bet right now. “..and when they call again at least we’ll be ready to track it.”

“You think they’re gonna be dumb enough to leave a trace?” Bucky snapped at Nat. 

“It’s all we’ve got, Bucky. Look, we know you had some sort of relationship with this girl but you need to stay calm.” 

“I’m trying.” Bucky’s voice breaks a little, showing everyone how he is really feeling.

A couple minutes pass of everyone thinking the same thing but being too afraid to say it, until Fury finally breaks the silence. “There’s no way we can let Zemo out.” 

Bucky knows there’s no logical reason for them to listen to your kidnappers demands, he knows majority of the time they never stick to them, but the thought of you getting hurt anymore was too much to handle. 

“You’re just gonna let her die?” He shouts across the table. 

“Barnes I suggest you calm down or I’ll remove your clearance for this mission.” Bucky nods, knowing the best thing he can do right now is keep as calm as possible, panic will only make things worse. “As I was saying, I’m not willing to release Zemo from the raft, but we can make this brother of his think we are. When he next contacts us, we’ll let him believe we’re following what he is asking of us. Everyone got it?” 

The room fills with a mix of mumbles, mostly consisting of ‘yes sirs’ and ‘got it’s’. Bucky stays silent. He’d finally found a girl he liked and she ends up in this situation, the guilt he was feeling was worse than anything he’d ever felt before, including the years of physical and mental trauma he’s been through. 

Sam’s soft voice breaks him out of his thoughts, “Buck? You okay?” For the first time since he learned of your danger Bucky’s face softens, and his eyes begin to grow wet. 

“I don’t wanna lose her Sam.” Sam might not understand how Bucky feels this strongly about you in such a short amount of time but one thing he understands is that you are important to Bucky and that means you are important to him.

“We’ll get her back. Come on. Let’s suit up so we’re ready.”

—--

You made the mistake of asking for some water which resulted in you being slapped across the face with the back of a gun and tied up on a rickety old chair .You hadn’t spoken since. You’d accepted that it was just a matter of time before they killed you and part of you just wanted them to get it over with. No matter how hard you tried you couldn't stop the tears falling down your cheeks and these men did not like that at all.

“Tell me again why we’re keeping her alive? Her crying is starting to get real boring.” One guy asks the other. 

“Just shut her up will ya? I need to call them again” You try so hard to stop yourself from whimpering but the pain from the rope around your hands and the ache in your head hurts so bad and a couple of seconds later a rag is being stuffed in your mouth. 

“Darling.. You get what this means?” He lifts his gun up and trails it along the side of your face. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” You hold your breath, terrified that even a slight movement will make things worse. “Good girl.” His smile, it’s something you don’t think you’ll ever forget if you make it out of here alive. 

The other man dials a number and puts it on speaker. “You got my brother yet?” 

“He’s on his way to us. First we need some proof that Y/N is still alive.” 

The man walks over to you slowly and takes the rag slightly out your mouth. “Tell them sweetheart.” You couldn't answer even if you wanted to, the fear being too much. He whips his gun against your head again making you cry out again. “Don’t make me ask again.” 

“I.. I’m alive.” You had no idea who you were talking to, it was a voice you didn’t recognise but one you’d never forget, maybe, just maybe they’d be the one who saved you.

—---

“I.. I’m alive.” Bucky nearly breaks down right there at the sound of your voice, Sam's hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes gently. 

“Why are you doing this?” Fury asks, he doesn’t really care why, he knows people like these guys have no moral compass but he’s trying to make the call last as long as he can so they can track it. 

“You took my brother away from me, I’m only getting him back.”

“At the cost of an innocent life?” 

“You mean her?” He scoffs. “Can’t be that innocent if she's dating the winter soldier.” Sam can feel Bucky’s shoulders tense under his touch at the mention of his past life. “Stop wasting my time, just get my brother back to me. I’ll send you an address in 1 hour. Be there or the girl dies.” The call ends before Fury can reply.

“We got them!” An agent Bucky doesn’t know shouts up from the back of the room. “Sir, we’ve got them.” 

Bucky immediately makes his way over to where the agent is sitting and tries to read the computer but has no luck, it’s all in code. “Where is she?” 

“Water Crescent Garage, on the other side of the city.” She replies, as she continues typing. “The jet will get you there in 15 minutes.”

“Let’s go.” Bucky’s out of the room before anyone can respond, running through the halls and reaching the jet before anyone else.

“Barnes, I’ll remind you. Stay calm or you’re off.”

“I know. I’m calm” He was most certainly calm. “Can we please just go?” His voice is dripping in desperation, he just wants you safe.

—-------

“Looks like Soldier wants you back, hmm?” The taller guy asks you, knowing you can’t answer him. “Maybe I’ll see what he’s getting every night huh?” He begins to run his fingers over your bare shoulder, nearing your neck and beginning to squeeze slightly. You try to move away but the rope keeps you in place. “This what he likes doing to you? He likes having control? He likes to own you?” He brings his other hand towards the zip on the side of your dress before an alarm stops him. He looks around to the other guy in the room. “Stay with her. I’ll go.”

The other guy grunts in response. Once the taller guy has left he walks towards you, gun in his hand. “You better hope your boyfriend isn’t trying something sweetheart. It won’t end well.” You don’t understand why these guys think you and Bucky were so serious, you’d only had one date. 

You start to hear gunshots in the distance, getting closer and closer to you every second. You were praying the good guys were winning and that they were here to save you. 

A few minutes pass when the door to your room bursts open and none other than Captain America himself walks in. It takes him less than 15 seconds to disarm and knock out the guy who was left with you, although it feels like longer for you. “Buck, I’ve got her.” He walks over to you and removes the cloth in your mouth. 

Bucky was here. “Bucky?” 

“Hey Y/N, I’m here to help okay?” He begins to untie the rope around your hands, careful to not hurt you. “Bucky’s on his way. It’s over.” 

As Sam was untying your feet Bucky runs into the room and rushes over to you. His heart breaks when he sees you upclose. Your cheeks that were so rosy just last night were now white as a ghost, your lips once red were now blue and bruised, the sparkle he had just seen hours ago in your eyes was now replaced with fear.

You stand up with the help of Sam and look towards Bucky. 

“Are you okay? Where does it hurt? Sam, call the doc, let her know we’re coming.” Bucky's eyes are moving around your body, scouting out every injury he can find and taking note of it.

The only thing you can bring yourself to say is thank you, your lip wobbles as you say it and your voice is shaky with each word but Bucky understands. “Tha.. Thank you for saving me.” 

He slowly reaches out to hold you against him, giving you enough time to tell him to stop if you want to. He wraps his arm around you, carefully avoiding anywhere that looks injured. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why they came after you. I promise as soon as I found out what was happening I started looking for you. I’m so sorry.” 

You shake your head, he doesn't owe you an apology, none of this was his fault. The motion only makes you feel nauseous, and you feel as if you might throw up if you move anymore. “I can’t. I can’t.. I feel sick.” Bucky stops as soon as you ask. 

“Can I carry you?”

“Please.” You were embarrassed to be feeling this weak but he didn’t seem bothered by it. He just seemed sad. 

—---

After you get seen by the avenger’s doctor and prescribed some pretty strong painkillers you finally arrive home. Bucky tried to get you to stay in for longer, he was worried you would be feeling worse once the shock had worn off but you insisted on coming home. You needed to be in your own space. 

“I’ll make you some food, you wanna get changed out of those?” You weren’t really hungry but you couldn't bring yourself to say no. You did want to badly get changed out of the clothes Natasha had lent you, they were very tight. 

“Thank you.” 

Bucky wanted to tell you to stop thanking him, you should be angry at him and it was killing him that you were treating him with so much kindness after everything you’d been through at his fault.

Bucky makes you a sandwich, knowing you probably wouldn't be too hungry. “It’s just to get some food in you. Some water too.” He said as he handed you a plate and glass of water. 

The next words that left Bucky’s mouth were ones he’d never wanted to say but it didn’t feel right staying with you after what he’d put you through. “Do you need anything else before I go?” 

You nearly choke as you swallow that bite. He gets down to his knee and looks up at you. “You okay?” You immediately start crying, not even trying to hide it. “Hey, what's wrong?” You hadn’t been apart from Bucky since he found you, and now that he was leaving you felt so scared again.

“I don’t wanna be alone.” His heart breaks again at how soft your voice comes out, almost as if you were afraid to speak.

He wants nothing more than to stay with you, keep you safe but he feels that with every second he spends with you the more you'll be at risk. 

“Is there anyone I can call to stay with you?” 

“Could you?” You almost whisper to him. 

“What was that?” He asks softly. 

“Could you stay?” 

“You really want me to?” 

“I do.” 

He almost, almost says yes before he remembers how you looked when he found you in that room. He stands up and backs away a little. “I don’t think I should.” 

You try to stand up and walk towards him but get a bit dizzy as you do, grabbing onto his arm for balance. “Why not?” 

“Doll, sit down.” He guides you gently back onto the couch. “It’s my fault you got hurt.”

“No Bucky, that’s not true. I really like you Bucky, and whilst this may not have been the second date we had in mind, I don’t want to lose you. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel the same.”

“I never said I didn't feel the same way, I just.. I just can't put you in any more danger.”

“The way I see it, you saved me from danger. And I know now that you’ll always be there to save me. Please stay?” He nods. 

“You’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay.”

[corralinesage]

Portrait of a wounded heart (1/8)

Summary:

You attend a live figure drawing class with the intention of falling in love with your favorite hobby again, instead you set your sights on something entirely different.

Lesbian fall romance for those in need ;)

‼️This work has been posted to ao3 as well and you can find the complete book there if you don’t wanna wait for the updates here!

18+ toward the end, read at your own risk⚠️

CHAPTER 1 Obsession, digression

You had been putting off signing up for a live figure drawing course for the entirety of your summer break when you had had all the time in the world to really get into studying anatomy with various different mediums, but inspiration and motivation had been very sparse for longer than just a few weeks or months. You didn’t really care anymore. You had lost what was perhaps the most important part of creating, you’d lost your passion toward art, the very same passion that you had kept alive since childhood. You knew you should’ve kept practicing, should’ve put more effort, more love, into the part of your life that kept you mentally nourished, but you just couldn’t seem to get over the artistic block that held you back. So, as a result you had made the decision to take part in a quick art course at your university to really push yourself out of your comfort zone. It might have either been the best or the worst idea you had had in a while, but there was no telling until you would enter the classroom and get to work.

You heard a loud honk through your earbuds, something that seemed to be more than frequent during rush hour, the sound blending in with the music that you were blasting into your mind to keep it quiet as you hurried across the street in case the honk was directed at you specifically. You tossed your empty takeout cup of coffee into the nearest bin you could find, tugging your coat tighter around you to shield yourself from the aggressive wind that made you shiver violently as you walked down the dark and busy street to find the university building that offered night classes to anyone who paid an excessive amount of money. You couldn’t really tell why you had decided to spend so much on a month-long course, but you could no longer withdraw your payment which left you no other choice but to go.

The door to the building you were heading for opened, a tall woman stepping outside, scrunching her nose at the humidity in the air, her hair dancing in the wind as she walked down the steps and disappeared out of your sight. You pulled on the handle of that same door, finding yourself inside an ancient building that had a rather striking, old-fashioned interior, the academic decor of bookshelves and plaster statues gaining your attention immediately. You had never been inside it before because your studies were mostly located on the opposite side of campus, but you managed to locate your classroom with only mild difficulty, feeling nervous butterflies in your abdomen, the odd sensation fluttering through you in waves of discomfort. You kind of wanted to leave, backtracking in your plans of reawakening the creative part of your mind. You could bring it back to life in the comfort of your own bedroom, the easels and assortments of charcoal pieces suddenly feeling more than intimidating by the minute as other artists slowly filled the room with their presence. None of them had even touched a single pencil or a piece of paper, yet you felt intimidated, like you had already failed before even getting the chance to prove your skills. You bit the inside of your lip, fiddling with a raw piece of coal, unintentionally staining your fingers black with the unrefined drawing tool. You felt like you couldn’t draw at all, like you had been shoved into a room filled with Michelangelos and Van Gohs who would all notice your incompetence before you had even been assigned a task.

Your anxiety flattened your mood rather effectively, the teacher’s words going right past you as she introduced herself, telling the class about her history with the university. You briefly wondered if you should have paid more attention to her because you were paying to be there after all, but you failed to keep your ears open and eyes on her, so you began to shade in the corner of the paper with no further purpose than to kill time, patiently waiting for the teacher to give you something to do. She rambled on for quite a while before asking the class to draw a quick five-minute sketch from memory of a person golfing, reminding everyone to focus on the line of action that often defined movement in drawings. You hated the prompt. You had never drawn a person golfing because nobody wanted to see that. Golf? Golf was for old people, but you began to draw random strokes on the paper anyway without even knowing what pose you were going for. You tried to see a golfing person through your mind’s eye, but apparently that part of your brain was out of use. You just couldn’t figure it out, the time limit only adding on to the pressure you felt.

You came into the conclusion that the exercise sucked. You stared at your sketch of a lanky golfer holding up a golf club, deciding that the figure was unintelligible and looked stiff in its unnatural position. You wanted to rip the paper into shreds but allowed the teacher to give you a second prompt without you making a scene in the corner of the large classroom. You hated that you had no way of finding references for what you were drawing, but you guessed it to be some sort of teaching method that would allow you to see your faulty way of thinking, as well as encourage you to actually learn anatomy that would eventually grant you the skill of drawing from memory. The subsequent prompt the teacher gave you went in from one ear and came right out the other, leaving you to ponder what it had been for the next five minutes while others sketched said figure. You pretended to do something with your easel and piece of lead to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the enthusiastic students as they worked on their sketches. With no prompt to follow, you zoned out completely, your eyes falling out of focus, freezing you into place as you sat still on your small stool. You barely even registered the teacher’s timer going off somewhere in the background, your body remaining in the same position for the next fifteen minutes as the teacher explained the meaning behind the first exercise and moved on to introducing a second one. Your mind was empty and full at the same time. You were stuck, stuck both physically and mentally, a sense of despair clawing at your chest for the wasted opportunity. You should have been happy, excited, eager to learn more, eager to give yourself what you needed, but you just couldn’t. You were too overwhelmed, too nervous to even give your creative side a chance, so you just sat, staring ahead. What finally drew you out of your troubled mind was the plain door to your left that opened suddenly, the gentle sound alerting you of an entering presence that caught you completely off guard in the state of comfort that you had found in the lonely corner of the classroom. You watched as a red-headed woman wearing a white robe slipped through the door. She gave you a polite smile as she shut the door behind her, walking over to the teacher who had a bright smile on her face.

“Here’s your model”, she announced in that overly sweet tone of hers, clearly ecstatic about the exercise. There was something about the way she spoke that made you not want to listen to a single word she said, but the remarkably beautiful woman who she was introducing to everyone seemed to be enough to hold your attention. “I want to go over the appropriate etiquette one more time so that there is no confusion”, the teacher said a bit more sternly. “There will be no photographing the model. There’ll be no touching, no talking, no commenting on appearances. Her safety and comfort come first which means you’re not allowed to make any kind of contact with her unless she initiates it”, the teacher reiterated, your eyes lingering on the model’s soft features, her striking red hair styled into loose curls that reached past her shoulders. “If I see so much as a glimpse of a phone or some other photographing device you’ll be thrown out of class and charged a fine. And finally –you would think this goes without saying, but apparently not– you’re not allowed to ask her out on a date or ask for her phone number. She is here to model and that is it”, the teacher asserted, brushing her hand down the model’s back, discreetly guiding her toward the center of the room where a tall stool stood. “Now… shall we get started?”

The model exuded confidence, she knew what she was doing, how to act, her captivating exterior letting you know that she had posed more than a couple of times before. She dropped her gown to the floor, your eyes suddenly nailed to your fresh sheet of paper. You couldn’t look at her, it felt too disrespectful. You couldn’t understand why because you’d seen naked women before, you had seen multiple naked people in your lifetime, yet suddenly it made your cheeks heat from embarrassment, your stomach swarming with butterflies. She was too pretty to be looked at, too enchanting, but deep down you knew you were beyond curious. You wanted to see more of her beauty, suddenly reminded of why you always gravitated toward figure studies specifically, and why you had chosen the course in the first place. You loved anatomy, and more explicitly female anatomy. You treated the female physique with a certain reverence, appreciative of both its capabilities as well as aesthetics. You felt a spark of excitement within you, allowing yourself to be intrigued by what was to come, but you also knew that it wasn’t just the artist in you that wanted to see her, wanted to witness the extent of her charming looks. You felt like everyone was looking at you, judging you for exhibiting homosexual tendencies. You shut your eyes, wincing at your reeling mind before gathering yourself, preparing to take a look at your subject as the teacher gave some more insight on the exercise.

“I want you to draw her in ten seconds, and ten seconds exactly, no more, no less. You’re going to produce me a loose sketch. Make it as loose and wild as possible, but make sure it still lets the viewer know that the subject is human. Utilize light strokes, curves and circles. Remember, the human body has no straight lines. There’s always a slight curve”, the teacher instructed, walking back and forth in the classroom, observing everyone to make sure no one was falling behind. You picked up an HB-lead pencil, whittling the tip with a utility knife to get your desired lead sharpness for drawing. “Ready?” You heard the teacher’s voice, preparing yourself to take a look at your model. So what, she was pretty? You drew pretty people all the time. “Three, two, one, go!” The teacher cheered with so much enthusiasm it sounded like she was commentating a sports event.

You peeked your head from behind the board propped up on the easel, your eyes landing on your model only to find her staring right back at you. Holy fuck. Your face flushed. Out of all the directions she could have been looking at she had chosen yours. She sat on the stool, her right foot supported by the beam that connected the legs of the chair at the bottom, left foot up on the edge of the seat. Her arms hugged her bent leg loosely, the position hiding her bare breasts from most angles. Her head was slightly tilted to the side to give her pose a sense of casualness, her natural color-palette and dominating presence begging for you to find any kind of assortment of pigments that you could utilize to replicate the soft hues of her complexion. There was no other way to capture her beauty, her poise, her hair, her skin, her eyes, her lips. You just stared at her, unable to move as the sound of charcoal on paper filled the room, the rest of the students putting admirable effort into their sketches, whereas you just stared. You could not pull your eyes away, you simply could not, the woman holding your gaze with impressive consistency. Her eyes were so intense, so green and warm even though the shade of green was on the cooler side. She had a mole on her cheek and a slight pout to her lips, the very last seconds of your time spent on observing the gorgeous shape of her round nose.

“Time!”

The corner of the woman’s mouth quirked up in a small smirk as your eyes widened. There was not a single line on your paper, not one, not even an accidental smudge of lead, and she knew it. She had seen you stare at her for every single second of the assigned time. You pulled back, forcing yourself to take a glance at the teacher who was looking over everyone’s work. Shit. You gripped your pencil, quickly drawing an oval shape to represent the model’s bent up leg, drawing a messy circle for her head, and a couple loose lines for the rest of her limbs. It was poor, but it wasn’t supposed to be good anyway, your hand leaving the paper when your teacher walked to your side, eyeing your plain sketch.

“Good job everyone!” She congratulated rather vaguely, moving back to the middle of the class where the students could see her. “I want you to draw the same pose again, but this time I’m giving you thirty seconds. Make it more detailed, take it a step further. You’ll be surprised by how much the extra twenty seconds will affect your work”, she said encouragingly, glancing down at the timer in her hand. “Is everyone ready?” After receiving affirmative nods and a couple verbal responses she pressed the button to start the timer again. “Go!”

Your gaze returned to the model, her eyes still on you. It was ridiculous. Why did she have to look at you? You were going to get nothing done in a class you paid a fortune to be in. You sighed in defeat, allowing your eyes to drop down to her body, trying your best to keep your cool as you studied her toned legs for a moment before going back to your sheet of paper. You reproduced the ten-second sketch, defining the shapes a little more, pulling back a bit to place your pencil in front of you, measuring the length of her limbs by looking at her through your dominant eye only to get accurate proportions. Once you got the sketch going and found a way to direct your attention to the sheet of paper, drawing became significantly easier, allowing you to get over your initial feeling of being flustered, but when the chair and limbs were done and you moved on to her torso and head, you felt your mind blank again. There she was, looking at you, staring at you with those steadfast eyes, unmoving like a carefully chiseled marble statue. Something made her unique, made her different from the other people you had drawn in your lifetime. She was so incredibly captivating that you felt like it couldn’t possibly be replicated through any art medium. You were positive that not even the highest quality camera could capture her energy, her entity, quite right.

You spent more time looking than drawing, but you didn’t mind it in the slightest, and neither did your teacher as long as you were drawing something and putting at least a bit of effort into it. You continued the exercise, the teacher increasing the time limit with each round, the model’s pose remaining the same for the rest of the two-hour class. You were sure you could have drawn her in your dreams from how many sketches you had made of her, but you didn’t feel satisfied. You wanted to be able to capture her perfectly, you wanted a fresh sheet of paper and thirty hours to create a piece of art that would match her regal composure. She deserved more than messy lines and quick sketches. She deserved better materials. She deserved a canvas, the richest paints you could find, an atelier with the most perfect natural lighting. She deserved a real artist, someone who could do justice to her beauty.

