#blood fingerprints collection

[whumptober]

WHUMPTOBER 2024: PROMPTS LIST

Welcome to Whumptober 2024 — Seventh Time's a Charm!

Please make sure to read the Event Info and FAQ below carefully, as most of your questions will be answered there already. For everything else, you are welcome to come to our ask box or ask questions in our Discord server here.

This year’s AO3 Collection can be found here.

This year's playlist can be found here.

And the Anatomy of a Whumptober Prompt post can be found here.

We’re very excited to see the community come together for another year of Whumptober! Go wild with the prompts, and support your fellow creators - we wish you all the fun!

Best of luck and happy whumping,

Mods Vanne, Yenn, Kitty and Surro

(Text versions of the prompts, as well as event information, rules and FAQ are posted below the cut!)

Whumptober 2024 Prompt List

No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.)

No. 2: TRUST ISSUES

Amusement Park | Role Reversal | “You got away with the crime while the knife's in my back.” (Charlotte Sands, Rollercoaster)

No. 3: SET UP FOR FAILURE

Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you."

No. 4: HALLUCINATIONS

Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More)

No. 5: SUNBURN

Healing Salve | Heatstroke | "If my pain will stretch that far." (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

No. 6: NOT REALISING THEY'RE INJURED

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | "It's not my blood."

No. 7: ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES

Unconventional Weapon | Magic with a Cost | "It's us or them."

No. 8: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Isolation Chamber | Forced to Stay Awake | "Leave the lights on." (Coldplay, Midnight)

No. 9: OBSESSION

Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.” (Fall Out Boy, Irresistible)

No. 10: BLOW TO THE HEAD

Slurred Words | Passing Out from Pain | "I can't think straight."

No. 11: SEEING DOUBLE

Convenience Store | Loneliness | “Leave no trace behind, like you don't even exist.” (Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs)

No. 12: STARVATION

Underground Caverns | Cannibalism | "Just a little more."

No. 13: TEAM AS A FAMILY

Familial Curse | Multiple Whumpees | "Death will do us part." (Set It Off, Partner's In Crime)

No. 14: LEFT FOR DEAD

Hunting Gear | Blackmail | “Because I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted” (tiLLie, kooL aiD mAn)

No. 15: CHILDHOOD TRAUMA

Painful Hug | Moment of Clarity | "I did good, right?"

No. 16: NECROSIS

Swamp | Wound Cleaning | "No, I can't feel anything."

No. 17: NOWHERE ELSE TO GO

Ruined Map | Shipwrecked | "We had a good run."

No. 18: REVENGE

Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.” (Panic! at the Disco, Emperor's New Clothes)

No. 19: BLOOD TRAIL

Abandoned Cabin | One Way Out | "Is there anybody alive out there?" (Bruce Springsteen, Radio Nowhere)

No. 20: EMOTIONAL ANGST

Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | "It's not your fault."

No. 21: BODY HORROR

Body Horror | Tattoo Gun | Spirit Possession | “Let the bedsheet soak up the tears.” (Apparat feat. Soap & Skin, Goodbye)

No. 22: BLEEDING THROUGH BANDAGES

Tourniquet | Reopening Wounds | "Oh that's not good."

No. 23: FORCED CHOICE

Public Display | Broken Pedestal | "I'm doing this for you."

No. 24: RADIATION POISONING

Collapsed Building | Equipment Failure | “I never knew daylight could be so violent.” (Florence + The Machine, No Light, No Light)

No. 25: SURGERY

Stitches | Being Monitored | "It's for your own good."

No. 26: NIGHTMARES

Breakfast Table | Parting Words of Regret | “I'm haunted by the lies that I have loved, the actions I have hated.” (Poe, Haunted)

No. 27: VOICELESS

Laboratory | Muzzled | “I have no mouth and I must scream.”

No. 28: DENIAL

CCTV | Exposure | "They caught me red handed."

No. 29: FATIGUE

Labyrinth | Burnout | "Who said you could rest?"

No. 30: RECOVERY

Hospital Bed | Holding Back Tears | "What have I done?"

No. 31: ASKING FOR HELP

Therapy | Making Amends | "I'm alive, I'm just not well." (Elliot Lee, Alive, Not Well.)

Alternatives List:

Body Swap

Communication Barrier

Finding Old Messages

Forgotten

Friendly Fire

Motion Sickness

No-Holds-Barred Beatdown

Regret

Secrets Revealed

Shivering

Survivor's Guilt

Time Loop

Used As Bait

Venom

Vermin

Event Info & Rules

WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation challenge (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are 31 official themes this year - one for each day of the month - which can be used, skipped, or combined in any way you’d like. They are meant to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don’t have to include the exact wording of prompts into your work). Feel free to run rampant on interpretation. For example, if the prompt is “flame", you could create something with reference to a candle/campfire, your character could have suffered a burn, or the flame could be a reference to an ‘old flame’ - an old relationship. It’s truly down to you!

In total, there are 4 prompts for each day. These are optional suggestions and can be used in conjunction with the theme, or as options/alternatives.  We want to give everyone as much creative freedom as possible, as well as increase event accessibility for folks with triggers and squicks. There is also a list of 15 alternative prompts that can be subbed in for any day, again to give participants as much creative freedom as possible.

Creators can PRODUCE work in any media they choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, photo/video/audio edits, paper crafts and elaborate recommendation lists (not just a list of links). Creators can PARTICIPATE as much or as little as they want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.

When uploading Whumptober content to your blog, be sure to tag it with:

#whumptober2024 …..(the event tag)

#no.1, #no.2, #no.3, …..(theme number)

#bruises, #stabbing, …..(the theme or specific prompt you chose)

#altprompt …..(if you use an altprompt, tag the post with the number of the prompt you replace)

#fandom or #OC, …..(ironman, original content, oc, etc.)

#medium …..(gifs, fic, podcast, art, etc.)

#teeth, #etc …..(trigger warnings & any additional tags. Keep in mind not to add “tw” in front but only use the word/trigger itself)

#nsfwhump …..(only for nsfw content)

#your own tags go here

PLEASE BE DILIGENT WITH YOUR TAGGING. Only properly tagged posts are considered for archiving on the official @whumptober-archive blog. They must be tagged in the order above. An elaborate post about our tagging system can be found [here]

Unfortunately, due to the sheer number of participants in recent years, we cannot guarantee your work will be archived. A random selection of properly tagged posts from all genres will be reblogged each day.

Whumpers who produce content for 31 total theme days are considered event completionists and will be tagged in a masterpost at the end of the month. A form will be published at the beginning of November asking you to tell us if you completed. This is based on trust and we will not check this.

Frequently Asked Questions

Please read this before you send an ask!

TIMELINE

July: Trope voting form released. Late August: Prompt list is released for at least four weeks of preparation time. Tropes cannot be posted earlier than August 25th because of Moderator obligations in real life. (But, you know, go ahead and start writing/drawing, and add the themes in later, if you want!) September: Do as much or as little on your works as you want. You can prepare everything in advance or let September go by with vibes and start working in October. It’s up to you. October 1st: Challenge begins! A storm of whump breaks upon us all! During this time, some posts will be reblogged to the whumptober archive blog. We open the yearly AO3 collection for posting (optional). November 1st: The challenge is officially over! Completionist form opens for those who want to be included in the hall-of-fame. Early November: We release completionist and participant badges, solicit feedback, and post a hall-of-fame list of completionists by the 10th.

PARTICIPATION AND COMPLETION

Q: What counts as participation? Create or continue at least one work inspired by one of this year’s prompts. Q: What counts as completion? Creating work(s) inspired by at least one prompt from each day (or alts), for a total of 31 unique prompts. Q: Do I need to create 31 works? No. You can, if you want. Or you can create one work that you add to every day with a new prompt. Or several works that combine prompts. You can also update an existing work by adding new material with the current prompts. Q: Do I need to post my works somewhere to be a completionist or a participant? No. Q: How do you know I actually completed the challenge? We’ll take your word for it! Q: Do I have to finish my work(s) to be a completionist? No, you can post WIPs. And you’re not obligated to finish them in October, but if you want it to count towards being a completionist, you must have completed 31 prompts by the end of the month. So for example, if you’re writing a long fic and you fit 31 different prompts into the writing you did in October, it’s okay if that fic isn’t finished by the time October ends, you’ll still be a completionist. Q: Is co-writing/illustrating allowed? Yes, absolutely, and it would count towards being a completionist for both/all of you. Q: Is there a min/max limit on word count for written works? No. Q: Is there a min/max limit of quality for art? No. Q: Do I have to do something each day to be a completionist? No. You can skip days whenever you want, and as long as 31 daily prompts (or alts) are in your works done in October, you can be a completionist. For example, if you wrote a 1000-word ficlet that covers prompts in days 2, 3, and 17, you can check all three days off your list even though it’s only one work. Q: Is this challenge just for fics? No! Artworks, GIFsets, headcannons, rec lists, poetry, moodboards, or any other creative work is encouraged. Q: Can I combine Whumptober with other creation challenges? Absolutely, as long as the other challenges allow it too.

PROMPTS

Q: How do the prompts work? There are FOUR prompts per day: a theme and three ideas. You can use one, two, three, or all four prompts for each day. If you don’t like any of the daily prompts, you can substitute one of the ALT prompts instead. Q: How strictly/literally should we interpret the prompts? As literally or as figuratively as you want. For example, if the theme is WATER, that could mean drowning, waterboarding, raining, swimming, take place underwater, be lost at sea, construct a metaphor about a character’s mood that changes like a flowing river, crying, or whatever else you can think of that fits that theme. Q: Can I combine prompts? Is there a limit on how many? No limit and combine as many as you’d like. If you create a work that checks off multiple prompts, that work will count for a fill of multiple prompts. You need to address 31 different prompts to be an official completionist, but you don’t have to produce 31 separate works.

WORKS

Q: What’s whump? Hurting a character, whether that’s physically, emotionally, intellectually, psychologically, or any other way you can think of. Comfort afterwards is optional. Angst is emotional whump, so it counts. Q: How do I know if it’s whumpy enough? If your character is just mildly inconvenienced, it probably needs more whump. However, no participant has to prove whumpiness to the mods. Whatever you write is up to you. Q: What kind of characters can I create for? Anything. Generic “whumpee,” OC, PC, NPC, major characters, minor characters, or whatever you want. There are no limits. Q: Does it have to take place in a specific fandom? No, you can create works for your own worlds or for fandoms or for both. You can also create more generic or pan-fandom works. You can do cross-overs or use OCs, whatever you want. Q: Can I create AI-created works? We will not reblog or promote any works we know to be generative AI-created. Q: Is there anything we’re not allowed to write? As long as it contains whump and is based on our prompts, it’s fine. Please courtesy tag your works if you post them so people who follow the #whumptober2024 tag can filter according to their preferences. Q: What about sex, minor characters, and potentially disturbing content? You can create whatever works are legal in your country and post them accordingly. Please courtesy tag anything you think might be objectionable if you post to Tumblr so people who follow the #whumptober2024 tag can filter according to their preferences.

POSTING

Q: Where can I post my work? Post where and how you want. You don’t even have to (cross)post it to Tumblr. Just keep in mind if it’s not on Tumblr we will not be able to add it to the blog archive. There is an AO3 archive for Whumptober 2024, as well as the parent collection for works completed outside of the event. Q: Can I start posting early? You can, but this is an October event and wouldn’t it be more fun with everyone doing it at the same time? We won’t be reblogging any work predating October 1st. Q: Can I post late? Yes. For the sake of our hardworking Post Fairies, only a day’s themes will be reblogged to @whumptober-archive each day of October. But you can post whenever. Some of us are still working on and posting Whumptober fics from years ago. Q: Do I have to use your tags? Only on Tumblr and only if you want us to reblog your work on @whumptober-archive. Q: How do I have my works reblogged to the archive? Properly tagged posts will be reblogged to @whumptober-archive. If you want the official archive blog to reblog you, post on Tumblr and tag correctly (see this FAQ link for more info on tagging). Please note not all posts will be reblogged each day. Q: Can we @ you? For questions and comments, of course. We’ll be getting a flood of notifications, so if you really want us to see something send an ask. Q: Can I cross post on other blogs? Yes, multiple platforms and blogs are perfectly acceptable, as long as they allow cross-posting (to us). You can also post different works to different accounts under different names, without posting them everywhere at once. If you post some works under your main and others under an alt blog, that’s fine for completionist purposes. Q: Can I upload/repost my Whumptober content to other social media platforms? Of course! We’ve created an AO3 Collection to archive any fics posted there, which can be found here. The blog is the official archive, so please respect the personal boundaries of any whumpers in your social circle (don’t out anyone as a participant who would prefer not to be outed).

