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

[queeniewithabeanie]

Lady Gotham

Dpxdc Prompt #47

When Danny Fenton moved to Gotham for university the city noticed.

After all, before Lady Gotham was Gotham she was Samantha Manson.

It all started with the Nasty Burger explosion.

Mr. Lancer, Mrs. and Mr. Fenton, Jazz, Danny, Tucker, and Sam were all there. One moment, Danny was being confronted about cheating on his career aptitude test and the next all Sam could see was the familiar toxic green of the Ghost Zone.

Sam's first thought was did anyone survive? and her second was i need to find Danny.

She wasn't sure of the fate of anyone caught in the explosion, for all she knew she could've been the only one to die (unlikely), and if not that the only one to form into a ghost (sadly, plausible).

With worst case scenarios flooding her head, Sam began looking for anything familiar in the Zone. She'd never been without the infi-map before and now that she didn't have it she was lost.

She never had a chance of finding Danny because she fell into a portal after she'd barely begun searching.

When Sam became aware again, she found herself in a world similar to her home, but very different at the same time.

The times were different, this world barely in the 1700s. She was in a different location, somewhere in the northeast, but she couldn't tell exactly where yet. And most importantly, the world seemed more magical than the one she came from.

Of course, she tried to get home, but there were no natural portals opening up and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't make them herself.

After spending 20 years, more time than she had lived in her home dimension, in what had come to be named Gotham, Sam had settled down. She made friends with a family named the Waynes and though she would never forget Danny and Tucker she had an afterlife in this new dimension now too.

Sam protected the city best she could from anything that tried to harm it, making it her own haunt. Eventually the people around town started calling her The Lady of Gotham, later shortened to just Lady Gotham.

A century after joining the world, Sam was cursed and by extension Gotham was cursed too. She could no longer speak, and while she still tried her best to protect the city from outside harm there was nothing she could do about the corruption within.

She watched over the Waynes inside the limits of her haunt, them having become her family in this new world. And in return the Waynes tried to keep Gotham the best place it could be, attempting to keep it from becoming a cesspool.

Sam did her best, she did what she could and in return Gothamites had a certain pride in their city.

"It's terrible, but it's home" was the general sentiment shared by the citizens.

Soon enough the times were approaching to when she had been alive, and a new generation of Waynes emerged in her streets. When she failed to protect Martha and Thomas, Sam felt sorrow and let the shadows gather around Bruce to show him she was grieving too.

He left, but as many Gothamites did he came back. And when he came back it was with vengeance.

Her streets were more corrupt than they had ever been before, but Bruce came in like a knight in shining armor. No—not shining, but dark. Dark and jagged, but home and just as much a part of Gotham as Sam herself.

With Bruce becoming Batman, his partners weren't far behind. First Dick, then Babs, Jason, Tim, Steph, Cass, Damian, and Duke. And with so many Waynes, not in blood but in everything that mattered, trying to save her Sam felt more loved than ever before.

And then she felt a Danny Fenton, older than her's had ever gotten to be at 18-years-old, enter the streets. Sam, for the first time in forever, she longed for what could have been.

That night, the skies were clearer and the streets were quieter as Sam held on to Danny through the shadows and didn't let go.

Her knights wouldn't mind one more addition, she hoped.

[yoomiwrites]

Not like you

Summary: Every three years, Shanks and his crew return to a small island, where Y/N—reserved, wary of the sea, and utterly uninterested in his antics—somehow always becomes the center of his attention.

Notes: Yes, I am still alive. I just fell into a writer-hole and heck, I'm still kinda stuck in it. I can not confirm anything or give any promises, but I'll try to update my other works soon. This here is just a Oneshot I texted a lil while ago. Much love to you.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The wind carried the scent of salt and celebration long before the ship came into view. It always did. A strange kind of omen, warning the islanders of what was to come.

Y/N stood at the farthest edge of the harbor, arms crossed over her chest as she watched the great black sails unfurl against the sky. The ship loomed closer, cutting through the waves with effortless ease, its Jolly Roger—a grinning skull crowned with three scars—flapping proudly in the breeze.

Three years had passed since the last time they came. Three years of peace. Three years of routine. And now, just like that, it was over.

The Red-Haired Pirates had returned.

The town was already stirring, voices rising in excitement as the massive vessel docked. Children darted ahead, laughing, eager for the stories, the gifts, the chaos that would soon follow. Y/N stayed put, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves.

She should have gone home when she had the chance.

The gangplank hit the wood with a heavy thud, and there he was—Shanks, the devil himself, striding onto the dock like he owned it.

His red hair was windswept, his coat lazily slung over his shoulders, and that damned grin—wide, confident, entirely too pleased with itself—was already fixed in place.

Her stomach twisted.

She turned to leave, but—

“Oi, Y/N!”

Too late.

The crowd barely had time to clear before a heavy arm landed around her shoulders, pulling her in as if they were old friends. As if he hadn’t spent years making her life miserable every time he set foot on this island.

“What a welcome!” he laughed, leaning in closer, and she could already smell the faint traces of rum on him. “Did you miss me?”

Her nails dug into her palms. “Not in the slightest.”

That only made his grin widen.

“She’s lying,” he announced, loud enough for half the harbor to hear. “You see how she’s shaking? That’s excitement, folks!”

A roar of laughter followed, and her face burned. She shoved his arm off her and stepped back, glaring.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re as charming as ever,” he shot back. “Been waiting for me all this time, haven’t you?”

The audacity.

She scoffed, turned on her heel, and stormed away, ignoring the way his laughter chased after her.

She hated him.

She hated his stupid grin, his stupid charm, the way he always singled her out. She hated that no matter how much she tried to disappear, he never let her.

And most of all, she hated that she didn’t understand why.

From the moment the Red-Haired Pirates arrived, the streets were no longer hers. They belonged to them—their voices, their laughter, their music spilling into every alleyway. Taverns would be filled to bursting, barrels of rum cracked open, and for a whole month, the island would forget itself in their presence.

She should have been used to it by now. But there was no getting used to Shanks.

The man had made it his personal mission to make her life hell.

Their first meeting had been a disaster—she had just wanted to buy bread. That was it. But somehow, he had decided she was “too quiet,” and within minutes, she had been pulled onto a table, forced into the center of a drinking song, and made to dance under the amused eyes of half his crew. She had fled the moment she could, humiliated, furious.

Every visit since had been more of the same.

He always found her.

Always turned every situation into a spectacle.

And the worst part?

No one else seemed to mind.

The townspeople loved him. Children ran after him, wide-eyed and eager for stories of the sea. Merchants welcomed him like an old friend, knowing his crew would leave their pockets lighter by the end of the month. Even the mayor, a man who rarely showed favor to outsiders, seemed more relaxed in his presence.

But Y/N?

No.

She wanted nothing to do with him.

And yet, despite her best efforts, she knew she wouldn’t escape him for long.

As if summoned by the mere thought of him, a familiar voice rang out, closer than she would have liked.

“There you are.”

Her heart sank.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Shanks leaned casually against the wooden fence bordering her small garden, looking entirely too pleased with himself. The dim lantern light caught the sharp angles of his face, the playful gleam in his eye.

Y/N crossed her arms. “Are you lost?”

“Nah,” he said easily. “Just wondering why my favorite islander isn’t out celebrating.”

She scoffed. “Maybe because I don’t want to.”

“That can’t be it,” he mused, tapping a finger to his chin. “Maybe you’re waiting for the right invitation.”

She stared at him. “You are unbelievable.”

“I try.”

He moved closer, and she tensed, resisting the urge to step back.

“What do you want, Shanks?” she sighed, tired already.

He tilted his head, as if considering. “I could say I’m here because I just enjoy your company.”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“That hurts, Y/N.” His grin was all mischief. “Truly.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, she turned, reaching for the door handle—

And of course he was faster.

With an ease that should have been illegal, he shifted in front of her, blocking her path.

“Move.”

“Hear me out.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what I’m asking.”

“I don’t need to,” she snapped. “I already know it involves me, a crowd, and some grand display of humiliation.”

Shanks clutched his chest as if she had struck him. “You wound me.”

She just glared.

“Alright, alright,” he relented, holding up his hands. “No public humiliation. I swear on my honor as a pirate.”

“That means nothing.”

“Fair point.”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “Just say what you want so I can say no and go to bed.”

His grin softened into something quieter, and for a moment, she felt herself tense for an entirely different reason.

“Just one drink,” he said, and for once, his voice wasn’t loud or teasing. “No crowds, no tricks. Just you and me.”

She frowned.

That was new.

No grand spectacle? No dragging her into some absurd situation?

Just… a drink?

She should say no.

She would say no.

And yet—

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the sheer audacity of the man standing in front of her. Or maybe, just maybe, she was tired of running.

“…Fine.”

Shanks blinked. Then, his grin stretched wide, like a cat who had finally caught the canary.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he teased. “I knew you secretly liked me.”

She groaned. “I already regret this.”

He only laughed, stepping aside with a sweeping gesture. “Come on, then. Your chariot awaits.”

It wasn’t until she followed him down to the docks that she realized—

They weren’t heading to a tavern.

They were going to his ship.

Y/N stopped in her tracks. “Wait—”

Too late.

He was already walking up the gangplank, moving like a man completely at ease in his domain. He paused at the top, glancing over his shoulder.

“You coming?”

She scowled. “Why here?”

“Would you rather be crammed between a bunch of sweaty drunks?” he asked, tilting his head. “Figured this would be more… personal.”

That word sent a prickle of unease down her spine.

Shanks, personal?

Something about that felt dangerous.

Still, she wasn’t about to back down now.

With a resigned sigh, she stepped onto the wooden boards, following him into the belly of the beast.

The ship was eerily quiet.

Y/N had expected noise, crew members, something. But as she stepped onto the deck, there was no one in sight.

It was strange.

Shanks thrived in chaos. He was always in the middle of it, the heart of the storm. And yet, here he was, leading her into the dimly lit captain’s quarters, far away from the revelry.

He gestured toward a small table, where a bottle of dark liquor and two glasses waited. “Have a seat.”

She did, eyeing him warily as he poured.

Her gaze flickered—unintentionally—over him.

It was different seeing him like this, away from the noise and the laughter.

Here, under the lantern light, she could see the details she had always ignored. The deep scars running over his eye. The way his coat, as grand as it seemed at first glance, was frayed at the edges, weathered by years at sea. The sleeve of his missing arm, loosely pinned, the fabric worn.

For all his confidence, for all his presence—he was just a man.

Shanks noticed.

His smirk curled.

“Careful,” he drawled. “Stare at me like that any longer, and I’ll start thinking you’re interested.”

Her face heated. “I wasn’t—!”

“Oh, no need to explain,” he cut in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I get it. Happens all the time.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Does it?”

“Oh, sure.” He gestured grandly with his one arm. “The tragic but dashing pirate, battle-worn but still impossibly charming—”

She snorted. “Impossibly is the right word.”

“—and of course,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “there’s always a lovely island girl who can’t help but fall for my roguish good looks.”

She rolled her eyes. “I should have known you’d make this unbearable.”

Shanks grinned. “You make it too easy.”

He reached for his drink, and for a brief moment, she caught it again—that flash of something beneath the bravado. Something older. He caught her staring, and his smirk softened into something different.

“Does it bother you?” he asked suddenly.

She frowned. “What?”

“The arm.”

Her eyes flickered to the empty sleeve, then back to his face.

Did it?

“No,” she said honestly. “It doesn’t.”

He hummed, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Most people try not to look.”

“I’m not most people.”

He chuckled. “That, Y/N, is painfully obvious.”

She huffed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Shanks leaned forward, elbows on the table, his grin downright lazy. “You’re different.”

She snorted. “Oh, is that your grand observation?”

“Mhmm.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “You don’t drink. You don’t party. You don’t fall for my charm—”

“That’s debatable.”

“—and yet,” he continued smoothly, ignoring her interruption, “you’re here. Alone. With me.”

Y/N suddenly became very aware of how small the room was.

She scoffed, taking a sip of her drink just to have something to do. The burn of it settled in her chest. “Only because you tricked me.”

Shanks grinned. “Oh, sweetheart. If I had tricked you, we wouldn’t be sitting at this table.”

She nearly choked on her drink.

His laughter rang through the cabin, rich and warm, and she knew— She was in trouble.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, the teasing grin still lingering on Shanks’ lips.

Then, his expression shifted.

It was subtle—barely more than a flicker—but Y/N noticed.

His fingers drummed absently against the side of his glass, his gaze lowering to the amber liquid inside. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“The world is changing.”

Y/N frowned, caught off guard by the sudden weight in his tone. “What?”

Shanks exhaled, tipping his head back slightly as if looking at something far beyond the wooden walls of his cabin.

“The sea is restless,” he murmured. “The young are getting bolder. They want their piece of the world, and they’re willing to fight for it.” He chuckled, but there was no real amusement in it. “Sooner or later, the balance will break. And when that happens… everything will shift.”

She stared at him.

This wasn’t the Shanks she knew—the one who laughed too loudly, who never seemed to take anything seriously.

This was a captain speaking. A man who had seen the tides change before.

She tried to shake the unease creeping up her spine.

“So what?” she said, attempting nonchalance. “You always say you’re the strongest, don’t you?”

His lips quirked. “I say a lot of things.”

That shouldn’t have bothered her. But for some reason, it did.

She studied him. He had lived a life of war, of battles and losses, but she had never seen him like this—so aware of the cost of it all.

“Are you saying you won’t come back?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Shanks didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he tilted his glass slightly, watching the liquid swirl.

“Not as soon as usual,” he admitted. “Maybe not at all.”

Y/N stiffened.

For years, she had resented his arrivals, cursed his teasing, his ability to turn her into the center of attention. And yet, the thought of him never returning settled heavily in her chest in a way she didn’t like.

She scowled, shoving the feeling aside. “You’re messing with me.”

Shanks met her gaze, and for once, there was no laughter in his eyes.

“I’m not.”

Something about the way he said it made her stomach twist.

Her fingers tightened around her glass.

“…So why tell me?” she asked, unsure why her voice felt smaller.

Shanks leaned forward, the space between them shrinking. His expression was unreadable, the usual mischief replaced with something quieter. Something more real.

“Because I need to know,” he said softly, “if you trust me.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

His gaze held hers, unwavering. “Do you trust me?”

She swallowed.

Did she?

For years, she had told herself she hated him—his recklessness, his carefree arrogance, the way he never let her fade into the background.

But she had never once feared him.

Never once doubted that, if she were to fall, he would catch her.

“…Yes.”

The second the word left her lips, Shanks moved.