You felt like you couldn’t get a single sketch right. Objectively they were good, and there was nothing wrong with them, but to you they didn’t feel right. Time and time again you failed to bring out that same sense of awe and admiration that she awoke in you when you looked at her. Your sketches were flat, void of the thrill you felt whenever your eyes locked with hers. You weren’t sure if you were even skilled enough to capture such a feeling, but you were willing to try, vehemently sketching away every single time your teacher set a new timer for the next round. It bothered you that you felt rushed by the time limit. You wanted to draw in peace, constantly getting fixated on different details on her body or face. You couldn’t focus on her as a whole because every small curve and arch of her body demanded your undivided attention. You couldn’t just look over the small freckle on her calf, or the ivory of her thighs, or her auburn curls, or the purple shade of her nail beds as she slowly grew colder over time, her lack of clothing making her hairs stand on end. You felt the urge to walk over to her and drape the robe back over her body, despite how unbothered she seemed by the low temperature.

“Time! What have you guys noticed so far?” The teacher inquired in genuine curiosity as she started walking again, eager to observe everyone’s work. You couldn’t think of an answer, no, your eyes straying back to the model, once more allowed to watch her without having to draw. You had moved your small stool to the side a bit, the model noting that she could see you fully in your new set up. Her gaze flicked down your body for just a split second to see all of you before her eyes were back on yours, the model maintaining her pose meticulously. You felt your body burn up when her lips pursed the slightest bit, threatening to curve into a smile, her eyes turning almost playful.

“You… um, Y/L/N, right? What have you learned?” The teacher asked suddenly, walking beside you to see your sketches. She clearly had impeccable name memory. Your eyes widened, the model scrunching her nose discreetly as if apologetic for the situation you had found yourself in.

“Yeah, uhh…” You simply could not think, struggling to form a single word in your brain that had been caught off guard by your teacher’s inquiry, anxiety creeping up your neck to squeeze your throat. “Lots”, you mumbled, glancing at the model, which turned out to be a mistake because she was biting down on her lower lip to keep herself from laughing at your poor answer. “You can go a long way with just… shapes”, you elaborated, the teacher seeming to accept your answer, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, precisely! I want you to look at your subject and draw shapes”, she began, her words clearly aimed at the entire class, her attention no longer on you or your work. “We often overcomplicate things by focusing on what they are instead of the shapes that build up the whole picture”, she explained, your attention going back to the model, your teacher’s voice fading into oblivion.

You weren’t sure whether it was all in your head or not, but you felt like there was tension between you and the woman in front of you, a connection. It almost made you feel like it was just the two of you in the classroom. Maybe it was because she was looking at you and you only, or because you were being delusional and a hopeless romantic who caved at the very thought of being the object of someone’s observation. You wished you could have spoken to her, could have somehow confirmed whether you were crazy or not, but it wasn’t allowed. You weren’t allowed to contact her in any way which caused a sudden wave of sorrow to go through you. Something about her made you want to get to know her, your predicament striking you as rather unfortunate because you didn’t feel that way about a lot of people. You couldn’t remember the last time you had even cared to waste a single thought on someone who you didn’t know. You glanced at the model again, trying to give her a small smile, wanting to give her some kind of signal of communication, but your smile was shy, so shy in fact that it probably didn’t look like a smile at all. You almost didn’t dare to look if she reacted to it, but to your utter surprise she returned your smile, the look in her eyes shifting the slightest bit. It was like she could smile through her eyes.

“Thank you for today. I’m looking forward to seeing you all next week!” The teacher’s voice drew you back into reality. You blinked your eyes, nearly flinching when the model moved suddenly, the effect very similar to that of a moving statue, the woman getting off the stool to pick up her robe, sliding it on to fight the cold of the classroom as the other students cleaned up after themselves, loud rustling of paper sounding in the air. You couldn’t move, still far too occupied by her energy, your eyes lingering on her, and then all of a sudden, she was closer. She was walking closer to you. She came to a stop in front of you, taking a good look at your sheet of paper filled with sketches of various levels of effort. She glanced down at you on your seat, pursing her lips to hide her smile.

“You’re very talented”, she said quietly, her voice low and smooth, not something you had expected, but it suited her perfectly. You didn’t know what to say or do, looking up at her with your lips parted, searching for words, but you didn’t have to figure out anything to say because she turned around and walked away, disappearing through the door that was on your left.

You exited the class in a haze, so deep inside your mind that you didn’t even realize it was dark and raining outside. The wind blew in your face, wetting your hair and skin as thoroughly as possible, your fingers doing their best to untangle your earbuds as you walked down the street, dodging a couple pedestrians who you nearly ran into on the narrow sidewalk. A man hit you with his shoulder, not far from pushing you into a pole in his hurry to avoid the rain. You would’ve thought that New Yorkers would have been used to the rain, but apparently you were wrong. Yet the normally irritating encounter didn’t manage to ruin your mood, not when you had someone who tended to steal your attention time and time again with her red hair, and sweet voice. You kept replaying her words in your mind, trying to remember the tone of her voice as accurately as possible, but you could already feel it slipping away from you despite your efforts. It frustrated you. You needed to know more about her, hear more of her voice, anything at all really. You wanted more, unable to shake her from your mind as you hurried down a staircase to catch the subway that had just come to a stop and was opening its doors to new passengers. You picked up your pace, running along the platform and slipping inside the train.

The memory of the model would not leave you alone, your mind returning to the way she had smiled at you, the way those impossibly green eyes had looked at you for minutes on end. She was there when you went to bed, when you woke up the next morning, when you rode the subway to the university, when you sat in class. You wished to draw her again, noticing your notebooks slowly fill up with quick sketches of that same pose that was forever going to be ingrained into your muscle memory. However, you struggled to remember the smaller details, none of your sketches resembling her enough, a growing frustration alerting you of its presence. You had to get it right, you had to see her again.

You were sitting in a lecture hall, shading in the muscles of her thighs absentmindedly as your professor spoke about the significance of Victorian literature. You liked your professor, finding her voice soothing, which often ended up being deceitful because it made you zone out without you even trying, her calm way of speaking allowing you to focus all your attention on the sketch in front of you. The model was beautiful, she was so beautiful even in your inaccurate sketch. You sighed quietly, tilting your head as you tapped your pencil against the sketchbook. You wondered what her name was, how old she was, what she did for a living. She looked like someone with an elegant name like Eleanor, or Francesca, or Antoinette, well, maybe not that fancy, but something along those lines. Maybe Anastasia or Madeleine. She looked older than you for sure, but certainly not too old for you. You liked older. Maybe she was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, and possibly a full-time model. Although it didn’t seem to quite fit her. In your head she was not exactly a model by occupation which made you ponder how she had ended up in your classroom. She was athletic and worked out, that was for sure, her defined forearms and calves flashing through your mind. There was so much you didn’t know, so much room for possibility, room for you to make assumptions, the ambiguity allowing you to see whatever you desired. She was a blank canvas, a mystery for you to uncover.

An entire week’s worth of lectures went to waste as you daydreamed about your next art class in the hopes of seeing her again. You had far too much time on your hands to let your imagination run wild during lectures, every minute spent sketching as you thought about her. You thought about drawing her, painting her, holding her hand, your fantasies advancing to scenarios outside of art class to silly things like her waiting for you at campus, the autumn wind fluffing up her curls, a cup of coffee in her hand. You imagined the way she would smile at you, those pillowy lips sipping on her drink as she watched you do your homework at the library. You had decided that she liked pumpkin spice lattes with extra syrup and whipped cream on top. You thought that she looked like someone with an office of some sorts and maybe a nice flat in Brooklyn. You imagined that she wore classy clothes with an occasional odd piece that didn’t always fit her style. Of course you didn’t know because you had only ever seen her naked. The thought made you blush, an urge to hide away taking over you as your gaze met your professor’s. Hopefully she couldn’t read your mind. Her eyes flitted down to the sketchbook on your table, but she didn’t say a word despite seeing you do anything but focus on what she was talking about. You felt mortified, but only for a split second because then you were already dreaming of the way she would cup your face and pull you in by your waist to plant her lips on yours, and then before you could control your mind her fingers were buried deep inside you, her tongue licking into your mouth. Your entire body was lit on fire in mere seconds, your tight jeans only amplifying the arousal you felt pool between your legs. Oh, crap. You had a crush.

You weren’t one to flirt with women, you weren’t one to spend time around people, but for her you could’ve made an exception. You didn’t have crushes, you didn’t daydream, you weren’t a lover girl, yet slowly, you were becoming one, your mind consumed by a woman you knew nothing about. You couldn’t understand it. It was so unlike you to have silly crushes like that, but you couldn’t deny it. She was on your mind day and night, visiting you in your dreams. You loved and hated the feeling, finding joy in the thrill of liking someone, yet at the same time it was agonizing to know that it would never actualize into anything real. You were struck by an intense wave of affection, the subject of your admiration having no clue about any of it, which was both a relief and a disappointment to you.

A week rolled by on its own, bringing a sense of anticipation with it. You had patiently waited for your second art class in the hopes of seeing your newfound muse again, beyond thrilled that the agonizing wait was over. You said goodbye to one of your only friends at the university, heading to the beautiful, old building you had entered for the first time a week ago. You located your classroom with ease that time around, pumped full of excitement as you set everything up according to your teacher’s instructions, trying to remain patient as you waited for the class to begin. You were thrilled to create, to draw, to lose yourself in your work –in her– much like what you had been doing the previous week of school. You just needed to see her again, you needed to refresh your memory, even if you wouldn’t be allowed to talk to her. It didn’t even matter because you had gained your spark back, found passion, found something artistic to direct your energy toward. You had finally found a reason to create again, your heart longing for that consistent flow of inspiration, that high of creation, success, that state of mediation. You waited with the utmost patience for your teacher to bring out your model, but to your utter disappointment, she never showed up. She wasn’t there. Instead, you got a male model and an exercise for practicing color theory, which normally would have been greatly appreciated, but you just couldn’t get past the heaviness in your chest. Every time the teacher came to check on your work and tell you that your colors were looking sad you felt like crying. You wanted to ask her if she could bring your model back, but you knew you couldn’t even mention the woman without coming off as weird and unprofessional, so you bit back your sorrow, your wounded heart bleeding onto the canvas in dull, muddy colors that made the lively, young man sad and hollow.

When you finally escaped the classroom at the end of the night you burst into tears. You felt so desolate, like you had been abandoned, left alone, which was of course more than ridiculous because she didn’t even know your name. She wasn’t in your life, she was merely a person who you had crossed paths with, yet for some reason it hurt so much. It hurt unbelievably much considering you had never been anything at all, not even acquaintances, but the lost possibility of something more seemed to linger in your mind as you rounded the corner and entered a coffee shop to escape the frigid wind of September, in search of something that could provide comfort to your depressed mind. You got yourself a warm drink and a fat muffin, finding a seat in the corner of the cafe where you could cry in peace, looking out the window at the wet streets that glistened under the streetlamps as the rough wind whipped the leaves off the defenseless trees.

More chapters to come!

[whereserpentswalk]

There was a mermaid who had chosen to go onto land, who had given up her tail for legs, her fangs for square teeth, her feathery gills for pretty pink lungs. And she grew to regret it. She had fallen in love with a mortal man, and found him to be nothing but a fool.

She hadn't realized how diffenet her new body was. She knew she would have legs, she prepared for that, but she didn't prepare to really be a human woman. Her silver scales were now replaced with pale skin, which seemed so weak and easy to hurt to her, she felt flayed alive. She wasn't prepared to wear clothing on her body, which felt like being trapped in a net. And not to mention how slowly she moved, how strange and disturbing it was to not be able to swim miles and miles whenever she needed to, she was trapped in one little peice of the world.

Not to mention, she had to eat human food now, which was set on fire before it was served to her, and it was sometimes made of plants. She wanted to vomit just thinking about it, but her new body needed it to live, and she cried through every meal. And just as bad where her new reproductive organs, that were so much more complex, and bled for her constantly, and made it feel like she was always wounded.

The worst thing about her reproductive organs was how her husband treated them. She had fallen in love with him from the sea, watching him and knowing so little about his kind or his disposition. He wanted to mate nearly every night, but wanted no hatchinglings to come from it. And human mating itself was disgusting to her, instead of just laying eggs for him he'd somehow be inside her. She didn't want to imagine the details. She made excuses to keep him away, but she knew some day she would run out, and wept knowing it would happen.

Her husband was a strange human. She thought he was a prince when she watched him from the water but he had a diffrent title as a duke of some sort, bowing to a king on a different continent. She had seen him in uniform and thought him a hero, slaying dragons and orcs and devils and harpies and goblins and witches. But all the dragons and harpies had fled to the skies, and the goblins and orcs deep underground, and the devils and witches had gone into hiding. She saw him set fire to a witch once, she wasn't sure she was a witch though, but it wasn't brave, all she did was cry, he didn't fight her at all.

All her husband's wars were with other humans. Sometimes humans with diffrent flags who seemed the same as them. Sometimes humans who had been on the land longer then him, who his armies pushed further and further from the coast. Sometimes his own subjects, weeping and broken masses, people he hurt, those were the wars he won the most. She wanted to help him just to be with him, but she learned human women weren't allowed to fight. So when he was at war he was away, and when he wasn't all he talked about was war, and money, and the awful things he wanted to do with her.

She expected to be his wife in a way she wasn't. She learned human wives were treated like children to their husbands, that they had to obey them, that he could yell and her and hurt her just like he did his servents. She learned he was able to yell at his servents, she was allowed to too but she didn't. She learned things she had to do, she had to become civilized, whatever it meant to be civilized. She wasn't allowed to go outside the palace, not alone. And she wasn't allowed to pray to the gods of the deep, she had to pray to the one god of the humans, a bleeding god on a torture device, a sad god, a weak god.

There was one final night when her husband tried to force her to mate with him, more forcefully then he ever had before. He hit her. And though she didn't have fangs anymore she bit him so hard he bled. He tried to restrain her, to undress her, to undress himself. She ripped off the part of his body he tried to pit inside her. And she thought it so strange, how blood looks on land, flowing to the bottom as opposed to floating away.

She walked to the water after that. And slowly walked in, losing herself in the waves. Some people think she became a mermaid again, and that she's safe in her kingdom in the deep. But others think she walked into the water knowing she'd stay a human, and let the ocean filling her lungs set her free.

[hyuckkaiji]

loyal she began, so she remains - sebastian x f!reader

summary; he waited too long to hold you in his arms again. he waited too long to give up now. you are his, and he will have you. pt.3

word count; 4.3k

warnings; 18+, explicit content, some physical violence, porn with a plot, mentions of cheating/infidelity

note; and they lived happily ever after. One for the Seb girlies hehehe. last last part to this little unofficial series. pt.1, pt.2, pt.3 Ominis

Sebastian twirled his wand with deft fingers, staring at the cold fireplace, listening, waiting.

It had been almost three months since he saw you. One would think three months would feel like nothing in comparison to eight years, but they would be wrong.

He longed for you, he dreamt of you, bided his time until he could hold you in his arms again. And the day came, you were there, his beautiful girl, you were in his arms after all that time. But when he awoke, you were gone, and that hurt him more than anything another wizard could ever do to him.

These months have been the worst of his life. To know where you are and not be able to claim you, it was tortuous. He doesn't blame you, he doesn't know how Ominis has messed with your head because clearly Ominis has messed with your head, there's no other explanation for you leaving his side and crawling back to that bastard.

He knows you don't love the auror, you could never love him. So what made you go back? He needs answers. He would have gotten them sooner, gotten you sooner, had it not been for your pest of a husband.

His old friend had been tracking him like a blood hound since the afternoon after the night he shared with you. But Ominis underestimated him, his skill, his intelligence. Ominis thinks he is the predator.

The door creaks slowly open, the hinges old and rusted. "You were a fool to come back here, Sallow." Ominis stood in the doorway, the grey light of the cloud filled sky seeping in behind him.

The auror took a few steps forward, letting sagging wood slowly groan as it fell shut. "You should have stayed away, I gave you your freedom, and you wasted it by trying to come back for her."

Sebastian leaned back, watching Ominis with a lazy gaze, his fingers still fiddling with his wand. "Of course I came back for her. You thought I wouldn't?" Sebastian tsks, "Truly old friend, you should have known better."

Ominis shrugs, "Your mistake, fugitive. They've already got your cell in Azkaban waiting for you."

"Have they?" Sebastian let's out a breathy laugh, Ominis' lips twitch in irritation.

"You never could take anything seriously."

"Ohh, you've caught me." Sebastian throws his hands up in mock surrender though he knows the auror cannot see the gesture.

"You've cornered the big bad fugitive. Haven't you, Gaunt?" Sebastian stands, Ominis points his wand at the abrupt action. "I cared about you once, Sallow. I have allowed that past affection to cloud my judgment. I have allowed you to walk a free man. No more."

"Free?" Sebastian sneers, "You keep saying that word, you must have forgotten its meaning for I have not been free in eight years."

"I have lived alongside the rats in sewers, I have starved, I have survived off rotting scraps. I have done much and more just to keep myself alive, and you call that freedom. What did I do to deserve that -"

"You are a murder, Sebastian!"

"I just wanted to save my sister! She was in unending pain, all I ever wanted was to help her! And you and my uncle tried to stop me! Only one person truly supported me!" Sebastian's breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling with heavy huffs.

Ominis features twisted in disgust, "My wife is not yours to claim. We are no longer children, and it has been many years since she was yours. If you had just accepted that, if you had just stayed away. The miserable existence you created for yourself would be no concern of mine."

"But alas Sallow, here we stand. All things must come to an end, you are no exception."

Sebastian barks out a laugh, "Do you plan to kill me, Gaunt?"

"You do not matter enough for me to soil my hands in such a manner."

Sebastian hums, "I only matter enough for you to personally track me for months."

"Only because you came near my wife."

"My point still stands, and I did more than just go near her."

Ominis' grip tightened on his wand, his knuckles draining of color. "Of course you would take pride in that little indiscretion. I'll have you know that my wife does not. That's why she came back home to me. She is waiting for me at home this very moment, swelling with my child."

A ball dropped in Sebastian's stomach, nauseous at the thought of you pregnant with the Aurors child. "You didn't."

A satisfied smirked pulls at Ominis lips, allowing himself to enjoy the blow, for a moment he pays no real mind to Sebastian. But a moment was all Sebastian needed. He lunged.

Sebastian's hand wrapped around Ominis', yanking his away his wand. Tossing it, where it hit against the stone corner of the fireplace, landing with the sound of wood cracking.

Sebastian couldn't explain what came over him, to fight like a muggle, to abandon his wand in the face of a fight. All he knew was he needed to feel his fists collide with Ominis face, he needed to feel the impact, hear the crunch of bone as he landed blow after blow.

He didn't know how long it went on, but when he pulled back, breathing ragged, fists covered in Ominis' blood and knuckles raw and cracked, Ominis wasn't conscious, the only sign of life was his chest rising and falling with shallow breathes.

Sebastian stood, grimacing at the scene before him. Silently thanking the gods, he hadn't lost himself enough to kill someone he once loved. He wasn't dead, and at the very least, Sebastian was grateful for that. He had done terrible things in these past years, but there were still things he could not bring himself to do. Things he could never forgive if he did. Not again.

This was for the boy he was, the boys they were. Sebastian left the auror there, a silent prayer that their paths never cross again.

When he stepped out of the worn down cottage, rain was falling, showering down on him, soaking through his clothes, washing away the blood that clung to him, washing away his sins.

He breathed in deep, closing his eyes. Letting the smell of fresh wet earth permeate his senses. He strolled through Feldcroft as if he owned it, as if he belonged, as if it was his home and his wife he was heading towards. As far as he was concerned, it was.

You are his home, his life, his everything. And only the thought of having you again got him through those long years. He had laid out his path, his future, your future. All that was left was collecting that which he loved most.

His hand wrapped around the handle, cold metal biting into his skin. He could feel the magic that was surrounding the house, protection charms on top of protection charms. But these charms were not meant to protect but trap.

Sebastian pulled his wand out, casting counter charms, breaking down layer after layer. It was not quick work, and truthfully not something he would have been able to do if not all that he had learned on the run. The magic he was using to break down the barriers is something others would call dark. Sebastian just calls it a different kind of magic, a necessary kind.

He finally broke through, the knob turning in his hand, the door sliding open to welcome him into the warm cottage. The smell of cinnamon toast was wafting through the air, nostalgic and inviting.

"You're back husband." Your voice was meek, docile. You came out from around the corner that led down the hall, your bare feet padding softly against the carpets you had laid out around the house.