Most importantly, have fun, create, and enjoy all the whump posted this October!

[cherubfae]

jealous slashers~!✧

With Michael, Brahms, Jason, Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Thomas Sawyer, Sal Fisher, & Patrick Bateman

tags: gn!reader, jealousy, creepy men, unwanted attention/touching, uggestive and mature themes, gore/blood, violence, canon typical behavior, billy x reader x stu poly, rob zombie!mikey, I know Sal isn't exactly a slasher but he's my baby and needs to be included

Alexa, play Love to Die by the Slashstreet Boys

Michael

Rest in Peace to the poor, stupid man who thought it'd be a good idea to mess with the Shape's partner, and Michael had witnessed it all. How this man shoves you into an empty alleyway, the clatter of your groceries falling. The guy doesn't get much more than a few bruises and claw marks when Michael's knife slices through the back of the man's throat, protruding from the other end in a splash of blood. The Shape watches you wipe your bloody face off, not doing much but picking up three of your four fallen bags and tugging you into his side.

Brahms

Absolutely not. Brahms is fuckin' seething from his safe space sheltered behind the walls. Heavy breathing muffled by the porcelain mask, he watches with wild eyes as some idiot decides to break into the mansion whilst you were sleeping, and proceeds to hold you at knifepoint, effectively pinning you to the bed in what little nightclothes you wore. The unwanted guest and you are certainly going to know when Brahms is upset. There's banging on the walls coming from every direction that leaves the would-be burglar panicked and you slightly more comfortable.

"You're not allowed to be here," comes the eerily childlike voice Brahms has perfected. He crawls his way out from behind the large antique mirror. "I'll make sure you never come near them again." With a sudden slam, Brahms downs the intruder with a lead pipe repeatedly bashing the object until all that remains was brain matter and gooey blood. He drops the pipe with a huff and collects you into his arms, the cool porcelain biting onto the heat of your chest.

Jason

As the protector of the surrounding forest, Jason is always watching. He's omnipotent, he sees all. He seems to know where people are at all times and he can sense when you're in distress. Your shared cabin door left ajar sends his blood boiling and his heavy footfall increasing as he approaches your home. Barging in, Jason's pale eyes lock onto you and your assailant holding you by the throat. His thunderous steps are quick, slicing through the man with his machete and proceeds to lift him up while still pierced with the blade. The man gurgles, arms weakly reaching behind him in attempts to claw at Jason. All attempts were futile. He tossed the body to the side before he gently frets over you, his large hands soothing the fingerprints tarnishing your throat.

Billy & Stu

Rather snake-like the two will wrap themselves around you (they adore your personal space) and stare down whoever else demands your attention. Billy's arm hooks around your waist and Stu wraps himself around your shoulder, tilting your chin up with a single finger. "Is this guy bothering you, baby?" Looking like a shark that's tasted blood in the water, Billy's eyes grow more wild. He's already making a mental note of who and where this guy lives. The guy raised his hands in defense backing down the more the two stared at him, walking off completely.

"We're gonna take care of him, doll," Billy promises, kissing your cheek. Stu cackles lightly, tongue sticking out. They would strike tonight.

Vincent

There's no one Vincent trusts more to watch over you when he can't than his own two brothers. He had his hands full, turning Dalton and Wade into wax people. Nick and Carly were proving to be hard to get a hold of and there was still another tourist that needed to be taken care of.

But then Bo is telling him that the person escaped and he doesn't know where you were. His two worst fears confirmed. Vincent is soon on a wild hunt, trying to find you anywhere with Bo hot on his heels. He soon locates you, passed out with a bit of blood on your head. Your eyes slowly open as he touches your cheek, catching you as you wobble into his warm embrace. He shares a look with Bo who nods.

"I've got you, brother. Keep them here with ya. Wait til I'm back, ya hear?"

Bo

Out in public, he's all cordial and kind smiles. Especially if this is an intended victim. Some random person putting the moves on his partner is a huge no-no and one Bo doesn't take lightly. That person just warranted themselves a for sure death sentence and Bo isn't feeling too kind, so perhaps he'll drag things out, yeah? Touch what's his and you got what's comin' to ya.

"Can I see, baby? That bastard leave any marks on ya?" Bo strokes your shoulders, blue eyes drifting over your frame like water. He has every intention of marking every place that person touched, no matter if you tell Bo the guy only grabbed your arm. Once he has his mind set on something, he's gonna do it.

Lester

Unlike his older twin brothers, Lester is actually pretty chill. Especially in comparison to Bo. He doesn't think much of the people he's helping get into Ambrose knowing full well it's their final destination and Vincent and Bo will take care of things as they always have. What he doesn't like is some dude making a pass at you right in front of him. Can't he see the engagement ring on your finger? It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, watching with narrowed eyes as the small group heads towards the mechanic shop in search of a fan belt.

A familiar hand on his arm calms him down instantly. He turns to you and musters a weak smile as your hands slide around his torso from behind, leaning your cheek on his shoulder. "Y'alright?" Lester nods too quickly and unconvincingly, giving you a quick kiss. "Yeah, darl', always."

Thomas

Your partner is not unlike a bear, watching with wild eyes as one of Hoyt's new catches clasps onto you, their nails digging into your arms, and pinning you to the barbed fence. The cry of pain you let out has Tommy barreling towards you, chainsaw revving to life. A deep snarl echoes behind his mask and he wastes no time cutting down the poor soul with a single swipe of his motorized saw. Tommy turns it off and picks you up in his large arms as gently as he can. With his masked cheek leaning against yours, he carries you back towards the house. Mama Luda Mae will take a good look at you.

Sal Fisher

Honestly Sal isn't one to get jealous. He's pretty level-headed and understanding in most situations. He respects your choices and he's not gonna step on any toes or do anything drastic; Sal isn't a monster. However, if he sees some guy make a creepy pass at you and clearly overstep your boundaries, he won't hesitate to swoop in, looping his arm around your shoulders. His sharp blue eyes staring at the man from behind his prosthetic mask.

"Do we have a problem here?" His voice is cold, lacking any interest in what excuse the man finds. Sal's main focus will be on you, rubbing gentle, soothing circles into your skin. His main priority is to get you away from this sicko and would totally call in reinforcements from his brother Larry if need be.

Patrick

A jealous Patrick Bateman isn't a good scenario for anyone. Especially not with his deteriorating mental state. He trusts you explicitly, with his thoughts, ideas, and recreational hobbies that most would find distasteful. So when a colleague of his gets too big for his britches and unabashedly begins to flirt with you in his presence, Patrick finds it difficult to keep his boiling bloodlust at bay. The heat of his anger is getting to his head, the fierce emotions only swelling well it's clear how uncomfortable you look in that man's company. He must see to put an end to him quickly.

|| I DON'T GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, RESHARED, OR EDITED. TUMBLR IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT AND THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I POST MY WRITING. ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THE STORY BELONGS TO ME. || CHERUBFAE © 2024

"Are you alright, my darling? That man surely didn't know his place, did he?" Patrick places a hand at your back, guiding you out of the office party. "Let's get you home and into a nice hot bath, hmm? I'd rather not taste that swine on your lovely skin."

[januaryembrs]

YOU CAN HEAR IT IN THE SILENCE | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [9]

description: the TWO big steps you take together.

word count: 13.5k

trigger warnings: entire mr scratch episode including drugging and suic!de, gore, violence, blood, mention of Diana's schizophrenia, mention of hotch's upbringing

author's note: lets do this again UGH. also set throughout season 10 so even though it seems like a jump its been a whole year bcus I can't write about every day my babies spend together.

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

‘Cause you can hear it in the silence, you can feel it on the way home, you can see it with the lights out,

You’re in love. True love,’

The one where you meet his mom. [you have the parenthood talk]

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, her thumbnail instinctively picking at the side of her forefinger as her eyes trailed over the dress in the mirror. 

It was a little too chesty, were the sleeves too short? Would his mom not like that it was backless? Backless meant suggestive to some people. Would she hate her piercings? She could take out a couple of her earrings just for one day, cover the hole where her nose ring slipped in with foundation easily. 

Smile, she needed to remember to smile, not that god awful resting bitch face that Elizabeth used to say looked like she’d sucked a lemon between her cheeks. Smile. No, not like that, that looks fake and awkward. 

Was her make up too much? She would hate for Spencer’s mom to think she looked like a hooker. A cheap one at that. 

She felt his hands on her shoulders before the throes of her vicious mind could nab her once more, and her eyes trailed behind her in the reflective, if not slightly fingerprinted, mirror. 

“You’re thinking loud,” Spencer said as if it was a fact, though that tended to be the way with him, since he knew damn near everything there was to know. Especially about her. “Why are you so worried, it’s my mom. Besides, what’s not to like about you?” 

She huffed, shaking her head even though she really tried her best to give him a smile, instead turning to look down at her hands with wincing, cynical twinge of her lips. 

“Maybe my tattoos or my make up or my slutty dress or my piercings that make me look like I just raided Penelope’s collection of ‘goth chic jewellery’, her words not mine,” She said pessimistically. She didn’t want to dampen the mood, honestly she was looking forward to the woman who graced the world with Spencer Reid (she wondered if a handshake or a hug would be appropriate, she would ask Spence in the car she decided,) “People don’t tend to see me the way you do, honey, I can be blunt and rude and snappy and cold. And it’s your mom, she’s like the most important person in the world to you.”

“She’s joint first, actually” Spencer corrected, trying to lift her spirits even a little. He knew none of the things she was saying were necessarily true. He suspected that voice that had overcome her was not her own at all, more likely her own mother nagging into to her for years to sit up straighter, smile more, make an effort to network and socialise, or any other piece of shit observation about how she acted for Elizabeth to badger her about. 

But then she smiled at him, her eyebrows drawn together a little like she guessed he was lying or perhaps sugarcoating things. 

“You’re allowed to have her first, you know,” Bugsy reassured him, her eyes melty and soft as she looked at him and he nodded, wrapping his arms around her stomach, almost like he was trying to suck the negativity out of her whole body through diffusion of their skin alone. “She’s your mom,” 

“I know,” Spencer said simply, their eyes never breaking the gaze at one another, and Bugsy felt herself warm inside when she saw just how besotted his forest hues were, “Please stop worrying, she’s going to love you,”

“You can’t know that for sure,” She pushed back, because when had she ever allowed herself to enjoy a good thing when she had it. She knew she was being somewhat of a Negative Nancy, and she didn’t mean to be, truly. But Diana Reid was possibly the most significant person in Spencer’s life, despite what he said. And Bugsy was… Bugsy. All teeth and chaos and bite and vicious tongue when she didn’t mean to be. 

If Diana didn’t like her, she wasn’t quite sure she’d be able to look at Spencer again without blurting out the million ways she’d try to make it up to him.

“Oh, I do know for sure actually,” He said, spinning her around so he could see her first hand, not in a reflection or a mirror image, and she smiled despite herself, pressing into his lean body and taking a big whiff of his freshly washed clothes. It was the same detergent she used, the same one he’d always used, and yet it was so Spencer it made her skin crawl with what she thought felt like warm goosebumps.

“Oh yeah?” He nodded proudly, and she progressed to a grin, her chin leaning against his chest as she spoke, and he stroked her neatly braided hair away from her face to see her better, like he’d won the second he saw her smile properly, “How do you figure that one out, wonder boy?”

“I’ve mentioned you in almost every single letter I’ve written to her for three whole years. When she saw the photo of you I sent her, she asked if I’d cut you out of a vogue magazine,” Spencer said and she burst out laughing. He couldn’t say he blamed his mom, the photo he’d sent had been one of Bugsy’s best, but then he’d be willing to argue all of them were just as newsworthy as the last. And nothing compared to the real thing. “You make me happy, happier than I ever thought I was allowed to be. Believe me, I know she’ll love you, because I love you,” 

Bugsy smushed her face into his sweater to hide her modesty, and she pressed a small, barely there kiss to where her lips met even if he wouldn’t feel it. 