It happened so fast she barely had time to react—his hand tilting her chin up, his breath warm against her skin. Then, his lips met hers, firm yet unhurried, as if he were trying to tell her something without words.

Y/N froze.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts scattering.

Shanks—kissing her.

And worse?

She wasn’t stopping him.

His fingers curled against her jaw, holding her in place as if afraid she might slip away. There was no drunken recklessness in the way he kissed her—no teasing, no games. Just heat. Just intention.

Just him.

By the time he pulled away, her breath was uneven, her face burning.

He studied her for a moment, searching, before his lips curved into something softer than his usual grin.

“There,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her skin. “Now you know.”

Her mind was still reeling. “K-Know what?”

Shanks chuckled, the sound low. “How I feel.”

Y/N could still feel the warmth of his lips on hers, even as her mind struggled to make sense of what had just happened.

Shanks had kissed her.

And he had meant it.

She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more—the act itself or the realization that she hadn’t wanted him to stop.

Shanks exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen…”

His voice was lower than usual, lacking its usual ease. Almost hesitant.

“I know this is a lot,” he continued, choosing his words carefully. “And I’m not trying to rush anything or—or expect anything. I just…” He sighed, shaking his head. “Hell, this is harder than I thought.”

She blinked. Was he—the great Red-Haired Shanks—nervous?

He met her gaze again, more serious this time.

“Stay,” he said simply.

Her breath caught.

His mouth quirked slightly at her expression, but there was something uncertain in it. “Not like that,” he clarified quickly. “I just—I want to spend more time with you. Just tonight.”

Y/N hesitated.

Everything about this—about him—felt overwhelming. But at the same time…

She didn’t want to leave.

Maybe it was the heat of the moment. Maybe it was the storm he claimed was coming. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because a part of her liked him more than she thought.

“…Alright,” she said softly.

His shoulders relaxed, as if he had been bracing for her rejection.

Shanks grinned then—not his usual teasing smirk, but something warmer. Something real.

“Good,” he murmured.

She looked down at her glass, at the golden liquid swirling inside. “Just tonight.”

“Just tonight,” he echoed.

But as the ship swayed gently beneath them, as the night stretched on with quiet conversation and lingering glances, Y/N couldn’t help but wonder—

Hadn’t it always been more than that?

And when he left—whenever that would be—wouldn’t some part of him stay behind?

Wouldn’t some part of her go with him?

[mimipolo]

hey :) could you do a nam-gyu fic where thanos is flirting/put claim on the reader, but she clearly like nam-gyu more. just him dealing with his attraction for her, but still trying to be on thanos' good side

Nam-gyu x reader

I don't know if I did this right I had like five different ideas for how it could pan out so I hope this is alright

| ₊˚⊹ᰔ

You were content with the idea of completely ignoring Thanos, his odd claims and even weirder way of flirting. Sure, it was fairly entertaining but it wasn't something you planned to put up with for long.

That was until he walked up to your bunk with a friend in towe. A friend that immediately caught your eye.

"Ayy Senorita!" He draws out in his usual musical tone, behind him a man that looked uninterested, perhaps even annoyed to be there making you grin slightly.

"Aren't ya gonna come down." A whiney voice calls up to you, his face pulling into a frown as he crossed his arms.

"Dude, this a waste of time let's just go." He's still behind Thanos, a hand already on his shoulder, nudging him slightly, hoping to convince him to turn back, and as his gaze went from him to you he stops. The eye contact he made with you was so undeniable you actually looked at the rapper directly for once, startled by how your heart suddenly raced.

"I think I'll stay and eat up here...thanks though." Your refusal immediately has him grumbling as he dramatically pivots to walk away. But his friend hangs back a small moment longer, the brief acknowledgement held a value only you two could fathom.

"Come on Nam-su we outt." Thanos drawls lazily, his arms in his pockets as he swayed from side to side.

"Nam-gyu..." He sighs defeatedly, it was pretty clear this wasn't the first time and likely wouldn't be the last time he'd have to correct the rapper of his name.

Nam-gyu huh? You wouldn't like to admit it but you kept the name close to your mind, maybe he'd favour you for remembering it. Which was a weird thought to have for someone you hadn't actually properly met yet.

You hoped to though.

And he did too, when Thanos was insistent on getting you to eat with them he was almost instantly irritated. Why? What was the point of that? From the beginning he wasn't a fan of any distractions that could lead Thanos away from him, it was inconvenient and if he wanted to win he needed both their focus on that damn cash prize.

What he hadn't prepared for was the you. You who Thanos had miraculously spotted among all the bland people in this weird murder game. And he would never admit it, especially not to him that he understood why he was so hooked on you.

And with that came a jealousy. A deep, seething jealousy that came from nowhere. Now he was frustrated with himself, Thanos and you. And the worst of it all is him actually being just as bummed you didn't come down to eat with them.

| ₊˚⊹ᰔ

From then on there was this tense love triangle between the three of you which Thanos held no part in. You had no intention of making it clear to the man you weren't interested, first of all: it'd be too much of a hassle, and second because of his favour you've been able to survive games you probably wouldn't have. So you'd put up with him, no big deal.

The only thing, no, person making this harder was Nam-gyu. He was also seemingly smart enough to judge it's best to not make any big move as you were both benefitting from being close to Thanos. But it was painfully clear his attention was always on you, his eyes only snapping back alive at the mention of your name during the moments Thanos seems to talk forever. Having to tip toe around the unspoken attraction towards each other was fine by you, exhilarating even. But you're really starting to wonder if Thanos really can't notice when you and the longer haired man only glance between each other whenever he flirts with you.

Apparently the small amused smiles and prolonged eye contact wasn't enough for Nam-gyu. This could end badly if he was caught but he couldn't care less at this point, this whole time it's just felt like the two of you were saying a million things while saying nothing at all. And he'd actually be damned if he let Thanos hold him back from talking to you. He believed you felt the same, it's not just anyone that looks at him so fondly and sees him as an individual. You saw him like he was someone familiar and when he lies awake, he's convinced that's why he's so drawn to you.

Which is also why he's sneaking to see you during lights out. Was this a good idea?

Probably not.

But he'd already climbed past a snoring Avengers threat so he might as well see it through. He sucked in his breath harshly when he heard the familiar snoring pattern pause when he finally made it to the ground. His heart only relaxing when it fell back into rythmn. Not that he was too worried though, he had thousands of excuses on the tip of his tongue. A benefit that came with being a pathological liar.

He is oddly greatful that the majority of the people that were on your bunk had died, the only remaining players being two beds above yours. Meaning he didn't need to sweat about not waking anyone on his way up. As he begins climbing he draws to a question. What if you're not even awake? Even worse what if you are or he wakes you up and you think he's some weirdo. He physically shakes the thought away as he continues his ascent, he just needed to see you, then he'd go back.

It was odd being able to see you so up close, watching the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. Seeing you like this calmed him down and made him want to fall asleep himself.

He freezes when you shift and his hair brushes your nose, your face scrunching up as you waft away the unwanted texture with a groggy hand. Eyes squinting open to see a stunned Nam-gyu instead of a stray price of fluff from your pillow.

What, is he doing here?

You gasp sharply, immediately sitting up and accidentally banging your head against the bed above you in your rush. He's quietly shushing you as you hold your head in whine in pain. You only look back at him when the pain has slightly subsided, hissing one last time before tear pricked eyes meet his.

"The hell are you doing here?"

"Can't I come to see you?" You squint at his words, they pissed you off, obviously he could but you were literally sleeping?

"You came to watch me sleep?" You ask sarcastically, grinning knowingly as he groaned and rolled his eyes.

Seeing as you weren't entirely put off by his night visit he crawls onto your bed fully, catching you a bit off guard but you make no objection against it which makes him strangely glad.

"Thanos isn't any good, you shouldn't be with him." He says bitterly, when you don't say anything immediately after he looks away from you and runs his hair behind his ears.

"...And you're saying you are?" you say with the slight raise of your brow.

You were just fucking around you already liked him more from the moment you saw him. Long disobedient hair and an angular face and a surprisingly sharp tongue when provoked. Ticking most of your boxes, you just wanted to see how he'd respond.

"Nah... but I could be better, than him at least." He says with a small huff which makes you laugh slightly, and he immediately notes he's never heard it before.

"I'll see you to that." Your words make his heart seize up but in the way when he's won when he didn't expect to. The carefree act he had going was going to crumble if you kept being so casual with him.

It's only now he feels the tensity of the situation, sitting in your bed in an area mostly secluded. He was actually feeling nervous being around you without Thanos there as some barrier to the two of you. You're looking at him expectantly as if waiting for him to make some smart ass response but you're so pretty right now. Your eyes on him and him alone. He's keeping quiet because if he spoke as he was now... he couldn't promise he wouldn't immediately embarass himself.

Instead he looks between you and the wall, his eyes scanning your face each time before he looked away. Despite the chaos of feelings reeling from inside him his face was mostly unreadable. The only thing telling you anything was his jaw tightening and loosening, maybe chewing the inside of his cheek.

You tilt your head to see if he'd look at you if you were more in his line of view but he only locked eyes with you for a moment before looking up.

He was nervous?

The thought made your chest swell even though you knew he was probably just deep in thought. Either way your fighting back a smile as you take his face in your hands and place a soft kiss on his lips. It was honestly amazing how he came back to reality from the contact. Staring at you with wide confused eyes as if questioning why you would even do that.

And when you start to laugh to yourself quietly he's chuckling flustered beside you. His lips pursed tight to not let the grin on his face appear, but his feelings were clear in the new softness in his eyes.

Nodding lightly like he's fully savoured your presence he's manoeuvring himself to leave your bed, giving the underside of your knee a light squeeze before settling on the ladder.

"G'night..."

"Night Nam-gyu."

The first genuine smile of the night freely slips onto his face, making your own smile appear before he's making his descent back down. Grinning to himself like an idiot all the way back to his bed because he managed to get the girl Thanos saw first.

| ₊˚⊹ᰔ

Ever since then it's been this mutual joke between you two. You're holding back a snicker as Thanos serenades you because Nam-gyu's right behind him rolling his eyes and mocking him.

Nightly routines of him visiting your bed comforted you on those nights you couldn't will yourself to sleep. There's been more than one occasion he's stayed the night and forgot to go back to his bed and when questioned about where he was so early in the morning it's always "Needed to piss". He's glancing back at you accusingly as if you forced him to stay (you asked repeatedly very nicely.)

I love him sm I'm gonna cook him into a lasagna.

[darlingsblackbook]

Between the Lines

Gojo Satoru x Awkward!Reader

Summary : As the new teacher’s assistant at Jujutsu High, Y/N is used to being invisible—quiet, awkward, always on the outside looking in. She tells herself she prefers it that way, but when Gojo Satoru, the school’s most infuriatingly nosy teacher, starts noticing the cracks in her carefully built walls, she finds it harder to hide. He’s loud, he’s persistent, and worst of all… he might just see right through her.

Warnings : Shy!Reader, Awkward!Reader, Introvert!Reader, Lonely!Reader

♡♡♡

I had never been good at introductions.

Or first impressions. Or second impressions.

Or… people in general.

So when the principal of Jujutsu High offered me a job as a teaching assistant, I accepted before I could talk myself out of it. It was logical—stable work, a chance to put my skills to use—but now, standing in front of the classroom door, I was starting to question every decision that led me here.

The job itself wasn’t the problem. It was the social part. The talking. The being around others.

The inevitable awkwardness.

Here I am, standing awkwardly outside the door of Gojo Satoru’s classroom, a bundle of nerves in my stomach.

I have never met him before. Only heard of him in passing. The strongest sorcerer alive. An eccentric man, a little ridiculous but undeniably powerful. I have no idea what to expect, and that made me even more anxious.

I exhaled sharply and knocked before I could hesitate any longer.

“Come iiinnn~”

The voice was playful, stretching the words like taffy. I hesitated for a second before pushing the door open.

The room was not empty. Three students sat at their desks, heads turning as I entered. One of them—a boy with pink hair and a bright, open grin—tilted his head curiously. Another, dark-haired with sharp features, barely reacted. The last, a girl with fiery eyes, scrutinized me with clear interest.

And then, there was him.

Gojo Satoru.

He was taller than I expected, his dark blue uniform neat but his posture anything but. White hair, messy but somehow intentional and a blindfold shielding his eyes. He was the kind of person who took up space without any effort, like the air itself made room for him.

“Oh? A new face.” A grin stretched across his face. "And who might you be?"

I swallowed and tightened my grip on my bag. “Um. I’m Y/N. The principal assigned me as your new teaching assistant.”

For a moment, there was a silence. Then, Gojo’s smile widened. “Ohhh, so you’re the poor soul stuck with me?”

I- I was not so sure how to respond to that.

“I… guess?”

The pink-haired boy snickered. “Welcome to the chaos, sensei.”

Gojo clapped his hands. “Right! Introductions. These little troublemakers are my students. That’s Itadori Yuji—”

“Yo!”

“—Fushiguro Megumi—”

A silent nod.

“—and Kugisaki Nobara.”

The girl flipped her hair. “Good luck surviving Gojo-sensei.”

I gave a small, uncertain nod with an unsure smile. “Thanks…?”

Gojo tilted his head. “So, Y/N! Tell us about yourself.”

Oh no.

Not this question. Anything but this question.

My mind blanked immediately.

I was supposed to say something here. Something normal. Something that would make me seem approachable. But nothing came.

“There’s not much to say,” I finally muttered.

Gojo leaned forward on his desk, grinning. “Come on, there’s gotta be something. A hobby? Fun fact? Favorite food? Deepest, darkest secret?”

I swallowed. I hated questions like this. I never knew how to answer.

My hands curled around the strap of my bag. “I..I mean I like...reading, I don’t know.”

For a second, silence. A horrible, suffocating pause.

Then—

Gojo sighed dramatically. “A mystery woman, huh? Fine, fine, we’ll learn your secrets eventually.”

Something in me tensed at that idea.

But Gojo spared me and did not press. He just stretched lazily and turned back to his students.

I exhaled, shoulders loosening.

That could have gone a lot worse.

°•♡•°

The first few days passed in a blur.

I kept to my work, avoiding unnecessary interactions. The job itself was easy—assisting with lessons, helping with training schedules, sorting paperwork. It was everything outside of that that I struggled with.

Small talk. Social cues. Knowing when to speak and when to stay silent.

I avoided the break room, ate lunch alone, kept my head down. It wasn’t new—I had always been like this. And I had always told myself I didn’t mind.

But Gojo made it difficult to go unnoticed.