"Sebastian." You stopped in your tracks, hands at your side, fists bunching into the fabric of your skirts. "Where is Ominis?" Sebastian's lip twitched in irritation at the question. "Gone."

"Y-you-" A gasp escaped, your hand coming up to press the tips of your fingers to your mouth in shock.

"For merlin's sake, I did not kill the man. He just happens to be ... indisposed." Sebastian waved a hand in the air. "But he'll come back to an empty home, you're coming with me."

You walked towards him, steps slow and cautious. Reaching a hand out to caress his cheek once you stood before him. Feeling him, in the flesh, your skin against his, that was your breaking point. You lauched yourself into his arms.

Violent sobs overtook you, your body shaking with the force of them as you clung to Sebastian. You held onto him as tight as you could, readjusting your grip to try and tighten it every few seconds. You crumpled in his arms, he allowed you to, sinking to the ground so you could sit in his lap. Arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder as he cradled you.

"I'm sor-ry, I-m sorry, s-orry." You mumbled almost incoherent apologies into his shirt in between hiccups. "My sweet girl," he cooes, "you have nothing to apologize for." One arm holds you as the other hand runs through your hair in an attempt to soothe you.

He holds you, whispering soothing words and sweet nothings until you calmed down. "I shouldn't have come back ... I felt so guilty for betraying Ominis ... I-I," you shook your head, trying to articulate your thoughts.

"He supported me for so long, I felt like I owed it to him to come back. My own happiness be damned but ... he ... I've been trapped in this house for months, Sebastian. All this time, all I could think of was you," you brought a protective hand up to rest on your stomach, "and our child."

"Our?"

"This life that grows inside me, it could only be yours, my love. The thing about contraceptive potions ... you can make them for one person. The ones I brewed only kept out Ominis. It worked for years, I know it didn't just suddenly stop. This is your child, Sebastian, our child."

His lips are on yours in a hearts beat, soft and needy. His tongue swipinging over your bottom lip as his hand tangles in your hair. It felt like home, it was a feeling he longed for during the countless nights alone.

You moaned into the kiss, allowing yourself to finally relax, to feel safe in the Sebastian's arms. His fingers had come up to clumsily undo the buttons of your blouse, never breaking your kiss.

You pulled away, taking over, discarding your clothes in a rush, your fingers precise where his had been ill practiced. He did the same, tossing his clothes aside without a care before pulling you back into him, savoring the feeling of your skin against his.

"I am going to ruin this house the same way I ruined you." He pressed a kiss to your temple, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps down your skin. "I'm going to fuck you over every surface of this house." He pushed you up against the nearest wall, a gasp escaping your lips at the sudden impact . His lips traveled down, warm kisses along your neck making a shiver run down your spine.

"I'll not leave a single room unspoiled for that insecure twat." He kissed his way down your torso, settling himself between your legs, pulling a leg over his shoulder to expose you to him, you sucked in a breathe as his breathe fanned over you.

"Fuck, you're so wet already. This is all for me, pretty girl?" His tongue swipes slow and torturous over your sopping cunt, flicking over your bundle of nerves at the end. "So fucking sweet."

He looking up at you with hungry eyes, every puff of air he breathes out hitting your clit, making you shiver above him but he make no move to continue. "Sebastian, please." Your words are breathless and a hand tangles in his hair as you attempt to push his face right where you need him.

"Beg."

"Sebastian." You throw your head back in frustration. You couldn't find the words to describe how you want him if you tried. "Stop playing games with me."

"I'm not." He leans just enough to let the tip of his nose graze the sensitive bub, "I just wanna hear you say it. Come on, just once." He presses a kiss, you sigh at the feeling.

"Please, Sebastian, I need you, please touch me."

Those words, the slight whine in your voice, sent a jolt to his already hard cock. He has one hand supporting your hip and leg over his shoulder, the other arm supporting your back and pushing you closer to him.

His mouth is pressed back against you, sucking, nipping, licking away as you grip his hair. You had always felt pleasure with Ominis, wanted him even but not like this.

Though the physicalities of it all were much the same, it was different, in your heart, in your soul. No other could make you feel the way he did, the way you felt right now.

Your legs tensed, attempting to close around his head. His arm dropped from your hip, wrapping around your thigh to pry your legs back apart, never stopping his ministrations against your throbbing clit.

Your orgasm racked your body, your head thrown back in pleasure. Sebastian stayed kneeling, peppering kisses along your inner thighs and hips. Chuckling to himself as he listened to your pants, your body trying to regulate itself again coming down from your peak.

Your legs wobbled as he stood, allowing you to plant both legs on the ground once again. He leaned in kissing you, allowing the taste of your cum to settle on your tounge.

"You're all fucking mine, now show where your bed is sweetheart." You lead him to your bedroom by his hand.

"How does your husband normally fuck you?" You hummed, crawling onto the bed before flopping onto your back, bringing your knees up just enough to give him space to join you, as Ominis normally does.

Sebastian clicks his tongue against his teeth with a tsk. "Everytime?"

"Near enough. Would you like something different?"

Sebastian walks over to you, bringing his hand to wander over your breasts, pulling a pert nipple between fingers. Twisting and pulling at the nub, earning a soft moan from you. He lets his fingers wander, trailing over your ribs, scratching his nails lightly over your stomach.

He stoops just below your hips, giving a quick tap. "Come here." You crawl back off the mattress, slightly uncertain in your movements. You stand before Sebastian, feeling even more exposed though nothing has changed.

He examins you, letting his eyes follow his hands path as it trails. He gathers your hair in one palm, pulling it behind your shoulders and letting it fall loose.

His fingers graze your collar bone, the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a piece of art, something that exists only for him to admire. Running his fingers over every curve and crevice like he's trying to understand how you were created. You shiver under his scrutinizing gaze.

He grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, softly, just enough to bring your eyes to his. "Bend over." His voice is soft but commanding, leaving no room for argument. And you don't need to be told twice.

You gather all your pillows, pulling them to your chest to prop you up a bit as you lean over the mattress. The anticipation alone making your clit throb.

Sebastian brings a rough hand up to further feel as he looks you over, the sight almost rivals looking up at you from between your legs, almost. He grips the flesh of your ass, gods how many times did he have this exact dream?

"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever set eyes on, do you know that?" He let his hands settle in a firm grip on your waist, leaning over you, his hard cock pressed into your bottom as he pressed kisses into your spine, whispering as he went.

"I promise I'll make you happy, I'll give you anything you want or need. I'll give you a life you deserve."

He lined himself up with your dripping entrance, "You ready?" Letting his cock sink in slowly after you nodded your approval.

He groaned at the feeling of the wet warmth wrapping around him, quickly falling into a steady place. Sliding in and out of you with deep stokes, allowing the tip of his cock to bully your cervix.

You could feel the coil in your gut winding tighter and tighter with every stroke, so close to tipping you over the edge. You buried your face the mattress, muffling your cries and tangling your fists in the blankets.

"Oh no baby, I wanna those pretty little moans." Sebastian wrapped your hair in a fist, using it to pull you up into his chest. The grip of his other traveled from your hips to your stomach, pressing down just below your naval. The grip he had in your hair moving to keep a firm grip on your throat, keeping you pressed firmly against him.

This angle allowed him to fuck you at depths you'd never felt before, depths that had you tipping, the coil snapping inside you as you spasmed around him. Throwing your head back in pure ecstasy as another orgasm over took you.

Sebastian nuzzled his face into the exposed crook of your neck, sucking and biting in a fresh pink mark. His hips slowing their pace but continuing enough to draw out your pleasure.

"You didn't finish." You were panting, your skin covered in a sheen of sweat. You continued to clench around him, your body overwhelmed but still mindlessly chasing the pleasure only he could give you.

"I didn't want to yet." You could feel him smile against you."You're not satisfied yet, you animal?" You let out a breathy laugh but Sebastian only hummed bringing his fingers down to rub harsh circles into your swollen bud.

"I'll never be done with you." He pulled out, letting you lean against him, almost pure dead weight, unable to keep yourself standing.

He leads you to the kitchen on unsteady legs, arm around your waist supporting you the entire way. "Keel for me, love."

A good obedient girl, all his, only his. He smiled down at you as you struggled to fulfill his request, looking up at him through your lashes once you succeeded. "So pretty." He muttered, in awe of the sight before him.

You wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft guiding him into your waiting mouth. Your tongue wrapping around the underside of his shaft as you bob around him, your hand stroking what you can't fit. "Good fucking girl." Sebastian practically growls the words.

One hand shooting out to tangle at the roots of your hair, he uses the leverage to push you further down. You let him, your own hands gripping the flesh of his bottom, blunt nails digging in as you gag around him. Sebastian let's out a low hiss, enjoying the slight mix pain and pleasure.

He uses his grip to hold you in place as he thrusts, the tip of his cock abusing the back of your throat. Drool is dripping down your chin and tears well in your eyes but you let him use you, the sight of him with his head thrown back, eyes screwed shut, and teeth biting so hard into his bottom lip you think he might make himself bleed, it's too lovely a sight for you to try and pull away.

His thrusts become erratic before burying himself so deep you gag around him as your nose presses against his pubic bone. Tears finally falling free as his warm, salty cum shoots down your throat, he holds you there until he's sure you've swallowed all of it.

When he finally pulls free with a soft pop from your mouth, your lips are puffy and swollen with a line of drool still connecting the two of you.

He pulls you to your feet, still using your hair as his personal tool. He pushes you up against the table, your hands falling to grip the hard wood and steady yourself. Sebastian doesn't wait before dipping his head to the valley between your breasts, his tongue darting out the catch the drool that had slid down your skin, his tongue following the wet path up the collum of your throat ending at your lips.

His kiss is feral, possessive, all tongue and teeth nipping at your lower lip. His hands wrap around your thighs to hoist you up onto the wood. "Merlin, I need you like I need air." He speaks the words against your lips, his eyes falling shut as he presses his forehead to yours, a shuttering breath falling from his lips.

"I love you, Sebastian." You whisper back to him, using the back of a hand to rub against his cheek softly. He smiles at you, a man captived by what he never truly thought he would have, never thought he deserved. Truthfully he's not sure he does deserve this, deserve you. But he'll be damned before he lets anyone else have you.

He's using his tip to gather the slick from your still seeping hole, rubbing it over your clit, making you shudder. When he feels he's gathered enough he pushes back into you, making you gasp.

Your legs wrap around his waist and your arms around his neck, letting your head fall against a shoulder. He splays one large hand over your lower back and uses the other to balance against the table. His hips stutter at first, still sensitive from his orgasm, but he find his pace.

You had never realized how loving sex can feel, how his pace alone could convey that. The way his fingers dig into your skin with every thrust, every pant and groan that escapes him. You knew, all of it told you, this is a man that worships you, a man that has been enamored by you since he first met you. And though he may tell you, you're his, first and foremost, he's yours.

It didn't take long for either of you to reach another orgasm, both your bodies still so sensitive. You clung to him as your third orgasm overtook you. His grip on you was brusing as his hips jutted rhythmless against you, he muttered incoherent praises into your skin and his seed shot into you.

You stayed like that for a moment, just holding each other as you came down from your respective highs. "My sweet boy, my Sebastian." You mumbled against him as you stroked your fingers through his hair, the words made him cling tighter to you, part of him worrying if he lets you go this time he'll never hold you again.

"Promise you won't leave me."

"Oh my darling," you coo at him, bringing him up to face you, to look you in the eyes, "you have my heart, you carried it with you all these years. I couldn't leave you if I tried for I am yours, mind, body and soul. I think our love could transcend lifetimes."

∘₊✧───── ─── ─────✧₊∘

Epilogue;

"I am not, you insatiable beast." You giggled pulling your hands out of the soapy water you had just been using to wash dishes.

"You satiate me, love." He turns you to face him, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Beautiful." He mumbles, bringing a hand up to rest on the swell of your stomach. "Me or the baby?"

He hums, "Both. The most beautiful beings to every grace this gods forsaken planet."

You shake your head, "Well, you can't put another in me until this one is out. And we still have some time yet so I think you should focus on the here and now and go get ready for work."

You brush his curls out of his face, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone. He hums, smiling at you, "Yes, you are ever correct, wife."

"Husband." You give him a quick peck on the lips.

"Brother, it's mine!" The shrill voice of your five year old daughter echos through your house, followed by the mischievous giggle of her younger brother.

"Hey! Hey!" Sebastian calls out, rushing over to the running toddler in two quick strides, scooping the child up in his arms. The boy giggles wrapping his arms around his father. "We don't steal, my boy. Play nice now, you lot cannot be stressing your mommy while she's pregnant. It's not good for the baby."

He kneels, pressing the stolen stuffed rabbit back into his daughter's hands. She smiles quickly at him before scampering away, toy in hand. He shoos his son shortly after before turning back to you.

"What's the max?"

"I was thinking this might be the final one." You leaned against the counter, watching him with a glint in your eye.

"I was thinking at least one more." He responded.

"Aye perhaps. I could never say no to you." You walk over to him, throwing your arms around his neck.

"How do you think the muggles do it?" You asked.

"I don't think they do, bet they cry themselves to sleep wishing they had a silencio charm."

"Seb!" You scolded with a playful slap to his chest.

When Sebastian was young he thought himself the master of plans, thought himself brilliant even but nothing will ever top this, this success. The best plan he ever wrought, whisking you away to America. Muggles know nothing of him, nothing of you. His life is sweet, a dream come true. And he is most grateful.

[silverynight]

The boy with red eyes

It's been a month since he's been training in the butterfly estate as a kakushi, and he's finally been given his uniform. Tanjirou is really happy!

He has lost count of how many letters he has sent to his family since he left home, but there's been a lot of them. After that slayer saved him and his family from a demon, Tanjirou thought about becoming a slayer as a way to help the Corps and send his family even more money than he ever did as a charcoal seller.

In his mind, it was a perfect plan. However, Nezuko and his mother begged him not to do anything that risky because they wanted to see him again at some point.

Tanjirou has never been good at denying them things, so he agreed, but since he was determined to help the slayers in some way, he found out about the kakushi and decided to become one instead.

"Isn't that risky too?" Nezuko had sent him a full letter telling him all her concerns about the matter and pointing out how much his siblings, especially Rokuta, missed him.

Taking a moment to think about them, Tanjirou closed his eyes right before he explained the situation in his next letter. Of course, everything has risks, but being a kakushi usually meant arriving at the place after the battle and helping the injured slayers as much as he could.

He is sure none of them are entirely happy with his new job, but Tanjirou is determined to help. One of the slayers, Murata, saved them from a demon after all.

With an excited smile on his face, he puts his new uniform on and remembers that Aoi said he could leave the butterfly estate now.

It's been an interesting month of learning about wounds and poisoning, also different kinds of blood demon art and how to deal with them. A huge part of being a kakushi is knowing how to move without being seen and not making too much noise, so he's been practicing that too, with the help of other kakushi.

Since Aoi says he's really good with patients, they immediately send him to the Mugen Train or what is left of it.

That's where Tanjirou meets one of the nine hashira. Weirdly enough, he hasn't seen Kocho yet, even though she's the one who basically lives in the butterfly estate; Aoi says she's been really busy lately.

***

As the crows around explain the situation to the group of kakushi, Tanjirou can't help but feel a wave of gratitude and admiration for the flame hashira.

He, along with a few of his fellow kakushi, kneel next to Rengoku. His crow assured them he's still alive, but barely; the worst part of his injuries are the missing eye and an open wound in his abdomen.

Tanjirou refuses to give up so he starts working; obviously, the Pillar needs to get to the butterfly estate immediately, but first, he needs to make sure Rengoku doesn't die on the way.

At some point, while Tanjirou keeps cleaning and patching him up, praying to the gods for his spirit, praying to them to keep him in this realm, Rengoku opens his eyes.

Tanjirou takes it as a good sign.

"Stay with me, Rengoku-san!"

At first, it seems like he's not paying attention, or perhaps he's not completely conscious, but then the flame hashira manages to move one of his hands and touch Tanjirou's right cheek or at least the mask that's covering his right cheek.

"But she's waiting for me." He argues, although he smiles softly at Tanjirou.

He has no idea whom he's talking about, but if he's seeing the spirit of a loved one already, that's not a good sign.

"Maybe she could spare you for a while longer?" Tanjirou tries. He's done with the hashira's abdomen and his eye, but his fingertips are cold.

"I think she likes you," Rengoku comments, looking happier.

Tanjirou hopes that means he's fighting to stay alive, but just in case he adds: "Would you stay with us then?"

"I'll stay with you."

***

The next Pillar he meets is Kocho herself; Aoi is struggling trying to get her to sit and let her patch a wound on her arm.

"I can take care of it myself... later. I have a couple of things to do."

Tanjirou knows he shouldn't interfere, but he worries too much about the people around him not to try at least.

"We care about you too," he says then, prompting the two girls to look back at him. "You have done a lot for us that perhaps trying to patch you up is not because we think you can't handle it yourself, but it's a way to show we appreciate you."

Kocho remains speechless for a while before smiling softly at him, for the first time, Tanjirou doesn't smell any irritation in her.

"You're just like her," she mumbles, finally sitting down, offering Tanjirou her injured arm. He immediately starts cleaning the wound. "Like my sister. She had a beautiful heart, just like you."

"I bet she was amazing," Tanjirou says, noticing that Aoi is still looking at him in shock.

"She was."

Tanjirou doesn't ask what happened to her because he can tell talking about her sister still hurts Kocho, but he can guess.

"All done!"

"I like your voice," she smiles again, before leaving Tanjirou and a very surprised and confused Aoi behind. "I have work to do. Have a nice day."

***

The red light district is almost completely destroyed; Tanjirou knows he must focus on the slayers who took care of the upper moon, but he can't help but make sure the civilians on his way are alright too.

After making sure the blond one and the slayer with the boar head are fine, Tanjirou approaches a group of kakushi who are trying to convince a hashira to stay still and let them check on his wounds.

There are three women with him that, according to another kakushi, are his wives.

Tanjirou notices the sound hashira already has bandages on his face and arm, which means that his wives took care of those.

"Are you hurt?" He turns towards the women first. "Do you want me to check on you?"

"Tengen-sama, look at his eyes," one of them squeaks in delight; she's the only one who has her hair down.

"Very flamboyant of you," Uzui comments, smiling at Tanjirou. "They look like gemstones."

"Thank y-you..." The next thing he knows is that his wives are introducing themselves and Uzui agrees to have Tanjirou to check on his wounds.

Everything seems to be fine, Makio, Suma and Hinatsuru are alright too, so Tanjirou feels a lot better.

The Pillars are definitely stronger than the other slayers because not only Uzui is still conscious, he can also move.

"I only let my wives touch me like that," the hashira grins as Tanjirou grabs Uzui's face gently and tilts his head to the side to make sure his eye is not bleeding again. His wives start giggling at that.

Tanjirou thinks he's trying to tell him not to touch him anymore, although he doesn't smell upset, so he takes a few steps back from them.

"We're heading back to my estate, why don't you come with us, pretty eyes?"

"He needs to report back to the butterfly mansion," a kakushi girl tells the sound hashira; she smells a little bit irritated. Tanjirou is not sure why.

"She's right," he says as Suma and Makio narrow their eyes at the kakushi girl.

"Well, I really hope you can pay us a visit soon anyway," Uzui smirks. "You'll always be welcome there."

"Thank you!" Tanjirou says sincerely. "I'll try to go there soon!"

***

Not all encounters with the Pillars are entirely pleasant.

Even though Tanjirou's life is dedicated to taking care of injured patients, he has to headbutt the wind hashira because he's pushing another kakushi away and hurting them in the process.

Tanjirou gets angry.

"What's your problem?" He hisses when the hashira is on the ground. "They're trying to help you! It's okay if you don't want them to touch you, but at least tell them instead of pushing them!"

Tanjirou helps two kakushi boys and a girl up while the others start shaking. He kind of expects the Pillar to attack him, but nothing happens.

There's only silence.

Shinazugawa is sitting on the ground, looking up at him with surprise and curiosity; he's no longer angry.

Suddenly feeling sorry, mostly because the Pillar has a red mark on his forehead and his chest keeps bleeding, Tanjirou decides to try again.

"Would you let me patch you up now?"

Shinazugawa nods, still staring at Tanjirou's eyes.

"Alright, please don't move."

For some reason, his fellow kakushi find it fascinating. Although, Tanjirou is the only one who takes care of the hashira because none of them want to approach him.

***

It seems Iguro doesn't like to be touched, but he allows Tanjirou to get closer because the boy asks for his serpent first.

"Are you alright?"

"I told you I'm fine already!" The Pillar hisses only to look confused when Tanjirou shakes his head.

"I'm talking to Kaburamaru."

"How do you know his name?"

"He told me. He's also worried about the bruise on your shoulder."

"Can you understand him?"

"Of course!" Tanjirou says, he knows the Pillar can't see his smile, but at least he hopes he can hear it in his voice. "He's very polite and kind!"