“Does my hair look okay?” She checked again, her voice muffled by his thick knitted clothes, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead, stroking a gentle hand down her spine. 

“You look beautiful,” He said softly, pulling her away from his body and holding onto her right hand, “Give me a spin,”

He lifted her hand above her head, despite the fact she seemed reluctant and embarrassed, “Spence,”

“We’re not leaving until you give me a spin,” He teased, and his smile was infectious as she twirled around beneath his grasp, the long, floral, sundress fanning out around her knees, “And back again!”

“Spencer-” She said with a chuckle, but he seemed to ignore her, or judging by his smile that spread across his whole face he didn’t care.

“Sorry, it’s just the rules,” He said, though she was almost certain there wasn’t ever such a thing as a rulebook on how to make your girlfriend less of a whiny bitch.

He spun her back around, and by the time she whirled around to face him a second him, his arm dropped down to secure around her waist, yanking her towards him to press a scorching hot kiss to her lips. 

She kissed him back, her tongue trailing against his lip and Spencer’s obscenely large hand released her waist, trailing up her sides to cup her cheeks. Spencer kissed her like she was sucking air right out his lungs, like he was receiving life saving medicine, like he was being graced by an angel, a non-believer, a man of science reaching out to the white gates of heaven as if they were about to disappear under his touch. 

They parted with a small smack that reverberated in the bathroom, and Bugsy looked at him as if he’d infected her with a drug, because truthfully that was how his touch, his kiss, made her feel. 

They settled in his car, a few soft and loving affections later, because she really did look beautiful and he could apologise for smudging her lipstick another time, and Spencer it was the first time in a long time that Spencer felt like his future was laid out in front of him. 

–

She fretted some more in the lobby, the woman behind the desk at the sanitarium lighting up at the sight of Spencer walking towards her with a smile. 

“Dr. Reid,” She enthused, noting the woman next to him that squoze a book to her chest tightly like she wasn't sure what her fingers might do if they were let loose, “She’s been so excited to see you, her doctors said she’s responding well to the new medication,” 

“I heard, I’m glad to hear she’s feeling calmer,” He said, his eyes trailing past the brunette who tapped away at her keyboard idly, “Where is she?”

“She’s just in the sunroom. She’s been learning how to crochet, just like you said,” The receptionist smiled kindly at Bugsy, who looked all but terrified, though she hid it well through tight lips. 

Spencer nodded, reaching up to put a hand between Bugsy’s shoulder’s to lead her through the lounge area where a few other residents watched a black and white movie. 

“Are you sure my make up looks okay, my mascara hasn’t ran has it?” She whispered, because a few other people, some even her age, were sitting in comfy armchairs flicking through books. 

Spencer smiled at her, because she was so cute when she was nervous, usually it was the other way around, “You look lovely, you always look lovely,”

“I believe that’s what’s called voter bias, Dr Reid,” She said, because jokes and wit always seemed to release the pressure on her head when she was stressed. 

He chuckled, opening the door to a large room filled on all sides with windows, and the cosy heat hit her in the face, “Not if what I’ve said is a verifiable fact.” 

“Who’s your secondary source, Dr?” She said, because they seemed to fall into a nerdy sort of teasing when they were like this. Facts and figures were predictable, getting your boyfriend’s mother to like you based entirely on your personality was not. 

“My mom,” Spencer said, and her head whipped to his, ready to protest when he led her to the corner of the sunroom, where a woman sat with her ocean blue eyes screwed up in concentration where two blush pink hooks were crossing and bobbing between a cream thread of yarn, “Mom,”

Her eyes flew up from where she sat, immersed in the delicate movements. Spencer had said a few weeks ago her hands were becoming stiff on her new tablets, that the side effects were making her circulation poor and so Bugsy had been out to help him pick up a crochet kit from Walmart the very same day.

“Mom, this is Bugsy,” He said, and it was his turn to be almost shy as he gestured to the young woman. “The girl I was telling you about,”

Diana stopped for a moment, as if assessing the new face, the way her hair fell around her ears, and Bugsy clutched the hardback tighter to her chest, thinking that maybe she should have gone for something a little fancier than the small piece of twin that wrapped around the present. First time meeting his mom and this was the best you could do, really Bugsy? Where’s the flowers or even another ball of yarn to keep her occupied? 

Bugsy swore her breath caught, her brows furrowing together worriedly as she went to hold a shaky hand out to Diana, but then second guessed herself when she wondered if the loathing of spreading germs was shared between Spencer and his mom. She’d forgotten to check when they were in the car- stupid- stupid girl.

“H-hello, Mrs Reid,” She said quietly, shakily, holding out the book to the woman. Diana Reid looked good for her age, considering Spencer had told her on numerous occasions that she struggled to pretty herself up the way she used to before her Schizophrenia had spiralled. But her hair was a warm blonde with only small traces of grey in it, short around her neck likely for practicality, and despite the fact her face seemed somewhat grumpy, though Bugsy would describe her as lost more than anything, she lit up like a damn firework on the fourth of July the second she saw her son. 

“Spencer!” She exclaimed, holding a hand out for her son to take, which he did so without hesitation. Bugsy thought she might be going in for a hug, maybe that she’d missed the hint that Bugsy was trying to greet her, which the young girl didn’t mind one bit. She was well aware she was stepping on their time together, “Help me out of this chair, I left my glasses in my room, I want to see her,” 

Bugsy felt heat rush to her cheeks as Diana all but threw her crochet set to the little table beside what seemed to be a lukewarm mug of coffee, and Spencer helped her out of the recliner, Bugsy holding out another hand in case she needed it. She was tall once she stood to full height, taller than Bugsy would have thought she would be, and hands were on her shoulders the second Diana had released her son. 

“Oh, look at you!” Diana exclaimed, and Bugsy tried not to falter with embarrassment under her words. But his mother’s hands were soft, if not rough on the tips where she had spent her life flicking through pages on pages of literature, “I’ve always told Spence he was a looker but, my god, you’re a catch even for him,” 

“Mom,” He said indignantly, but Bugsy chuckled through flaming cheeks. Diana waved him off in favour of smiling at the girl, and the second she met eyes with the woman who had raised Spencer Reid she saw where he got his good heart from. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Reid,” She stumbled over her words, trying for a second time to give her the book, and Diana looked almost aghast that she had brought her a present, “Spencer said you’d finished all your books they let you keep here so I bought you one of my favourites-”

“How could I resist The Great Gatsby,” Diana said, running a polished thumb over the gold printed writing, a small smile playing at her lips, “I’ve been meaning to brush up on Fitzgerald,”

Spencer smiled at his mother, who seemed more full of life than she had in weeks, before she waved her hand in front of the two of them, and Bugsy wondered if she had done something wrong. 

“And none of this Mrs Reid crap. You're not the IRS, Diana is just fine, honey,” She said, and Bugsy grinned, nodding in agreement with the older woman. “Mom is even better if you’re feeling brave,” 

“O-okay, absolutely,” She said, smiling even wider when Spencer seemed almost aghast his mother was being so brazen. Though he needn’t be so prudent, Bugsy was certain she loved her already. 

“And how is my big strong FBI agent?” Diana turned to her son finally and he shook his head, his eyes full of boyish affection for the women. 

“There’s dozens of words I think would perfectly describe me yet ‘big and strong’ fall nowhere in that category, mom,” He said, smiling widely at his mother who rolled her eyes and nudged him with her shoulder. She seemed more like herself than she had in years, her eyes were clearer, her nerves weren’t shot like usual. She seemed like the mother from his best memories. 

“Alright, how does ‘contumelious’ work out for you?” She cracked back, and he laughed, shaking his head and he caught the pure warm grin radiating from Bugsy’s direction at the two of them. 

And Bugsy saw in the kind, devoted eyes that hid behind Diana’s fluffy white, blonde hair where Spencer got his gentle soul; as if no amount of medication or illness would ever make his mother let up on the tenderness she held for him. She felt it in the air alone, the way they fell into sync only blood could ever achieve, and for a flash of a thought, Bugsy wondered if Spencer would be so doting on their children. 

And for the first time all day she didn’t need to second guess herself. She already knew the answer. 

–

“And this was Spencer in the mathletes,” Bugsy’s hand flew to her mouth to suppress the ‘aww’ threatening to tumble from her lips, because she knew from the way his cheeks had turned a bright rouge that he was embarrassed and she hated to make him feel like she was finding humour in his shame. 

It was easy to see which one was him from the offset. Three college boys who had probably spent the best part of their first years begging sorority girls to fuck them and eating funny brownies stood at the back, atleast in their late teens judging by their late-adolescene acne and braces. Yet there, standing in front of them dressed in a tweed sweater vest and pressed brown trousers as if he was a small grandpa, was a scrawny pole of a boy, peeking out from behind a sweeping fringe in need of a trim and a pair of  bubble-like glasses. 

He was smiling wide, holding some sort of trophy in between his slender, little fingers, and Bugsy could bet her entire savings that he had answered almost all of his team’s questions. 

“Spence,” She murmured, taking the photo gently between her fingertips where she sat in between her partner and his mother at the foot of Diana’s bed, “You were so cute,” 

“You can just say dorky,” He corrected, fighting the urge to cover his cheeks with his hands, because he could feel the way they gave away his self-consciousness. 

But she shook her head, leaning into him with adoring eyes as she stared at the photo, “No, I mean cute. Look at your little hair, you were so tiny- aw!” 

He laughed awkwardly, not missing the way she put a hand on his leg in reassurance, and Diana handed her another photo of a toddler with thick dark hair, those hazel eyes she loved, huge and round on the baby's smiling face. Bugsy melted when she saw the milk teeth gleaming in the midst of his laugh, yet she burst into sheepish giggles when she realised baby Spencer had no clothes on. 

Spencer’s eyes widened when he saw the thing dangling between his legs as the picture captured him crawling towards where Diana had the camera. “Mom!” 

Diana rolled her eyes, producing another one of Spencer watering the flowers with the garden hose, barely one year old in a bucket hat and, yet again, nothing else. “Oh, Spencer, don’t give me that, look how cute those little butt cheeks were,” 

Bugsy slapped a hand over her mouth, her brows pulling together at the endearingly innocent photos, and she met Spencer’s gaze again, the urge to squish his cheeks in between her fingers suddenly itching her hands. Though, judging by the embarrassment in his expression, he wouldn’t like it very much even if she did mean the best of intentions.  

“You were so adorable,” She confessed, looking back down at the two tiny, round butt cheeks that made something well in her chest because it was Spencer, so small and vulnerable and helpless. She turned to Diana, her eyes wide with love, “How did you not want just millions of them?” 

The woman laughed, leaning against Bugsy and palming off another photo, this time of Spencer in swimming trunks at the beach, likely around two or three, a line of white sun cream running down his nose and cheeks as he looked to be grumbling about the sand on his legs. 

“Because I knew none of them could ever be as special as my Spencer, and then that just wouldn’t be fair on them.” She said simply, and Bugsy smiled at the woman, truly smiled, because despite everything her illness set against her, she loved her son more than anything in the world. “You don’t win the lottery and then pawn in your rings for a couple bucks, now do you?” 

Bugsy chuckled, shaking her head. Elizabeth had never been so doting on her. She knew she shouldn’t think about her, shouldn’t compare the two of them because they weren’t similar even in the slightest. Diana was a single mother of a deadbeat husband who left, she battled a disease day in-day out that threatened to eat away at her brain, her memories of her son who thought the world of her, and she was still a better mother than hers had ever been. 

Part of her felt that bitter sting that never really left her since she was thirteen, since she saw the maid at breakfast time more often than she ever saw her mother, the kid that got picked up and dropped off in another country like she was furniture, a barbie doll for her mother to primp and clean and boast about her big brain to her colleagues without ever showing a semblance of affection for the girl reading material eight years above her grade level. 

Diana was living proof that no matter what, it’s not a challenge to love your children the way Elizabeth had always made it out to be, that she was difficult to love even for her own mother. 

Bugsy bit the emotion back, knowing it was just the baby photos ramping up her hormones, and felt herself fall perhaps even more in love with Spencer Reid when she saw the photo of him at Christmas dressed as a Jedi. 

–

She was quiet on the way home, her stomach warm with fondness, her hand warm with his palm as they held hands on top of the gearstick. 