He was everywhere. Loud, teasing, impossible to ignore. He had a habit of appearing at the worst moments—leaning over my desk when I was trying to work, suddenly materializing beside me when I was lost in thought.

And he noticed things.

A lot of things.

“Hey,” he said one afternoon. “Do you always stand like that?”

I blinked up at him. “Like what?”

He waved a hand vaguely. “All stiff. Like you’re bracing for impact.”

I immediately stiffened more. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Gojo hummed. “You’re always tense. And quiet. Do I scare you?”

I frowned, caught off guard. “What? No.” I laughed awkwardly.

He gasped, hand over his chest. “So you just don’t like me?”

“That’s not—” I stopped, exhaling. “I just… I don’t talk much.”

Gojo tilted his head, as if considering something.

For a second, I thought he might press further. Ask questions I didn’t know how to answer.

But then he just grinned. “Don’t worry. You’ll warm up to me eventually.”

I wasn’t so sure about that.

But later, when I caught him watching me with something thoughtful behind his blindfold, I realized—

He wasn’t sure about me either.

°•♡•°

Even more days passed, blending into each other like ink bleeding into paper.

I kept my head down, did my work, and kept to myself. It was easy, really. No one expected much from me beyond my job. The students were polite, Gojo was… Gojo, and the rest of the staff had their own responsibilities. I did what was required, answered when spoken to, and let conversations pass over me like waves washing over a stone.

And yet…

Something gnawed at me.

I noticed things. I always had.

Like the way Itadori and Kugisaki bickered over lunch, their insults sharp but affectionate. The way Fushiguro sighed, exasperated but always there, always included. The way they trained together, argued together, shared jokes that only made sense to them.

They belonged.

Even the staff, as different as they were, had their own connections. Yaga’s gruff lectures, Shoko’s dry humor, Gojo’s infuriating yet oddly natural way of slipping into conversations like he had always been part of them.

Everywhere I looked, people had someone.

I didn’t even have a past friendship to reminisce about. No old friend I had lost touch with. No warm memories of sleepovers, of whispered secrets at midnight, of laughing so hard my stomach hurt.

I had nothing.

It wasn’t that I had never wanted friends. I had wanted them desperately. But there had always been something wrong with me—something that made people drift away before they ever truly got close.

Maybe I was too quiet.

Maybe I was too awkward.

Maybe I was just… forgettable.

Even now, at 22, I felt like I had already wasted my entire life away.

Everyone else had stories. Experiences. Things they could look back on with fondness or even regret.

I had empty days and silence.

I never checked my phone much, but sometimes, I left it untouched for hours just to pretend—just to imagine, for a second, that when I finally looked at it, I would see something.

A message.

A missed call.

A notification that was not just a useless app reminder.

But there was never anything.

The ache in my chest was familiar by now, dull but relentless.

I felt like I was missing something vital, something everyone else had but I simply… didn’t.

It was stupid.

I had a job. A roof over my head. A place in the world, even if it felt like I was just existing rather than living.

But still—

Still.

I wanted someone.

Someone to talk to about nothing and everything.

Someone to laugh with.

Someone who would see my name pop up on their phone and be excited to hear from me.

But I didn’t know how to reach out.

Didn’t know how to start.

Didn’t know if it was even possible for someone like me.

If Gojo noticed anything, he didn’t show it.

Not at first.

He still teased, still popped up at the most unexpected moments, still acted like the world was his playground.

But then, I started catching him watching me.

Just little moments, subtle shifts.

His head tilting ever so slightly whenever I hesitated before answering a question.

His focus lingering when I thought no one was paying attention.

At first, I just chalked it up to paranoia. But it kept happening.

The worst part was, Gojo wasn’t the type to care without reason. If he was noticing me, if he was watching me, it meant something had tipped him off.

That terrified me.

Because if he figured it out—if he somehow pieced together how hollow my life really was—I wasn’t sure I could handle that kind of scrutiny.

So I tried harder.

Tried to look normal.

Tried to pretend that I wasn’t weighed down by something invisible, something I didn’t have the words for.

But Gojo was sharp in a way most people didn’t realize.

And even if I could fool everyone else,

I couldn’t fool him.

The days continued to pass, each one blending into the next. I had fallen into a routine, and while there was a sense of comfort in that, there was also something else—something heavier, something I tried not to think about too much.

I wasn’t unhappy, exactly. I had a job, I had a purpose, and I wasn’t struggling. But the silence of my own life had become deafening.

At Jujutsu High, I was surrounded by people, but I had never felt more alone.

It was during lunch that I felt it the most.

I always sat outside, away from the busy chatter of the cafeteria, where students and staff alike gathered in their little groups.

It wasn’t like anyone had told me to sit alone. I had just… done it.

It was easier that way.

Or at least, that was what I told myself.

I had taken to watching the students from afar. Not in an obvious way, but just enough to see the ease of their friendships. The way Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi existed in a way that I had never known myself.

“Oi, Megumi, say ‘ahhh’—”

“No.”

“Come onnn, I made it with love!”

“I literally watched you drop that on the floor.”

Nobara pouted dramatically, only for Yuji to swoop in and eat whatever it was she had been trying to force on Megumi. The two of them laughed at something he said, and even Megumi, who always tried to seem indifferent, looked somewhat amused.

I turned my gaze away with a slight smile, focusing on my food.

It shouldn’t have made me feel like this.

It was such a simple thing—friends joking around, sharing lunch, teasing each other. It wasn’t as if I had ever expected to be part of something like that.

And yet.

I let out a quiet sigh and checked my phone.

Zero notifications.

The same empty lock screen. The same stillness.

I turned it off quickly and placed it back on the table, pushing my food around with my chopsticks.

“Not hungry?”

I looked up, startled.

Shoko had appeared beside me, a cigarette dangling between her fingers as she leaned against the bench. Her sharp eyes flickered to my barely-touched food.

“Oh,” I hesitated. “No, I just…” I trailed off, not really knowing how to finish the sentence.

Shoko hummed. “Gojo giving you trouble?”

I blinked. “What?”

She smirked, exhaling smoke. “He’s been staring at you a lot.”

My stomach twisted uncomfortably. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just gave a weak chuckle and shook my head.

“I think he just likes messing with people.”

“That’s an understatement.” Shoko stretched, then took another drag. “He’s nosy, though. If he’s paying attention to you, he’s probably noticed something.”

I swallowed, suddenly feeling even more self-conscious.

Shoko didn’t push. She just glanced at my food again, then nodded toward the cafeteria. “You should eat with them sometime. They wouldn’t mind.”

I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Maybe,” I lied.

She didn’t call me out on it. Just gave a lazy wave and wandered off, disappearing into the school.

I should have expected it.

I really should have.

But when Gojo’s voice rang out, disrupting my fragile moment of peace, I still nearly choked on air.

“You eat like someone’s forcing you,” he remarked, plopping down onto the bench beside me without a single care.

I froze.

He was too close.

I wasn’t used to people being this close.

Gojo didn’t seem to notice—or, more likely, he didn’t care. He leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him, his arms sprawled over the back of the bench as if he owned the whole world.

I forced a weak chuckle, gripping my chopsticks tighter. “I eat fine.”

“Debatable.” He tilted his head toward me. “You’re all stiff. Like a scared little rabbit.”

I gave him a look, but I knew better than to actually argue. Gojo thrived off reactions.

Instead, I let out a breathy laugh and looked away.

He wasn’t deterred.

“So,” he continued, tapping his fingers against the bench, “why do you always eat alone?”

I nearly dropped my chopsticks.

The question caught me off guard—not because it was unexpected, but because it was so blunt.

My throat felt tight. “I just prefer it,” I murmured, staring down at my food.

“Really?” Gojo drawled. “Because I think you just don’t know how to ask to sit with someone.”

I swallowed, gripping my chopsticks so hard they might snap. “That’s not—”

“C’mon, am I wrong?”

I didn’t answer.

Gojo sighed dramatically, turning to face me fully. “You’re a weird one, you know that?”

I let out a nervous laugh, feeling my entire body lock up under his gaze.

“And you’re loud,” I mumbled before I could stop myself.

He grinned. “I am loud. But I’m fun, too.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just nodded weakly.

He tapped a finger against the table. “Seriously, though. You’re always off on your own. No friends? No tragic backstory?”

I blinked rapidly, caught completely off guard. “I—”

“Oh my god, do you have amnesia? Are you secretly a lost princess? A government experiment gone wrong?”

Despite myself, I let out a small laugh. It was quiet, but it was real.

Gojo grinned like he had won something.

“You’re impossible,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“I know,” he said smugly. Then, after a pause, his voice turned softer—quieter. “But really. You okay?”

The question hit harder than I expected.

I stared at my untouched food, feeling my throat tighten.

I didn’t know how to answer.

Because I didn’t even know what ‘okay’ meant anymore.

Gojo didn’t push.

He just sat there, waiting, as if he had all the time in the world.

But I wasn’t ready.

So I did what I always did.

I laughed awkwardly. Nodded.

And said nothing at all.

Gojo let out a hum, tapping his fingers against the table again.

He knew.

Maybe not everything, but something.

And that scared me more than anything.

[evendimmer]

"Say It, baby, please?"

Pairings: Soft!Agatha x Reader Summary: Reader has trouble speaking her mind, Agatha tries to help. In her own way, of course. Word count: 1.1k Warnings: 18+ MiDNI Smut, shameless smut. mommy kink, oral(R receiving), fingering(both receiving), harold they're switches, fluff? A/N: Want to explore on the soft side of Agatha and what started as a brainrot turned into a full blown fic. First smut, feedback welcomed. Again, for my muses @etherealvampyre and @kukikatt ilysm

════════════════════════════════════

Agatha knows that you feel awkward with speaking your mind. It's not about your thoughts itself, but more of how you believe, firmly, that you're not good at talking at all.

"Baby, it's fine," she coos, fingers running along your tightly clenched jaw, "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, but you know—"

You hear her voice trailing off so you shoot her a questioning glance, urging her to continue. Agatha smiles and leans over to your ear, voice low and silky as her fingers tightens ever so slightly, "— Mommy just loves hearing what you think."

You jump back huffing and puffing, giving her your best attempt of a death glare in mock anger, and of course Agatha has the audacity to chuckle at the sight of you. Deep down you know and love how she is getting you out of your shell, but you're also pretty damn sure she simply enjoys seeing you all flustered like that.

On days when you’re more vocal and expressive, Agatha is more than eager to let you know exactly how much she appreciates hearing you talk.

“Yes baby, fuck, yes," she rasps into your opened mouth as you blurt out, sobbing, about how you want, no, need her deeper inside of you. "More, tell me more. Tell mommy how good you're feeling, please.”

Your eyes are stinging with tears but through your blurred vision, you can see Agatha's bare chest heaving, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. You look up to find her biting down hard on her lip, eyes ablaze with want that almost burn you alive. A pathetic whimper slips out your lips and Agatha practically growls.

“Fuck, angel, you’re so hot and pretty and mommy can’t get enough of your voice,” she grunts and pumps her fingers into you with renewed vigour. You continue to babble about how your pussy is made for her and just how much you love having her inside you.

On your quieter days, Agatha knows not to push you too hard so instead, she speaks for you. The best and worst part is, she is always so fucking good at figuring out what's on your mind.

“W-what are you thinking baby?” Agatha chokes, voice quivering from having to stifle her moans to get the words out. Sometimes you're genuinely amazed by her determination to talk— you do have three fingers buried knuckles deep in her and a thumb firmly pressed on her clit, after all.

You shake your head and lean forward to plant a kiss on her clavicle, your fingers moving leisurely in and out of her.

“Are you—" she pauses to throw her head back and let out a particularly high pitched moan, courtesy to your particularly well-timed swipe over her swollen clit, "Are you thinking about how good mommy feels wrapped around your fingers?”

Perhaps it's the way she says the word "feels", or it's how her cunt, dripping and leaking all over your hand, clenches hard around your fingers but either way, something in your head snaps. All you can do is gasp and nod frantically, your hand thrusting in almost desperate manner into her, fingers curling just right as Agatha clings on to you crying out yes, yes, yes, right on top of her lungs.

However, in some rare occasions, Agatha does make you talk.

Today you have been caught touching yourself before she can join you in bed. To be fair, she has spent a bit longer in shower than usual and you have been aching and dripping for her since morning.

Agatha claims that had you told her what you needed during the day, she would have gladly given it to you at anytime and however many times you like. So to prevent this unfortunate incident from happening again (and to help you voicing out your needs, she claims), Agatha will not be touching you unless you explicitly asks her to.

"Let this be a lesson, angel," Agatha chuckles as you grind in frustration for some relief, leaving a sticky mess all over her bare thigh. It's been over thirty minutes since you have been stripped bare and sat straddling her leg. Agatha has stayed true to her words too, not once touching you where you need her most, only holding your wrists together with one hand, as she says, "to make sure you behave properly." “Just tell me what you want, baby,” she purrs, her grip firm on your waist forcing you to stay still, drawing a irritated grunt out of you.

The offer is tempting, yet you shake your head, too proud to break so easily. It's a simple game of patience, you can wait it out. But little do you know how Agatha is set on getting words out of you.

“Use your words, baby,” Agatha murmurs, tilting her head to meet your eyes. You feel your cunt clench over nothing so you quickly look away, “Please? For mommy?”

You sheepishly glance at her but shake your head again.

“Pretty please? Baby?” She tries once more, this time slightly tilting her leg up and down. You let out a shuddered breath at the sweet, sweet friction, but then she fucking stops right as pleasure starts building up and you almost cry out from the loss.

"Think about it, angel," Agatha leans forward to kiss your temple, "You can have so, much, more! If only you could just say something."

You shake your head in defiance, even more firmly this time.

Agatha pulls back, her gaze dropping to the floor and let out a small sigh. Just as you begin to wonder if she is giving in, she looks up again, pouting with feign sadness.

“You know how much mommy loves hearing your voice, right?” she practically begs with the silkiest voice and to make matters worse, and bites down on her lip, "please?"

You're so fucked.

You break right there and then, babbling about how much you need her to fuck you hard right here, right now or else you’re so going to lose your absolute fucking shit. Agatha smirks in wicked triumph and it annoys you but you don’t care anymore because she pins you down the next second, spreads your legs wide and throws her face right to your pussy and sucks and nips and licks and it's feels so fucking good you can’t even think of anything else.

She makes you come three times after that, an extra time as an apology, and once more after you promise to be more vocal about your needs.