It seems like Iguro changes his mind about him after that, but he still doesn't let other kakushi touch him so Tanjirou has to work alone.

***

Tanjirou tries not to tear up when he reaches the swordsmith village; a lot of people died the night of the attack, but the two Pillars there did their best to keep the rest of the people safe.

Tanjirou is so proud of them.

He decides to help the kakushi who are trying to check on Tokito first, mostly because the mist hashira is one of the stubborn ones.

"I told you I feel better now," he whispers, slapping a hand away.

He either talks that low or he's feeling weak. Tanjirou gets closer and despite knowing he'll get his hand pushed away too, he tries to touch Tokito's forehead.

However, the Pillar doesn't do that. Instead he keeps looking directly into Tanjirou's eyes.

"You have a fever. If you don't have any major injuries, then let me give you something for that first."

"Your eyes. They remind me of someone..." He shivers, but gets closer to Tanjirou and smiles at him. "I like you."

"You were very brave," Tanjirou says and notices that the Pillar's crow looks ridiculously proud. "Thanks for saving the village."

Tokito's smile becomes wider and his face turns slightly pink. Tanjirou worries even more and asks one of the other kakushi around to bring him medicine.

"I tried my best too!" Suddenly, the love hashira is a lot closer, but at least it seems that she has already been patched up.

"They told me you were amazing!" Tanjirou nods, prompting her to squeak in delight. She turns red too, but the other kakushi said she didn't have a fever...

Must be something else. Maybe she's just tired.

"Oh, you're the kakushi with the red eyes!" Kanroji says, leaning forward. "Obanai has told me a lot of things about you!"

Then she tells him about the day he met him and when he gave her the stockings because she had mentioned that she felt shy wearing a skirt that short.

Tanjirou is glad that he has a good relationship with the serpent hashira now because he sounds like a very nice person, albeit with a sharp exterior.

At some point, Tokito complains he's not paying attention to him so Tanjirou has to give him a hug while the other kakushi bring a couple of stretchers for the injured ones.

Both Pillars end up falling asleep with their heads on Tanjirou's shoulders.

***

"Here. Take this," Aoi sighs, packing food for him and the Pillar he's about to visit.

The kakushi are not supposed to go to other Pillars' estates unless there's an emergency, but Aoi has told Tanjirou that Oyakata-sama is very impressed with the way he handles the hashira when they need it the most.

So Tanjirou has to go to the water estate, bring Tomioka food and perhaps convince him to rest for a while since Aoi told him he has two broken ribs.

When he knocks at the entrance, nobody responds, but Ubuyashiki was very insistent in the letter he sent Tanjirou, and he mentioned that he should do anything to talk to Tomioka.

So Tanjirou walks in without being invited. The Pillar gets surprised when he notices him there but doesn't say anything yet.

Then Tanjirou places the food in front of him.

"This is for you from Aoi," he says. "She also wanted me to check on your ribs, Tomioka-san."

"I'm fine," the water hashira retorts, but he doesn't ask Tanjirou to leave; instead he stares at his eyes. "You don't need to do anything."

"But I'd like to..." Tanjirou insists. "I know what you do for all of us and I'd like to show my appreciation in some way."

"Why?"

"Because a slayer from the Corps, one of you, saved my family a long time ago, and I'm still grateful for that. They mean a lot to me."

Tomioka keeps staring into his eyes while listening to Tanjirou's words, for a moment he thinks the Pillar is about to tear up, but he nods instead. Something changes in his demeanor.

"You can... see," he whispers, looking suddenly shy. Perhaps he doesn't like physical contact that much and that's why he often refuses help from the kakushi.

"I'll try to be quick," Tanjirou promises.

He helps the Pillar take his haori and the uniform's jacket off. Tomioka looks away and blushes when Tanjirou touches his ribs gently, barely using his fingertips. He notices bruises that haven't been properly healed and by the way Tomioka flinches in pain, Tanjirou is sure he hasn't rested enough.

"What?" Tomioka asks, slightly amused. "Even under the mask, I can tell you're pouting at me."

"You need to rest," Tanjirou huffs, feeling irritated. "You won't get any better like this! Come on, let's go to bed!"

"But..."

Tanjirou knows how to deal with stubborn patients, so he manages to get Tomioka to say in bed for a whole day while Tanjirou serves him food and makes tea for him.

"Please take care of yourself better, Tomioka-san!"

At least he promises to try before Tanjirou leaves again.

***

Himejima is really kind; the other kakushi are intimidated by his size, but Tanjirou doesn't mind. He always asks before he's about to touch the stone hashira so he gives his approval.

"It's fine. You don't need to be that careful," he sounds amused. "I can tell when you're approaching me because you're very loud."

"Oh," Tanjirou mumbles, disappointed. "Maybe I'm not that good at being a kakushi after all, we're supposed to be good at hiding and not making any noise at all."

"I don't think you're bad at your job," Himejima assures him immediately with a gentle smile. "I can hear you well because I'm used to rely on my other senses a lot. It's because of my training."

Tanjirou feels a bit better; he keeps cleaning the wound on Himejima's huge arm before covering it with bandages.

"You have a beautiful voice. Very sincere," he says after a while, touching Tanjirou's hand. "What color are your eyes?"

Tanjirou is not used to describing himself a lot. He feels slightly flustered.

"Uhh..."

"Red. But it's not exactly a warm red; they're deep red with pink hues that are more noticeable when the sunlight touches his face."

Tanjirou looks in surprise at the kakushi girl helping him with the bandages. He didn't expect her to answer for him. She chuckles.

"Sounds beautiful," Himejima says. He turns a bit towards the girl. "Thanks for describing them to me."

"You're welcome, Himejima-san."

After that, the other kakushi relax a bit around the stone hashira.

***

Every once in a while, Aoi is called to the hashira headquarters to give her report to Ubuyashiki and his wife about how everything's going in the butterfly estate and give her opinion on the kakushi performance of the month.

They usually call her at the end of a hashira meeting so she gets to see all of them every now and then; she still can't believe how Tanjirou can say those people are kind and nice because right now they look like the most intimidating people she has ever seen.

She always knew Tanjirou was a weird boy, but not exactly in a negative way; he's just too sweet for his own good.

Aoi gets to know the kakushi before they become one because they usually train in the butterfly estate. Tanjirou was even easier to remember since he was constantly volunteering to help her too.

He also talks to her a lot, mostly about his family and the slayers and hashira he meets while doing his job. He's probably the only one who has met them all.

"Excuse me, Oyakata-sama," the mist hashira asks before Ubuyashiki has the opportunity to dismiss them. "I'd like to say something, if you don't mind."

"Of course, Muichiro," Ubuyashiki says as Shinazugawa glares at Tokito; he's probably bored now that they don't have anything important to discuss.

"When I was in the swordsmith village, I met a kakushi boy," he begins with a smile so sincere it's like for a moment, he's another person entirely. "He was sweet and took care of me really well... his voice was kind; I could easily tell whenever he was smiling because he carries his emotions in his voice and his eyes. I have never seen anyone look at me with so much genuine kindness in a long time."

Aoi knows he's talking about Tanjirou. There's no one else like that.

"Our boy!" Kanroji sighs dreamily. "He was so sweet, I wanted to squeeze him! But I was very tired then, although he gave me a hug when I asked him!"

"So you finally met him, Mitsuri!" Iguro leans closer to her. "I told you he was different! I miss... I mean, Kaburamaru misses him; he was very nice to him when he took care of my wounds."

"I met him too!" Rengoku says then, grinning from ear to ear. There's an enamored expression on his face already. "I think he was the only reason I survived at all. I was ready to cross to the other side, but his sweet eyes pulled me back!"

"Ha! Don't let him fool you!" Shinazugawa smirks. "He seems sweet, but he can get mad too, and his anger is quite fun to watch!"

Aoi heard about the headbutting incident, but the worrying thing is that the wind hashira looks happy about it.

Tomioka stares fondly into the ceiling, almost like he's lost in his own memories.

"He got irritated at me for not taking care of myself." He sighs. "Muichiro is right, you can tell a lot by listening to his voice, even though his face is almost completely covered. He cares deeply about other people."

"It's true," Himejima nods. "His heart is pure. He was very careful with me even though I told him there was no need for it. We talked about his family before he left; I wish he had stayed longer at my estate."

"My wives adored him," the sound hashira smirks, looking almost hungry. "Once this is all over, I'll make him my fourth–"

"Oh, fuck off!" Shinazugawa growls, baring his teeth at him.

That's when everyone starts talking at the same time. Aoi worries for a moment, but Oyakata-sama and his wife seem to be enjoying the situation.

"Wait!" Kocho cuts them off. "How do we know we're talking about the same kakushi boy?"

Finally! Someone is asking the important questions, although Aoi is surprised by the jealousy she notices in her voice.

"What color are his eyes?"

"Red." Everyone says at the same time, even the stone hashira, which makes Aoi feel a little bit confused.

"So it's the same kakushi boy," Kocho huffs, slightly irritated.

"It seemed to me," Ubuyashiki says then, prompting everyone to shut up. "That you wanted to say something else, Muichiro. You brought him up for a reason."

"Yes," Tokito nods, looking slightly shy. "I'd like to learn his name and perhaps... get him to work at my estate."

Chaos unfolds again, mostly because everyone wants Tanjirou to work for them too.

Aoi rolls her eyes.

"You should ask Tanjirou yourselves," Ubuyashiki says with a soft smile on his face. "If he agrees, you can have him working for all of you exclusively, if that's what you want."

All the hashira look ridiculously happy about that. Aoi thought it would take them a while to agree to share him.

Although she has the feeling that's not the only thing they want from him.

"Can we see him now?" Kanroji asks with an excited smile on her face.

"Of course. I believe he's in the butterfly estate at the moment. Aoi can take you there."

Great. Now she has to babysit hashira.

***

"Inosuke!"

At the sound of his voice, all the hashira turn in the same direction. Aoi tries not to roll her eyes again, but it's becoming increasingly tempting the more time she spends with them.

Tanjirou is trying to get the boar head boy to stay still for once, but with very little success.

They're in the backyard now and she has no idea how Inosuke managed to do that if he just came back from a mission.

"Please, you have to take your medicine!"

Playfully, Inosuke pulls Tanjirou's mask down, making fall off his face.

The Pillars gasp and Kocho leans to tell something to Himejima as Tanjirou struggles to put it back on. He blushes.

After a while he takes the mask back and covers his face with it, but the damage is done; they all have seen the scar on his forehead, his cute nose and his red hair that is darker than his eyes.

Even Aoi has to admit that he's really pretty.

"You're so beautiful!" Kanroji says, blushing to the tip of her ears.

"Thank y-you," Tanjirou stammers, still flustered. "But please forget what you saw!"

Yeah, like that is going to happen.

"Oh! It's all of you!" He chuckles as he notices the rest of the Pillars. Aoi swears they make a disgustingly fond expression at the sound of his laughter. "I'm glad to see you again!"

"Would you marry–"

Kocho manages to hit Uzui on the face with one of her butterfly clips.

"Would you like to work for us?" Tomioka asks then, as they slowly gather in a circle around Tanjirou.

"I thought I already did?" He tilts his head in confusion and it's weird that even Shinazugawa seems to find that endearing.

"He means only for us, for the hashira," Iguro says, eagerly waiting for a response.

"Oh."

"You can stay in the hashira headquarters or here if you want. So you can take care of us whenever we come back from a mission!" Rengoku smiles with so much happiness, Aoi is sure she can hear the hearts in his voice.

Even though that should be impossible.

Tanjirou looks at Aoi then, almost like he's asking for permission.

"Oyakata-sama said it was okay if you wanted," she says reluctantly.

"Yes, I'd love to take care of you!"

Aoi is almost certain that they'll be coming here with a tiny scratch or headache, just to see him.

It's going to be a pain in the ass.

Tanjirou giggles when the Pillars start hugging him one by one; he seems confused with their enthusiasm, but since he's a sunshine, he probably thinks they're friends now.

Aoi sighs, well... at least she's sure the Pillars will let someone (Tanjirou) patch them up when they need to.

Even though she'll have to endure their obvious longing on a daily basis.

***

Patreon

[aloneinthehellfire]

Chapter Eighteen: "Safe"

Gates Of Hell

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: angst central, mentions of death, guilt, needles, mentions of a hospital

[A/N: Part Three is going to be the biggest part of the story yet, just you wait (as told by the exhausted writer who just handed in her final degree project ahhhhhsbsjsksbsklak and must now sleep for 3 years to catch up) but I am so excited to be able to write whenever I want without the looming threat of a degree! let's goooo]

"Safe"

Don’t forget me.

Don’t forget me.

Don’t forget me.

Don’t forget-

“Steve?”

Steve runs his hands down his face, straightening back up from where he had been hunched over the table, eyes bleeding onto the map from the intensity of his stare. He takes a glance to his right, the young boy he called a friend stood anxiously in the doorway.

“We’re, uh…” Dustin shifts on his feet, sneakers barely crossing the barrier of the door frame. “We’re all worried about you. You’ve been up here for hours.”

Steve blinks, turning to the window to be met with his reflection against the pitch black sky. The darkness outside was no match for the circles under his eyes. When was the last time he slept?

“And you look like shit.” Dustin comments, a hint of a smirk twitching his lips when Steve looks back at him, attempting a smile. He hadn’t managed one of those for a while now.

“Thanks, buddy.” He drawled off sarcastically with enough conviction to earn himself a toothy grin. “I just got distracted, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Dustin seemed wary but satisfied with that answer, giving him a nod before he disappears down the staircase. When he heard the last echo of descending footsteps fade, Steve returned to the map and placed his head in his hands, frowning.

Not one gate had opened since he left the Upside Down.

He and Hopper had been waiting for one to appear for weeks now. Five weeks. And three days. 38 days of sitting in what little patience remained, hoping and praying for once in their lives that a gate to a supernatural dimension would open in Hawkins just long enough for them to find you and bring you home. Just like you wanted.

“Don’t come back for me.”

Your voice had been haunting him for weeks, reminding him of the bitter lies that spewed from his mouth every day since.

He told Hopper and the others that you wanted them to find you, that you were very much alive. Maybe they’d be thankful he had spared them the tormenting truth, though Steve very much doubted it.

The worst part was that they believed him. They had hope. Every single one of those people currently sat downstairs positioning their next mission into the apocalyptic ruins of Hawkins will, and do, believe anything he says. Because they trust him.

All but one, however.

El had doubts. Steve saw it on her face any time she pulled the fabric away from her eyes and shook her head at the others, wiping her bloody nose with a suspicious look sent his way. She had been searching for you in ‘the void’ Dustin so ominously named.

At first, she agreed with Steve; “Maybe because the gates are closed, you can’t find a connection.”

But each day her wary eyes grew sharper, almost seeing right through him the longer it took to find you. And if anyone was going to call out his lies, it would be the girl with a superpowered mind.

What happens then? El tells their friends of his deception and he would have to watch each one of their faces drop into utter disbelief, disappointment.

Even if he does find you- no, when he finds you- would he be able to live knowing he had betrayed the people he loved?

Another 20 minutes passed him by before he begrudgingly left the solace of his own torture, entering a brand new means for internal torment. Steve wasn’t sure if he could handle normality in this head-space he’s cornered himself into. Although, with this particular group of people, nothing would ever be normal.

“Woah, hey, you can’t cast fireball!” Mike crosses his arms in objection, brows furrowed.

“Why not? You want them gone? I give you a ball of fire.” Lucas counters, leaning across the table with a pointed stare.

“We are in an enclosed space.” Dustin offers, surrendering under the glare he was shot.

“I. Cast. Fireball.” Lucas throws his hand down on the table and Mike groans.

“Fine. Fine. You cast fireball and…” He gives a dramatic pause, clicking his teeth. “Oh, wow, look at that. You all burned up because of how small the room is. You failed.”

“What?!” Lucas stresses and Dustin shakes his head.

“You burnt to a crisp.” Mike enunciates. “You died.”

“Fire and small spaces, dude.” Dustin sighs, burying his face in his hands.

“Great, so we lost the campaign?” Lucas pouts at his friends. “Now what do we do?”

“How about you join the real world and pretend like you aren’t losers?” Max’s voice calls from across the room and they all turn around to face her. She smirks. “Just a suggestion.”

The boys were sat around the large wooden table in the corner of the room, the surface covered in dice and figurines. They start packing up, ignoring Max’s giggles from the other side of the room. She was sat in an armchair braiding El’s hair, who sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her, staring down at an old picture book found from the forgotten bookcases scattered across the house.

Steve still wasn’t used to the sight, entering a room in his own home and it not being completely devoid of life.

Since Hopper found Steve practically in a pool of his own blood and tears in the motel 6 basement, their town had only gotten worse. Beasts from hell were terrorising what little population remained, vines were growing with no source and crushing the buildings that made Hawkins so historic in nature. The military had quarantined the area, at least that’s what Steve heard. Anyone who hadn’t managed to escape were trapped, it seemed, and Steve was just thankful he wasn’t a lost soul out on his own.

He still remembers the ride to the ‘safe house’. Steve beside Hopper in his nostalgic jeep, sat bruised and bloody with a forlorn attitude. He watched the father’s grip tighten on the wheel every so often, resisting his urge for tears. When it was finally revealed where the others had been living over the three weeks you were stuck in the Upside Down, Steve had his doubts.

The Harrington household was the best option for them to set up base of operations in Hawkins. It was big, it was empty, and it was just far enough out from the centre of town to be safer from the monsters still crawling around on the surface. Someone had fixed the garage door, the windows had been covered completely in either wood or fabric. But no matter how much they changed, Steve would never be able to forget it was his childhood home. One he assumed he would reside in until the day he died, even against all his efforts.

That possibility was looking more and more likely.

The usual parlour of the house was now ‘communications’. Dustin and Mike had set up a radio system, not unlike their equipment from the AV Club, and had a running list of all the stations still playing something other than nauseating static. Every now and then a brief interruption of a person’s call for help would come blaring through and Hopper would take a team to go rescue them. Unfortunately, no new residents ever found safety in the Harrington home.

The lounge Steve would spend most his evenings sinking into the couch was now filled with D&D boards, comic books, and many blankets. It was a space for the kids to hang out, and it was probably the only room Steve found himself smiling in. If he could find the energy to smile, that is. Even if they couldn’t remove the kids from the dangers of the forbidden world, they could at least try to let them be kids. Play fights, campaigns, board games. Steve sometimes would peer into the room and wish he was 13 again. Part of him knew his younger self would have no chance dealing with the apocalypse, much unlike the younger friends who had more tenacity than he ever could.

Upstairs had four bedrooms, but none of them were designated to any particular person or group. The kids generally preferred sleeping in the lounge unless instructed otherwise. And with everything happening on the other side of the boarded windows, there was never any time to sleep longer than 4 hours at most. Everyone had different sleeping times and shifts, meaning if a bed was free, it was yours.

Steve, however, had been using one of the bedrooms to study the maps Hopper had brought. It was just another guest room before he had dragged in a desk and shifted the bed over to the corner. His own room was too big for one person, he realised. And with how selfish he had been lately, he didn’t want to feel guilty for anything else. The adults usually slept in there, and Steve made no attempt to question their sleeping arrangements. It wasn’t any of his business.

And lastly, there was his father’s study. Hopper had been using it for the exact same reasons Steve had redecorated the guest room; to find you. He spent most of his time cooped up in there, only ever leaving to announce a new plan or to walk out on a new mission. It makes Steve’s stomach lurch anytime he thinks about how miserable the father must be.

A father who was doing everything in his power to get you back, taking the operation seriously. All the while Steve was simply barrelling head first into gut feelings, almost ruining everything.

The first week Steve was back was the busiest. He and Hopper had made detailed plans, taking care and consideration into their next actions. The beginning was fine, Steve almost felt at ease knowing he was doing something. But he grew tired of the wait.

After that week, he started to lose his mind. He found himself running all over town looking for another way back to the place he had so longed to escape, praying for another gate, and trying every signal point in Hawkins for even just a glimmer of communication to reach you. Hopper almost had to physically restrain him when things got messy, telling him to pull himself back into reality before something bad happened. He should have listened.

“See? I told you he’d be here.” Dustin grins as he spots Steve stood in the doorway, an array of eyes shifting to him.

“You missed a wild campaign.” Lucas states and Mike throws a look, shaking his head in silent disappointment.

“Oh, yeah. I was on the edge of my seat.” Max mocks, “Thought I was gonna have to come rescue Lucas from invisible fireballs.”

“Why do you hate me?” Lucas asks bluntly, and Steve clears his throat before anything can escalate further.

“Where’s Will?” He suddenly realises the loss of a head count, frowning at the spare chair pulled up to the table.

“He… he hasn’t come out of that room.” Mike’s face falls, shifting on his feet. “He hasn’t really spoken much. Not since...”