She watched the last of the sun peek through the trees in a cantaloupe orange and candy-floss pink swirl, and she let herself close her eyes under the day’s worth of laughter. 

“What are you thinking about?” Spencer said after a moment, giving her hand a small squeeze when she didn’t answer right away, and he wondered if she may have even fallen asleep, feeling immediately guilty for waking her. 

She looked at him with an uneasy smile on her face, and his brain threw up a million different reasons for it, almost all of them making him worry.

“I know my mom is a lot,” He said, his tone jittery and she started shaking her head immediately, forgetting he couldn’t see where he was looking at the road, “I know she’s-”

“She’s wonderful, Spencer. God, no, it’s not that. I loved her,” Bugsy cut him off, and his shoulder’s immediately sagged in relief. She moved her hand to tuck a single lock of hair behind his ear, and he nudged into her touch on instinct. 

“Then what’s wrong?” He asked, his brows pulled together in worry as they came to a red stop light, and he put the Beetle into neutral. He looked over at her then, and he saw the way the grin had slipped off her face, leaving her with something oddly unreadable, though if he had to put a name to it, he would say doubtful, and she swallowed thickly. 

“Do you ever worry…” She paused herself, because she already could see their picture perfect day spiralling down the drain like yesterday’s woes, “It’s nothing, just forget I said anything,”

“No, tell me,” Spencer insisted, and the road around them seemed to hold its breath waiting for her reply. He’d taken a nice route home, claiming he wanted to skip the eight pm traffic, whatever that was, had cut through one of those neighbourhoods they show on holiday brochures or estate agents' windows. The kind people with kids and volvo’s and yoga mom groups lived in.  

Her eyes snapped out the front window when four young boys zipped past them on their bikes, their knees muddy from where they’d probably spent the day playing soccer, their clothes just as messy and torn, likely waiting to be scolded by their mothers for their recklessness. And pulling up the rear was a kid smaller than the others, jogging after them, wanting to cross the road before the light turned green, his glasses slipping down his nose with every step, and some weird, small part in Bugsy’s gut wanted to throw her arms around him and walk him home to make sure he got there safely. 

Spencer’s hand was on her thigh, pulling her out of her thoughts for a second time, and she blinked a little too harshly, wishing she could just enjoy a lovely day for what it was rather than putting such a downer on things. 

“I haven’t spoken to my mom since Emily’s funeral,” She said, swallowing heavily, and understanding passed over his face then. He knew he would never have with Elizabeth what they had just had with his mother. Even if she retired tomorrow and wasn’t jetting off to another country every week, Elizabeth Prentiss was a cold, shrewd woman who could make someone, mainly her daughters, feel empty just by being in the same room. 

Her damning grey eyes, her tight lips that never smiled, her harsh brow. 

“I don’t think she even kept any of my baby photos, none that don’t have her in them at least,” She confessed, and the lights flashed to amber, then green, and he was forced to let go of her for just a moment as he pulled off again, “I don’t… I don’t think she ever liked me.”

He had no idea what to say that would make it better. Usually he was so good at wriggling her problems out from the core, proving all her worst fears were wrong with simple logic. Yet he was at an end. Because Elizabeth had never shown any sign of loving her daughters, truly loving them beyond trophies. 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” He tried, pulling over to stop at the curb because he hated speaking to her when he was distracted. “Some people just have a funny way of showing these things,” 

But she shook her head, turning her eyes to her lap, “Your mom is… Amazing. And I feel like a total asshole for complaining about mine when yours is sick most of the time. And I know things weren’t great- I mean you were just a kid, you should have never had to look after her, it’s supposed to be the other way around, you know? But you’ll know she’s always loved you, like truly, truly loved you. I mean, you’re her whole world,” She rushed, like the thoughts had been bouncing around her head all day, waiting to burst out at the seams, which they had. 

Spencer took the keys out of the ignition, shuffling in his seat to face her, and he only realised then she was watching where the four boys had taken off down the street on their bikes, the smallest one trailing at the back like a lost puppy. 

“Don’t you ever worry sometimes I’ll be..” She started, and he knew where it was going before she forced herself to finish. Taking her hand in his, weaving his fingers between hers and squeezing them tight. 

“Like your mom?” He said for her because the words were lingering in the air like alphabet soup. She nodded silently, grateful that he always seemed to know how her brain was ticking over. She reminded herself to make it up to him later, “Never,”  

“But-” She started, and he grabbed her chin then, forcing her to look at him. He smiled dopily, because usually it was him who needed to be told how other people felt, and she swore his eyes had never looked so sweet. 

“Never,” He repeated, feeling the smile spreading under his fingertips as it took the second turn for her to hear it, “If anything, I worry more about becoming like my dad,”

Her brows furrowed, and she shook her head again. Sometimes Spencer wondered if she knew she was so expressive. It was one of his favourite parts about her.

“Never,” She echoed back to him, and they shared a sombre smile, squeezing each others hand just that bit tighter, “I tell you what, the second either one of us starts becoming our parents, we have the right to call them a jackass,”

He laughed, nodding his head and leaning over the centre console to press his forehead to hers, “Alright, deal. Although I think I hear Freud rolling in his grave at that statement.” 

She kissed him, hard, because she would never be able to tell him exactly how he made her feel with words alone. Over two hundred thousand words in the English Language, at least five other languages she could speak fluently, and yet not one of them knew how to describe this feeling. Like she had been absorbed so completely, effortlessly, by Spencer Reid. That she was disease ridden, riddled with Reid. 

And the thought made her giggle into the kiss, because she would have to tell him some other time. Her hand ran through his hair, pulling him closer, and his hand skirted down to her waist to tease underneath her shirt. 

They pulled away after a moment, staring with the same dazed look in their eyes. 

“We have three more days in Vegas,” She started, fixing his collar and hair with idle fingers and pressing an absent peck to his lips, “Do you think we could go back one more time? To see your mom? If that’s okay with her, of course,” 

And he smiled widely at her, nodding and pulling her in for another long kiss. They had a dinner reservation in a half hour, but he didn’t mind being five minutes late for once in his life, not if it meant he was with her. 

The one with Scratch. [he buys a ring]

He’d walked past the jewellers three times that week on his way back from the coffee shop. Bugsy had a fair bit of paperwork to catch up on, despite him offering to halve her load with her because Hotch had already warned them once about the complaints he got from the other agents that she was using Reid’s memory as an unfair advantage, although he would argue that her brain was just as capable as his. 

So, he’d been sent on a coffee run alone. He wasn’t complaining, it was just down the road, barely even a five minute walk, and it meant he got to look at the range of neatly cut diamonds in peace.

He wasn’t looking to buy it soon, at least that was what he’d told himself the first time he’d seen the pretty one in the corner. He was just having a browse, perhaps just looking at the watches they had on display and his eye had happened to fall to the women’s section below. The second time he’d stopped for a look, it was just to see if anyone had bought that one he’d seen the first time, and when he realised they hadn’t, his heart gave a somewhat relieved sigh that he decided he would confront later. 

By the third time, the shop keeper stuck his head out the door, making Spencer jump. 

“Either you’re buying or you’re fogging up my window, kid,” The old man’s voice was gruff, but he had kind eyes, that of a romantic, and Spencer supposed you didn’t sell a dozen engagement rings a day and not feel hopeful. 

“J-just looking,” He stammered, taking a step away from the rings and double checking he hadn’t gotten any smudges on the glass, “Not to buy right now, just for future reference,”

“No one comes back that many times for future reference, son,” He said with a chuckle and Spencer hated the part of him that said that he was right, “Why not for right now?”

Spencer huffed quietly, wondering if her coffee would be cold by the time he got back at the rate he was going, “It’s still a little early. I don’t want to freak her out,”

She had been his girlfriend for one year, seven months and two weeks (and four days but who was counting). It had been her thirtieth birthday just a couple months ago, as far as he was concerned Bugsy had never dropped any hints about wanting to marry any time soon like he knew other women did at this time in their life. 

He was happy where they were, in their apartment, in their semi-public relationship, with their boys that were starting to look a little grey and rickety on their paws. Spencer didn’t want anything to ruin that, even if that one ring did seem to call out to him like a siren song. 

The jeweller grinned slyly, like he knew something Spencer didn’t, but he nodded at the kid nevertheless, “Well, that little number in the corner you’ve had your eye on has had two offers already, incase that sways your hand at all,” 

And Spencer felt the jolt of injustice in his head at the idea of someone else taking that ring, one that he couldn’t get out of his head the entire way back to the office, one that only went away when he saw her smiling up at him. 

One that only dissolved when he imagined how she would look wearing it. 

–

“Tell Penelope I said hi,” Director Axelrod murmured, turning on his heel and heading back to his car as Hotch flashed a look down at the paper, the name ‘Peter Lewis’ scribbled out on the line and he passed the paper to Bugsy where she peered around his shoulder. 

“Get this to Garcia, Lewis has his final victim already,” He said and she nodded, the two of them heading back to the car. Bugsy pulled her cell out her pocket, immediately calling their tech whizz where the rest of the team were at the office an hour away. 

“Peter Lewis, born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida. To call him a Math genius would be an understatement,” Garcia reported, her press on nails clicking against the keyboard as she worked in the candlelight since Lewis had hacked into their electric systems. 

“Where was he in the foster system?” Hotch asked, Bugsy holding the phone up over the centre console so they could both speak to their team.

“He was… ugh this WiFi hotspot is the worst,” They waited, Hotch heading for the freeway, “He was not in the foster system. He had two very biological parents and they ran the foster home until it- oh dear,”

“Looks like we found Mr Scratch,” Rossi sighed, and Bugsy’s brows furrowed, waiting for a response. 

“So one of the boys in the house said Peter’s dad would dress up as the devil then the other kids would follow suit, this has to be where all the victims stayed before they were adopted and their names were changed,” JJ chimed in. 

“Did Lewis’s father serve any time?” Bugsy piped up, chewing the inside of her cheek because the whole case had given her the heebie jeebies. Grown ups reporting sights of shadow monsters and waking up with dead loved ones. She thought by now she had heard it all. 

“The case was pending and then he was killed in jail for being a paedophile. Peter’s residency is still listed as Florida,” Garcia said, her mouse whirling around at the speed of light judging by the soft ticks they heard on their end. 

“He broke into FBI files to find someone in witness protection, did any of the kids from the home end up in WITSEC?” Hotch asked, clicking the blinker down to chand lanes and overtake the ford infront of them. 

“That would be… no? No, none of them,” Garcia replied, and the team shared a confused pause. 

“Who the hell is he still hunting?” 

Hotch spoke up, his own mind whirring as to who could possibly be Lewis’ endgame, “Garcia, who ran the investigation in Florida?”

“Hold on, that would be Dr. Susannah Regan, who went into witness protection on a very nice estate in Columbia, Maryland,” Bugsy and Hotch looked at one another, sharing the same thought and the unit chief floored the gas pedal, knowing Regan didn’t have a whole load of time left if Peter had gotten to her already. 

“Send Reid the location, we’re on our way,” Hotch ordered, and Penelope was already ten steps ahead, Rossi and JJ grabbing their vests and heading for the garage. 

Bugsy hung up, checking her gun was still holstered as Hotch launched them the final five minutes to Dr Regan’s home. 

And yet she couldn’t help feel like they were walking into the belly of the beast the victims had been describing. 

–

Garcia hadn’t been kidding when she said it was a nice estate. By the time they’d gotten out the car, the entire street was silent, a quiet only lots of acres and high gates bought you. 

“You stay behind me, we watch each other's six. We get Dr Regan and we get out, are we clear?” Hotch muttered, his eyes darling to the living room window where the curtains had been pulled closed, one single lamp left lit. 

She nodded, the two of them edging towards the door that had already been left open a crack, “Crystal,” 

He took a second to breath, wondering if they should wait for back up, but Savannah didn’t have alot of time, not if the unsub was already inside like he suspected, before he raised his hand up to the knocker and snapped it a couple times, pushing the door open. 

“Dr Regan?” 

“It’s open, come in,” The woman’s voice called, though it sounded too chipper to be authentic, some sort of uncanny valley as if it was an automated response from an answering machine. 

Checking Bugsy was still behind him, he pushed on, his footsteps light and quiet, eyes scanning the large antechamber, the grand piano sat in front of a huge fireplace cold to the touch, the lights all switched off despite the owner being home. 