[sweetiechenle]

liability ᕱ⑅ᕱ jeno

pairing: non-idol!jeno x afab!bunnyhybrid!reader

summary: no matter how badly you wanted to deny it, jeno was your home

warnings: slight prostitution in the beginning (don't do that???), you get beat up but its not that descriptive (sorry), cursing, reader is stubborn and jeno is kinda obsessed w you (in a good way) like its love at first sight, its serious for him, found family, little soulmate au, strangers to lovers, strangers to roommates(?), talks about class status, if i forgot anything i'm sorry, fiction ≠ reality

it was as if you could feel the air move right through you, it sent a shiver down your spine, yet you stood tall on the side of the road. a couple more girls were with you, some had already found their ‘date’ for tonight. you had seen some clients earlier in the night, but now it was up to random people to come and seek you out. you were dying to get back to your hotel, but your inner demon had won the fight earlier to stay out a little longer to make more money since your hotel room was only up until the morning, you needed it for a couple more days before going elsewhere. it was straightforward for now, but life for a poor, family-less hybrid never was easy, decade after decade, it never got better, so it was up to you and other poor hybrids to fend for themselves.

your mother and father died when you were younger and their guardians didn’t want to be the only ones to have to take care of you. so they left you to rot in shelters and pounds, you barely remember them at all now that you’re older. hybrids don’t really own houses because they usually would have a guardian, while renting apartments was debatable. only if a landlord would allow it, most of the time it wasn’t worth it. hybrids, most of the time didn’t get jobs either, so employers didn’t really hire, so there was no real way for you to make money other than sleeping around for it. it wasn’t fun or ideal but it was better than being starving and ‘homeless’ (or not living from hotel to hotel). you looked around in the dark, only the street lamp illuminating the faces of the other girls near you, telling one, who was a tabby cat hybrid, that you’d be walking down the street looking for potential clients. ‘be safe’ she said before you disappeared into the night, you had said the same.

no matter how many years you’ve been doing this, dark alleys and corners always freaked you out, it was better to stay in groups, but you needed the money. you scratched behind your long ears, picking up sounds in the night, as cars drove past you. one stopped a block away from you, the window was rolled down and that only meant one thing. You took a deep breath and braced yourself, walking towards the car. crouching down to the window, you leaned in.

‘get in’ the random stranger said, you sighed while opening up the car door, it was like clockwork and you were used to the rudeness of strangers. ‘what breed are you?’ the question was normal, some hybrid breeds were more desirable than others, thankfully you being an english lop was more enticing than others.

the stranger drove off with you in the passenger seat, he stopped in an alley which was normal for the most part. you braced yourself, this part was always the worst, it was always awkward trying to set the atmosphere, especially with someone like him who wasn’t much of a talker. you started to take off your shirt, it wasn’t until you felt a sharp pain in your stomach. closing your eyes in pain you groaned and you looked down and all you could see was red and you felt a throbbing pain shoot up and down. looking around, you noticed the open space outside, reaching for the door handle, it opened as you pulled weakly. falling to the ground, your knees hit the concrete hard, but all you cared about was getting out alive. you heard of shit like this happening, poor, homeless hybrids you knew going missing, and you silently cursed yourself for not being more careful.

not knowing where to go, you shuffled on the ground, crawling to wherever you could. you touched your stomach and wiped your tears, terrified that you’d end up as another nameless hybrid; dead. you saw shoes and looked up at the stranger towering over you, ‘please’ you cried. there was no way of convincing him anymore as he kicked your torso, you fell to the ground on your side, groaning and trying to roll up in a ball, crying as you felt heavy punches coming down. your head kept hitting the concrete with every punch, and you gagged on the taste of your blood and tears.

your eyes eventually grew heavy and there were no more tears left in you, only fatigue as the concrete below you cooled your body down. after what seemed like hours you hear murmurs around you, causing your body to jerk awake. panicked that the stranger was back to finish the job, you tried to move away with all of the strength you had left. before you could get away you could feel yourself getting lifted off of the ground, and put into a vehicle. Once the stranger set you down gently on the seat you lost consciousness again.

as you came closer to your senses, you could hear people talking and the beeping of random machines, everything was cloudy and you couldn’t see very well even though your eyes were open wide. with a shot of adrenaline, trying to get up you huffed and pulled at the cables that connected you to the machines. in a frenzy, random people stormed at you with concerning looks saying things like ‘no’, ‘don't do that’, and ‘lay back down’. you tried to push them away, scared of the unknown situation you got yourself into, the doctors eventually got you back down on the bed. a lady sat in front of you, explaining everything, you tried to grasp the conversation and to piece everything that happened together, someone had picked you up and taken you to the alley and beat you. then someone found you and took you to the hospital, of course, no cops were going to be involved, you were just a poor hybrid. she informed you that the person who picked you up would be willing to let you stay with him since you were not chipped. you nodded, knowing you didn’t have a guardian to go back to.

after the sudden adrenaline wore off, you could now feel the pain that was inflicted the night before, the nurse told you that you had broken your wrist, cuts along your body, and major bruising and swelling, but that you should be making a full recovery soon. you sighed, scared of what will happen to you now. after a couple of minutes, a nurse and a man entered your room, you stopped watching the tv and looked at them, the nurse started, ‘y/n, this is jeno, he was the one who picked you up last night and brought you here, he decided that you can stay with him until you fully recover.’ you nodded, ‘he already signed you out, so you can leave whenever, if you feel any worse, come back and see us and we can take care of you again.’ you were surprised at how kindly they were treating you, he must be very important to be able to give you treatment here in a human hospital…

you had no choice but to trust this man, it was either go with him or go back outside and fend for yourself waiting for your attacker to come find you at any moment. you sighed and followed him outside, moving slowly due to your injuries, you took notice of how he waited for you whenever you fell behind. he took you to his car in the parking lot, opening the passenger door up for you, you glanced at him, and he motioned for you to get in, and you eventually did. jeno was beautiful, he had a boyish look but somehow still looked mature, he wore a suit that looked expensive, and he always had a permanent smile with kind eyes, he looked like someone you could trust. you hoped to god he was someone to trust. you kept staring at him until he glanced over at you, his mouth slightly upturning in amusement.

‘got any family?’ he asked you. you shook your head as if he was watching (he wasn’t).

‘no’ you answered meekly

‘got any friends?’ he asked again.

same answer ‘no… unless you count other prostitutes’ you said lowly, almost embarrassed.

he hummed in response, ‘is that what you were doing last night?’ another question and you were growing tired, leaning your head on the window, watching the trees go past.

you stayed silent for a minute, letting the question marinate in your head before finally answering him, ‘gotta make money somehow’.

‘where were you staying? i can go pick up your things’ he offered and you took your head off of the window to look at him.

‘you’d do that for me? It’s not a lot of stuff…’ you didn’t want to sound like a burden, first, he saved your life, taking you in until you fully healed, and now he wants to go out of his way to help you get back what little you had. ‘honestly, the hotel probably threw it all away by now’ you looked down and played with the ends of the sweater the hospital put on you, the only outfit you had right now.

he sighed and you could tell he was already frustrated, ‘well if that’s the case, i’ll just get you more things, as of right now you are my responsibility.’ he answered and you decided to leave it at that for the rest of the trip.

‘okay he is rich’, you concluded as he pulled up to his apartment in the middle of seoul, you don’t even think you’ve ever seen this part of the city before. he parked the car and went around to open up your door and help you out, he left you to stand there as he handed his keys to someone else who took the car to god knows where. ‘come on’, he guided you to the front of the door, opening it with a key card and taking you to the elevator, the security guard glaring at you as you walked past him behind jeno.

the elevator ride was silent until jeno spoke up first, ‘i apologize, my apartment is kind of a mess… i didn’t expect any guests.’ he laughed a little bit to lighten up the mood.

you gave him a little smile, trying to make light of the situation, ‘it’s fine i didn’t expect to end up in a hospital’. he didn’t say anything else.

you waited as he unlocked the door, opening it for you, which further confirmed your thought that he’s rich… thanking the heavens that you weren’t picked up by anyone else. the living room was spacious with an open-concept kitchen and appliances that cost more money than what you would see in your entire life, he started to show you around, and you followed him. ‘this is the living room’ obviously, you thought to yourself but didn’t want to ruin the show, so all you did was nod as you walked from room to room. he showed you his room, where the bathroom was that you could use, and then he opened the door to another bedroom stating, ‘this can be your room! i’m sorry it looks really boring…’ he looked down at his feet, almost shy to face you, ‘to be honest, i’ve never really had any interactions with any other bunny hybrids, one of my close friends, haechan, has a bunny hybrid named jaemin though, i’m not sure what breed… i plan on calling him and seeing what i should do… he’s really nice, you should meet him sometime, like a playdate or something…’ he was trailing off and you giggled lowly as he voiced his train of thought, he looked up at you and excused himself to go call his friend, telling you to ‘make yourself feel at home in the meantime’, you weren’t sure what he intended, never really having a ‘home’... you decided to take a look around, taking in the scent of the man who is housing you so you can become familiar with it. he was in the kitchen, taking out pots and pans and glancing at his phone ever so often, ‘what are you doing?’ you asked him.

‘making us dinner, i called haechan, he can come by next week with jaemin if you’d like to meet him, he’s a rabbit hybrid just like you.’

you felt uneasy, you wanted to please him, but the thought of being around a lot of strangers overwhelmed you, he took notice of your silence and the way you began to fiddle with your sleeve, ‘just think about it for right now’ he said giving you a reassuring smile, ‘you should go lay down and i’ll let you know when dinner is ready.’ you nodded and left him to it.

you don’t remember when you fell asleep but you gasped when someone shook you awake, almost giving you a heart attack, but it was only jeno looming over you beside your bed. you stared at him with wide eyes, as if asking ‘why would you do that!?’. he gave you a sheepish smile, ‘dinner is ready… i have a surprise for you!’ you got up and followed him to the kitchen. he pulled out your chair and you sat down without another word, he brought you a hot, steaming bowl that smelled like carrots, maybe a bit too much on the nose, which made you silently laugh. he put something else down for you, ‘that’s for you,’ it was an old iphone, ‘i can’t,’ you refused to take it, there was no way you could pay him back for it, ‘don’t worry its an old phone, you need to have a way to contact me while i’m at work in case you need anything.’ he was trying really hard to get you to take it and it was kind of annoying. ‘you don’t even know me’ you said, pushing it away, he had already sat down across from you, eating his own meal. He decided to ignore your stubbornness, ‘eat your food before it gets cold,’ you had no choice but to oblige.

after dinner, you offered to help clean up, but he refused, telling you to go sit on the couch and find something for them to watch, you sighed and sat down on the leather couch, getting comfortable, as you were channel surfing it dawned on you that you shouldn’t be getting too comfortable, this was all temporary anyways. glancing down at your bandaged wrist, when it was the day to take it off, when your bruises faded, when your cuts healed; that was the time you knew you had to leave, saying goodbye to your savior and his warm house he invited you to. you thought to yourself that it was probably out of pity and to save his ego, now he’ll be able to tell people ‘well i saved someone from dying, what did you do last night?’ you felt shame, that you were just using him, and that you were burdening him, it was embarrassing and you looked to the front door debating if you should just save him the trouble and leave tomorrow to go back to your old hotel and beg for a room and your stuff back. you looked up when you felt the other side of the couch dip, you looked up at him, he had changed out of his suit and he was now in sweats and a white t-shirt that didn’t look as expensive. before he could say anything you decided to speak, ‘why?’ was all you could say, it was all you wanted to know, like you stated before, he didn’t know you and you didn’t know him, so why did he care so much? why did he want to help you so badly? he cleared his throat and sighed, collecting his thoughts of what to say, ‘i was working late, i never work that late, but i had a project i’d been working on with my team. the stress was eating me alive so i wanted to finish it as soon as possible,’ you nodded, wanting him to keep going, ‘after i finally finished, i called my friend who was at a bar near where you were… so i went and had a drink, and when i was leaving… that's when i saw you.’ he closed his eyes and sighed, not wanting to upset you by bringing up what happened, ‘i couldn’t just leave you, you would’ve died.’ you hummed, knowing that much was true.

‘i don’t know, i guess it might've been the buzz of alcohol or something else compelling me to take you to the hospital. when they told me you needed to have emergency surgery for some of your injuries i couldn’t just leave until i knew you were okay… then they told me you weren’t chipped and probably didn’t have a home, so they told me they couldn’t perform surgery without a guardian, and i was at a real crossroad…’ you went wide-eyed as he recounted the night, ‘you didn’t…’ you whispered to him. he sighed and looked up at you, he was guilty and you couldn’t believe it… all for a stranger. ‘i signed some papers and you were sent off for surgery, they didn’t tell you, but he had stabbed you with a blunt object in your stomach, it wasn’t deep, but it wasn’t good either… you would’ve died.’ you were baffled, you couldn’t even form a thought of what to say to him, instead you got up and walked to your room, slamming the door and crawling into bed, leaving your new ‘guardian’ sitting on the couch.

the light coming in through the blinds woke you up, and it hurt, your bones screaming for some kind of relief as you recovered from what had happened a couple of days before. you thanked yourself for being so exhausted that you didn’t even have time to have any nightmares about what happened, you guessed you’d gotten used to the trauma by being alone your whole life.

you groaned as you got up, taking as long as possible to go outside of your room, scared you’d see jeno. you peeked your head out and looked around the apartment, you could see that his bedroom door was left ajar and that the living room and kitchen were empty. You left your room and made your way to the kitchen table, noticing a note for you and the phone you refused to take last night right next to it. the note was from jeno obviously and you rolled your eyes at how it started with an apology for what happened last night, that he would be home later after work and to call him if you needed anything, and that lunch was in the fridge for you. you ate the lunch he prepared for you while playing on your ‘new’ phone. it was still early in the morning and you didn’t know when he would be back so you lounged around the apartment, taking a nap here and there until you heard the door open.

it was like a routine now, you would wake up, jeno would be gone, you’d eat lunch and wait for him to get back to do things with you, sometimes taking you out on a walk or watching tv when you felt too tired or sore to do anything else. it had already been a week with jeno and it was finally the weekend, a couple of days ago he asked if you wanted to meet haechan and jaemin, and you reluctantly agreed, if jeno trusted them then you would too.

jeno was making dinner for the four of you and you sat at the table, watching him go back and forth around the kitchen. ‘so, jaemin is a little hyper and can be touchy at times, don’t let him scare you, and don’t be afraid to push him off, he won’t get offended.’ you nodded, taking mental notes, ‘haechan is funny, if you like my jokes, you’ll laugh at his.’ you gave him a look and he stopped to look at you too, ‘i don’t laugh at your jokes.’ you told him, half messing with him and half telling the hard truth. he playfully rolled his eyes and went back to cooking without a single word.