A moment of silence plagued the room. Nobody really spoke about what happened a few days ago, a mission gone horribly wrong. The task was simple: get to Weathertop and use the ‘Cerebro’ Dustin built to break through the static of the Upside Down. Yet, it was far from simple in the end. It left a thick lump in Steve’s throat to even think about it. They had all become somewhat experts on ignoring the reality, Steve especially.

He couldn’t imagine how Will must be feeling.

“I, uh… I’ll go speak to him.” Steve says, surprising himself. “Just in case he needs anything.”

Dustin squinted his eyes ever-so-slightly, gazing right through Steve’s attempt at misdirection, knowing his older friend was nervous about socialising after the week they had. Yet, he didn’t comment on the matter. He just shrugged and mumbled something about bringing Will food later, fiddling with the small wizard statue on the table.

Satisfied with the silence, Steve takes his leave.

Not before clocking El’s eyes as he headed back out the room. It sent a chill down his spine to see her face like that, a red stain on the cuff of her jumper explaining all he needed to know. She was watching him. Studying him. He wondered if she was sharing her disbelief to the others, or if she was waiting for the right moment.

No, Steve thinks, leaving the room and turning to face the stairs, stop being so paranoid.

He was fiddling with the sleeves of his jumper when he made it to the top of the staircase, staring down the corridor to where Will was currently residing, holding his breath. He wasn’t sure what he should say, if he could say anything at all. The lump in his throat was building into a boulder, a telling sign that he wasn’t ready to talk about it.

A quiet speech of his name being called from behind him made him retreat from the original plan. He would be grateful for the interruption if door number two wasn’t another fear he needed to face.

As he approaches the study, he can just make out the figure through the three inch gap of an open door, pushing it further ajar.

“Did you want to speak to me?” Steve peers his head through, praying he had misheard.

“Yeah, come in.”

The man was leant back in his chair with a weary expression, running a hand down his face. If anyone was looking worse than Steve, it was Hopper. The father had barely eaten or slept for weeks, his every hour dedicated to locating his daughter and bringing her home. It made Steve’s stomach twist whenever he thinks about how his words were torturing him. Hopper only knew what Steve had told him; you were healthy and alive, waiting for a saviour. Two of those were lies, and the other unknown, but Steve had said them anyway in a moment of agony and recklessness, and now… now it had gone too far to take it back. The longer it took them to find what Steve had promised, the more damage it had procured to Hopper’s health, mentally and physically.

Staring at the thinning chief of police, Steve waits in bated breath for some kind of lecture. He had been expecting this for days now.

“Have you spoken to Will?” He questions and Steve is surprised, blinking through his answers.

“Uh… no. No, I- I haven’t yet. I was just on my way to-”

“It’s not your fault, Steve.”

A hitch in his throat was louder than anticipated in this quiet room, causing him to cough it away like it had simply been a mis-breathe of air. Hopper sent him a knowing look, leaning forward as Steve finally takes a seat.

“None of us could have seen the shapeshifters coming.” Hopper sighs, running a hand down his face. “It looks like more and more are appearing.”

Steve scrunches his face, trying to remove the bloody image from his mind. “Have you spoken to the military? Are they actually doing anything?”

“Well,” Hopper leans back again, clicking his jaw, “I’ve got word that they’re slowly minimising the quarantine. Which, unfortunately, could mean two very different things. They’re either killing these monsters, or they’re driving them directly into the town centre.”

“So, just as useless as ever, then.” Steve grumbles, met with a tired nod.

“I know how you feel, kid.” He says, glancing back down at the map with a mournful expression. “I… I want to find her just as bad as you do. She-”

His voice catches and Steve looks up to see him quickly wipe a tear away, sniffing with the intent of driving it away.

“She needs me. Us. And… and it’s killing me to know she’s waiting in that god awful place while I try and hunt down gates that don’t exist.”

Another jolt of guilt to his gut, and Steve grips the arms of the chair. “I’m sorry. For not… for not bringing her back. She- she was right there. I-I could have-”

“You did everything you could, Steve. Don’t ever think that you didn’t.” Hopper’s gaze is unwavering, ensuring Steve heard him loud and clear.

Steve knew better than to argue. Instead, he meekly nods and pulls in his lips, looking anywhere but at the familial reminder of what he lost.

“I just hope she’s okay.”

Beep…

...beep…

…...beep…

The repetitive imitation of a heartbeat was the moment that drove you to consciousness, irritated by the relentless noise against your growing migraine.

Beep… beep…

Two more tick by by the time you feel a twitch in your fingers, your whole body feeling sore and numb all at the same time. You’re trying to drag your eyes open, blinded by a piercing blur of light to your pupils.

Everything was white. The walls, the beam of a lightbulb, the sheets covering your body. It took 5 more heartbeats to realise you were laying in a bed.

You suck in a struggled gasp of air, becoming all too aware of the needle sat below the skin of your wrist.

Why were you here? How did you get in this bed? What happened?

You don’t remember anything at all.

“Help.” You say. Or, rather, you try. Your voice was so hoarse, the word didn’t even sound from your lips.

You try and move your body, but it starts to become clear that it wasn’t ready to be moved. How long had you been asleep?

Some memory starts to form back into your mind, one of a boy. Standing in front of a boy. And he was behind a wall. Why were you stood there? How was he behind a wall? The gap was closing, and some shadows were behind you. What were they? What happened-

“Steve.” You gasp, blinking back to reality. This time, the word echoed perfectly into the dull white room.

You didn’t recall learning the name, nor could you make sense of the blurry face that came with it, wisps of brunette hair. But you can remember standing in front of him, you can remember the feeling of guilt and heartache overcoming you. The rest was a mere mirage.

A tear rolls down your cheek, unbeknownst to you. Whatever the memory was, your body reacted to it like it was better to be forgotten.

The monitor beside you starts to beep quicker, a noticeable thump in your chest matching its rhythm. Was this… were you in a hospital?

As you try and shift your body one more time, you spot the object in the corner of the ceiling abruptly move to face your direction. With your eyesight returned to normal against the bright lights, you can just see a security camera pointed at you, a red light blinking ever so small.

A sudden click of a door merely a few feet from your bed catches your attention, a wave of panic flooding your body. This didn’t feel like a hospital.

This wasn’t a hospital.

And yet, the person who walked into the room was wearing a white coat, looking clean and kind as they came to your side, smiling.

“Where… where am I?” You struggle to speak, swallowing nothing. “Who are… you?”

“Y/n, you don’t need to be afraid.” A male voice soothed, pulling up a chair and reaching to a bedside table you hadn’t even noticed, picking up a plastic cup. “You’re safe here.”

He brings the cup to your lips and you can only take a sip of the water before its taken away from you and set back at your side. Your throat started to soothe, and you took care to practice the detail of this man’s face. You didn’t recognise him. He was an older man with white hair and a few cosy wrinkles, looking sympathetically at you with a stare that instantly pacified.

As your lips move to form a question, he beats you to the punch, introducing a name you’re sure you’ll never forget.

“My name is Dr Martin Brenner.” He smiles, tilting his head. “We have so much to talk about.”

Beep…

...beep…

......beep…

@toomanyfandomsimfanvergent . @sheisjoeschateau . @kthomps914 . @curled-hair-red-lips . @nix-rose .

@palmtreesx3 . @kryztalglear . @sattlersquarry . @hey-barnes-stole-a-jeep . @sadslasher13 .

@iliveonteaandbooks . @innercreationflower . @newyorkangelbaby . @totally-bogus-timelady . @pansexualhoor .

@kitdjarin1 . @chiliwhore .

[edgarapoecolouredglasses]

Little mastermind

THE GIF IS NOT MINE

Pairing: Troy Otto/Reader

Story summary: Tracy just wants her dad to be happy. Y/n makes her dad happy. Though they are both in denial, Tracy makes it her sole purpose to try and get them together.

Summary: Y/n sticks up for Troy when someone calls him a bad leader

Part: 1/4 (SEATBELTS ON!)

Spoilers, I guess

————-

“But what will I do without you? We’re already short-staffed,” I said, unable to hide the desperation in my voice. One of the nurses had already left, and with no pedagogical professionals, I’d been caring for the children every day as well. Now, I stood face to face with one of the last two nurses I had left —and that’s including me—and she was telling me she’d be gone by tomorrow.

“Y/n, we’re just wandering from one abandoned building to the next, trying to find somewhere safe until it’s overrun again. It’s dangerous. He promised us a home, but it’s been five years since we joined your group,” she sighed, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “I have to think about my family. Jeffrey is already talking to Troy.”

“Troy is—he’s—” I stammered. I believed in him, despite everything. Distant as he seemed, impulsive as he was, Troy had never lied about his promise to keep us safe. I had known him longer than anyone in this group. Longer than anyone who was still alive.

I knew Troy had made some questionable choices over the years. From an outsider’s perspective, it would be easy to lose faith in him. But I’d still managed to convince a few people to stay. I knew how deeply it affected him every time someone left. I had witnessed it all, from the moment Mike walked out of his life.

When Mike left the ranch, it tore Troy apart. He spiraled, completely lost control, and came close to wiping out an entire family in his rage.

“Diane, please. Have faith in him. He’s scouring every inch of this land to find a safe place for us,” I pleaded.

Her eyes flashed with frustration. “No, he’s not looking for a home. He’s looking for PADRE,” she snapped. I felt my heart sink as I frowned at her, unsure of how to respond.

“I was there in the med bay when he fell on his head,” she continued, her voice hard and accusing. “I heard him mumbling in his sleep—‘find PADRE’ and and that name he kept going on about ‘Madison.’ He’s obsessed with this childish idea of revenge. It’s dangerous, and you know it. And that’s not even the worst part… he’s still dragging that rotting corpse around with him like it’s some kind of sick trophy—”

“That is his wife.”

I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended. Diane’s eyes widened in surprise.

I wasn’t usually the type to get angry. In fact, most people walked over me without much resistance. But something snapped when she decided to disrespect a man who would have died for her if he had to, just like he would for anyone else in our group.

“Who made sure you were fed all these years? Clothed” My words were harsh. “Do you really think you’d be any better off without us? You’d still be out there, between homes, barely surviving. But at least you had this group. At least you had Troy.”

Diane opened her mouth to protest, but I pressed on, my voice rising. “Your husband won’t be able to protect you out in the real world. And god forbid you die out there and your Jeffrey has to decide what to do with you, you’ll wish he was half the man Troy is. You’ll wish he had the strength not to leave you behind.”

She didn’t respond, but I saw the way her expression faltered, how she took a step back, uncertain. It was like the pounding in my head intensified just from looking at her, every second spent staring into her guilty eyes hammering nails into my skull.

So I turned away. There was nothing more to say.

Then, just as I was about to leave, I heard her sigh.

“You’re right—”

“I wish you all the best. Good luck out there,” I interrupted coldly.

“But—”

“You’re fired.” The words came out sharper than I had foreseen, but I didn’t regret them.

Without waiting for a response, I started walking away. My steps echoed in the silence, but I stopped just before reaching the door to the abandoned warehouse we called home.

“I’ll let your husband know that you are waiting here for him,” I added, not turning back.

I should’ve noticed the quiet stare of the eight-year-old girl, hidden in one of the ventilation shafts, watching the entire scene unfold.

————————

The end :D

Just kidding this has been way too long coming. I know this part wasn’t very eventful but I wanted to set the tone.

But I’m putting it in multiple bite sized parts because that’s what I personally enjoy

Here’s the link to part two :)

Thank you to @aldenenjoyer for the prompt.

[fiberturkey89]

Ngl, every so often, I think on how Lisbeth(what I call Jay's birthmother- I see Libber/Liber as a nickname). And what she could've offered to the narrative for Jay and Wu. -its like 1:12 AM send help.

Like, imagine Jay met her in Prime Empire - say like.. she's trapped all alone, and he has no idea who she is. Not even a vague memory of her voice. All he who he knows to be his parents are Ed and Edna Walker.

So imagine her like, seeing her baby - her little Wren(reference to Jay's original names), essentially all grown up into an adult. He has the perfect mix of her and Cliff's physical features- but his eyes are different. Jay's eyes are neither hers or Cliff's.

Worst of all, she's a stranger to him. But the most interesting part of that me thinks - would be that she doesn't introduce herself as his birthmother. Instead, she introduces herself as Lisbeth, a stranger. Because she's missed too much, and even though she desperately wants to get to know him, she knows he'd be better off without her.

She knows what it's like for people to get in between family. She had to do that a lot in the Serpentine Wars. Those scars never quite faded right, nor did these wounds heal properly. So she's just like, holding back tears n stuff because not only is she finally going to be free- time had taken something from her again. (I HC she was an orphan prior to the Serpentine Wars).

She's got mixed feelings on Cliff all these years later. She visits the mansion and doesn't quite know how to react. Knowing that he's dead and she's.. still alive. A part of her laughs in light-hearted exasperation at his "man" cave, and another simply sighs in annoyance.

It's a harsh blow she's dealt, really. When she finds out what she missed the outside of Jay.

Going around and looking for friends instinctively then remembering that they're no longer.. there. Lilly was a good friend of hers, and she hates that she couldn't really offer Lou any support as she'd disappeared early on into when he and Lilly had begun dating.

The previous Master of Ice had never told them his name, but he had been pleasant.

Wu, Ray, and Maya greet her with teary eyes and shaky smiles- because they have another friend back. One who understood the sacrifices that had to be made during the Serpentine Wars. They talk, talk for hours on end like they were younger, bantering and lightly teasing- but its different now.

Libber can't understand half the inside jokes they make about the Ninja, and she feels a sense of loss when that happens- a sense of loss that she was ripped away from friends and family.

Yeah idk, late night thoughts

[jinxsmadness]

There's something wrong with me.

I don’t know when it began, or if it was always there, hiding in some shadowed corner of my soul, waiting for me to finally acknowledge it. It’s a feeling I’ve had for as long as I can remember—like a specter trailing behind me, whispering that I’m broken in a way I can never quite explain. I remember everything, all the fragments of a life slipping relentlessly into chaos, into emptiness. I’ve ruined every meaningful moment, every chance that was ever given to me. It’s as if I were cursed, as if sadness was an intrinsic part of who I am. "You’re a jinx" Vi once told me, and those words have echoed in my mind ever since, a truth as cold as ice.

The day Vi left me, I waited like an animal and time lost all meaning. Maybe someone would come for me—Vander, Claggor, Mylo, someone, anyone—but no. No one came. Minutes stretched into eternity, each one a silent testament to the fact that indifference had become the defining truth of my life. Vander was gone. Claggor too. Mylo… all of them, lost to. But the worst part, the thing that shattered me, was that Vi was still alive, yet no longer loved me, no longer needed me. And that, that was far worse than any death. Death has finality, a clear-cut end. But indifference… indifference is the quiet erasure of everything you were to someone.

Vi left me, and while she’s not dead, her departure was a burial far more painful than any physical death. The memories of what once was between us are the ghosts that haunt me now. They are the scars that will never fade.

From the first breath I take each morning, my memories engulf me like a heavy fog, pulling me into the darkness of who I once was and who I will never become. It’s a weight, a suffocating pressure on my chest that drags me, somehow there are moments, rare and fleeting, when it seems to lift. For the briefest of seconds, I feel a semblance of peace. And those moments are all I have left.

But it never ends, I know the clarity is temporary and the worst part? No matter how hard I try, I can never escape the end of it. The memory of that night—the night that everything changed—has been etched into me like a scar that will never heal, like a burn that refuses to fade. It is the echo of my failure, the suffocated scream of a broken soul. It never leaves.

That night, when I saw the cold, determined look in Silco’s eyes, when I saw the glint of the knife in his hand, something inside me broke. It felt as though the very core of who I was was collapsing, fragmenting beyond repair. And in that moment, that instinct, I threw myself at him—without thinking, without hesitation—clinging to him with a desperation so raw, so frantic, that I didn’t care if it was the end. I knew then, in the deepest part of my being, that if I could be something to him, if I could make him see me, even for just a moment, I might cease to be nothing. If I could show him how much I cared, how desperately I needed him, maybe he wouldn’t go through with it. Maybe he wouldn’t seal my fate, condemning me to be a shadow, to be invisible forever. Maybe I could find a flicker of light in the dark void that consumed me.

But even as that hope flickered, I knew the truth. If he rejected me—if he turned his back on me, ignored me—it would be the end. Not just for him, but for me. Because in that rejection, I would be nothing. I would be no one. And no one would see me again.

I don’t know why he stay, or how. Sometimes I wonder if he truly love me, or if they merely tolerate me. If there’s more to their gaze than pity. But even if it’s just a glimmer of compassion, I want it. I want it with a desperation that frightens me, a need so consuming that it devours me little by little. I’ve lost so much already, each thing slipping through my fingers like water.

I want to make him happy so he never leave me, so I’m never reduced to another ghost, another absence lingering in the dark corners of losts memories. The fear of being left behind eats me alive. The idea of being alone again—no one to look at me with tenderness, no one to see me without trembling at the storm I am—that thought terrifies me.

I wonder if there will ever be anything beyond this agony. Will I ever be free from the monster that gnaws at me from the inside? At the end of the day it's all my fault.

[cakers-2000]

Alright, I can't help but ask this: What would be Venti's and Zhongli's reaction to, after getting their Gnosis taken, their s/o disappears for about a week or so. Then they show back up, covered in blood and bruises, holding their Gnosis, and say "Am I not the best s/o ever, or what?" before passing out.

This request was put in before Raiden Shogun had been released so I really hope you don’t mind but I wanted to include her in the mix! She’s my favorite archon!

It's not exactly what you requested, I had some fun playing around with the idea but I hope the outcome is still enjoyed!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You get their Gnosis back

Beginning: When they lost their Gnosis, you were crushed. Whether they would admit it or not you knew that it brought them great pain not having a part of them anymore. You couldn’t bear seeing your lover in such mental anguish and so you set out. It took you a long while and you had covered your tracks, you were going out for a week at least to ‘complete a commission’ you had told them. But that was a lie. You were going to find their Gnosis and bring it back to them if it’s the last thing you do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Venti:

When you first left, he was overcome by the feeling of immense fear. Where had you gone? Were you lost somewhere? Had you decided to leave him? Or the worst thought yet, had you died from heinous injuries? He couldn’t handle losing someone so precious and dear to him, not again.

With those thoughts in the forefront of his mind, he set off to search the vast expanse of Mondstadt, with the help of Dvalin of course.

When he didn’t find you there he took to the streets of Liyue. He asked anyone he locked eyes with if they had seen you, checked every nook and cranny and even paid Zhongli a visit but his attempts always came up empty.

He was at a loss. With no idea what else to do, he went back home to Mondstadt.

And spent his days in Stormterror’s Lair with Dvalin at his side. His lyre no longer played the same tune, the strings no longer harmonized so perfectly and his voice no longer belted out the same jolious tone.

He was completely and utterly lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day you came back to him, it was as if color had flooded back into his life.

You were hurt, battered and bruised, but you were okay. And you were back to him. The poor boy nearly knocked you to the ground when he lunged at you, wanting nothing more than to feel you in his embrace.

His hands fell to your face, frantically searching across your cheeks, gently rubbing his thumb across your bloodied and swollen lip.

“(Y/N)... What did you do?!”

His immense worry for you was clear as day in his voice and the way his eyes surveyed every inch of you.

You tried to give him the biggest smile you could muster and held your hands out to him, the smile on your face only growing.

“I got it back.”

He was full of so many emotions, they were swirling all around his mind. You were alive, but you were hurt something fierce. You were beaming such a bright smile towards him, but you were in so much pain, you couldn’t hide that fact from him.

The Gnosis in your hand was stained, a dull brown color took over the once vibrant features and there were a few stained splotches of blood, a much darker hue then the rest of the item.

“M-My Gnosis?... (Y/N) are you crazy!?”

Neither you nor himself expected such an outburst and he quickly placed a hand over his quivering lips. A frown fell to your lips and you slowly dropped your arms to your side, tightly squeezing onto the Gnosis he still hadn’t taken from your grasp. “I thought you’d be happy…”

He wrapped his arms around you tightly, pulling you to his chest as his tears stained his cheeks. “N-No I am happy! But you didn’t have to do that! I was so worried about you! I didn’t know where you went, if you were okay, I was so scared.” He was fighting for breath as he stuttered and stammered through the waterfall of tears escaping his eyes. “I love you so much please please please don’t ever do anything that dangerous again.”

Finally you understood. He was grateful, but putting yourself in his shoes, you would’ve been worried sick as well. Slowly you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his chest. “I love you Venti. I’m sorry… I’ll be careful from now on.” “P-Promise?”

You smiled and nuzzled his chest with your nose, gently pulling on the hem of his cape as a yes. “I swear on my life.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zhongli

When you first disappeared he had of course been worried but he tried not to work himself up. Perhaps you were just busy. You had your own life, your own little world that didn’t revolve around him and he respected that. But as time dragged on, and you still hadn’t graced him with your presence, a panic began to slowly overtake him. He tried everything to console himself but his mind kept running wild and he finally had had enough. Without a single word of goodbye to anyone Zhongli vanished practically into thin air.