Maybe Dr Regan was cheaping out on her bills. But Bugsy doubted it. Something in her gut didn’t sit right. 

“Are you alright?” Aaron called, his torso squeezing against his vest as he scanned what he could see from the room, and she held up behind him, flicking a look over her shoulder every once in a while for movement from the other rooms. 

“Agent Hotchner, I got Agent Rossi’s message,” She said, again in that cheery voice, despite her words claiming she understood she was in peril, and the sound of it made Bugsy’s chest seize with suspicion. 

“Doctor, you’re in danger, you need to come with us,” She explained, her eyes squinting to see in the damning lowlight of the home. 

“I understand,” That robot voice spoke, “I’m in the study,” 

They paused for a second, exchanging another look before pressing on because they had no time to lose over silly hesitations. Passing through the entrance into the room lined with bookshelves on bookshelves, expensive tapestry on expensive tapestry, their heads flicked over to a frail older woman that somewhat resembled the woman they’d been sent from Penelope, when she had was freshly turned twenty five with a sparkly new bookdeal under her nose. 

She sighed in gratitude when the entered, and Bugsy held back a moment as Hotch moved in, keeping her finger on the trigger, “I’m so glad you’re here, you need to see this,” Savannah produced a long, glass sharp letter opener that could easily pass for a knife with the eight inch edge of it, “He wants you to see this.”

And with that, without hesitation or caution she jammed the knife through her own windpipe as if puppeteered by a master, and Bugsy leapt forward to try stop the bleeding just as Aaron did. 

Only she never got that far, because no sooner had she stepped forward a hand reached out from the darkness, grabbing her by the scruff of her hair and throwing her to the floor while she had been caught off guard. Pain exploded behind her eyes as her nose met the hardwood floor, and she swore she cracked a tooth or two. Her hand scrambled out for her gun, only to watch a large black boot stomp down on her digits that made her hiss in pain. 

She heard a scuffle up ahead where Peter had managed to grab Hotch equally unaware, and she watched her unit chief tumble to the floor, smacking his head on the table on his way down. 

And it was then that she smelled it. A raw chemically odour that ran up her bloodied nose, went into her mouth when she tried calling out for Hotch, and it made her cough up a thick mucus before it had even slid down her throat. 

She heard shots fired, and it was enough for her to reach out for her own gun again, hoping that Lewis was distracted enough to not pay attention to her, only to realise somewhere in the scuffle he had kicked her weapon across the floor. 

When had he done that? Why hadn’t she seen him? Probably because the pain behind her eyes had damn near wiped her vision into a blur of white. 

It was then the nausea hit her, the vertigo washing over her like she’d stood up too fast, only she wasn’t standing up at all, in fact she was pretty sure she was on her hands and knees trying to crawl towards Hotch. 

Hotch, who lay on the floor with his own eyes rolling like the room was spinning for him too, and she wondered how on earth anyone could have beaten Hotch. He was a rock, immovable, irreplaceable, forever. 

“Hotch-” She garbled out, her voice tragic and weak in a way he’d never heard before. 

And he opened his mouth to speak, only to find his own voice gone when he saw the figure leering over her body, a glint of a knife in his hand, and Aaron wanted to know how he had managed to emerge out of the shadows when he could have sworn Lewis was right next to him. 

The drug, it had to be the drug. God his eyelids were heavy, what had they been in this house for?

But Aaron felt a scream lodge in his mouth, sounding more like a yelp, something that could have been a mix of ‘no’ and raw anger because Peter had brought one of those big black boots behind him and kicked Bugsy so hard in the gut she flew to her side like roadkill, the wind leaving her lungs with a whimper of pain, and her eyes never left Hotch’s gaze as he did so. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m going to need some alone time with Mr Hotchner here,” Lewis said, and before Aaron could plea or beg, he watched the man lean down and drive a swift line across her throat, as if he were simply gutting a pig, and her carotid artery was sliced clean in two, her blood spewing all over Aaron’s shoes, seeping into the floor. 

And Aaron went to scream, felt the tears well in his eyes because he’d failed her, only this time, unlike Hailey, he was forced to watch every second of life trickle from her face as she bled out onto the floor, choking and clawing at the floor for reprieve. 

What would he say to the team, to Spencer? What would he say to Emily?

Aaron let himself sob, shaking his head in denial and squeezing his eyes tightly shut, hoping to god medical would get here soon. It would be too late by then, he already knew it. 

Bugsy was dead. There wasn’t any miracle fix or band aids that were going to fix that. 

And yet in the next moment the sound of her body writhing in desperation against the floor, the sight of which he couldn’t even bring himself to watch, it had gone quiet. 

And Aaron peeled his eyes open, wondering if she had passed, if she was still in pain, if she wanted someone to hold her hand as she went, and he urged his heavy muscles to do something god damnit anything to help her, except his body felt like lead and even opening his eyes was too much for him. 

But there was nothing there. Not the puddle of blood he’d just watched spill over the flooring, not her hand reaching out for him, clawing at her throat for reprieve and certainly not a body of a girl he once loved like a daughter who would stay with him for a lifetime. 

All of it, just… gone. 

“Don’t you worry, Mr Hotchner, I’m saving the girl for later. Can’t have a pretty thing like that go to waste,” Lewis smiled toothily, and Aaron wanted to wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat, wring the life out of him until he was a crumpled mess on the floor, “But for now, it’s you and me, Aaron. And I think you should answer your phone. Your team are on their way for you,”

–

Her scream was piercing, cut through two walls. He could hear it the second they stepped out of the car. He’d all but thrown himself out the vehicle before Anderson had even stopped, probably would have barged right through the front door without even drawing his gun if it hadn’t been for Morgan grabbing him. 

“Reid, Reid, no-” Derek said, even though his voice wavered, his head flicking back at the house, “You can’t just head in there without backup, it could be a trap, man,” 

“She’s in there, can’t you hear her?” Spencer said, his eyes wide with terror as the sound of her screaming kicked up a whole other decibel and Spencer's stomach churned at the thought of what might be the root cause of it, “Please, Morgan, I can’t-” 

He didn’t even realise his eyes had welled up at the sound alone until he couldn’t finish his words, and Derek was staring at him with an equally solemn expression. 

JJ rounded the other SUV, Rossi at her tail, their guns drawn low to their thighs as they gave Derek a nod; ready to enter. 

“Just promise me you’ll keep your head, Reid,” Morgan said with a cautious tone. Realistically, Spencer should have stayed back at the office with Kate. He was too emotionally invested in the case, though no one wanted to be the one to argue that with him, knowing Spencer would only fight back that they would all struggle to keep their cool once they entered the house. 

Because the UnSub had Hotch and Bugsy. He’d taken family. He’d made it personal. 

And then, just as Spencer nodded, unholstering his own gun and making sure his vest was tightened at his waist, perhaps the worst happened. 

A shot fired from inside the house, loud and unmistakable over the deafening cries and Bugsy’s screaming stopped. 

–

Spencer didn’t even remember entering the house, not really, despite his promise to Morgan. He felt like his heart was in his throat, images of Maeve’s brain matter splattered over the warehouse floor flooding his head, because apparently a revolver can cut through two heads at once and still pack a punch.

Spencer was realistic, had sprung into a clinical sort of worry that told him exactly how many times he’d told her he loved her (two thousand, six hundred and seventeen times) and that maybe that wasn’t enough. It told him the amount of kisses they’d shared could have easily been doubled if he dared to steal them more often before bed, if he’d been honest with her years before he had, if he’d just taken five minutes off his showers. 

He had barely survived Maeve dying. If Bugsy was gone… there would be nothing left of him. Nothing important anyway. Just a body, limbs, a heart that would never beat again. He wagered even his blood would stop because the idea of her gone from the world had already made him cold. 

He heard movement in the living room, and judging by the way Derek’s head whipped over to their right, he had too. And before they could raise their guns up to aim, Derek edging forward to kick the door in with pure, simmering rage, a voice sounded out from the other side. 

“In here!”

Hotch. Hotch, who sounded like he was weeping, or at least had a frog in his throat, hummed his words almost. The men drew a breath of relief, Derek reaching forward to open the living room door, his weapon still tight in between his fingers as he pushed. 

“Hotch?” He said, though Spencer’s eyes cast around the room the second he confirmed his unit chief was okay. He had a nasty gash on his head, likely from where he’d fallen, and his pupils were dilated. Drugged. “Hotch, where’s Bugsy?”

“H-he took her-” Aaron slurred, attempting to get to his feet, holding out a hand to the sofa and using the furniture to claw himself up to a stand, “Upstairs I think- I need to get her- Where’s my gun-”

Morgan rushed in to grab Hotch under his arms as Rossi and JJ burst in from the kitchen, Rossi calling out behind them for medical attention. 

“Hotch, you’re not going anywhere, you need to- Reid,” Morgan yelled, but Spencer ignored him. Because he could apologise later. 

Lewis had Bugsy alone, had taken her upstairs, that was what Hotch said. And Spencer couldn’t stand by and wait while they had no idea what was happening to her. He heard JJ’s footsteps pounding behind him, following him up the stairs, and he knew he should be paying more attention for any hint if Lewis was still in the building. But he didn’t. All he could think about was those screams. Raw. Guttural. Like she was being skinned alive. 

His eyes trailed the empty bedrooms, any sign of movement whether it be Lewis or the woman he would trade his own life for in a heart beat if it came down to it. But there was nothing there, not even as JJ swept the other handful of rooms, leaving them with one small storage room at the end of the hallway, and the two of them cast a glance at one another. 

JJ nodded to him, and he reached out a shaky hand, praying on everything in the vast universe he’d spent his entire life learning about that someone heard him begging to keep his Bugsy alive. 

He slid the door open, cocking his gun up to the figure in the corner, his own weapon at his feet as he smiled in a smug manner. 

JJ took stock of their surroundings, waiting for the trap they were walking into to spring, only he held his hands out in surrender. 

Because he had already gotten what he wanted. He had killed Dr Regan, and taken two cops down with him. 

“Where is she?” Spencer spat, handing JJ cuffs as the woman grabbed him harsher than she should do, because the pleased look on his face was infuriating, only made worse by the chuckle that bubbled out of his mouth. 

“She’s in the closet,” He nodded his head to the smallest bedroom, and Spencer’s eyes narrowed, “She sure is a darling, isn’t she? So easy to tame once that smart mouth of hers was gone,” 

Spencer wanted to shoot him between the eyes there and then, put him down like the sick dog he was, but instead he fled after where Lewis had directed him, because he didn’t know if she was injured herself or if it was already too late.

For once in his life, Spencer Reid knew nothing. 

–

And then he saw her. 

She was alive, thank god she was alive, a dent in her nose that suggested he’d thrown her to the ground face first, her knees skinned, her palms scratched. 

But that wasn’t what worried him.

Because no sooner had he opened the door to the closet, reaching forward to yank her hands off her ears, or maybe pull her for a hug, or maybe break down into sobs and tell her how sorry he was he couldn’t have stopped any of it, she’d started screaming again. 

He didn’t think after so many years on the job he’d ever heard something so gut-wrenching. For a moment he thought he might even be sick. Because it was full of pure terror. Not the childish fright you get from a scary movie or a loop de loop on a rollercoaster, but blood curdling fear like he had never heard before. 

It was enough to have Morgan running up the stairs with his gun drawn, only to see Spencer frozen, his hands reaching out to grab her, and it was only then the agent realised Reid was trying to speak to her. 

“Baby, baby it’s okay, it’s me, it’s Spencer, you know me,” He said, his lip quivering, his words warbling with tears, “Please, please come back to me, I don’t know what to do- please just tell me what to do-” 

“Reid, she’s not herself. Hotch said Lewis made him see things, awful things, just like he did with the other victims,” Morgan said, holstering his gun, his own resolve crumbling when he came closer and realised she had her eyes screwed tightly shut, curling herself into a ball in the corner like a kid trying to hide from the boogey-monster.

But Spencer didn’t listen, he couldn’t accept that they had found her alive and still he had been too late, didn’t want to accept that he had her in his grasp and yet she was still living her a personal hell with no end in sight. 