jeno was putting on the finishing touches for dinner when the buzzer for the intercom rang, ‘oh that's them!’ he was running around the kitchen in a stripped apron with his black hair a mess, he put down the pot and ran to the door to buzz them in, in his white socks he slides on the wood floor and you stifle a laugh, ‘when they come to the door can you let them in?’ he asked. you agreed and got up to stand by the door and before you knew it, there was a knock, you opened it and was greeted with a very strong scent of another bunny hybrid, you didn’t even realize it had been almost a week and a half since you’ve seen another hybrid.

before anyone could be greeted a taller man pushed past the other one in front, who you assumed was haechan, and he grabbed you by the shoulders, which startled you a little bit. right from the get-go you knew this was jaemin. he was tall and undoubtedly handsome, the dirty blonde tinted hair matched his gray ears that stood up on his head. you had no choice but to stare into his big, dark eyes as he continued to hold a death grip on your shoulders. he took a deep breath, obviously taking in your scents, you tried to ignore the fact that jeno was staring at you. ‘i’ve heard so much about you’ the other bunny said. you smiled awkwardly and haechan came up to take jaemin away from you, muttering a ‘sorry about him’.

you helped jeno set the table, while talking with haechan and jaemin, trying to get to know them better, and continuing to talk throughout dinner. jeno was right, jaemin was very enthusiastic and hyper, and it took a lot to keep up with him in conversations. you learned that haechan had been ‘gifted’ jaemin when he was young, so they had known each other their whole lives. you tried not to feel jealous, wondering what that was like, to not have to worry about anything since the day you were born, to always have someone to watch over you. you looked back at jeno, who was talking with haechan, it reminded you of when he stated ‘you are my responsibility’ but yet you knew that what you yearned for was not with him, it scared you, knowing that any minute by the time you are fully healed, he’d give up liability and send you to the nearest shelter. you couldn’t have anything permanent like what jaemin and heachan had.

haechan and jaemin eventually left (not before exchanging phone numbers), leaving you and jeno to clean up, it was silent until jeno got your attention. ‘so i made you a doctors appointment, just to check on how you’re healing.’ you felt a sharp pain at your chest, you knew he meant well, but it scared you due to the fact that would mean you’re leaving sooner than you thought. ‘oh, thank you.’ was all you could say, ‘its in a week so make sure to be ready to leave before, i’ll remind you in a couple of days.’ you nodded, looking down at the table, wiping it clean.

the night before your appointment (after watching reruns of trivia shows with jeno), you got into bed and took out your phone, searching up homeless shelters in the area for hybrids, looking over a few you saved their addresses to write down later incase jeno wouldn’t let you keep the phone when you eventually left. after a while your eyes grew heavy, and you fell asleep, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night from nightmares but those were far and a few inbetween, you remember a couple nights ago when it got so bad you woke up thinking someone was trying to break in. it was really embarrassing since you even woke up jeno, who got up to go check the door, promising you that no one was there, he even let you sleep in his bed with him, reassuring you he wouldn’t let anyone get inside the apartment. thats when you felt your most safest, but you didn’t want to inconvenience him anymore, so you tried to deal with them on your own.

by the time morning came around you scrambled to get up out of bed in time for your appointment, it seemed like jeno was running late too since he was no where to be found. before you knew it, it was time to leave and jeno had called you, stating that he was outside and that he had run somewhere before your appointment. you left the apartment and met him outside, you got in his car and he asked you how you slept, you said ‘fine’ and he didn’t push any further. the car ride was silent and so was the doctors appointment, the nurse performed a physical and looked over your previous wounds to see how you were healing, jeno stayed in the waiting room until it was time to give an answer on what to do next.

jeno entered the room and the nurse informed him that you’d been healing fine and that the cast on your wrist could come off now and you were nervous, it made you feel even worse when jeno asked her ‘we can do that here? now, right?’ she nodded and told you both to wait as she went to go get the doctor to do it. you didn’t bother to look at him when he sat down in the small room, you noticed how it was a human hospital like before. ‘i bet you’re excited to get the cast off’ he stated, you hummed in response, refusing to look up at him. he continued, ‘i also bet you’re hungry, im sorry i wasnt there to make you breakfast this morning, i had a work emergency…’

before you could say anything, the doctor and the nurse had arrived to take off your cast. silently mourning the loss of the seal that bounded you and jeno together, you didn’t want to say good bye, but like all things you’ve experienced, nothing good ever lasts. after, jeno checked you out and despite not even telling him you were hungry, he still stopped by somewhere to pick you up food.

later that day it was silent around the apartment, the air was heavy and it felt like the both of you wanted to say something but neither of you would go first. until jeno finally decided to break the ice, and you braced yourself for the confrontation. he had called after you from your room, and you anxiously made your way to the kitchen, taking small steps as you scratched the back of your ears. he showed you something on his phone, it was your search history from last night, ‘whats this?’ he asked. you were at a loss for words, you really didn’t know what to say ‘ummm’ you looked anywhere but at him, ‘i just thought…’ you trailed off, waiting for him to say it. ‘that i wanted you to leave?’ he whispered, you could hear the hurt in his voice. you sighed, ‘i just thought… that once i got better, you didn’t want me here anymore.’ you confessed, still refusing to look at him. He sighed and brought is hand to rub his temple, trying to stay calm, ‘do you not trust me?’ he asked. in a small voice you answered, ‘you don’t even know me.’

he slammed his fist on the kitchen table making you jump. ‘y/n, you can’t be serious, i know we haven’t known each other for as long as say, heachan and jaemin, but i think i know you enough that i want you to stay… you yell at the tv when someone doesn’t get a trivia question right, you know all of the answers despite not going to school, only because you used to go to the library as a kid and read all the books you could. you cried when we watched titantic together even though you’ve told me you’ve seen it before. your ears twitch whenever the music is too loud in the car, and that you like when they are scratched late at night,’ he moved around the table and grabbed you by the shoulders, bringing you closer to him, ‘whenever i make you your favorite food you tap your foot on the floor,’ he was staring intensely into your eyes, trying to find any confirmation that you were wrong, ‘y/n… you told me that you don’t have a family but, the thing is, i don’t either. i don’t understand everything you’ve been through, but i want to, i need you to believe that you deserve love, a family.’ your eyes welled up with tears and you couldn’t see him anymore, it was all blurry, your chest rose and fell rapidly, ‘i know we haven’t known each other for a while, but ever since i met you, ive had more reasons to be here than i’ve had in years, all i do is work, come home, eat and sleep, and i repeat that, i- i don’t have anyone here to watch titanic with me, or to read me a book while i cook and do laundry.’

hot tears rolled down your face as you remember the book you started reading and then eventually to him after he had asked too many questions about it, it was almost over, too. so many thoughts were running around in your head, this had never happened to you, and like most good things, it almost had always seemed too good to be true, all the times you were almost adopted as a young child but nothing was ever permanent, you didnt want to be fooled, like this would be any different. you knew better. he shook your shoulders slightly as you hesitiated, ‘bunny, please say something… it feels as though we were supposed to meet’ he whispered.

in his embrace the room felt way too small and way too hot, without even thinking twice, you broke away from him and ran towards the door. opening it you slammed the oak shut, the noise echoed through the hallway, definitely alerted some of the neighbors. forgetting about the elevator the stairs would be faster, you could hear jeno call after you as you hopped down the staircase, trying to leave the building as fast as possible. the regular security guard gave you a concerned look and tried to ask if you were okay, but you rushed right past him and out of the front door, into the busy streets of seoul. moving with the crowd you had no clue where you were going and at this point, you didn’t care. you looked back to make sure you’d lost jeno in the crowd, he was the last person you wanted to see right now, certainly he was lying, all everyone did was use you, and how was this any different? you walked around seoul until you got too tired, you had already turned on airplane mode so jeno couldn’t track you or call, you stared at the time and then a picture of him as your wallpaper, one you took without him looking at the camera, you knew you’d have to face him sometime, only to tell him goodbye and give back the phone.

you sighed, calling jaemin for some company and advice, you asked him to join you at this random cafe you found and not to tell anyone else. he reluctantly agreed, saying he’d be there soon. when it started getting dark, he finally showed up and silently walked to your table and sat across from you. ever since you met him, he became your closest friend (that wasn’t jeno), you two texted constantly and he would keep you updated on the latest ‘memes’ and ‘tiktoks’, so it was only natural to call him and talk about it. ‘y/n, are you okay? you sounded kind of panicked over the phone… where is jeno?’ jaemin looked around. he was wearing a hat, hiding his ears and hair, he had on a leather jacket and a hoodie, bundled up against the cold air outside. ‘well…’ you started, now picking at your nails nervously, ‘i don’t know, i left.’ at that he whipped his head around to look at you, bewildered, ‘dude, he’s probably worried sick!?’

you groaned and burried your head into your crossed arms, hiding from everything, ‘thats the thing, he shouldn’t be, i didn’t think he wanted me to stay, he just still feels bad about what happened, i know all i am is just a burden.’ you confessed. ‘im not meant to stay anywhere, jaemin, that kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me…’ he looked at you and sighed, grasping your hands in his, making you look at him. ‘but that stuff could happen to you. i’ve known jeno for a long time and he always believed that this type of stuff doesn’t happen to him either. i’m not on his side or anything, but i’m just saying, maybe staying wouldn’t be the worse thing y/n, you deserve love and to love… remember when i was sad about the stupidest thing and you still tried to send me a funny picture to cheer me up?’ you smiled at the memory, ‘no matter what you’ve been through, you still try to care, even if its just a little bit… maybe you should follow through with it and see where it could lead you.’ you looked down at your intertwined hands, and your vision blurred again with tears, ‘im just so scared jaemin,’ he nodded, ‘i just don’t want to get too attached to him, and then watch him leave me like everyone else.’ you admitted in a small voice, ‘i know, i know’ jeamin reassured you again, ‘but i know jeno, he follows through with his promises… you know,’ he scoffed and laughed at himself, ‘i was going to ask you to be my mate…’ you looked up at him in shock, your eyes meeting his soft brown ones, you retracted your hands from his, he waved his in front of you, not wanting to give you the wrong message, ‘but i couldnt, listen, i thought i had a crush on you, but you can’t be my mate, thats because jeno is.’ you groaned and hid your face again in your arms, forehead against the cool, metal table as you tried not to have a panic attack.

before you both could say anything, you noticed the cafe worker coming up to you, her read shoes now peeking in through your fingers, ‘um, miss? im sorry but haven’t ordered anything in almost an hour, if you aren’t going to get anything you need to leave.’ you lifted your head to look at her, she visibly cringed at the site, your hair was a mess and you had tears and snot everywhere, your eyes were probably bloodshot red and your sniffling nose matched the hue. jaemin stood up first, ‘we were just leaving’ he said sternly, grabbing your arm to get you to stand up and walk outside with him. the air was cold, you shivered, reminding you about the night you met the stranger who put you in the hospital, the fateful night when you would eventually meet jeno. You stayed close to jaemin, hyper aware of everything around you now, your ears picking up all kinds of sounds, your nose picking up all kinds of scents, some including jaemin, and you hated that you even tried to pick up jenos, but it wasn’t anywhere near you. you wondered if he was still looking for you, its been hours so he surely would’ve found you by now. you sighed in defeat, leaning your head against jaemins shoulders.

you watched him out of the corner of your eyes, getting out his phone and jumping slightly at the amount of missed calls from his own guardian, haechan. ‘hold on, i need to call him back. he called me like, so many times’ you moved away, giving him some personal space as he talked on the phone, the call lasted for a couple of minutes with jaemin mostly listening and only saying a couple words. He ended the call and sighed looking over at you, and you could tell what the call was about. you turned and walked away from him, trying again to get out of the situation, he grabbed you and pulled you by the hood of your hoodie, ‘not so fast rabbit!’ he pulled you closer, trying to get you to listen, ‘did anything i say earlier not mean anything? y/n, go back home. haechan told me that jeno is freaking out and… he might have called the cops to go out and find you…’ you sighed, not realizing the lengths jeno would go, ‘i would suggest we head there now, or you can arrive in the back of a cop car! your choice’ jaemin stated a matter of factly. ‘fuck. i hate that you’re right. kind of about everything.’ jaemin nodded, ‘i know it will be hard at first, but at least try and you’ll eventually get it, i promise.’ he gave you an encouraging smile and helped you get back home.

as you got closer and closer you could see the flashing lights from the two cop cars, you stopped on the broken side-walk which made the other rabbit stop too, ‘jaemin, i can’t go in there, this is so humiliating.’ you buried your face in your hands, face growing hot from the realization that you now have to face jeno and the cops of seoul, people who already didn’t like you that much because of your past job. jaemin grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the apartment building, ‘just ignore them, nothing will ever change with them so why does it matter?’ you groaned and let him do all the work, he stopped you from falling over when you were met with the familiar door to the tall building, ‘let me tell haechan to buzz us in.’ he stated as he typed furiously on his phone, the door was buzzed and opened within a matter of seconds, the elevator ride was silent as you grew more and more nervous to face the tall, dark haired man that you ran away from only hours before.

you both ignored the stares from the cops, the door to the apartment was open so jaemin just motioned for you to enter silently. you feared that everyone else could hear how loud your heart was beating, but probably only jaemin noticed. once you slipped inside, your eyes immediately landed on jeno at the kitchen table, biting his fingernail as he stared down at his phone, haechan nudged the older man causing him to look up at you standing in the doorway. he slowly rose from his seat, the legs scratching the floor making an ungodly sound as haechan walked past you and grabbed jaemin, and the front door closed, leaving just you and jeno. he walked to you slowly, trying not to scare you off again.