He searched everywhere, used every last one of his connections through his numerous contracts and those that he called ‘friend’.

Xiao and all of the Adeptus.

All of his fellow archons (at least those he could get a hold of).

And even going so far as to ask the Fatui, or more Harbinger Childe to be exact. (Though the man wasn’t too pleased to see him after the ‘betrayal’ he had put him through’).

But all of his searches led nowhere. He left no stone unturned, no mountain unscaled. Yet despite all his efforts you were still nowhere to be seen.

He had almost given up hope. He had done everything he could think, searched every corner and exhausted all of his connections but he always came up empty handed. Perhaps this was his fate. Everyone he loved always left him eventually.

You were mortal and he was a god, he knew that you wouldn’t be with him forever and he would eventually have to say goodbye but he didn’t think he would have to say it so soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had lost track of how long it had been since you went missing. Probably about a month, but he couldn’t be too sure. All of his days seemed to merge into one, spending all of his time holed up in the mountains, sitting atop the high mountain tops and reflecting, reminiscing and of course, trying to wash away the guilt that threatened to consume him. It was his fault you had gone. He wasn’t sure what he had done, but what other answer could there be? Perhaps you had been angry with him for giving away his gnosis, or perhaps you were angry about all of the secrets he had kept from you.

Whatever the case, he was convinced that it was his fault.

He had tried to immerse himself into his work during his free time (when he wasn’t finding solitary comfort on the mountains) and it was while walking through Liyue Harbor, on his way back to Wangsheng Funeral Parlor that his eyes caught a familiar sight.

That hair… and that figure… Could it be?

His thoughts were all but confirmed when you turned around, somehow seemingly aware of his presence and sprinted your way over to him. You wasted no time in crashing into him for a hug, squeezing him as tightly as your weak arms could manage.

He wasted no timing in wrapping you up in his embrace, resisting the urge to let a few tears spill. It was so unlike him to cry. He finally pushed you away when he was satisfied and gently grabbed your face in his hands.

Now that he could get a good look at you, his stomach churned. You were covered in scratches and bruises. Your clothes tattered in most places and a noticeable limp.

“(Y/N)... what happened?”

You gave him a smile, resting one hand atop his and used your other hand to reach into the pouch at your side, gently pulling out a small item. His gnosis. “Pretty good right?”

He grabbed the item from between your fingertips, evaluating the small little almost chess like piece. It was indeed his Gnosis, the real, genuine item.

“(Y-Y/N) why did you…?”

“Why? Because it’s yours. I know what you were thinking, I really do. But something this precious,” You slowly reached and and used your hands to clasp his together, slowly moving them to touch his chest as he clutched the Gnosis. “Something that’s a part of you, shouldn’t be given away so easily.” You tried to give him a playful smile, though your pain and fatigue was clearly showing through. “And I worked really hard to get this back so please.”

He knew you were right. His head was spinning. He was relieved, yet he was angry, yet he was also in a way… proud. He loved you so much, you meant the world to him and clearly that was why you had his head reeling like this.

He once again wrapped you in his embrace, slowly kissing the top of your head as his grip tightened around you even more, terrified that he would lose you again if he let go.

“I love you. Please… don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I won’t… I love you too. Now can you please help me get to Baizhu? It’s a long way to walk with these battle scars.”

He smiled a bit at your continuous teasing tone and easily swept you off the ground and into his arms. “I’d be honored Angel.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Raiden Shogun:

She honestly wasn’t all that concerned with her missing Gnosis. She had never really needed it before, why would she need it now. Though you understood where she was coming from you couldn’t just let things stand like this and so you packed up your things, preparing yourself for a long journey before leaving the place you called home and searching for the Gnosis.

When you didn’t return to Ei the next day (like you had promised) she practically turned the entire region upside down. Enlisting the help of her entire regimen, sending her puppet into the depths of Inazuma in an attempt to find you, even asking Miko (though it was more demanding with how frantic she was) help find you as well.

But none of these searches ever turned up anything. No evidence, no leads. It was as if you simply just vanished.

And she became lost. She had already lost so many loved ones. It took a lot for her to bring herself to accept her feelings for you, and now what? She was just too accept the fact that people enter and leave your life just like that? This pain… It was why she had been searching for a way to keep eternity in Inazuma.

It hurt.

So bad.

And she hated herself for allowing herself to fall victim to these foolish emotions once again. But she couldn’t shake you off her mind. Perhaps it would be best if she stayed in the Plane of Euthymia forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She hadn’t expected to see you again. Trying her best to rid her mind of you in an attempt to free herself from this crushing agony, but it never worked.

What with her staying in the Plane of Euthymia, never to come out again you had to enlist the help of Miko when you came back.

And she did. Not only for you, but for Ei as well.

She was sitting on the ground, seeming to be meditating(?) but she snapped her eyes open as soon as she sensed the presence of another being. Slowly she raised her head, a rather angry look on her features but it instantly softened when she saw that it was you standing in front of her.

She slowly got to her feet, hesitant to even believe what was right in front of her. Was it… really you? “(Y/N)?”

“Hi Ei… I guess I made you worry huh?”

You were covered in wounds from head to toe, your hair a messy, knotted mess. She quickly strutted her way towards you, starting to run as she got closer and engulfed you in her arms. It was rare for Ei to initiate any kind of affection and you took a moment to stand in shock. When you didn’t hug her back her grip on you tightened. There was an almost, scared feeling in her tight grip and so you hugged her back.

“I got your gnosis.”

She refused to move her head from your chest, both out of embarrassment to show you the tears streaking her face and out of fear that you would simply vanish again if she did. “You idiot.”

“Well that’s not very nice to call your hero.”

“Stop joking around!”

Her sudden shout surprised you and your body tensed a bit. She nuzzled her face into you, trying to get closer (though it wasn’t possible). “You selfish fool! I don’t need a gnosis! I never did before and I don’t now! How could you just put yourself in danger like that!? I was worried sick about you! I thought you were dead!”

You could finally hear the tiny sniffles that escaped her and for the first time, you truly understood how much you meant to her. Slowly you wrapped your arms around her a little tighter and ran your hands through her hair, trying to bring her any sense of comfort with your presence.

“I’m sorry Ei… I… I wasn’t thinking. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Please… don’t ever leave me again… please.”

Her voice sounded so broken and you felt a pang of guilt in your chest. You hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from her. You placed a gentle kiss to the top of her head before continuing to play with her hair. “I won’t Ei… I love you.”

[cl0wncakez]

i think that hiyoko saionji was one of the characters that the danganronpa writers did the most dirty.

in the original script of the second game, hiyoko was originally intended to be one of the survivors in place of fuyuhiko, but was later changed to die in chapter 3 at the last minute. the reasoning behind this sudden switch was that they didn’t want peko’s sacrifice in chapter 2 to be in vain.

in terms of the chapter 3 writing and trial, this was one of the worst decisions they could’ve made. now, i agree that fuyuhiko should be a survivor, and making that change was a good move on their end. the part where they messed up was the person they had him swap places with: hiyoko.

you can tell that this writing decision was very last minute, since hiyoko was going through the motions of her original character arc, until she was killed off so suddenly. i really wish that we could’ve seen what her entire story would’ve looked like, but unfortunately, she remains a character who died right when she was starting to become a better person.

the wasted potential is insane.

they could’ve had both fuyuhiko AND hiyoko be survivors! and there’s good reason to do so as well. they would’ve had one of the most interesting dynamics in the series!!!!

if hiyoko was alive longer, she could’ve been a motivation for fuyuhiko to be a better person himself, since she has good reasons to despise him after chapter 2.

hiyoko could’ve also learned to be more trusting in others, to apologize to everyone for her behavior in the beginning of the game, and possibly even forgive fuyuhiko in the later chapters.

and if hiyoko was alive in the chapter 3 trial, seeing her reaction to mikan being the killer would’ve been something interesting to see, and could’ve saved the chapter a bit. imagine this: she was planning to give a sincere apology to mikan, but before she could, the bodies were found, and later on, it was revealed that mikan, the person she bullied relentlessly, and wanted to make amends with, is the culprit, and is too far gone for her to have the courage to apologize. not only would this give more development to hiyoko’s arc, but it would also teach her the lesson to become a better person before it’s too late for her as well.

now, if both hiyoko and fuyuhiko were to be survivors, who would be the best person to take the spot as the second chapter 3 victim?

as much as i love her, i think that it should’ve been sonia.

sonia doesn’t do as much as the other survivors in the game, and doesn’t have much an overall character arc. if she were to die in chapter 3, not only would it give hiyoko the chance to have her much needed arc, but also give kazuchi the chance to have his own arc, instead of spending a lot of his screentime obsessing over sonia.

i really think that if hiyoko made it to the end and shown her full potential as a character, the fans would love her much more. but since she was killed off so suddenly, she’s nowhere near as popular as some of the other characters who have similar personalities to her.

in conclusion: live laugh love hiyoko saionji, they wronged you so much girlie.

[manawari]

SOLO LEVELING WEEK

Day 6: Soulmates / Cup of Reincarnation

Based on my recent Soulmate AU.

Her death weighed his heart deeper than the heaviest rock. Everyday, Jin-woo got reminded of her lifeless body in the ground, shattering his soul into tiny pieces. He thought that "soulmates" were not real and all fiction as often seen in movies, but when he met Cha Hae-in and slowly found himself falling for her, Jin-woo accepted that it was real. . . But he did not know how painful it would be once he lost her.

Cha Hae-in became a big part of him. So, she brought along the other half of his soul when she left the world. It was truly the worst part of loving someone.

He gave his heart and fate took it away.

For years, Jin-woo witnessed people age and pass away. Him? He remained young. With the loss of the person he wished to grow old with, left him in a curse called immortality. His sister had passed away and his best friend, Yoo Jin-ho, followed shortly. They had each other. Jin-woo had no one, seeking comfort to his mother, who had lost his dad — her soulmate.

The only way for him to retrieve his mortality was to meet his soulmate and fall in love all over again.

His heart clenched. Just how many years would he have to wait? Jin-woo found no reason to be happy anymore. He was alive, but at what cost?

One day, he reached out to the Rulers and requested them to use the Cup of Reincarnation. Restart the whole world. Bring back the people who were once dead. And most of all, give everyone a second chance.

Jin-woo knew he was not the only one. His mother deserved to be with his father once again. Jin-ah would've loved to see her family whole from the afterlife, and Jin-ho would've wanted him to search for Hae-in. He waited long enough, and it hurt him every day, so it was time for him to search his soulmate all while waiting still.

Short, blonde hair and gentle grey eyes. He remembered her looks as if it was yesterday. Her smile was like a ray of sunlight casting through the shadows, radiating warmth to those in her presence, and her heart — strong and kind, withstood against the worst adversaries and battles in her life, becoming her shield as she fought with her sword. It made it impossible to meet a woman like her again.

Jin-woo swore to never make the same mistake twice.

"I'm not sure if that's really him," Yoon-ho sighed, putting down his glass of soju. "That red hair could belong to anyone. But there were too many people walking past me to even notice closely."

"If your instincts are strong, then it could be Choi Jong-in. Though, it might be that you missed him so much that anyone with red hair would be automatically him." Jin-woo said.

"I've mourned him for years, Jin-woo. Jong-in has never left my mind and I never stopped longing."

Jin-woo frowned at Baek Yoon-ho, who had become his close friend amidst their years of being immortals. "You'll meet him soon, hyung. Dungeons no longer exist in this timeline anymore, it will be easier for us to reunite with our soulmates."

"Well, I wish I have some luck. Hee-jin has already met Eun-seok, yet she doesn't know how to get close to him without making it look weird."

He chuckled. "I'm sure she will figure it out. Ju-hee is in a similar situation and she texts me all the time."

"Of course, it's her first time meeting Byung-gyu. She doesn't know how lucky she is to be his soulmate once he falls for her." Yoon-ho playfully shook his head. "Though, aren't you supposed to be envious?"

"I am. Well, quite. But it's not like I am gonna express it to her, am I? Ju-hee's my friend, and I want her to be happy after all she had been through and without worrying about me."

"Someday, it will your turn to be happy, Jin-woo," Yoon-ho smiled. "Hae-in is probably out there, waiting for you as well."

Jin-woo smiled back and nodded, raising his glass. "And I look forward to yours, hyung."

The two men clicked their glasses together and continued to drink as they chattered.

They soon bid their farewell and went to their respective ways. Even though Yoon-ho was uncertain, Jin-woo was glad that he had caught a glimpse of Jong-in, but if it was someone else, at least it would be a sign. Hee-jin had already crossed paths with her soulmate and Ju-hee as well, and sooner or later, she would return to being a mortal. Jin-woo doubted Byung-gyu would take long to fall in love with her.

His mom? Jin-woo had never seen her so happy.

A few months since the Chalice of Rebirth, Kyung-hye had met Il-hwan when she saw a burning apartment on her way home. One of the firefighters noticed her and escorted her safely through the scene. She told Jin-woo how the feeling was similar to back when they were in their youths.

When he returned home, Jin-woo did not know there was a surprise waiting for him.

"Mom! I'm—"

"Jin-woo!" Kyung-hye greeted him from the kitchen.

Jin-woo paused on the doorway, widening his eyes. "Dad?"

"Huh?" Il-hwan flashed him an odd look.

"Oh! S— sorry!" Jin-woo quickly apologized. "It's— uh, I haven't had someone to consider as a father in years. So seeing you with my mom brings out the feeling."

Il-hwan laughed. "It's okay, young man. I still don't have a kid of my own, so I would've mind treating you like one. I have a co-worker whom I treat the same."

Jin-woo chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, I assume you and my mom had dinner?"

"Yes. The food is delicious." Il-hwan smiled. "It makes me question my cooking abilities."

"I'm sure yours taste fine, sir. I hope you'll come by here next time."

"Thank you, Jin-woo," Il-hwan ruffled the younger man's hair and walked past him, heading to the door.

Jin-woo watched him leave over his shoulder. Warmth lingered in his chest. Shorter hair fit his dad better, it made him look more human rather than a "Vessel". Kyung-hye finished washing the dishes when he approached the table, seeing the meal she had prepared, causing his stomach to growl.

"Your father visited moments ago," said Kyung-hye. "And he brought flowers!"

Jin-woo let out a grin. "It seems you are becoming a mortal, mom. Dad likes you, which is weird since I'm your child."

Kyung-hye chuckled. "Oh, just think of it as witnessing the love story between your parents, son. So, have you met Hae-in?"

"No. . . "

"I'm sure you'll meet her one day," Kyung-hye made her way toward him and craned his head down to plant a kiss on the side of his head. "Don't give up."

"I've been an immortal for so long, I should be used to waiting forever, but seeing how others finally reuniting with their soulmates makes me feel. . . Lost."

"Jin-woo. . . "

"I know, mom. I have to hold on for a bit longer." Love takes patience. Jin-woo reminded himself. But how was it that he had been patient since forever and he was still yearning?

"So, you were walking out of your apartment when a robber rushed in and snatched your bag?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do you know what the robber looked like?"

"No, sir. He wears a black hoodie and a mask. Oh! He has spikey purple hair too!"

"Okay, miss. We'll just check the surveillance cameras on this block and get right on to it." Woo Jin-chul nodded. "Let's go, Sung."

Jin-woo followed suit, and then suddenly, something caught the corner of his eye. His steps abruptly stopped and he whirled his gaze across the street, eyeing the people strolling around until a particular individual sparked his senses. Golden locks of short hair and an athletic build, carrying a gym bag on her shoulder as she headed to the stairway that led to the train station.

Without a fleeting thought, Jin-woo dashed across the road, not caring about the green light.

"Oi! Detective Sung!"

He ignored Jin-chul's shout as he went to the same path she — Hae-in — took, squeezing through the crowd and brushing off their complaints at him. Other people was the least of his worry because what mattered most was reaching the girl whom he had waited for his entire life.

Don't let her disappear, Jin-woo.

You've waited for this. For her.

She's alive!

Feet squeaked against the floor and Jin-woo looked around through the throng of people in frantic. The second he spotted her again, he dashed and politely shoved people blocking his way, muttering his apologies and thanks despite their cold glares.

At last, he finally reached her. Jin-woo extended his hand and caught her wrist. It was as if the world turned slow, noises stopped, and the only vivid thing he could see was her face. . . Beautiful, soft, and young. Just like the Cha Hae-in he had always known and loved. For once, his heart paused its beating, similar to the way the flowers bloom as the sun glazed down, setting life and beauty throughout the things it touched.

"Uh. . . Do I know you?" Hae-in asked.

"Hi." Jin-woo let out a smile amidst his panting. He let go of her wrist. "I just came to say hi."

She blinked. "Okay. . . ?"

Seeing the discomfort in her eyes, Jin-woo quickly made his next move. "You're Cha Hae-in, right? The celebrity athlete."

"Yeah. . . I am."

"I'm a big fan of you. And— I apologize for catching up on you like this."

"No, it's fine. You seem nice." Hae-in smiled.

Jin-woo's heart swelled. He ducked his head bashfully as if he was a little kid meeting a girl for the first time. Hearing her voice again was like listening to music — his favorite music; the way she warmed up to him after knowing his intentions showed how kind and approachable she actually was.

"May I know your name is?"

Butterflies swarmed and his eyes lit up. "Sung Jin-woo."

And that was the beginning of another love story.

[usermischief]

chapter 58: it's not the devil at your door Warnings: violence

You can read it on AO3 as well.

[a/n: sorry for the very long wait. Life got in the way. Thank you so much for your patience. I hope you're enjoying the new chapter💖]

---

“John, with all due respect, I don’t think you have any idea what you’re dealing with.”

“I’m dealing with two traumatized teenagers, Noshiko.”

Stiles watches the spot on the ley line where his father most likely stands, watches as Jordan puts his head in his hands. The conversation must’ve been going on for longer than he’s awake. They’re all exhausted, Stiles can hear it in their voices.

“I think,” Brett pipes up from where he sits on the kitchen counter, “you’re underestimating Sheriff Stilinski.”

Noshiko makes a small impatient noise. “I think your personal feelings are clouding your judgement.”

“Funny, I could say the same about you.”

“Brett.” Satomi’s voice is calm, but it does have the desired effect of shutting her second in command up. Still, there is anger vibrating through the ley line connected to Brett. It’s not surprising. Although Satomi has always seemingly maintained a neutral balance. This time, however, it feels as if she’s choosing a side – a side Brett does clearly not agree with.

Stiles can’t blame him. He’s not agreeing with Noshiko either, but that’s nothing new. They haven’t really agreed on anything for most of the time. Well, aside from killing him in case he’s going to become a hazard for the people around him. That has been the case only a couple of days ago. Now, however, things are different again. Plus, killing him always comes with the price of killing every single chimera still alive and kicking.

Jordan leans back in his chair. “Locking him up in the Hale Vault is only going to re-traumatise him.” He curls his hands around something. A mug, perhaps, or a glass. If Jordan were alone, it might’ve been a glass of whiskey but with Stiles’ dad, Satomi, and Noshiko around, it’s probably some sort of calming tea.

Stiles wonders if he wishes for something stronger. He certainly would.

Noshiko doesn’t sound happy with that, “if we don’t, we put the whole town at risk.”

“You make it sound like Stiles is some sort of monster,” Brett remarks icily.

“He killed-“

“Enough!” His dad slams his hands on the table. The sound startles Stiles enough to pull away from the ley lines accidentally, returning to the quiet of his bedroom with his heart hammering as if he’s run a marathon – not because he’s scared or surprised. Noshiko has proven more than once that she’s absolutely willing to kill him if the need arises, or perhaps as a precaution. While he would’ve agreed with her a while ago, now, the thought of it only makes him want to rip her head off.

Maybe that’s proof enough of her being right.

“You know, it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin. He whips around, spotting Isaac sitting on a mattress on the floor next to his bed. He’s wrapped in a blanket, wearing a sheepish grin. Stiles stares at him, speechless for a while then he settles back into his pillow. The movement jostled his wound, and he grinds his teeth. With a soft sigh, he closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pain. It feels as if someone set his whole upper body on fire.

Next to him, Isaac shuffles under his covers. “I’m angry too.” Again, he’s silent, and the night grows heavy around them. “She’s got no idea what you had to do down there.”

A tight first curls around his heart. No. She doesn’t know. Not everything, that is. But neither does Isaac. Nobody knows the full story of what happened in Eichen House’s basement. Isaac is aware of most of it, but he’s got no clue about the worst part of the story.

Without replying, Stiles pulls his covers up to his chin, fighting the urge to roll onto his side and hide away from the world for a little while longer. He’s not ready to face it yet, or anyone in it.

-

Tracy screeches as she steps on a broken flashlight in the darkness and loses her footing.

“Quiet,” Theo snaps. There’s an edge to his voice. It’s not quite fear yet, but he’s certainly worried.

Once Stiles is done with Tracy, he’ll deal with Theo. Mates or not, nobody will take away his food ever again. Some lessons clearly need to be taught as early as possible so shit like this will never happen again.