“Please, please, come back to me,” He sniffled, leaning forward onto his knees to try hold her hands in his, maybe get her to hear his voice and wake up from whatever nightmare she was stuck in, “Come on, I got you,”

“No, no, no, you’re not real, you’re not real,” She screeched, shoving his hands off her, and it was then he saw the dribble of tears running off her nose, “You’re not, I won’t kill him, I won’t-”

It was the ravings of a mad woman. But Spencer didn’t doubt for one second that whatever was happening inside that big brain of hers felt entirely real. He heard Morgan draw a sharp breath, turning to face away from the girl and steady himself where his dark eyes lined with woe and salt. 

Spencer hated seeing her cry, hated not knowing how to help her even more, and he didn’t care if she pushed him away even more. He had to hold her, hold her and make her listen, make her understand she was safe because he was there. 

Spencer swore then and there that he wouldn’t let anything touch her ever again as long as he lived. 

It took everything in him to ignore the way her hands scratched at his wrists desperately, and he wondered if in her mind he’d taken the form of some beast ready to swallow her whole. But he was sure he could calm her down with some coaxing, get her to see what was real if he was patient and gentle enough. He scooped an arm under her legs that shook, and it only took him a second to realise he had peed herself in the throes of her nightmare, the sight of it causing another cry to roll from his tongue. He didn’t care about the mess, because his entire focus was on her as her hands thrashed against his chest, trying everything to get him off her, even when his other hand wrapped around the back of her head and pressed her tightly into his shoulder, squeezing her against him in his lap like she was an inconsolable child. 

“Please, please, I can’t, I can’t do it again, I don’t understand,” She wailed, her voiced croaking and pathetic and he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d damaged her vocal chords, “I don’t understand,” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” He cooed softly, pressing his head next to her ear and rocking her slowly, “It’s me, it’s Spencer. I’m real, this is real,”

Her hands stopped their fight against his body, his own grip tight and not showing any signs of letting go any time soon as he waited for her to wear herself out, for her body to lose its adrenaline and slip out of its fight response. She pushed him limply a few more times, with little more than the strength of a toddler, and he knew she was coming back down, at least something close to it. 

“I’m so tired,” Her voice was muddled with tears, slurring and stumbling over each other and it was then that JJ walked in with three paramedics behind her. 

The blonde’s face evened out when she saw the girl was alive, nothing but a few surface wounds, but it was then she saw over Spencer’s shoulder the way her eyes were clenched tightly together, the red marks on Spence’s alabaster skin where she had put up a fight behind cradled in his arms. 

And JJ knew then that something inside Bugsy had changed that day. 

“I know, you were so brave, you were so brave for me,” Spencer nodded, his cheeks flooding as he tried to keep his tone strong, stroking the back of her hair softly, “You did so good, I’m so sorry,” 

“I’m so tired and I don’t understand,” She said, like she was putting sentences together for the first time, and it was like suddenly the fight had been sucked out of her as she slumped against him, not even realising in her haze that she needed to be showered off desperately. 

“I know, honey,” He murmured, sniffling and pressing his face into her neck, “You can sleep now, I got you,”

She hummed like she didn’t quite believe him, like she still thought he was some figment of her imagination, but she hadn’t the strength to fight back, to call his bluff. And so she drifted in and out of sleep, as the paramedics got her on a stretcher, Spencer hovering over her face incase she woke up in a panic again, cracking her eyes open right as they got her on the back of the ambulance and suddenly it wasn’t Spencer’s face she saw flitting in and out of her eyeline, it was Hotch. 

“Hotch-” She tried, her hand swinging out at her side with her attempt of grabbing onto his face because there was a trail of blood down his cheek. Her voice was fried, just like Spencer had suspected, her words sounding as if she had swallowed stones, “Hotch, your head,”

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I should have known he would be there,” Hotch said, as her eyes rolled back, straining desperately to keep herself awake. But she had said it herself. She was just so tired. “I shouldn’t have taken you in there,”

“I don’t think I like dreaming anymore,” She garbled childishly, a small frown on her face, and Hotch bit his lip to hide a whimper, raising a hand to her cheek, and Spencer sat at the foot of the stretcher, his neck and wrists sore where she’d clawed him, but he didn’t care. 

Hotch gave her a long kiss to her forehead, one Spencer pretended not to see for the sake of paperwork, because he knew Hotch needed it, even as she’d been sucked right back into the reverie of sleep, their eyes never left her frail form, not even when the paramedics started hooking things up to her wrists to take her charts. 

Spencer knew then he should have bought that ring. 

–

She’d been staring at the ceiling for about five minutes before he tried to pry an answer out of her. 

He’d tried not to smother her the second she woke up, had seen the hesitation and distrust swirling in her gaze when she saw him there, and he wondered if she thought it was another one of her dreams she had yet to wake up from. But he was real, and he was worried, and he loved her. God, did he love her. Loved her so much he couldn’t stand for one more moment to see her so dissociated from a world where she was his and he was hers and everyone was missing her.  

“What did he make you see?” Spencer tried, his voice as soft as he could try make it without crying, because her gaze remained in her lap, the side effects of the drugs making her a little woozy, “Baby, I can’t help you unless you talk to me, please just, let me help you,” 

Her throat was in agony the second she opened her mouth to speak, ripping with pain when she cleared her throat and in an instant, Spencer’s hand was on her thigh drawing comforting circles with his thumb. 

“Emily was there, she came to- r-rescue me,” She started shakily, her hands trembling beneath the covers and she breathed slowly through her mouth, “S-she wasn’t wearing a vest, and when I asked her she said she’d gotten the first flight out of London to get me; and then… Doyle,”

She swallowed, and he took her hand in his, giving her a reassuring squeeze, and she tried not to let her eyes well up only to find it was already too late. 

“He stabbed her like he did that night, but it was different this time. She was on the floor, trying to get away, begging me to call for help but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything, and I was trying so hard to scream and tell someone, but I couldn’t…” She sniffled, squeezing his hand so tight it hurt, but he didn’t care, “And he wouldn’t stop. He just kept going, over and over again, and I had to watch every second of it knowing it was my fault,” 

The floor was red, a horrible midnight ichor of Emily’s blood seeping from her body, more blood than a person should ever be able to hold. Last time Doyle had killed her, there had been a hairline chance that she would pull through and Emily had beaten all the odds stacked against her. 

But this wasn’t like last time. There was no miracle escape to Europe. Bugsy would be surprised if there was even anything left of her to put in the casket. 

Her eyes were terrified as she watched Doyle drive the knife into Emily’s skin, the scream lodging in her throat for a reason she couldn’t place. She begged herself to do something, say something, tell the man that she would rip him limb from limb if she ever got the feeling back in her legs, wail for help because that was her sister, her big sister, and she’d stopped moving a while ago. 

Stop, stop it, stop it.

But the words wouldn’t come out. She was frozen. Numb. Like someone had unplugged her from the socket, and the only part of her that did work was her eyes, why did it have to be her eyes. 

And the blade was red, so red she thought she’d never see anything else other than red again, as so was the floor, and his arms, and Emily’s clothes. Red. All over. Driving into her stomach with a wet squelch that made Bugsy want to vomit. 

Over and over and over.

She burst out crying then, the first real emotion she’d shown in days, and he was out of his chair in seconds, cradling her to his chest and shuffling to sit next to her on her bed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it wasn’t real, baby,” He soothed, and she shook her head, her tears soaking his shirt through, and all he could do was stroke her hair down and press gentle kisses to her brow, “You were so brave,”

“And his face changed, and he wasn’t Doyle, it was Hotch. And he-he gave me his gun, and said I had to pick between him or you because one of you had to die and-and I wouldn’t do it, I wouldn’t pick-” Her words warbled into his shirt, an amalgamation of sobs and deep breaths in between sentences, but she needed to get it out. It would eat her alive if she didn’t.

“Choose,” It was Hotch’s voice. The same rough edge, same bite he used with the UnSubs they chased, the tone he’d never used on her. 

She shook her head, because the feeling had tingled back up her spine into her neck by now, and with it brought her voice, her sorrow. 

“No, no, Hotch, please don’t make me, I can’t, I won’t-” She sniffled, looking at the thunderous eyes of her unit chief she’d known for years. He didn’t look like himself, like someone was wearing him as a mask, yet she knew it was him by his steady hands that drew his gun from its holster. He had always been sure of himself. 

How had she got here? Had Lewis got to Hotch, brainwashed him into slaughtering and terrorising his own team. Whatever it was, Bugsy knew in her chest that whatever was standing in front of her was not Aaron Hotchner. 

“Me or him,” He said simply, as if it was that easy, as if he wasn’t pressing a gun to Spencer’s head. 

The sob fell from her lips before she could help it, looking to Hotch’s feet where he held the love of her life bound, his eyes rimmed with fear. 

“I can’t, please, I can’t,” She wept, her cheeks soaked, the salt trickling down her neck and into her shirt. Or was it blood. Had she hit her head? Why did her head hurt?

She couldn’t care, couldn’t think of anything other than the fact a monster had taken over the man she thought the world of. She knew if anything happened she would never be able to hold it against him if anything happened, even if it would always be his face in her mind killing Spencer. Because it wasn’t him. It was Lewis. It wasn’t him. 

Hotch’s finger clicked a bullet into the chamber, pointing the gun at Spence’s crown, and she warbled in protest, because her legs were still numb, her body from the waist down useless, but this time she could scream and fight and yell all the ways she begged for this to stop. 

“Hotch, please, please don’t. It’s not real, it’s not real,” She yawped, her chest in agony, her head spinning because she could have sworn Emily was just here, could have sworn she had been coming to save her. Why was Emily here? And she’d usually be embarrassed to admit it at her big age, but she wanted her sister. She wanted her big sister more than anything, “Hotch,” 

But the man who looked and sounded like Aaron Hotchner wasn’t listening. Instead he looked at her with a steely glare, cocking the gun once more between his fingers, “If you’re too much a spoiled little bitch to choose, then I suppose I’ll have to do it for you,”

And with that he pulled the muzzle away from Spencer’s head, and before she could say another word, utter another plea, he angled the weapon under his chin, pointing it straight for his brain, and pulled the trigger. 

She thinks she screamed, though her hearing had gone with a staticky blur, his blood spraying across the wall like something out of a slasher movie. She remembered howling in shock, her face soaked with ichor and salted tears, and she expected Spencer to rush forward, grab her in his arms and cradle her with soft words. 

But he did. Those hazel eyes she would know in every life time stared blankly at her, all trace of terror gone from his gentle face, and in a whirl of movement, he was standing where Hotch had been, his body gone in a wisp of smoke, like he was nothing more than a magician’s magic act, like her chest hadn’t just cleaved in two at the sight of him dying. 

And Spencer took his place, the lips she’d kissed a thousand times pressed into a scowl, the hands she wanted to melt under, to hold her and tell her he was going to fix everything and make it make sense again holding the loaded gun. 

And at his feet, bound by the same rope he had been was JJ. Freightened, beaten. Mother, wife, best friend, sister. JJ.

“Choose,” Spencer said, but it was cold and unfeeling. Nothing like the saccharine tone he used with her, and she felt the pit of pain and suffering and dread that had opened in her stomach grow only deeper, “Me or her,”  

–

She had cried for about two hours after that, and he had held her for all seven thousand, two hundred seconds of it, stroking her hair, reassuring her that Lewis was gone, the drug disposed of, and more importantly, telling her he would never let anything like that happen to her again, over his cold, lifeless body. 

And he meant it. With everything in him, Spencer would never let an UnSub get so close to harming the woman he loved. Not a bruise, or a cut. Not even a scratch. 

And for the three days they’d kept her in for observation she’d slept, and slept some more like she hadn’t known a wink of rest in years. And with it came the nightmares, of all the people she loved splattering their own brains over the walls, Chose, chose, me or them?

But by the fourth day she was allowed more than one visitor in her room, the spot that had solely been filled by Spencer, who would take to his grave that he’d gone home and washed their clothes of the mess she’d made when she wasn’t herself. 

And on that fourth day, the team had arrived with love by the bucket load, because Bugsy was family, and family never let each other suffer alone.

“Oh, look at you!” It was Penelope first, ofcourse it was Penelope first, “Spencer, where’s that cardigan I told you to bring her, she could get cold, and that purple is so her colour- oh what am I saying, come here!” 

Penelope bounded over to her bedside, not completely blind to the way Spencer tensed up as she threw her arms around the girl, fighting his urge to chide Garcia into being more gentle because he knew he’d been hogging time with her while the others had been forced to wait. 