‘jeno…’ you started and looked down at your fidgeting hands, he gave you an eye smile that only existed on special occasions, despite leaving he was still happy to see you. ‘my bunny,’ he whispered and brought you in for a hug, you closed your eyes and finally embraced him back, giving him the silent confirmation that you wanted to stay, ‘i was so worried about you’ he murmured against your hair, and you could hear it perfectly. you took in his familiar scent, causing you to unknowingly rub your chin on his shoulder, in order to spread your scent on him. he didn’t seem to mind, only breaking away so you could finally talk to him, ‘you talk about cars even though i don't understand a thing, you love jelly candy, and you share your mint chocolate ice cream with me…’ his dark eyes stared back into yours, listening intently, ‘you hate math and you let me play your video games even though im really bad and i mess up your rankings, but you don’t care.’ he looked to the side and playfully remarked, ‘i only care a little bit’ you scoffed and played along, hitting his shoulder slightly as he laughed at your reaction.

the laughter died down and he continued to stare at you with such adoration and care, you thought about what jaemin said earlier, how he wasn’t your mate. jeno is. you shifted your weight from one foot to the other as jeno came closer again, gracing your cheek with his calloused hand. you could see the birthmark on his check much clearer, wanting to kiss it, instead you looked back into his eyes, through his dark bangs that tempted to cover them. he had almost the same idea as he brushed the hair from your face with his other hand, cupping your other cheek now. he leaned in and so did you, feeling less tense you melted into his touch, eventually your forehead was against his and you closed your eyes as you felt him hum. ‘my bunny…’ he was breathless and you were glad you were so close so jeno couldn’t see the major blushing that nickname had caused.

you left it alone, instead grabbing his cheeks in return, surprising him, you brought your nose up to his, and he smiled, remembering when jaemin explained what this gesture meant. you pulled away and giggled a little at how his blush now matched yours, ‘are you going to stay?’ he wanted to make sure this time, wanted to hear you say you wouldn’t leave, to promise him. ‘i thought about what you said earlier’ he nodded, ‘thank you for saving my life’. he beamed and leaned in, heart almost bursting out of his chest, you closed your eyes as he got closer, and eventually, your lips met his. your hands lightly cupping his face again while he moved his down to your waist to bring you closer. his lips were soft and he tasted like the strawberry chapstick he had bought you but kept using, it made you smile, only to make him smile in return. jeno backed up and looked at you, ‘thank you for saving mine.’

[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.

[j-k-writes]

My Darling

Summary - Alicent Hightower doesn't see newly anointed knight Y/N Lannister when she looks upon the boy in front of her, instead she sees the young teen that comforted her all those years ago.

Warnings - General HOTD warnings

Hello, I am alive. The second semester of uni has been absolutely hell for me and my mental health but alas I have persevered and hopefully will be posting more here once finals are over.

Y/N had not been expecting to attend a royal funeral when his elder brother wrote to him of the tourney in Kingslanding. He’d expected to come and compete, finish in a reasonable place, and then make his way back to Casterly Rock. But the gods did not care for what he wanted, and his third day in Kingslanding found him standing outside in the cold while Princess Rhaenyra’s dragon lit the pyre of her mother and brother. 

His brothers abandoned him after the lighting of the pyre. Jason had it in his mind that he would one day be allowed to marry the Princess, and now that she was once again the King’s only child his ambition renewed itself with a new fervor. Tyland, ever the sheep, followed his twin closely leaving their youngest brother to find his way through the crowd by his lonesome. 

“Ser Y/N.” Y/N turned his head at the voice, smiling at the sight of Lady Alicent walking toward him. “I thought that was you.” 

“Lady Alicent.” Y/N bowed, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. The action brought a giggle out of the girl. “It is so nice to see you again.” 

The years had been kind to the girl, as she looked much healthier than the last time Y/N had the privilege of laying his eyes on her. The previous time Y/N had seen Alicent had been when the girl was in the worst throes of grief. 

The girl's mother had been sick for some time, so the only person it seemed that was shocked by her passing was her only daughter. Y/N watched from the sidelines as Alicent fell headfirst into her grief, too young to be considered important enough to comfort by the courtiers around them. Even Tyland and Jason had warned Y/N off approaching the girl. Telling him to just let the women deal with it, for it was a woman’s job to supply comfort during times of grief. 

(The same brothers who had told him that were currently at the King’s beck and call, trying their best to slide their way into his pocket during his time of grief.) 

Y/N hadn’t heeded their warnings in the end. 

“Lady Alicent?” Y/N had asked meekly as he knocked on her chamber doors. He wasn’t supposed to be here, it was forbidden for an unmarried man and woman of their ages to be alone in their chambers together, but Y/N could not watch as Alicent locked herself away to rot any longer. 

“Please,” Alicent’s voice came from the other side of the doors. “Just leave me.” 

“It’s Y/N Lannister,” Y/N said, hoping the name of her friend would convince her to open her doors to him. “Please, I would just like to make sure you are alright.” 

Alicent opened the doors slightly, hiding behind the wooden frame and only allowing Y/N to get a glimpse at one side of her face. Her hair was unwashed and her eyes were red as if she’d recently been crying. 

“Can I come in?” Y/N asked, and Alicent nodded. She opened the door fully, allowing the boy to walk into the unkempt room. It was truly a feat to manage to get one's chambers as messy as Alicent had, as the servants came in every day to clean them. 

“Do you have a purpose for being here, Y/N?” Alicent asked, looking down at the ground as the boy in front of her took in the state of her chambers. 

‘She is uncomfortable’, Y/N realized, although why she would not be he didn’t know. He was standing in her chambers, without supervision, taking in the messiest part of her grief without an explanation. 

“I just wished to say that I was sorry,” Y/N said, watching as Alicent’s eyes began to water at his words. “I was saddened to hear about the passing of your mother, she was a lovely lady and she loved you very much.” 

Alicent nodded. “Thank you.” 

“That was all,” Y/N said, beginning to walk toward the door. Alicent reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. She was weeping openly now, tears running down her already red cheeks. Unsure of what to do, Y/N wrapped his arms around the crying girl, rubbing soothing circles into her back as she wept. 

“Thank you.” Alicent kept repeating. “Thank you.” 

“Are you in Kingslanding for long, Ser Y/N?” Alicent asked, bringing Y/N back to the present. 

Y/N nodded, “For as long as I am welcome.” 

Alicent looked shy as she spoke her next words, cheeks flushing ever so slightly. “You may find that you are very welcome.”

Alicent hadn’t lied to him when she told him he would find himself welcome at Kingslanding. 

In the past months since Queen Aemma’s funeral Y/N has not found himself without the company of the youngest Hightower, and where came Alicent came Princess Rhaenyra much to Tyland and Jason’s delight. 

“She is almost of age.” Jason had remarked over dinner one evening, causing his youngest brother to roll his eyes. “Perhaps the King will see her closeness with you and bring that into his consideration.” 

Y/N had attempted to squash the ambitious ideas that had taken root in his elder brothers’ minds but the two had ignored the man’s protests in favor of their own delusions. Y/N had no ambition for marriage at this point in his life, and even if he did he would not be eyeing the hand of the heir to the throne. 

But despite his brothers’ ambitions Y/N had found himself enjoying his time in Kingslanding, especially his time with the Lady Alicent. He had forgotten what joy the girls company had been during his youth, and now that the both of them had matured throughout the years he found himself enjoying their time together even more. 

“Y/N!” Alicent would shout anytime she spotted the young knight in a crowd, picking up the tops of her dress so that she could hurry along to his side without fear of tripping. She would immediately loop their arms together, pressing so close to his side that he could feel the warmth of her skin through his jerkin. 

“What are your plans for today?” She would ask every day, and everyday Y/N would respond with- 

“Whatever your plans are my lady.” And every day Alicent would flush, and duck her head like the maiden he knew her to be. 

They would spend their morns walking through the halls of the Red Keep after breaking their fast, sadly separately as Alicent’s father took up the same amount of her time as Y/N’s elder brothers. By the time noon rolled around Alicent, Y/N, and often time Rhaenyra would make their way to the Godswood and sit in the sun reading the books their Septa had assigned. 

When Alicent was occupied with her lessons Y/N would find himself in the yard, training as a knight of his standing was expected to do. But he oftentimes found it draining and lackluster, something that confused him as before his journey to Kingslanding he relished in the feeling a sword in his hand would give him. But now he found his thoughts straying far from the yard and toward a certain maiden with auburn hair. 

Lately, their days have been plagued with silence and forlorn looks off into the distance. Y/N had tried to broach the subject with Alicent multiple times and each time the girl had just brushed him off and given him a fake smile to placate his worries. 

Now, he found himself walking back to his chambers alone his thoughts filled with worry for the young maiden. The door hadn’t closed behind him before he was stripping down to his breeches and tossing his dirty clothes onto the floor. 

“Oh.” He heard someone gasp behind him causing him to whip around. He hadn’t heard the doors open behind him or an announcement of the newcomer, and when he saw who it was he realized why. 

“Alicent.” He breathed, rushing to find something to cover himself with. The girl ducked her head, face turning crimson with a fury. 

“I apologize,” She said, turning around. “If I had known I would have announced myself.” 

Y/N grabbed his discarded clothing, quickly redressing himself before turning back to face Alicent. “It is not your fault, you could not have known.” 

Alicent was silent when she turned back around, looking everywhere but at Y/N’s eyes. Y/N waited for the girl to speak, to explain her sudden presence in his bedchambers, but she did not. So instead, Y/N cleared his throat and asked, “Not that you’re not welcome, Alicent, but is there a reason for your presence?” 

“I wished to speak to you about something,” Alicent said, suddenly sobering. “Can we sit?” 

Y/N navigated her toward the bed, letting her sit atop it before taking a seat in the chair across from her. As soon as he saw her atop her bed, he realized just how horrible this would be for the both of them if anyone else were to waltz into his chambers unannounced and find her here unsupervised. 

“I fear King Viserys is going to ask for my hand in marriage.” Y/N blinked at her words, his mouth falling agape. 

“What?” 

“My father wishes for me to marry the King,” Alicent explained. 

“And you think that the King will heed your father’s wishes?” 

“He has before.” Alicent said, eyes watering as she continued to speak. “And he needs more heirs.” 

“I don’t understand what you wish me to do about that, Alicent,” Y/N said, taking her hands in his. He wished to ease this burden from her shoulders, but if the King wished for her hand in marriage then nothing Ser Y/N third son of House Lannister could say would change his mind. 

“We could marry.” Alicent whispers so quietly that Y/N almost doesn't hear her. But he did, and the statement changed his life. 

He had not thought of marrying Alicent before this very moment, content in their friendship, but as soon as the thought was implanted in his head he realized he would love nothing more. His brothers had pushed Y/N to pursue Rhaenyra and in his haste to quell their ambitions, he didn’t realize what was right in front of him the entire time. 

But, “If the King wishes for your hand nothing me or my brothers say will change his mind.” 

Their friendship would build a strong marriage, maybe even one born out of love and not honor, and Alicent was a beautiful woman even Y/N had noticed that in their months together. He was so stuck in his thoughts of what a future with the girl would look like that he almost missed her next statement. 

“Not if I was a maiden.” 

“What?” Y/N stuttered. 

“If you-” She flushed as if simply speaking the words would make her plan come true. “If I were no longer a maiden King Viserys would not look so favorably upon me, and we would be forced to marry.” 

“We would only be forced to marry if it was I who took your maidenhood.” 

She ducked her head, and her wish registered in Y/N’s mind as he took in the way her cheeks darkened even further. “Oh.” 

“It was silly, forget-” She did not finish her sentence before Y/N was pressing his lips to hers. She gasped, grabbing onto his face and turning the chaste kiss into something deeper. 

Y/N pulled away from her, taking in her flushed appearance. If he did not stop himself now, nothing short of the entire Kingsgaurd would pull him off of her. “Is this what you truly want?” 

She nodded. 

“Are you sure?” He asked again, he would not do this unless it was what she truly desired. As much as this conversation had kickstarted a fantasy of his he did not even realize he had, and as much as he now wished to make her his wife and live his days with her by his side damn the consequences, he would not do this without her clear approval. 

She grabbed his face, gentle thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his cheekbones. She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, “I am sure.” 

They were married before the first week of summer.

[slutoru1207]

Sinister!Mark x reader part 11

Mark wasn’t sleeping.

Hadn’t been, not really.

Not since the night you disappeared.

His apartment was a wreck—papers, maps, any lead he could get his hands on scattered across the floor, the walls, anywhere his exhausted mind could make sense of it. The search had consumed him, eaten away at everything else.

Even his mom had stopped calling as much. Not because she didn’t care, but because she knew.

Mark wouldn’t stop. Not until he found you.

But it was getting harder.

Each day passed with nothing—no trail, no proof you were even still alive. Cecil’s agents had turned up nothing but dead ends. There had been no ransom, no message, no sign of a struggle. It was like you had just… vanished.

And the worst part?

Some people—his friends—had started to move on.

Amber, William… they checked in on him, but the pity in their eyes was unbearable. They weren’t giving up on you, not really, but they didn’t understand.

They didn’t know what Mark knew.

You weren’t dead.

You couldn’t be.

He would have felt it.

Something would have broken inside of him if you were gone.

So, no—he wasn’t moving on. He wasn’t stopping.

And then, just when he thought he was losing his mind—

Cecil called.

“We found something.”

Mark stood in the control room, his fingers curled into fists at his sides, his heart slamming against his ribs as the footage played on the screen in front of him.

It was grainy, taken from a street cam in a city Mark didn’t recognize. People moved in and out of frame, but there—

There you were.

His breath caught in his throat.

It was fast, just a few seconds, but it was you.

You looked… different.

Your hair was slightly longer, your posture stiff, but it was you.

And you weren’t alone.

Mark’s entire body tensed as his gaze shifted.

The man beside you was dressed casually—dark jeans, a fitted black t-shirt, a jacket that looked too much like something he would wear. He was smiling at you, his golden eyes warm, affectionate.

And Mark knew.

Knew before Cecil even spoke.

Before the pit in his stomach fully formed.

“That’s…” His voice caught, his throat dry.

Cecil exhaled through his nose, his gaze heavy. “It’s you.”

No.

Not him.

Not really.

Mark’s nails dug into his palms. “Where was this taken?” His voice was too sharp, too desperate, and he didn’t care.

Cecil studied him for a moment before nodding to one of his agents, who quickly pulled up another screen. A map flickered into view.

“It was captured three days ago,” Cecil said, tone careful. “This city shouldn’t exist.”

Mark’s jaw clenched.

A fabricated place. A hidden world.

And you were inside of it.

Mark’s heart pounded, his chest tight, his mind spiraling. He should have been relieved. Should have been ecstatic that you were alive, that there was finally proof.

But all he could see was the way you had looked in the footage.

Not struggling.

Not fighting.

Walking beside him.

Mark’s breath was shaky as his vision blurred at the edges, something deep, deep in his gut twisting in ways he couldn’t name.

Cecil was still talking, something about resources, about a plan.

But Mark wasn’t listening anymore.

Because one thought rang louder than anything else.

What did he do to you?

part 12

[k0nanharv3y]

I'll follow you around. Part 2

Part 1

Okay, look, was this her best idea? Never. Will she regret this in the future? Probably. Will she let this kid continue running around Gotham unprepared? No. Leslie couldn't afford that. So, after threatening to call his parents, CPS, the police, and Batman himself, the boy stayed. Like a tick, the boy kept coming back with hurt people, he kept looking over Leslie's shoulder as she set shoulders and stitched wounds, and he kept disappearing into thin air every time the doctor asked his name.