Stiles turns his head to the right. Even if Tracy were as quiet as a statue, he wouldn’t have any issue finding her in complete darkness. The scent of her sheer panic acts like a neon sign.

“Quiet!” Theo orders again, and his voice carries through the dark hallway. “Stiles, stop it.” Red eyes flash in the darkness, darting back and forth as if looking for him. They pass right over him, but his aura doesn’t give him away like it would Kira or perhaps even Noshiko and other foxes. The night is his kingdom. It bends to his will.

Tracy shrieks then hits the ground hard. She makes it almost too easy.

“Miecio!” Theo’s voice is calm, but his scent is spiked with fear now. Is he afraid of him, or what he might do? “You wanna be pissed at someone, be pissed at me. I killed Deaton, remember? She didn’t do anything.”

Stiles whips his head around and stares at the vague shape of his boyfriend, his mate. It’s getting easier to see him by the second. He can almost make out his features now. Under normal circumstances, Theo wouldn’t have any issue finding him. But now, Stiles doesn’t want to be found. By anybody. He narrows his eyes, following Theo as he moves to the left as quietly as possible. Away from him. Towards Tracy. He grinds his teeth. “Don’t tell me you’re protecting her.”

Theo’s red eyes snap towards him, and he stops moving. It’s hard to tell if he sees him or merely fixes on a spot in the dark, he assumes to be Stiles. “I��m protecting you.”

“From her?” Stiles scoffs. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m protecting you from yourself.” Theo takes a step forward. Judging by the groan of pain, he hit one of the orderlies instead of the ground. It doesn’t deter him from moving, much less talking. “I know you’re angry, but-“

Stiles shoots his hand out, curling his fingers around Corey’s throat. “Do you consider me stupid, Theodore?” He tightens his grip, digging his fingertips into the soft skin without looking away from Theo. It would be easy, so very easy. But Corey is innocent in all this. He’s merely following orders. With a sigh, he lets go of the kid. “I’m awfully sorry about this,” he says, and, for what it’s worth, he actually means it, before shoving his hand against Corey’s chest.

A surge of energy rushes through Stiles’ body and hits Corey square in the chest. It sends him flying and crashing straight into Theo.

Stiles chuckles. “Now,” he whispers, finally stepping out of the doorway. “Oh, Tracy.” If only he could hear her heartbeat now. He can only imagine it would match the panic filling all his senses. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” As if she could hide from him. Nobody can. Not in here. However, there is nothing quite as sweet as the taste of hope ripped away.

“Tracy~” he sings. He raises his brows. He can see her now, crouching next to one of the guards, a hand pressed over her mouth. She’s holding out her right hand, claws dripping with venom, probably hoping Stiles is stupid enough to run into her.

Stiles stops on the other side of the body. “Boo,” he whispers and kicks her in the face.

She screams out in pains as she sprawls on the floor.

Could he have used magic? Yes. But this is so much more satisfying.

“Theo, please. Help!”

Stiles sets his jaw. Without hesitation, he grabs her by the hair and slams her into the wall. “I’m done with this.” Done with her dragging Theo into her business. Done with her acting like Theo cares about her. She isn’t even supposed to be here. She was supposed to rot. “Just because he got you out doesn’t mean you’re going to stay.” He leans closer and places his mouth right next to her ear. “I’m going to get rid of you one way or another.” But not quite yet, first, he is going to have a fun time with teaching her a lesson. Everything would’ve been so much easier for her if she finally realised that Theo isn’t hers to touch.

Something shifts in the darkness, striding closer by the second. Flames lick around the corner and illuminate Theo, staring at him, and Corey, both hands pressed against the wall but now frozen like a deer in headlights.

“Welcome to the party.” That certainly makes everything a lot easier. Smirking, he slams Tracy’s head against the wall and lets go of her, not bothering to wait until she’s crumpled to the ground, whimpering softly. Instead, he returns to his spot by the door, watching in amusement as Corey shuffles towards Theo again. Keeping his distance isn’t the worst idea. There will be a point when even following orders isn’t an excuse for getting to Isaac any longer, and Stiles really doesn’t want to hurt Corey.

Theo reaches out for him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Jordan,” he calls just as the hellhound rounds the corner, “we need your help.” It’s not hard to imagine how much this admission must’ve hurt his ego.

Try as he might, Stiles cannot suppress a bark of laughter. Does Theo truly believe Jordan would follow his orders?

“Stiles,” Jordan breathes, almost surprised to see him unharmed and alive. Perhaps not an unusual reaction after being gone for so long.

“Jay,” Stiles replies with a small nod, “Cerberus.” It’s fascinating to see how Jordan’s face morphs into a nearly expressionless mask. If not for Isaac, Stiles would feel bad for using him like this. However, it isn’t about revenge, it’s about a rescue, and Cerberus is the only person Stiles trusts to get Isaac out of here. Jordan would understand. He will understand. “Bring Isaac to safety. Just you. Nobody touches. Nobody stops you.”

Theo shakes his head. “Jordan…” But he is smarter than to step into a hellhound’s path. All he can do is watch. He clenches his jaw, narrowing his eyes as he’s reduced to stand by, unable to do anything else. As great as Tracy’s panic may be, there is something about Theo’s anger, that’s so much more tempting, something Stiles just can’t stay away from – and he refuses to allow anyone to come in-between them.

Gently, Jordan lifts Isaac into his arms. The werewolf makes a soft pained noise, but he is safe with Jordan – most likely a lot safer than he would be with Stiles. He could leave with him, just walk out of here, and end this nightmare once and for all.

His gaze snaps to Deaton. It’s over.

It’s over.

Stiles curls his hands into fists.

But he’s not done. Not yet anyway.

-

“Hey.” Someone shakes his shoulder.

Stiles startles awake, fist aiming blindly in the direction of the sound.

Luckily, Jordan has quick reflexes. He catches his wrist before his knuckles had the chance to connect with his nose. “Nice aim.” Jordan cocks a brow, studying his face for a few moments before his expression softens and something akin to regret sneaks into his features. He probably should’ve known better than to wake Stiles up like this.

Drawing his brows together, Stiles slumps into the pillows. He is still exhausted, but that’s not what’s keeping him glued to his mattress. It’s the past and the memories. The reality of what happened and what he did. It’s the blood on his hands. It’s the crushing realisation of having gone to far.

It’s also the fucking pain in his chest.

“Josh is here.” Jordan places his hand on the blanket next to Stiles’ arm. “He wants to know if you want to join them.”

Pressing his lips together, Stiles pushes himself into a sitting position although he’d rather burrow deeper into his blanket and hide from everyone and everything forever. He winces at another zap of sharp pain cuts through his chest and back. Stiles notices the twitch of Jordan’s hands, but he seems to know better than to baby him. Turns out having one silver eyes makes for a good death glare.

Stiles clears his throat. “Theo?”

Jordan avoids his eyes.

Stiles drops his gaze to his hands then shakes his head.

Bed sheets rustle as Isaac props himself up. As much as Stiles would prefer to be alone at the moment, Isaac’s presence keeps the panic at bay. His dad joked about the co-dependency, but it was a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood after he found out Isaac moved into Stiles’ bedroom. The days aren’t even the issue. It’s when the nightmares creep in.

Jordan runs a hand through his hair. “You can’t hide forever.”

-

“Come on, Stiles!” Theo’s frustration is palpable. “You can’t hide forever!”

Oh, but he can. Especially down here where it’s pitch black. Watching Theo getting more and more angry is like getting an early Christmas present. Stiles doesn’t want to miss it for the world. In fact, he’d like to make it worse. He wants him to explode, to taste all that pent-up rage his mate has been holding on to forever.

“Stiles, please.”

“Begging, really?” Stiles laughs softly, watching as Tracy and Corey work their way along the walls, probably to get behind him. It’s not a stupid idea to surround him, but in the end, Stiles can see them while they still have no clue where he is. With Cerberus’ fire gone, they’re back in complete darkness. “Come on, Misu, you’re an alpha now. Begging should be beneath you.”

As expected, Theo’s anger spikes briefly. His short fuse if truly a gift. “And you’re a nogitsune now, everyone is afraid of you.” His tone shifts. The storm of anger turns to a cool breeze. It’s nothing more than a façade. “Yet you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding.” Stiles moves to stand right in front of Theo, brushing his fingers lightly over Theo’s cheek. The simple touch makes him dizzy with want. A soft gasp falls from Theo’s lips. How long have they not touched each other? How long has he been down here? “I’m playing,” he adds in a low voice.

Before he has the chance to get a hold of him, Stiles puts distance between them. He’ s not stupid enough to risk being caught. Real kitsune or not, once Theo’s got him, it would be game over, and he’s not quite ready to end it.

Not until he’s done with Tracy.

Stiles watches her shuffle further down the wall and draws his brows together. It doesn’t seem like they’re trying to surround him.

“You play with your food?” Theo asks, his voice mocking, almost cruel – it’s the same he’s used on Scott whenever they interacted lately. “I thought your mother taught you better than that.”

Stiles whips around. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Rage licks at his insides. Stiles curls his hands into tight fists. Nobody is putting his mother into a bad light, not even Theo.

Before he can move, however, the lights come back on. A soft curse falls from his lips, and he shields his eyes. For a moment, it disorients him badly. Blood rushes in his ears.

His muscles ache.

He’s starving.

Badly.

“Tracy, no!” Theo yells.

Without the warning, Stiles would’ve been caught blindsided. This, however, allows him to sidestep her attack. Still, the claws miss him only narrowly, and he nearly falls on his ass. He rights himself the second Tracy attacks him again. There’s blood smeared under her nose and cheek. Her nose doesn’t look quite right either. Her fangs bared in anger. Good thing that anger makes her just a stupid as it does everyone else, so he manages to catch both her wrists easily.

She snarls, trying to free herself.

As luck would have it, strength-wise they’re pretty evenly matched. It’s alphas that will forever be the bane of his existence. Not only can they kill him with a single bite, they also overpower him as if he’s nothing more than an ordinary creature.

Which he most certainly is not.

Grinding his teeth, he kicks Tracy in the stomach. He’s done playing with her. This fucking kanima needs to get lost.

Now.

As she folds in on herself, Stiles lets go of her arms and grabs her head instead.

“No!” Corey’s voice echoes in the hallway.

Footsteps approach rapidly from his left, but it doesn’t matter. Stiles snaps her neck. Hardly anything could be more satisfying. Too bad she’s going to heal from that. Too bad she’ll wake up and continue to be a fucking menace in his life. Maybe he should end it right now. That would spare him a lot of problems in the future.

Theo crashes into him, and it’s like being hit by a wrecking ball. They hit the ground hard. Stiles grinds his teeth together, trying to keep the grunt of pain safely tugged away. Instead, he wedges his arm free and elbows Theo in the face. The impact sends another wave of pain through his arm. The shock, however, startles Theo long enough that Stiles manages to get out from underneath him before he’s able to pin him down.

With narrowed eyes, Theo spits blood on the ground and gets to his feet.

Behind him, Corey disappears into thin air, Tracy slung over her shoulder.

Stiles fixes his boyfriend with a glare. “You’re still protecting her?” How could he? After what she did? Not to him, but to Theo. She nearly got him killed. Her jealousy almost ended the life of the one person she claimed to love.

“I don’t care about what happens to her.” And yet, Theo is shifting into the middle of the hallway, making his intentions absolutely clear. There is no getting past him. He’s helping her get away. “I care about you.” Yet he curls his hands into fists and narrows his eyes. He’s ready to stop him if push comes to shove. An unstoppable force. “And that you can still look at yourself once you’re out of here.”

“How nice of you.” Stiles cocks his head to the side. How far would Theo really go to stop him, is the real question. There was a time when he would’ve hurt him. Not too long ago, Theo was more than willing to use violence to get his way. Things are different now, but how different is Theo when someone defies him for too long?

-

“Sorry,” his dad whispers, pulling his hands away. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles glances at him in the mirror then back at his chest. The wound is still red and aggressive. He’s still bleeding whenever he’s moving too much, or his bandages are changed. “It’s fine.” Jordan didn’t have any more luck yesterday either. The bandages stick to his skin, tugging on the scabs. He’d prefer if nobody touched it, but with how aggressively red his skin already is, he also doesn’t want to risk an infection. Not with how slowly he’s healing at the moment.

Slow enough, in fact, that people are questioning his intentions. He is trying to heal himself.

But getting run through with the sword of a thunder kitsune is nothing to shake off that easily.

Carefully, he pokes one of the scabs and winces. Yeah, there’s no shot he’ll risk an infection.

“Should we call someone?” his dad inquires with furrowed brows.

The things Stiles would give to see his dad relax. But until he’s fully healed, and the Dread Doctors are dealt with, there’s not exactly much he can do to help that. “Who, Deaton?” his tone is mocking, bit his dad’s glare shuts him up quickly. Although his father understands that Stiles and Theo had to do what was necessary, he’s still the sheriff of this town. “I don’t think so. I’m healing just a little slower than usual.” And that’s more annoying than something to worry about.

His father sighs. “I don’t know anything about this.” As it is, he isn’t the only one. Stiles is pretty sure nobody here knows what the hell is going on either – and the only people who might have an inkling are either wanting to kill him or dead. That’s not exactly comforting.

There’s also Morrell, but the last time they ran into each other, she wanted to kill him. So, he doesn’t exactly trust her either.

When his dad holds up the bandage, Stiles raises his arms compliantly. He just wants to go back to bed and sleep, or at the very least rest his eyes.

“You should stay home for the rest of the week,” his dad muses as he carefully wraps the bandage around Stiles’ chest. Only someone attuned to the supernatural world would suggest that resting for a week is enough to deal with a wound like this. A few months ago, Stiles would’ve easily died like a normal person after someone drove their whole fucking katana through his chest.

Now, he’s merely sleeping it off.

“You know,” Stiles says in a soft voice, “I do have enough credits to graduate early.” Attending summer school to be a good friend to Scott helped wit that.

His dad purses his lips. “No.” That doesn’t come as a surprise. His health and education are two things he’s never not extremely serious about.

“I can’t go to college anyway.” They don’t even know if he’s able to leave the nemeton’s territory at all, but they’re pretty sure he won’t be able to stay away for as long as any college would require him to. Once his grandparents are too old to travel, Stiles is never going to see them again.

His dad pulls the bandage tighter almost passive-aggressively. “What happened-“

“Dad, I’m a walking and talking time-bomb.” Stiles locks eyes with him in the mirror, and he knows he’s won the argument before it really began. “I’m a nogitsune now. I need to get a handle on this, or I’ll accidentally turn my school into a warzone because I’m in a bad mood. I can’t go back and play lacrosse like nothing’s changed. I can’t be that irresponsible.” And he most certainly won’t be. He was flying off the handle bad enough that he- Stiles shakes his head. Best not to think about that. Besides, there is still the issue with the Dread Doctors. If they haven’t gotten what they came for, there’s always the possibility they’ll come back for him again. A school full of students didn’t stop them before, and it’s not going to stop them now.

“I just want you to have a normal life.” He secures the bandage and drop his hands.

Stiles hates seeing him like that. He hates that his father has always tried his best to keep Stiles’ life as normal as humanly possible. Ever since his mother passed away. It has never been normal, but they found their new normal. They’ll be able to do that again. “I could start working for you,” Stiles offers with a small grin. He’s wanted to become an FBI agent, but with the trajectory his life is going, becoming a deputy might be the next best thing.

His dad offers him a small smile in return. “We’ll figure something out, kiddo.”

-

“Let’s figure this out, okay?” Theo’s new reasonable side is seriously starting to piss him off. He is burning with anger, and yet he’s just standing there. Again. Trying to defuse the situation.

Stiles wants to rip his head off. Instead, he moves his fingers in a beckoning gesture, and the four broken flashlights raise into the air, lifted by the few shadows Stiles has access to. “Oh yeah?” He’s not interested in talking this out. He’s interested in getting rid of Tracy for good. Sighing deeply, he points at a flashlight. Without a second of hesitation, it shoots directly at Theo’s face.

His eyes narrow as he swats it away like an annoying housefly. “Stop it.”

But Stiles doesn’t. “Or what?” he asks as the next flashlight rushes towards Theo.

Again, he slaps it away. “I said, stop.”

Stiles grins and hurls the next one at him. “And I said, or what?” There’s got to be a way to push Theo over the edge. He needs him to move out of his way before Corey gets too far away. He might be able to deal with Theo by himself as long as Theo won’t be able to grab him, but there’s no way in hell he can deal with the whole rescue squad.

Not right now, that is.

Not when he’s weak.

Theo bares his teeth in a snarl. “Stiles, stop.”

“Make me,” Stiles taunts before sending the last flashlight in his direction.

Finally, Theo breaks into a run, his anger boiling over, becoming stronger than his logic. Because he knows what he’s doing is stupid. He’s got to know; Stiles is having the upper hand the very moment he’s giving him an opening.

Stiles can see the realization on his face the moment he’s twisting away and out of reach. He doesn’t wait around to bask in Theo’s frustration. Instead, he breaks into a run. He doesn’t know where all his friends are, but he can pinpoint the ones he’s worried about the most – Theo, behind him in the hallway, running but not gaining on him. Brett, standing guard by the showers, the easiest way in and out, and then there’s Peter, waiting in the tunnels.

Corey hasn’t reached Brett yet, but Stiles is running out of time.

He’s doubling his efforts, rushing past mostly paralyzed guards. The chimeras didn’t even try to be sneaky on their way in. That makes it a lot easier to catch up, and thanks to Jordan burning every line of mountain ash he came across, nothing else is stopping him. Nothing at all.

As he runs, Stiles breaks every light he can find. The hallway plunges into darkness, reinvigorating him with every step he takes.

Somewhere in front of him, Corey gasps.

Gotcha.

Stiles gathers his strength and make a sweeping motion towards the ground. It takes a few seconds until the rumbling starts and a couple more until the ground is breaking apart right in front of his feet.

And more importantly, right underneath Corey’s feet.

The chimera yelps when he loses his footing in the darkness. Only a heartbeat later, Tracy tumbles into view.

“What the-“

“Jackson!” Theo yells. “Stop him. Stop him!”

Brett is moving now. Seems like he’s not been guarding the showers alone. Great. Then again, who is he told to stop? Guards, or Stiles.

Traitors. The lot of them.

Stiles brings his hands up, using the shadows to hurl the rubble towards the remaining lights in front of him.

They’re plunged into complete darkness just as Brett and Jackson round the corner.

Stiles heaves a breath and moves out of the doorway. Fuck. He was so fucking close. There’s no way to- Stiles blinks. But there is. There is a way to kill her quietly and get some power back. After all, she doesn’t need to be conscious to be terrified.

Two sets of footsteps come to a stop near the other gate. “What the hell?” Jackson repeats, sounding utterly confused. “I just saw him. He was right there.” Unbeknownst to him, he is pointing directly at Stiles. Being utterly invisible will never cease to amaze him. Werewolves aren’t usually this easy to fool.

Still, that’s his cue to move. Slowly, he tiptoes towards the wall and inches his way towards Tracy. Their confusion might be the last chance he’ll have to get to her.

“No,” Corey breathes, sitting on the ground and holding his ankle. “He’s here. He can vanish in the dark.” As he moves, a small wince of pain echoes in Stiles’ ears like a gunshot.

Hunger and guilt twist in his stomach. Corey wasn’t meant to get hurt, but following orders means that you could end up as collateral damage. The world isn’t fair, not even to someone as innocent as Corey.

Stiles crouches down next to Tracy. He places a hand over her mouth, forcing the darkness to swallow her up too. All that’s going to give them away now would be a sound.

“Tracy.” Theo comes to a stop somewhere behind him. “He’s going to kill Tracy.”

Heart hammering in his chest, Stiles places his other hand at her temple. There are no defences keeping him out. He sinks into her mind as if swallowed up by the ocean.

“She’s-“ Brett cuts off.

“She was right there!” Jackson sounds more confused than worried as Stiles makes his way into the swirling of world of Tracy’s nightmares – of the Dread Doctors and what they did to her, of her father’s death, all the other night terrors that used to plague her.

Of Theo looking at Stiles.

Of Theo sending her away.

Of Theo in his bed, unresponsive and fighting for his life.

Her fault.

Stiles grinds his teeth. That was her fucking fault, and it’s going to be the last thing she’ll ever see. He digs his fingers into the nightmare, dragging it up to the forefront of her mind, twisting it, showing her how truly alone she really was.

Because that’s the thing she’s most afraid of.

Loneliness.

Of everyone she cares about leaving her forever. A room full of people with no one to turn to, a pack, a family that doesn’t care if she’s dying right next to them.

“Phone!”

The terror tastes exquisite. Panic like that, panic stemming from love rejected, from being left behind is something he could get used to.

“Phone, someone get a fucking phone.”

And the best thing about it? She’ll never wake up from it. The last moments of her life will be filled with everything she’s utterly afraid of.