“Pen,” Bugsy said, breathing out and hugging the woman back as hard as she could, “Why do you smell like lavender?” 

Garcia released her clutches (reluctantly) and produced a big tote bag of trinkets, one of which Bugsy suspected was a candle. 

“Spencer said they might be keeping you another couple of days and so I brought you some goodies to cheer this place up,” She said with a chirp, reaching in her bag for two stuffed teddies, and Bugsy’s eyes melted when she realised they resembled Niko and Sergio, their colourings not quite identical but the thought had been there, “So you don’t miss your boys too much.”

Bugsy smiled, her chest spreading with warmth “Thankyou so much, Penelope,” 

And Garcia went to respond, her smile wide and relieved, when another voice spoke up behind her, “Quite hogging her, mama, there are people waiting to see the kid,” 

Penelope rolled her eyes which made Bugsy snicker slightly, moving out the way for Derek to lean over her bedside and give her a tight squeeze. 

“You gave us a scare and a half, baby cakes,” He said with a sigh, and she hugged him back the best she could, though his arm muscles were the size of her head. 

“I’m sorry,” She murmured, and he patted her on the back gently, before letting her go for the next person waiting to pounce on her. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t need to be sorry,” JJ shushed, her slender arms all but crushing her into her chest, and she heard the breath of relief from the woman’s throat as she stroked a hand over her spine, “Just get better for us, okay?”

And Bugsy knew she didn’t mean the crack in her nose Peter Lewis had given her when he’d grabbed her by the nape of her neck and slammed her face into the wooden door the second Hotch’s back was turned. She meant the screaming. The nightmares. The chill that ran down her spine even now when she looked at every one of her friends and remembered that night. Picturing their brains on the wall, their blood on her face-

“Henry drew you a picture,” JJ said, pulling away and presenting her with her own gift basket full of homemade goodies and fresh pyjamas because the ones she had from the hospital were starting to itch, “He said you needed magic kisses,” 

Plucking the card from the front of the wrapping, her lips quirked into a smile when she saw two stick figures, a small dot with yellow hair labelled ‘henry’ with an arrow, and a tall woman with a triangle dress and two glittery wings labelled ‘bugy’, and she was almost certain it was because they had played fairies and princes the last time she had gone over. 

She flipped the page, and saw his hand writing scrawled in a green crayon, a few spelling errors here and there where he had tried his best. 

‘to bugy

mommy said you wer hurt at work and needed somethink to make you happy agan.

I gave the card majick kisses before mommy takes it to the hospital to make you better agan. 

also plees coud we play princes again some time soon.

Love Henry’ 

She chuckled, her finger stroking over the letters gently, because she could imagine him at his little blue table writing it out for her, and she handed it off to Spencer to put on her bedside table. 

“Thankyou JJ,” She said earnestly, and the blonde nodded, squeezing her leg under the blanket gently before she moved over for Rossi to shuffle in, ruffling the girl’s hair because he would joke later that his back couldn’t handle all the movement when really he felt like she’d been mauled with enough affection for one day. 

“You okay, kid?” He said, his eyes roving over the bruise on her nose that had bled into her eyes, and she nodded, smiling up at him somewhat convincingly. 

“I’m still kicking aren’t I?” She said, and the older man chuckled, shaking his head, “Can’t get rid of me that easily,”

And it was almost true, the small seed of double planting in her own head because for a second in that house she had thought things were done for her. And Spencer had thought the same, judging by the way he nervously cleared his throat, playing with the collars of his shirt.

But Rossi nodded with her, “You kidding? There’s enough life left in you to resurrect all of my dead end marriages,” The team snickered, Rossi squeezing her arm the way grandads do, “Kate sends her love, she had to take Meg to her dance recital, she said she’s dropping by later with good coffee,” 

Bugsy took a sigh of pleasure, because she would kill for a steaming cup of good coffee, and Rossi smiled at her attitude they’d all missed in the office. 

And then there was Hotch, who looked damn near like a dog with a tail between his legs, sporting his own jagged forehead wound that had been stitched up, his lips pulled into a guilty pout unlike everyone else's grateful beams. 

“Bugsy,” He started mournfully, and he swallowed heavily, “I’m-” 

“Don’t-” She shook her head, looking up at him from where she’d sat up in the bed to accommodate everyone’s hugging, “It wasn’t your fault, so don’t give me that. He caught us both of guard,” 

But he still didn’t look like he quite accepted that answer, settling to reach out and squeeze the hand that was laying across her stomach, his skin warm and rough as he held her like she was cracking glass under his touch. 

She realised she had been wrong that day with Lewis, when she’d been damn near shaking in her spot because of the man who looked so much like Hotch, and she saw the fatal flaw that gave it all away. 

His face was set in a frown more often than not, and it was for that reason a lot of the agents on the other floors lived in fear of SSA Hotchner’s thunderous tone and barking attitude, but Bugsy knew that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Because while he could be cold and domineering and bossy, his eyes told her all she needed to know. 

He was hurt. He was guilty. He was worried. He was mourning. He couldn’t stop seeing Peter Lewis slitting her throat in that flash of a blade. He didn’t want to take his eyes off her incase it was all a dream in itself, that they had never been found, he had never woke up, they had never saved her. 

His eyes were haunted by the past twenty years of his life, perhaps what happened even before then because she wasn’t so stupid to miss how he was more rough on child beaters and abusive fathers than he was their usual UnSubs, how he was so extra gentle with Jack, how he hated raising his voice. And inside the big scary exterior, Bugsy saw a boy who only wanted to save everyone because no one was ever there to save him. 

She squeezed his hand tightly in hers, pulling him towards her and he’d resisted hugging her to start with because he knew the frog would leap into his throat, but he could never deny her. And he didn’t, he simply leaned over, caressed the back of her head over his shoulder with one of his enormous palms and gave her a warm hug no monster or demon or whatever she had seen could ever be capable of. 

And Bugsy felt stupid for ever believing anything she’d seen. 

–

They stayed for another hour or so, Derek running out to grab Bugsy a subway because the food at the hospital hadn’t been the best, and she had devoured the steak and cheese footlong so fast Rossi’s brows had raised into his hairline. Spencer handed her a strawberry flavoured pudding pot, the lid already peeled open for her and a spoon.

And it was then a figure came rushing through the door, so fast they were surprised they hadn’t heard the heels on the linoleum and the whole room stopped for a breath, Bugsy dropped her pudding cup down her shirt, barely even making her first bite count. 

“Why did no one tell me those two were screwing for eight months?” Emily barked, gesturing between the two agents that cuddled up on the hospital bed, and almost as soon as the pure joy to see her older sister had flooded her body, it ebbed again, and Bugsy rolled her eyes.

“Eleven hour flight, Em, and a buttload of head trauma and that’s all you have to say to me?” She snipped, mopping up her pudding with the edge of her finger. 

“I got weekly updates about the consistency of Sergio’s bowel movements but this you missed out?” She threw her hands up, sighing in contempt and almost immediately the girls were bickering like they hadn’t spent a single day apart from one another, but then Spencer supposed that’s what happened when you were blood. 

And part of him wondered just who was going to tell Emily about the proposal, the same small part that had gone and bought the ring just yesterday while she’d been sleeping. 

He supposed he could live with it being his secret for a few weeks longer. 

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[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ tell me about love (show me how) | gojo satoru

wc: 7.4k

summary: you teach gojo how to love. 

contains: f!reader in mind but no pronouns mentioned, descriptions of blood (typical jjk canon type stuff), shibuya onwards manga spoilers, implied minor character death, there are swears, suggestive bit at the end (but it’s funny!), lots of internal thoughts/dialogues, kind of canon divergent

a/n: relates to my short blurb, do you believe in love?, explores a lot on how i think gojo would be when it comes to love; ambiguous but linear timeline (jumps through scenes)

collection masterlist: conversations on love 01. do you believe in love? <- you are here -> 2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours)

When Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it. 

It’s unusual for him to be so restrained, being born into greed and predetermined purpose—a one-man clan fated to hold power close to God. There exists a hunger within him, insatiable and stubborn, unstoppable until he gets what he wants. It’s all he’s ever known: to take and devour, simply because he can. 

Yet with this, he doesn’t. He can’t seem to. 

“I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.” 

When you offer your heart to Gojo, he looks at you softly. 

You catch his eyes and see the sky, bright, with flecks of light floating on his irises like cotton clouds in its periphery. It’s different from the piercing blue you’re used to—a terrifying riptide that washes you away. 

It wasn’t intended as a confession, but Gojo always takes whatever you have to say. He commits it to memory each time; how could he not? Words that come from you flow so naturally, so earnestly that the air around you shifts all on its own.

His lips part slightly, red spatterings lining pink inner corners before they close again. He doesn’t say anything, but you know Gojo and the fingerprints of his soul—the way he bites his lips to withhold himself from speaking. 

It’s dangerous, he thinks, how you make wanting something so complicated seem so simple.

He takes a small breath, then you feel it, pressed against you—the faint signature of his cursed energy overlaying his entirety. It tickles your skin a little, the effects of it brushing. You don’t remember the last time he put it up around you.

A million things run through Gojo’s mind for every split second he breathes, but at this point in time, he counts a million and one—one thought that if he touches you by infinity instead of his hands, he can have this good thing for now, that this is the only way how. 

You’d think this a rejection, if any, but he doesn’t move away from you, and the blush blooming at the tips of his ears says more than he ever could. 

.

.

.

The subtle intimacy you share with Gojo grows sporadically, from knuckles brushing to pinkies touching. He stands next to you more often, a few inches closer than he used to and sometimes, still, with an infinity connecting you.

.

.

.

When you hold Gojo’s hand for the first time, he jolts very slightly, as if you’ve shocked him. He’s started to put his infinity down around you again, and you continue the limbo of whatever it is you both are—except this time, he’s made it clearer, just a little bit. 

During the last few leaves of fall, Gojo skips to an ice cream stand like a pre-schooler on early dismissal. You trail behind him slowly, shaking your head affectionately; he’s the only adult you know that still acts like he’s 5. 

“You’re like a horse.” you jest, stopping next to him in line.

“You’re a snail.” he huffs, side-eyeing you, like a child.

You gasp exaggeratingly, hitting his arm. He fake-winces, but that’s all it is; Gojo’s the strongest and you don’t know of any human touch that has managed to hurt him, except—

Yeah. Your eyes trail to the side of his neck, hidden in the shadows of his jawline; there’s really nothing, but sometimes you blink and see crimson, oozing, gushing, leaking—you shake away the thought.  

When he receives his ice cream cone stacked with vanilla-strawberry-vanilla and rainbow sprinkles on top, the smile on his face parallels the sun. He looks cozy, almost boyish, beaming against the autumn breeze blowing on his thick gray hoodie. 

You wonder if he feels just as warm.

(Maybe that’s why you do it, then).

Once Gojo turns to give you the cone, you reach for his other hand tentatively, shyly—your fingertips grazing his palm lightly. You want to give him an out if he can’t take this, but he doesn’t move. He twitches a little, as if he’s been caught off guard, but that’s it. 

His eyes widen briefly, just a bit, before turning into the same soft skies frequenting them lately. 

“Sorry, is this okay?” you whisper, peering up at him. 

He stares at you for a while, his hand in yours unmoving. You leave a sliver of space between your palms–your own version of his infinity–just in case. And he takes it all in: how tiny your hand is wrapped around his, how gently you speak—how warm he feels now amidst this autumn breeze. 

“The strawberry’s really good,” he finally replies, pressing the dessert closer to you, “try it.” 

You give him one last look before you indulge in his request. Gojo’s always been good at that: pushing and pulling—pushing you away with non-answers only to pull you back in with something else. 

But he doesn’t let go of your hand, so you keep yours there, palms nearly touching. (You make a point not to mention how the parts that do touch become clammy for the rest of the afternoon). 

.

.

.

You start to think that your relationship with Gojo is going somewhere, then he disappears (‘gets sealed’ might be the more proper term). 

His absence is deafening. You’ve all lost so much, and it hurts, but you carry on knowing full well that this is what being a jujutsu sorcerer means. There aren’t many left to fight his fight, so you do what you can to. You stay with Shoko, mostly, if not going back and forth with Utahime. You can’t afford to be crying when the students, the kids—you can’t even bear to think about what they’re going through.