So... She stopped doing it

Leslie started calling him "Nurse" every time he appeared, she started making a space for the boy to look at and waited with the door open for the next patient who would appear holding the boy's hand.

As for Tim? Tim was having a blast. He never thought he'd be so useful in his life. (Sure, he hoped to run his parents' business in the future, but that was his parents' business, this? This was purely Tim.) He never thought he would help so many people, and of course he wasn't like Batman and Robin, but he was saving people, saving lives.

And the adrenaline rush of running from one alley to another every time he heard a scream was much greater than the one he felt when he ran across the rooftops following Batman. Because this was a race against time, because Tim could help them and save them and... And his heart beat so hard when he received a satisfied smile from Doctor Leslie.

And... and then the clock ran out before Tim arrived.

He had been busy treating a cat's paw, removing the small splinter that was making it limp on the back, the night had been peaceful and the worst thing today was a woman vomiting her dinner after drinking too much. (Tim gave her an aspirin for tomorrow's headache and accompanied her to her apartment, between Crime Alley and Old Gotham, which were both close to Leslie's clinic). Tim had relaxed... Maybe that's why it took him longer to react when he heard the scream.

With what could be defined as muscle memory, he packed everything in his backpack and started running as fast as his (small) legs could carry him. Tim almost tripped once or twice before reaching the scene

A boy. A few years older than him, perhaps, sobbing as he clutched a woman's hand on the ground, her eyes rolled back and blood running from her nose.

From a distance, Tim could see an overdose in progress. He quickened his pace and knelt down hastily, scraping his own knees.

"Stay away from us!" The boy had exclaimed to him

"It's okay! I can help!" Tim had promised him, taking things out of his backpack, frantically searching for the naloxone that Leslie had forced him to carry with him, he took it out, along with a sterile syringe "This is naloxone, it will reverse the effects of the overdose, I promise, let me help her" He clumsily showed him the little bottle, and without waiting for an answer, he began to prepare it.

His heart was beating wildly, he felt the clock in his head ticking faster and... And Tim didn't have time for this

Almost gracefully, he injected the substance into the woman's arm and waited a second.

Two seconds

The woman's chest did not rise

"What have you done...?" He heard from the other side

Tim's eyes widened, feeling nausea rise in his throat. He placed both hands on the woman's chest, hoping to feel a heartbeat, a buzzing, something.

And then he started to push

(If it hadn't been so traumatic, Tim would have admitted that "Stayin' Alive" was playing in his head and he never heard the song the same way again)

One... Two... Three... Blow... One... Two... Three... Blow

"What have you done to my mom!?" The boy pushed him away from the slowly cooling body, beginning to do something similar to what Tim was doing, more clumsy, frantic almost

"I- I-!" Stuttering, shaking, Tim got up from the ground, grabbing his backpack, taking out the phone and dialing his emergency number

"Kid-"

"Help! I- She's not breathing!" Tim interrupted Leslie, in total panic

"What? Kid? Where are you?!" Movement on the other end of the call told him that Leslie was leaving the clinic

"Bet- Between Crime Alley and Old Gotham on the 54th and the 35th" Tim looked up and down the alley for the street number. The graffiti of Martha Wayne and Thomas Wayne stared back at him.

"Don't move, I'm coming" Tim could tell the woman was running from the sound of her. "Describe her symptoms," he ordered breathlessly.

"Overdose, I- I think- W-what do I do?" Hot tears now ran down his cheeks, unable to tear his gaze away from the sobbing child, exclaiming 'Mom!'

There was no answer, for at the foot of the alley, Leslie slipped, disheveled, panting, without her robe, but with the white briefcase in her hand.

She ran a little further to reach the woman, carefully pushing the boy aside. He moved away without much effort, looking at the doctor as if he knew her.

"How long it's been?" She resumed compressions. Not clumsily, not lightly, but professionally

Tim stuttered, flustered, frozen in place.

"Nurse! How long it's been?!" She demanded, now, with a firm tone and... And similar to Janeth's

That brought Tim back

"3 minutes, naloxone has been administered, but I cannot say if cardiac arrest has just begun or was already present before the administration"

"Jason?" Leslie turned to the boy, who was still in shock

He reacted to his name and stuttered a "already..."

Leslie pulled away abruptly and frowned, annoyed with herself. She closed her eyes and seemed to swallow all her despair. She inhaled and looked back at the woman.

She extended a hand

And she closed her eyes

And if Jason wasn't crying then, now he started tearing his throat out from the inside.

And Tim...?

"Nurse-" Leslie turned to look at the boy

He had gone

...

Read the tags :)

I'll follow you around

Part 3

[chloe-skywalker]

The Good Out Of The Bad - Cedric Diggory

Cedric x Fem!Reader Malfoy

Warnings: parents disowning child

Word count: 999

Summary: Being disowned by the Malfoys, Y/n goes to her boyfriend Cedrics home. The Diggorys are more than welcoming.

Authors Note: For sake of the story Cedrics moms alive. I don't know if she's alive or dead, they don't say in the movies and I haven’t read the books. Part 2? Maybe a run in with the Malfoys? Or he proposes? Or they go over to invite the Malfoys to their wedding? Comment below which one you’d like or should it be all of those.

Masterlist

Harry Potter Masterlist

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Y/n had possibly had the worst day of her life and all she wanted right now was Cedric. It was a long journey but she needed him right now. Once Y/n reached the Diggory residence she knocked on the front door.

“Y/n? What's wrong?” Cedric answered the door, shocked to see his girlfriend on the other side, soaked from the pouring rain. With her face red and blotchy.

“I was kicked out.” She hiccuped looking up at him with more tears gathering up in her eyes.

“Come in sweetheart. Its way to cold out.” Cedric’s mother says once she saw the girl she thought of as a daughter, having come to check on Cedric at the door. The older woman rushed Y/n into their home having her and Cedric sit on the couch. Cedric's mother and father joining them in the living room.

“What happened Y/n/n?” Cedric asked, wrapping a towel and a big heavy blanket around her trying to make sure she doesn’t get sick. He pulled her close into his side to comfort and protect her.

“I've been disowned. Name burned off of the family tree and everything.” Y/n told them with a shaky voice and a shiver. Whether it was from being drenched in the rain or the vent’;s she experienced with her family they didn’t know. But the guess was both.

Cedric rubbed a hand up and down her back trying to provide her with as much comfort as possible.

His parents were shocked to hear her words. How could they, then again something similar happened to Sirius Black back when they were younger.

“Why?” Cedric ask’s, curiously and angry at whatever reason they could give to do this to their own daughter.

“I disagreed on some views my father hold’s, and he decided that if I didn’t agree then I’m no longer a part of the Malfoy family.” Y/n took a deep breath as she told them she didn’t want to cry anymore. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.” She apologizes to Cedric and his parents not wanting to be a burden.

“Don’t be sorry sweetheart.” Cedric's mom shakes her head, heartbreaking for the girl.

“You're always welcome in our home.” Cedric's dad tells her they'd never turn her away, especially after what she just went through.

“Thank you.” Y/n sends them an appreciative smile leaning into Cedric’s embrace.

“You can stay here for as long as you want.” Cedric's mother tells her as she notices Y/n relaxing into her son’s arms.

“I don’t want to be a burden.” Y/n shake’s her head looking at Cedric’s mom.

“You could never be a burden.” Cedric’s dad tells her not wanting her to think she was being a burden.

“Thank you.” Y/n nodds before leaving to go to the bathroom.

“Why would she think she’s a burden staying here?” His mother asked Cedric once hearing the bathroom door shut.

Cedric sighed sadly looking at his parents knowing they were gonna hate his explanation. “Her father- Luscious always called Y/n and Draco burdens. So it’s something she’s been told her whole life. She’s used to it.”

“That's not right.” His dad was appalled at hearing this.

“She’s welcome to stay her for as long as she want’s.” His mother tells him also appalled and upset that they would treat Y/n so poorly. No wonder she never wanted to be home.

“I’ll make sure she knows. And probably have to remind her.” Cedric nodd’s happy to hear that but also knowing she’d be safe with them helped washed away his worry. With that Cedruc got up to make sure Y/n was okay.

“We’ve always loved her.” Cedric’s mom smiled at her son as he left the room.

“Like a daughter.” His dad smiled at his wife, resting a hand on her shoulder standing next to her.

“She’s family.” his wife stated, an unspoken agreement between them that the girl would become even more a part of their family now than she already was.

^     ^     ^

Over the summer Cedric’s parents got to watch their son's relationship and behavior over the weeks and found it interesting to watch their son in his relationship. They got to see the two young adult’s grow even closer and their love grow bigger.

“We did a good job.” Cedric’s mother stated about how they raised their son.

“Yes we did.” His dad agreed watching beside his wife.

^     ^     ^

“Thank you for letting me stay all summer Mr. and Mrs Diggory.” Y/n thanked her boyfriend's parents with a smile having enjoyed her summer with them. They treated her like she was their daughter, their own flesh and blood.The way a family should be is what Y/n thought. But now it was time for them to go back to school for their final year. They were currently at the train station.

“It was a pleasure having you my dear.” Cedric’s dad hugged her after hugging his son, they enjoyed having her with them all the time she was the daughter they never had.

“We can’t wait to have you both back for christmas.” Cedric’s mom says excited and already missing the both of them. She hugged both of them at the same time.

Y/n smiled hugging her back just as tight. She loved being with the Diggory’s it was a big contrast to what she grew up with and she loved it. “I can’t wait.”

It was time for Cedric and Y/n to board the train. As they did they waved back at his parent’s before heading off hand in hand to find a seat together.

“I hope he marry’s her someday.” Cedric’s mother said out loud as she hugged her husband as they watched the train leave. Cedric’s dad let out an airy laugh even though he knew she was being completely honest and he hoped for the same thing in the future.

Taglist:

@padawancat97 @gruffle1 @daughter1of2anita3dearly

[justanothermemestrider]

Nothing Ever Stays Dead - Part 1

Gadriel x Childhood Friend OC

Inspired by @beckyninja ' Titus x Reader fics and @hatsubara-8chan' s Titus x Theia art. Thank you guys for giving me the confidence and inspiration to finally do something with my own oc :)

I know x reader stuff is my forte, but it would mean so much if you guys checked this series out too. It was super fun to write and I think you all will really enjoy it.

As always, apologies for grammar and spelling mistakes. While this part is sfw, some future parts will be nsfw but I'll note that up the top. Typical 40kness and violence, also I've just gone and made up an entire og backstory for Gadriel lol.

Hope you guys enjoy! And thank you so much for reading xoxox

Love, Memestrider :)

Ellicent sobbed into his shoulder, soaking his collar and staining it dark. She'd been like this for ages; she didn't know how many, but it was enough that the grimy windows in front of them had darkened to black slabs with the disappearance of the sun and rolling in of night. She felt embarrassed by it. Ashamed. Kids down here lost their parents all the time, and her Dad had been sick for a long time. Knowing that should've made it easier, but it didn't. Her heart was still shattered. Her soul split in half by a stake of grief and anguish. She sobbed like a baby. Like a weak thing that the Underhive should and would eat alive.

But he didn't seem to mind.

His grip was as gentle as it was tight, as if he were trying to wring the sadness from her very being. He stroked her hair, rubbed her back, let her hide her face in the crook of his neck.

"I'm sorry, Ellie," he said. He'd said it many times before, but this one was no less genuine or earnest. Ellicent's throat ached too much to reply, so she only shook her head.Tentatively, he drew away from her. Not enough to break their embrace all together: just enough so he could look her in the eye.

"You know we have to leave him here, right?"

Swallowing another sob, Ellicent nodded. Down here, there were no medical services or law enforcement to collect the dead: there were only scavengers and cannibals. They'd find her Dad eventually, but if they kept her Dad in here, he might stay safe for a little longer.

"I know," she said. "But... but what about me? I can't- I can't stay here."He answered without hesitation or thought. "You can come stay with me."

"Wha- what?"

"I know Mum will let you. And if she says no, I'll make her. But she won't say no. I know she won't."

A dozen questions sat on Ellicent's tongue, but she was either too tired or too sad to ask. Sinking into his arms again, she wiped her eyes on his shoulder. "Okay."

"It'll be okay, Ellie. I promise, it'll be okay." Ellicent closed her eyes.

"Thank you, Gadriel," she whispered.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Remind me," Chairon says, using the box so he could be heard over the rumble of the Thunderhawk. "Which xenos is our target supposedly allied with?"

Gadriel checks the slide of his bolter for the umpteenth time.

"The dark eldar," he replies. "Specifically, the pack that has made this planet their favoured hunting ground."

"What about the necrons?"

"What about them?"

"Did the briefing not state that Severus' gang often makes use of necron technology?"

"It did," Gadriel says. "But that technology is stolen. Pillaged from only the Emperor knows where."

Through the static of the vox, Chairon's scowl sounds particularly vicious. "Damned heretics. Have they no pride or dignity to speak of at all?"

"Of course they don't."

Gadriel looks to his left where Titus sits beside him. Like his and Chairon's, the face of the lieutenant's helm is cast as a mouthless, red eyed glare. Somehow, though, Titus' glare appears even more intimidating.

"Creatures like Severus are among the worst kind of heretic," he says. "Chaos can corrupt the unwilling. Mutancy can affect the innocent. But to work with the alien? To turn one's back on their own species? That is a choice. One that is made willingly, without coercion or subterfuge.

"An uneasy silence settles across the vox. For a long while, the only sound comes from the roar of the Thunderhawk's engine and the collective of the three Astartes' power armour. Eventually, Gadriel is the one to break it by clearing his throat.

"Forgive me for saying so, sir. But, it sounds as if you speak from experience."

Titus turns his head towards Gadriel. The dim bar lights lining the Thunderhawk's interior reflect sharply off the golden laurels welded around his helmet's crown.

"You remain as sharp as ever, brother," the lieutenant remarks. "And you would be right. Severus' gang is not the first group of xenos collaborators I've encountered."

He pauses for a second. "As I said, they are the worst kind of heretic. Worse than political dissenters or atheist zealots. By a long, long way."