How fitting.

Bright light rips him out of the nightmare.

Stiles blinks, raises a hand to protect his eyes.

Theo crashes into him again, ripping him off Tracy. It feels like what Stiles can only imagine to be hit by a wreaking ball. The impact makes his bones ache. Unfortunately, this time Theo is also prepared for Stiles’ trying to hit him. He grabs his arm in a painful grip. “Don’t,” Theo warns in a low growl.

But Stiles has one hand free. He slams it to the ground. The nemeton reacts faster this time. Roots curl around Theo’s ankles and rip him away before slamming him straight into Jackson, whose phone clatters to the ground. It lands flashlight down, taking part of the light with it.

Brett’s phone is still directed at him, and he’s standing only a foot away. “Don’t even think about it.” His stance is clear. Brett will fight him, no questions asked. He’s come a long way since their last run in down in the tunnels.

“You people really need to stop telling me what I can and can’t do.” Stiles jumps to his feet.

Brett huffs. “Go on, throw your rocks at me. You can’t kill me with your powers.”

“Oh, but I can.” Stiles smiles, cocking his head to the left as he pulls the roots back towards him. “And I have.” And he will again.

Just not yet.

Now, he needs to leave. Preferably fast and before the werewolves manage to pin him down. He is going to walk out of this place with his head held high or not at all.

Stiles flicks his wrist, and four phones are grabbed by shadows and pulled towards him. Four, but it’s only five people. He looks at the phones, drawing his brows together. Theo didn’t bring his phone. He’s also wearing sweatpants. Someone is prepared to hunt him down as a wolf if he has to. 

Of course, Theo isn’t about to give up easily.

Fun.

Stiles crushes their phones and throws the remnants back at them. By the sound of it, his aim wasn’t off.

Now, to distract them. A little bit of strife can never hurt anyone. All he has to do is-“

“I’m going to fucking strangle him,” Jackson snaps, fidgeting with something right next to his left eye.

It takes Theo a second to react, but he grabs his brother by the throat and slams him into the cold stone wall. “Touch him, and I’ll rip your head off.”

Never mind.

With anger issues running so deep in the family, Stiles doesn’t have to do anything. No wonder he’s so drawn to all of them, and especially Theo. Theo’s anger, his rage, it’s like crack. If they weren’t mates already, Stiles would’ve guessed they were destined to be anyway.

Brett growls in annoyance. “Guys, you know-“

“Don’t start, Prep School,” Jackson snarls. “You don’t get to act all high and mighty just because Satomi had pity on the poor little orphan.”

That snaps Brett to attention. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take much, but with how aggressive Jackson and Theo are, this fight works without much of his input. Good. Makes it a lot easier for him to slip out unnoticed.

Stiles grabs Corey by the back of his collar and pulls him to his feet. “Time to go,” he whispers, watching as the three guys barely resist to jump each other’s throat. Maybe they’re finally getting it out of their systems so their childish bickering will stop. “It’s gonna get ugly soon.” Too bad, Stiles has to leave. He would’ve preferred to stick around and watch everything blow up, but alas…

“You fuckin-“

“What?” Brett taunts, “you fucking what, Theodore. Speak your mind.”

Stiles doesn’t hear the reply, if there even is one. Instead, he slips into the showers and ushers Corey out of Eichen and into the tunnels. His second least favourite place on this godforsaken earth.

Corey drops to the ground with a wince and crouches down to hold his ankle.

“Sorry about that,” Stiles says, and he means it. The kid wasn’t supposed to get hurt. “Wait here. I’m sure the others will come soon.”

Sitting down, Corey frowns at him. “Why are you so nice to me?”

Nice is debatable, but in comparison to the others, Stiles supposed he’s right. “You didn’t stand in my way… at least not out of your own free will.” He shrugs and turns away. Time is a limited resource, one he’s not planning on wasting any longer, not even for Corey.

Sighing, he hurries down the corridor in the direction of Peter. He’s not sure who is stationed at the other exits, and although Peter may be strong, Stiles is pretty sure he’s his best bet of getting out of here before his influence over the others is completely gone.

Whoever decided to put Jackson and Brett together wasn’t exactly a genius. No wonder Stiles is usually the one making the plans.

“I know you’re here,” Stiles calls, slowing down as his eyes dart around the intersection. He has absolutely no intention of getting jumped by Peter Hale so close to freedom. “You might as well come out now.” After all, he can’t evade what he cannot see.

“My, my.” Peter chuckles. “So angry.” Slowly, he’s sauntering around the corner, placing himself in the middle of the intersection with his hands in his pockets.

Stiles curls his into fists. Peter seems almost bored and not the least bit concerned about Stiles getting past everyone on his own. “You’re alone?” Stiles asks, forcing himself to relax his shoulders. “Are you that full of yourself?” To be honest, he wouldn’t put it past him.

“You’d be surprised what a little family time can change.” Peter’s smile is unpleasant as during his worst days.

And Stiles doesn’t trust it or the fact that he’s all alone down here. That just doesn’t seem right. Loyalty to his family or not, Peter is the one most likely to let him walk away if it benefits him in some way.

“Get out of my way.”

“Unfortunately, I was told not to let you pass.” Peter is standing his ground, and with how narrow the tunnels are, getting around him might become an actual challenge. The thing is, if Peter doesn’t move to ensure Stiles isn’t turning the other way either.

He narrows his eyes. “What do you want?” because this is Peter Hale, and Peter Hale always wants something.

His smile broadens, and Stiles only barely resist the urge to step away when Peter closes in. “Your anger.” Peter raises his hands as if to grab Stiles’ face but thinks better of it. All that rage holds so much raw power, and you’re wasting it on my son’s incredibly uninteresting plaything.”

Stiles stiffens and curls his hands into fists. “What?” he asks through gritted teeth

“Oh, she hates you.” Peter leans in and lowers his voice. “Every day, she was sitting in his home, hoping you’d rot somewhere. She never wanted you to be found, Stiles.” Every single word is a match struck, slowly burning away the threads holding Stiles together. “And then,” Peter continues, putting his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, “the worst part, the utmost insult, Theo brought her here. Not to knock out those guards, oh no. She was his failsafe.”

Footsteps echo in the corridor, and Stiles looks over his shoulder, watching Jackson and Theo rush towards them at breakneck speeds.

Peter puts his mouth right next to Stiles’ ear. “She was supposed to paralyze you in case you lost your mind.” A chuckle ripples through his body. “Theo didn’t trust you, so he-“ Peter makes sure to lower his voice even further “-brought-“ and yet every single word feels like a godforsaken punch in the gut “-her.”

Stiles turns around fully, curling his hands into fists.

Without a second of hesitation, Jackson yanks Theo to a stop. “What did you do?”

Stiles’ gaze is locked on Theo. Angry churns in his stomach, spreading its uncomfortable heat throughout his whole body until there is nothing else left.

“I was told not to harm him,” Peter replies as he steps away from him. “I happen to be formidable at improvising.”

Stiles reaches a hand towards the shadows. There is terrible lighting down here, yet enough for him to vanish completely. Still, there is plenty to use to teach Theo his lesson once and for all. He pulls his hand back, dragging six shadowy throwing stars into the light.

“Do you- uh.” Jackson stops himself, glancing from Theo to the throwing stars and back again. “Are they real?”

Theo merely scoffs. “He’s a nogitsune.” The idiot might have not been said, but it’s very clearly heard.

Idiot, indeed.

Stiles throws the first star.

Although Theo seems to believe all of this is merely a hallucination, he moves his hand to swat it away like he’s previously done with the flashlight – unlike those, however, the throwing star buries itself in the back of Theo’s hand, drawing very real blood. A gasp of pain falls from his lips. For a moment, he stares at his hand, watches the thin line of blood forming on his wrist. He grinds his teeth, blue eyes narrowing dangerously as they lock with Stiles.

Rage.

Finally.

“Fine,” he snarls, pulling the star out of his hand. “Have it your way, little fox.” Blood drops into the dust at his feet before his skin closes up.

Stiles raises his brows and snaps his fingers, dissolving the stars in front of him.

“Theo, don’t fall-“

“Stay out of this,” Theo snaps without as much as a glance at his brothers. “Get the others and get out of here.” For merely a second, Theo looks at Peter. “You too. This is personal.”

While Peter is listening to Theo, Jackson doesn’t seem convinced. “Listen, Theo. This is a terrible idea.” He puts a hand on Theo’s shoulder and watches Peter as he all but saunters over to them. He couldn’t pretend to be more unbothered if he tried, yet, merely a moment before he passes Theo, he shakes his head. The movement is so small, Stiles would’ve never noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it.

“No,” Theo snarls in response to something Stiles didn’t hear. “I want you both to leave.”

And they do, even if only reluctantly.

Theo doesn’t move, but his claws spring free with a soft snick. “Not exactly how I imagined our reunion to be.”

“That makes two of us.” Stiles crosses his arms behind his back and smiles, head cocked slightly to the left. “I wonder whose fault that is.” After all, Theo came here not only disrespecting but also insulting him by bringing Tracy along like she’s never done anything wrong in her life ever – like she’s never done anything to them.

Red bleeds into Theo’s eyes. “Your little game ends here.” Without wasting any more time, Theo charges at him.

Predictable.

Stiles avoids him at the last second. Smirking, he dips his hand into the shadows again. A rush of power courses through his as the darkness bends to his will and around his fingers to create a slim chain. Stiles grabs it with both hands and wraps it around Theo’s throat. A snarls fills the silence of the corridor as Stiles yanks him back.

Theo’s breath hitches. His hands fly up to grab the chain, but for a moment, Stiles is stronger. “You know,” he breathes, pressing his mouth against Theo’s ear, “you should just give up.”

“On you?” Theo makes an odd sound in the back of his throat. “Over my dead body.”

Stiles lets go of the chain as if it burned him and steps away from Theo. His chest is suddenly too tight, his heart at least two sizes to big. He opens his mouth, but the words get stuck in his throat.

The chain dissipates.

“Miecio.” Theo raises his hands. His movements are so unbelievably slow – like he’s dealing with a caged animal.

And in some ways, perhaps he does.

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t want you to die.” The words come out broken and angry. His heart hurts, and he wants to punch Theo until his knuckles bleed.

“Really?” Theo’s lips quirk into a grin. “I wouldn’t have guessed.” He moves closer, one step at a time. So dreadfully slow. The grin doesn’t reach his eyes.

Stiles’ body goes cold.

Theo doesn’t trust him.

But he trusted Tracy.

The rage returns like a tidal wave, drowning Stiles, consuming him. He rushes forward, slamming into Theo at full speed. It’s like running into a brick wall. But the anger numbs his pain. They’re crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

“Stiles!” Theo bares his teeth, sharp, a death sentence. It’s one bite, that could kill him. Maybe even less. “Snap out of it.” He reaches for his arms.

But Stiles gets his hands on him first. He grabs Theo’s face and straddles him, slamming his head against the unforgiving stones once then twice. “Fuck you,” he spits. The soft groan, the pain thrumming under Theo’s skin – it’s like a drug. “Fuck you.” He could’ve already been out of here, but Theo had to make it complicated. He had to kill Deaton and, worst of all, he had to bring Tracy to stop him. Not only did he think that she could beat him, out of everyone, he chose the one person disrespecting Stiles and their relationship – and he’s not going to allow that again.

Stiles digs his fingers into Theo’s skin, almost blind with rage. “And you call yourself my mate? His eyes burn, tears prick at their corners. He’s been kidnapped, starved and experimented on.

And Theo allowed her back.

“You disgust me.”

Theo’s grips around his hips tightens as Stiles forces his way into his head. Another soft groan falls from his lips, one that might have very well be his name.

Stiles hits a wall in Theo’s mind. He didn’t expect this to be easy, not at all, but this one makes his head spin. Stiles closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Let me in,” he whispers, locking eyes with Theo again, and presses his thumb to the corner of his mouth. His stomach flutters as somewhere, deep inside him, the desire to kiss and hold Theo takes root. He’s missed him, desperately. His body craves his touch, his warmth so much more than everything else.

There.

The flash of an image. The woods. A bridge.

His sister’s death.

Stiles grinds his teeth and latches onto it, hooks his fingers into the crack to pry it open. “Let me in.”

“Please,” Theo growls, but the sound is weak, almost soft.  “Miecio, please.” Pain swims to the surface. Emotional pain. The one Theo loves so much.

Stiles gets it. He really does. It’s beautifully raw and nearly overwhelming, especially as Theo’s defences finally break open.

Another pained groan falls from Theo’s lips, but he’s stubbornly fighting back and sinks his claws into Stiles’ sides.

He hisses in pain.

Bastard.

The image flickers again, but Theo isn’t the only one who’s stubborn. Stiles pushes harder against his mental barriers, refusing to be forced out again – and then everything around him shifts into focus.

He’s standing on the bridge, looking down at Tara pleading for her life. She’s dying. Slowly and alone because Theo doesn’t care.

Or rather, he didn’t.

The little boy next to him is void of any feelings but pure hatred. He couldn’t care less about his sister’s death. Things are different now. The image flickers without Stiles’ doing. Little Theo is gone, replaced by Theo as he is now – damaged and unable to help. He is trying, however, pounding his fists against an invisible wall.

But there’s no way through.

No way to help—

Stiles blinks. There is Tara, dead in the water, his biggest regret. Next to her are the Dread Doctors, each of them holding one person.

Stiles, Jackson, and Peter.

After his sister’s death, Theo’s biggest fear remains the same; losing his family all over again.

“Stiles…”

He blinks again. The image in front of him flickers. What is he doing? What was the thinking? Theo would never hurt him. He’d never break his trust. Why- No. No. This is all wrong. This isn’t what he meant to do.

He’s hurting Theo over nothing.

Stiles pulls back and lets go of Theo, nearly throwing himself off him in his haste to get away. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, reaching out but hesitant to touch as Theo rolls onto his side, eyes squeezed shut tightly. “I’m- Theo, Misu, I- I didn’t- I’m sorry. I-“ didn’t mean to do that? Didn’t know what came over me? But he does. He knows the answer to that very question. Rage. Jealousy. The simple fact that he believed Theo disrespected him.

And Peter’s words finally made him snap.

“Theo, I-“

“Mom. Mom, no!”

Sharp, raging hot pain burns in his chest. Stiles opens his mouth, but no sound escapes him as he blinks down at the katana coated in his own blood sticking out of his chest.

-

“I’m going to kill her.”

“And that, dear brother, is why you need a babysitter around the clock.”

Theo glares at Jackson but doesn’t stop his pacing. His shoulders have been one rigid line ever since Stiles’ dad dropped him off here. Theo didn’t act particularly surprised about the early visit. He even had Stiles’ favorite breakfast ready at this ungodly hour in the morning. They didn’t even try to hide that they’ve planned this.

That, at least, means his dad stayed in contact with Theo despite Stiles avoiding him after what happened in Eichen.  

Huffing, Theo all but throws himself onto the couch and puts his head on Stiles’ lap. The way he is able to bounce back from everything – the way he trusts Stiles so much more than Stiles does himself – it’s almost too much.

Stiles swallows around the heart lodged in his throat. “Comfortable?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like he’s joking, but his voice is quiet and brittle.

Enough so that Theo studies his face with knitted brows before he smirks at him, “always.”

Jackson groans. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather be in school right now.”

“Why aren’t you?” Stiles asks as Jackson slaps Theo’s legs for some room.

His brother doesn’t fail to respond with a kick before scooting up a little higher.

“Because he-“ Jackson points at Theo without looking at him “- is a homicidal maniac, and you are the most unstable person I’ve ever met.”

Theo scoffs. “Why do I get flack when everyone in here killed someone?”

Jackson shoots him a sharp look.

Stiles pushes Theo off and gets to his feet.

Theo’s eyes widen slightly as he sits up. “Babe—”

“Don’t.”

“That wasn’t you.”

“I said don’t!” Stiles has never been able to handle insults very well, but on a normal day, he was able to wrap the insults up with a neat little bow to obsess over at a later time. “Don’t fucking tell me who I am, okay?”

Jackson eyes him warily, not moving from his spot on the couch. He won’t even give them the illusion of privacy.

Narrowing his eyes, Theo all but launches himself over the back of the couch. Although being smaller than Stiles, he seems to be towering over him. “You want me to call you a murderer instead? A monster?”

Stiles balls his hands into fists. “Don’t try to take away my accountability, jackass.” His heart is pounding in his chest as his anger rises like a tidal wave.

“You killed Tracy,” Theo shoots back without a second of hesitation. “Is that what you want to hear?” He sounds like it didn’t matter when it most certainly does.

It wasn’t self-defense. Not this time.

With Tracy, it was murder.

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair. “I killed her in a fit of jealous rage.” Who knows what else could put him in a state like that? He’s a ticking time bomb.

“It’s kind of hot when you say it like that,” Theo smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I can’t believe I’m related to you,” Jackson mutters as he gets to his feet. “Anyone want a drink?” He points in the direction of the kitchen.

For a moment, Stiles stares at him. Yeah, sure, how could they ever be related. More so to clear his head than as a response. “Was it still hot when I tried to kill you?”

“Not really, no.” Theo cocks his head to the side almost contemplatively. “But I nearly killed you once too. I’d say we’re even.”

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “If you want to be technical about it,” he remarks icily, crossing his arms over his chest, “I almost killed you three times already.”

Theo huffs out a breath. “The time you threw me across the room hardly counts.”

“I should’ve stayed in London,” Jackson mutters as he wanders into the kitchen, shaking his head.

“This isn’t funny,” Stiles snaps.

“I know.”

“Then stop making light of this!” Stiles curls his hands into fists again and presses his arms tightly against his chest. He wants to throw something. He wants to hit something, someone. Theo, more specifically.

Theo stares at him for a moment, lips pressed together then he lets out a breath. “I’m not.”

“Trust me, Stilinski,” Jackson chimes in, tossing Theo a water bottle which he catches effortlessly, “we’re all taking this very seriously.” Raising his brows, he offers Stiles one as well.

Stiles can’t help but think of his babcia for a moment, who strongly believes that a good herbal tea can cure everything. Sighing, he takes the bottle and sits down on the edge of the dining table – if not to drink it, then at the least to give his hands something to do. He fidgets with the label, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted mentally. The urge to hide in his room returns in full force, and all he can do now is try not to shrink into himself.

Scrunching his brows together, Stiles rubs his chest. The pressure on the not fully healed wound helps grounding him.

“Does it still hurt?” Theo asks in a soft tone.

Stiles only nods. It’s been a week since Noshiko tried killing him, and he struggled to heal for the first couple of days. His body took over in the end. Now, the only mark on his body is the one on his chest. Everything else is gone, even Donovan’s bite. He’s hated and loved his scars, but in the end, they were proof of everything he’s endured – they made this carbon-copy of his body his very own, they made him feel human.

They’re gone now, and Stiles feels like a stranger to himself.

Theo sets the bottle of water on the table next to him. “Babe,” he all but whispers and cups his jaw, gently forcing Stiles to look at him, “I know you’d prefer to blame yourself for the rest of eternity, but I’m not going to. Things like that happen.”

Scoffing, Jackson sits down on the table next to him.

Stiles quirks a brow. “You mean a lot of people try to kill their significant other?”

“You were turned into a nogitsune hardly an hour before killing Tracy,” Jackson reminds him, twisting the cap of his water bottle as he stares out the window. “Losing control is kind of an initiation ritual for supernatural creatures. All your senses are heightened, your instincts crank your emotions up to a hundred – even Theo struggled to adjust to turning into an alpha, and he is still technically human.”

Technically.

Believing them is easy, hiding behind their words is not. Stiles swallows and looks everywhere but Theo’s face. “It’s no excuse.”

“No,” Jackson agrees.

Theo shoots him a look. “But we did learn what triggers you, so, we know what to avoid for now.”

“Hitting on your boyfriend for example, which is a mystery to me anyway.” Jackson smirks at Theo, clearly satisfied with himself.

“Killing your food,” Theo continues, not deigning the dig with a reaction. “Speaking ill of your mother.”

Under normal circumstances, Stiles wouldn’t have reacted badly to Theo implying his mother didn’t raise him well. Theo liked his mother, a lot. There were days when they hung out in the kitchen and watched her bake or cook or just drank hot chocolate together. During her stays at the hospital, Theo constantly kept asking if she’s okay and when she’d be coming home, and he’d be there on the days they’d pick her up. Theo never even spoke badly about his dad, and he’s given him a hard time.  

Jackson grimaces, “don’t go around insulting people’s mothers. You’re asking to get jumped.”

Stiles presses his lips together to hide his smile.

Judging by Theo narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, he’s probably failing miserably. “Glad you think this is funny.” He squeezes Stiles’ cheeks for a moment before smiling himself. Genuine, soft. He leans down to brush their lips together.

And that’s almost all it takes for Stiles’ heart to nearly combust.

“We’ll figure this out,” Theo whispers.

Stiles nods, slowly, and buries his face in his chest.