Silence falls once more. This time, however, it is morose. Sober. Behind his helmet, Gadriel chews the inside of his cheek in thought. It's a habit he's had ever since he was a boy- one so innate, not even Astartes re-education could snuff it out. He's reviewing the mission briefing in his head. Specifically, the intelligence regarding their target. Archibald Severus- a rogue trader turned planetary crime lord. Typically, such a man would not be a concern for the Astartes- such things were usually handled by the Inquisition alone. But Severus has been particularly problematic; almost all of his people wield necron weaponry and his Drukhari allies have all but brought the planet to its knees. Also, the Ultramarines just so happened to be in the area. Fortunate for the people who live here, though not so much for Severus. The last thought amuses Gadriel enough to make him smile. Yes. Very unfortunate for him indeed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Thunderhawk drops the fireteam amidst the exterior district of a hive city. The street upon which it lands is wide, dusty and long abandoned. Blade and plasma scars line the walls of every surrounding building, reminders of the countless dark eldar attacks the city has endured over Severus' tenure here. The Astartes quite literally hit the ground running. Bolters in hand, their objective's location marker pulsing in the top centre of their heads up displays. The objective in question is a warehouse- once a hangar for Imperial Guard aircraft, now just as abandoned as the rest of the district. Severus will supposedly be there, though the exact reasons why are unknown. But that doesn't matter to Gadriel. If the man is there, he will die. As surely as the blood of the Primarch flows through Gadriel's veins, that traitorous xenos-sellout will die.

The warehouse in question emerges from around the next street corner. It looks like a giant concrete brick dropped in the middle of the district block. Gadriel falls in behind his brothers, covering the rear while Titus leads the way and Chairon covers their flanks from the centre. But the area is empty. As if the entire district had been evacuated or disappeared. Considering what this place has endured over the last several years, that is probably not far from the truth.

"Gadriel," Titus says over the vox, breaking Gadriel's reverie. "Auspex."

The team halts against a nearby wall. The warehouse is now directly in front of them. Moving in perfect unison, Gadriel switches position with Chairon. He sidles up beside Titus, takes one hand off his bolter to extract the Auspex scanner clasped to his belt. He holds the device up and studies the screen for several seconds.

"Motion detected," he reports. "Ten hostiles, one hundred and fifty metres ahead. Baseline, by the sizes of the pulse."

"One must be Severus," Chairon says.

"Hopefully," Gadriel replies.

"But not certainly," Titus says. The lieutenant says nothing more, but Gadriel hears his unspoken order nonetheless: maintain your guard.

Despite their size and weight, the Astartes move like panthers on the prowl. As it is still light outside, they stick to the shadows where they can. Reaching one of the warehouse's walls, the fireteam lines up, Gadriel in front with time with Titus and Chairon covering him.

"We will breach the wall here," Titus says. "Overwhelm them with speed and surprise."

Chairon and Gadriel both acknowledge the order with a curt "yes sir". Internally, however, Gadriel is somewhat amused by Titus' choice in tactics. *One would be forgiven for thinking we were White Scars. All we're missing are the jet bikes.*

Chairon moves in between his brothers. He holster his bolter to his hip before reaching for his belt and extracting a fist-sized breaching charge. He plants the explosive on the wall, primes it with a button press, then motions for Titus and Gadriel to stand clear. Gadriel crouches down on one knee. His secondary heart joins his primary in beating, flooding his body with adrenaline. He looks between his brothers. Both give him nods of acknowledgement. Chairon touches his forearm, ready to activate the charge. As his fingertip brushes the button, however, Gadriel's Auspex let's out a chime.

"Hold," Gadriel says before pulling up the scanner. He furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

"What is it?" Titus asks.

"The Auspex has changed. All but one of the pulses have vanished."

"Vanished?" Chairon asks.

"That's what I said."

"But how?"

"I do not know."

"It matters not," Titus growls. "Chairon, blow the charge n-"

Before he can finish giving the order, the wall explodes on its own.

The shockwave slams into Gadriel with the force of a meteorite. It throws him backward, knocking him off his feet, sending him rolling over his side before landing on flat on his front. All three of his lungs are emptied of air and his ears ring as if glass were being shattered inside his skull. Gadriel ignores it all. Recovering his footing with staggering ease before raising his bolter in the direction of the enemy.

Only he can see nothing. Just the charred concrete debris at his feet and a wall of thick black smoke. Even through his helmet's filters, the smell of it is choking. Like the polluted air of an Underhive amplified and condensed. Gadriel clenches his jaw.

A gas grenade. Only it exploded with the force of a breaching charge.

It has to be Severus. He must have known they were coming, that they were there. Gadriel curses to himself.

We were too loud. Too forward. Not cautious enough...

"Brothers! Status!" Titus' voice crackles over the vox. Gadriel whips around to try and find the lieutenant, but the damned smoke is too opaque. "Alive and unharmed," Gadriel hisses. "But can't see a damn thing."

"Acknowledged." By contrast, Titus' voice is calm and level. "Chairon? What's your status?"

No reply. A fury like fire ignites in Gadriel's chest. "Brother!" he shouts. "Are you there? Tell us where you are!"

A flash of light catches his peripheral vision. Gadriel spins to face it, snapping his bolter sights up as he does. It's small, but sustained, growing in luminosity with every second. But that isn't what makes Gadriel's breath hitch. It's the colour. A shocking, neon green. Too vivid to be natural, too bright to be electronic.

Gadriel's eyes widen. His thoughts scream a single, terrible name.

Necrons.

With an plasmic screech, the particle beam blazes towards him. It aims for his chest, right over his primary heart. Gadriel manages to twist out of the way in time, but not before the beams edge grazes the top of the aquillia on his breastplate. Gadriel aims his bolter in the direction the green light, only for it to vanish as he opens fire.

"Contact!" he shouts down the vox to Titus. "Necron weaponry confirmed!"

The light reappears on his left. Much closer than before. Gadriel fires upon it and he hears his bolter round sing as they slam into alien metal. He dive-rolls to the side, anticipating another particle beam. But no such shot comes. Instead, the light swells. Growing from a dot to a long, curved streak.

"Throne!" Gadriel hisses. Throwing his bolter into the holster on his thigh, he draws his power sword. Just in time to parry the crackling, green energy blade that comes careening towards his head. Both weapons spark and hiss when they make contact. Faster than a blinking eye, Gadriel surges forwards to slash at the arm holding the necron blade. But his opponent is quicker. Smoke swirling about them, they duck his attack before launching a kick at his knee. Pain spikes through Gadriel's leg and he feels his balance slip. It surprises him. There aren't many things that can kick out an armoured Astartes' knee.

A necron warrior, though, is definately one of them.

The energy blade comes for his head again. Gadriel throws his chin up to avoid it, but in the process looses what little balance he has left. He lands on his back hard, grunting as the last of the air in his lungs is forced out by the impact. In the same instant, his opponent is on top of him. Erupting from the smoke like a daemon from the Warp pinning him down by crouching on his breastplate.

Now close enough to see them through the smoke, Gadriel lays eyes on his attacker for the first time. What he sees, he can only describe as abominable. At first glance, they are human- female, from her shape and build- clad in tattered, studded leather characteristic of those from an Underhive. Her hair is a stunning shade of scarlet and she has it up in a pony tail so long it flows behind her like a cape of ribbons. But that is where all semblance of her humanity ends. Instead of a left arm, she has a robotic appendage, the clawed, green-veined forelimb of a necron warrior, with a green plasma blade bursting from its knuckles. The same is true of her right leg, the foot of which is pressed savagely into Gadriel's chest, strong enough to keep the Astartes pinned. A necron rifle- the source of the particle beams, surely- hangs from a strap looped across her back.

Hatred contorts Gadriel's face into a snarl. Abandoning his power sword he reaches for his bolter, which is still holstered to his thigh. Wrenching the weapon free, he throws it up just as the cyborg-abomination above him raises her energy blade. Her face, too, is twisted into a snarl.

Time suddenly slows. Gadriel's finger stops shy of the trigger.

Her face...

Hatred turns to confusion turn to shock. His thoughts are a racing, jumbled mess. His mouth opens without him realising and he hears his own voice. It speaks a name he hasn't heard in over fifty years.

"... Ellie?"

The cyborg freezes. The snarl on her lips dies.

"G- Gadriel?"

Both of Gadriel's hearts stop. His mind is simultaneously paralysed and raging like a warpstorm. His bolter falls from his hand, clattering off his breastplate to land beside him. Gadriel doesn't even notice.

"Sergeant!" a voice bellows over the vox.

Sparks suddenly burst from the woman's back. As quickly as it had vanished her snarl returns. Leaping off Gadriel, she whips around. Her energy blade retracts into her arm and she reaches for her cannon. Gadriel turns his head to see Titus charging for them with his bolter raised.

The woman hesitates. Glances at Gadriel. Behind his visor, Gadriel meets her gaze. His eyes become wide and watery.

It can't be.

More of Titus' rounds slam into her, this time pinging off her necronian arm. She staggers backward, dropping her gauss cannon so it's swinging limp against her hip. Another moment of hesitation. Gadriel opens his mouth to call her name again. But before the word can leave his lips, she's moving again. Turning her back and vanishing into the smoke screen. When it finally fades, there is no sign of her. Not even a drop of blood.

Gadriel swallow thickly. A lump has formed in his throat, large enough to make it difficult for him to breathe.

"Brother!" Titus clasps his arm, hauling Gadriel up into a sitting position. "Are you alright? Are you wounded?"

Gadriel says nothing. He doesn't remember how to speak. Nor can he even see his brother kneeling beside him. The only thing his mind can see is her. The day her father died. The day on the rooftop. The night they had spent together in her bed.

"Promise me you'll come back."

"I promise."

"I love you."

"I-"

"Brother?" The concern in Titus' voice is palpable now. "Gadriel. Can you hear me?"

Gadriel finally looks at the lieutenant. He nods, but still refuses to speak. He doesn't trust himself to. He's afraid that if he did, he might start to weep.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That's it! I hope you liked it! The first part of any story is always kinda slow, since you gotta set everything up, but I tried my best to keep things moving fast-like.

Part 2 will be up in a few days probably. Hopefully I'll see you all then :)

Update: pssst, you can read part 2 here!

Thank you again for reading xoxoxoxo

Tag list: @yurihasurunbara @beckyninja @nereidof40k @hatsubara-8chan @moodymisty @solspina @jaghatai-khock @lemon-russ @wolf-feathers12 @egrets-not-regrets

[kitty384]

It Wasn’t Yours to Carry

Summary: The flare happened in an instant—a surge of ancient power from their unborn child that struck Y/N without warning. It wasn’t the baby’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But as she lies unconscious in the medbay, Loki can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop blaming himself. He was supposed to protect her. And now, he doesn’t know how to forgive the magic that lives in both of them.

Content Warnings: magical injury (non-graphic), pregnancy scare, fainting, intense emotional guilt, soft angst, medbay setting, hurt/comfort, protective Loki

It happened before anyone could stop it.

A sudden flare of golden-green light surged from Y/N’s swollen belly, crackling through the air with such intensity it shook the palace windows. The air in the room shattered with the sound of it.

And then she was on the floor.

Clutching her abdomen.

Unmoving.

Loki had her in his arms within seconds, his magic already swarming around her, wild and panicked.

“Y/N—Y/N!”

Her eyes fluttered, her lips parted in a soft gasp, but she didn’t respond.

Her skin was too pale.

Her heart still beating—but fluttery. Weak.

The baby stirred inside her, but the pulse of power around them hadn't stopped. It lingered in the walls like a scream that hadn't quite faded.

Loki didn't breathe as he carried her to the healers.

Now, hours later, the medbay was dim and quiet.

Frigga had come and gone. The mages had run their diagnostics.

She was stable.

The baby was unharmed.

It had been a flare. A magical surge from the unborn child—uncontrolled and instinctual, the result of too much power building in too small a body with nowhere to go.

It wasn’t rare.

But it was dangerous.

And Loki… hadn’t moved from her bedside.

Y/N lay still on the soft healer’s cot, her bump rising and falling gently beneath the covers. Her body was resting—regaining strength. Her mind adrift in dreams even Loki’s magic couldn’t touch.

He sat beside her, hunched over with one of her hands in his.

His other hand rested over her stomach.

There was no longer a flare.

Just a quiet hum.

A tremble of magic that echoed his own.

“Shh,” he whispered, voice hoarse, barely audible. “Shh, little one. I know you didn’t mean to. I know it wasn’t your fault.”

He pressed his forehead gently to her hand.

“But it was mine.”

His voice cracked on the next words.

“I should have seen it coming. I felt how strong you were. I felt the way you stirred every time I touched her. I should’ve protected her from you.”

The baby shifted lightly under his palm.

Not violently.

Not in fear.

But softly—like they heard him.

Loki’s jaw tightened.

“I’m not angry with you,” he said softly. “You didn’t know. You’re just so much. So powerful. So alive.”

A pause.

Then, almost broken:

“Just like me.”

He looked back down at Y/N, brushing a curl from her face, and whispered:

“She’s the best of us. And I would give my life a thousand times over if it meant she never had to feel pain again.”

His shoulders trembled as he held her hand tighter.

“You didn’t mean to hurt her, I know. But gods, I wish you hadn’t. I wish I could take it from both of you. I would carry it all.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her bump.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Both of you. Even when it hurts.”

It wasn’t until the fourth hour that her fingers twitched.

Loki snapped upright.

“Y/N?”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Slowly.

Sleepy.

Then she blinked up at him, eyes hazy.

“…Loki?”

He let out a sharp breath like he hadn’t exhaled in days.

“You’re awake.”

She tried to sit, winced, and he was already there, supporting her with a trembling hand against her back.

“What happened…?”

“There was a flare,” he said gently. “From the baby. It was strong. You collapsed.”

Her hand flew to her stomach. “Are they—?”

“They’re fine,” he said, kissing her forehead. “You took the worst of it. But you’re stable now. Healing.”

She closed her eyes with a slow, tearful breath. “I felt it. I felt it building and I—I didn’t know what to do.”

“You couldn’t have stopped it,” he said. “Neither could I.”

Her hand slid into his.

“You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

But the look in his eyes said everything.

“Loki…”

He looked down.

“It was my magic that created this child. My blood. My lineage. My chaos. And now it’s hurting you.”

“You think I’m afraid of that?”

His head snapped up.

Her voice was raw. Soft. Steady.

“This child is a part of us. Of course they’ll be strong. Of course there’ll be moments like this. But don’t you dare carry the blame for something that’s beautiful. Something that’s growing.”

She guided his hand back to her belly.

The baby kicked.

Gently.

He broke.

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he bent forward, resting his forehead against her skin.

“I just want to keep you safe,” he whispered.

“You do,” she said. “Every second.”

And this time, when she rested her hand on his head, when her fingers carded through his dark hair, Loki let himself be held.

Just for a moment.

Later that night, long after the room fell quiet again, he whispered a promise into the space between her belly and his palm:

“No more apologies. Just protection. Just love.”

Masterlist

Request

[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!