Nights are the hardest, when the world is quiet but your mind is loud, throwing far too many questions you can’t find the answers to.

What will Gojo come back to? Then the scarier thought: Will he even come back? 

You don’t want to doubt him, ever, but your mind continues to play back that day, like a final memory. The unintentional confession; his eyes like the sky. 

You don’t want it to be the last important thing you tell him. 

“I should start looking into retirement plans, like Nanamin.” you raise an eyebrow, questioning. Gojo’s never spoken this far into the future before, most especially his. 

“Work is shit now for you too?” you scoff, leaning back on the wooden ledge. 

Gojo rolls his eyes, skipping the coverage of his blindfold today. 

“Well, after I remove the old geezers and change everything, there won’t be much left to do.” 

You hum in response. He does make a point. 

“Also, Megumi won’t need me anymore,” he pouts, whining, “who else will want me around?” 

You try to hold back your laugh, wanting so badly to tell him that Megumi doesn’t even really like him around to begin with—but you figure breaking Gojo’s heart isn’t really something you want to do if you value your peace. 

“I don’t know,” you reply, shifting your weight, “I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.” 

Even now, especially now. You wish you were with him, too. 

.

.

.

The day you hear of Gojo’s potential return, you drop your breakfast outside the 7-Eleven near Jujutsu Tech. You’re supposed to meet up with Utahime for a weekly check-in but your feet take you to Shoko, and the footsteps in your heart have never echoed louder. 

This is the first good news in a while—especially after finding out about the state of Megumi and what happened to Tsumiki, your sweet girl Tsumiki. 

When Gojo comes back, it’s like he never left. He pops out of the box joking the same way, talking the same way. He proves himself to be the strongest all the same, and when he wins—there are scars, but he wins and that fact stays the same. 

So, when you reach for his hand now and he moves away, you’re stuck wondering what’s changed. 

.

.

.

You let it stay that way for a while, your understanding extending to Gojo the way it always has—you don’t push, and he gives you what he can. It honestly isn’t all that bad, because at least he’s still talking to you like he used to. 

Jujutsu society is still shaken from its core. You and all who have survived bear the task of building everything from the ground up; it’s exhausting, especially since most of you are still mourning. 

Megumi’s been put in an induced coma; you understand why but it still tugs at your heart when Shoko tells you it might take a while. Everyone else has been assigned to sweep through the rest of Japan to ensure that any remaining curses are taken care of. 

You see Yuuji and Yuuta visit Megumi sometimes, along with Maki and Toge when they’re free. Gojo’s there pretty often too, using healing sessions with Shoko as an excuse to see the boy he’s practically raised at 17, with you. 

But while Gojo’s smiles to everyone else remain as charming as ever, you can always tell when they’re untrue. 

.

“Are you okay?” 

You find Gojo a little after midnight on the rooftop of the faculty building. The city always looks pretty from up here—a sea of lights reflected up on the sky. It’s a running joke that rooftops are Gojo’s ‘thing’, but you know he really only comes to places like this to think. You wonder what’s on his mind now, coming here every single night since being unsealed. 

Despite how quiet you try to be, sneaking up on Gojo is almost impossible; he senses you before he hears you, sees the familiar traces of your cursed energy through his Six Eyes. 

“Can’t sleep thinking about me?” he teases, looking straight ahead.

The steps you take towards him are careful, afraid of running him off like you seem to be lately. You sit beside him, leaving a space larger than you usually do, then shrug, “These days, yeah.”

It’s times like this when Gojo forgets how honest you can be, how he takes your word for everything, completely. 

It’s threatening, he thinks, how you can say so much with so little. 

“Well, maybe I can suggest—” 

“Seriously, Satoru,” you grip the ledge tightly, knuckles turning white, “please.” 

You tend to let Gojo dodge your questions a lot of the time, his elusiveness a hallmark of who he is. So you never sound like you do now, serious, pleading. 

Gojo fiddles with his fingers, pondering. He hums lowly before speaking, “Does it matter?” 

It hurts you a little, how that’s even a question. He should know better than to ask that to you. 

“It matters to me, Satoru,” you sigh, “you know it does.”

You barely catch the way his brows furrow at your response, but there are creases on his blindfold that can’t be created by anything else. And Gojo knows—is so painfully aware of the way you care. 

Since coming back, he’s never felt like he’s fully returned. It’s an odd existence of in-between, like he breathes everything and nothing all at the same time. The emotions are even worse, overloading his senses with feelings he can never pinpoint. 

How does he tell you that he must be fucked in the head? That every second in his mind is another step closer to insanity? That he’s lost your tether on Satoru in pursuit of Gojo—of being a god? 

“I’ll tell you,” he starts, “but you have to look away.”

You’ve always treated Gojo tenderly, patiently, and he knows, without a doubt, that no matter what he says you will continue to do the same. But he can’t allow that, not anymore. Not after the way you looked at him that day.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning your head the other way. 

He breathes out and you can almost picture it: half-bitten lips and eyes like low tide. 

“I’m fine,” he says to the back of your head, “you have nothing to worry about.” 

A breeze picks up and brushes past your neck. It’s a lie. He knows it, knows you know it too, but—

it’s easier this way, he thinks, to give you answers when you’re not looking.

Gojo’s never found a weakness he can’t work around, but he might have just found one with you—in your eyes, that read through his every lie. If you turn around now, he’ll want to tell you everything.

“Satoru,” you whisper, letting his name fill the air. You get it—him, and even when you don’t, you try damn hard to because you refuse to let Gojo carry all of it on his own. 

There are crescent indents on your palm from squeezing your knuckles too hard. You think, is this how you form shallow cuts on your heart?

“It’s just me,” you continue, facing him when you say it. 

He takes you all in—your eyes that hold the city lights, your lips, the only vessel that handles his name so delicately. It’s that look on your face again and Gojo’s hit with an ache in his chest—the overwhelming truth that whatever it is, he feels the same. 

.

.

.

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he’s certain he’ll never tell you: that when he looks at you upon his return and finds an emotion he refuses to name, he’s never felt so afraid.  

He takes in the shadows under your eyes and the sunkenness of your cheeks—the number of blinks it takes you to reign in tears on the brink of leaking. The way your voice shakes when you say his name.

Shoko tells him about it because she knows you never will—about how you’ve been running yourself dry, speeding through colonies to gather intel for any possible way to break the seal. She tells him about the sleepless nights, how she catches you standing outside his office at 3 a.m. before travelling to Utahime the next morning. 

And he cannot comprehend it at first, cannot understand how he’s caused you to crumble this way. 

If this is all because of him, how you’ve broken yourself all for his sake, he can’t allow it. To see you ruin yourself over him, over anyone ever—you deserve better.

So, when Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it; he cannot possibly take any more from you if this is what is left of you when he does. 

.

.

.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you catch him by the door of the conference room. 

Rebuilding an entire society requires work and apparently a lot of meetings. Gojo doesn’t usually go to most of them, leaving you and Utahime to carry the chunk of his attendance when he’s not there. In the rare times that he does show up, he makes it a point to be the last one in and the first one out. Utahime hates him for it but you don’t blame him—he isn’t exactly amicable with other figures of authority.

He pauses when he steps out of the door, hands in pockets as he turns to face you. 

You’re not mad or anything, just stating the fact. He’s always known you to speak this way. You lean against the wall next to you, keeping your arms crossed. More people continue to file out of the conference room, some eyeing the two of you curiously as they pass by.

Gojo glances at them, suddenly self-conscious as he clears his throat, “Right, I’ve been avoiding the paperwork you left in my office,” he emphasizes, practically announcing it to everyone in the vicinity, “let’s finish it now.” 

You don’t know whether it’s irritating that Gojo’s so terribly bad at acting, or comforting that he still can’t, for the life of him, successfully lie in front of you. 

He motions for you to follow him as he strolls down the hallway, but you intentionally lag a few steps behind, careful not to encroach on his space lest it make him avoid you any more than he already is.

Stepping into Gojo’s office after so long feels weird, like you belong here but only to a memory of it—as if closing the door behind you feels like activating a muscle you haven’t for a while. It’s been months after all. 

Your eyes skim over the entire room, zeroing in on the stacks of paper lined up on his desk; paperwork has always been Gojo’s least favorite part of the job, often leaving you to do them with him (or alone, when you’re feeling generous). Not much has changed in his space; the mini living area still exists to the left of the room, with little bits of you in its interiors—the pillows, the coffee table books. 

Gojo plops down on the sofa chair and props his feet up on the ottoman, giving four scrolls to his phone before pocketing it. He has the audacity to casually offer you the seat across from him, as if nothing’s wrong—as if he hasn’t been avoiding you for god’s sake. 

Ever since the rooftop, he’s canceled lunch with you six times for reasons that you’re now realizing are less likely to be true. He’s kept a distance of at least one person in between you at all times, and to this day, you still don’t understand why. 

You sigh, taking a seat and leaning back to cross your legs. 

“You’re so bad at acting.” you start.

Being with Gojo for so long, you’ve come to realize that there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it. 

“I technically wasn’t lying.” he replies, sticking his index finger up. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” you snicker, nodding to his desk. 

It’s always like this with Gojo: he pulls you in and you follow. No matter the distance between you, when you sit down together like this, it still always flows so easily. The banter you’ve built together over a decade and more shines through no matter what state your relationship is in. 

Neither of you say anything until Gojo replaces his blindfold for his sunglasses, placing the piece of cloth on the coffee table. 

You break the silence. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” you ask quietly. Gojo aches at that, how you still choose to regard him so kindly. 

Why has he been avoiding you? It’s a good question, completely valid with how he’s been treating you lately, but he could draw up every answer he has, all one million and one, and still not know what to say.

Gojo’s a pretty bad communicator; for how much he talks, he doesn’t really say much—and maybe that’s the root of all this. There are too many things he wants to say but can’t formulate in the right way. 

“If it’s something I did, can you at least let me know?” you continue. Gojo frowns, how can you be wronged yet still think of yourself as the one to blame? 

“Why do you do that?” he tuts, head tilting sideways as his hands dig deeper into his pockets. 

“Do what?” you furrow your brows, confused. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, so don’t worry about it.” he says dismissively. 

You arch an eyebrow; he has it all mistaken. 

“Satoru, I’m not worried because I feel guilty,” you sit up, inching towards the edge of your seat, “I’m worried because you’re pushing me away.” your voice is level, but your pupils shake.

Something grips at his chest seeing you this way; together or apart, he seems to be the main contributor to your heartache. 

You wonder if confronting him like this is any good if he’s not going to say anything anyway. 

“If you want space, that’s okay, I get it, but,” you exhale, “at least just tell me why.” 

This entire time avoiding you, Gojo’s had you on his mind—the million and one. He’s come to terms with what he feels when you’re together, and how it amplifies when you’re not. 

It’s shitty of him to practically ghost you, not just in text but in real life too. But he’s thought about it logically, really, that removing himself from your life should be just like ripping off a bandaid—painful but quick. At least that way, you’d get over it fast. 

He’d been resigned to doing that and that was the plan—until now. 

All it takes is seeing that look in your eyes, and his resolve falls apart. 

“I can’t.” he speaks softly. 

What hurts the most is that beneath his sunglasses, his eyes still hold the sky. 

You think you want to cry. 

You take this as your answer and close your eyes, taking a deep breath before getting up to leave. If this is goodbye, you don’t want your last interaction to be an awkward memory of him watching you bawl in his office chair. 

You push yourself up with the armrest only to sit back down—because Gojo is right in front of you, blocking your way. His infinity is up but touching, a tingling sensation sweeping across your knees. 

“Wait,” he swallows, a franticness you’ve never seen before. His head stays down as he bites his lips, sunglasses hanging by his fingertips. You wonder what he wants to say, that even if it comes out messy, it’s okay. You want to tell him that it’s just you—that you’ll always want to hear it all anyway. 

What comes next is unlike any version of Satoru you have ever known—nervous and uncertain, almost like he’s afraid. He lowers himself, slowly coming down to his knees in front of you. A giant of a man so small in your presence. 

“I don’t know how.” he mutters, dropping his sunglasses to the floor. 

You blink once, twice, still surprised by what’s in front of you. Gojo has always towered above you, has always known how to do anything and everything so effortlessly without fail. 

Watching him now, with every inhale and exhale dragging in slow motion, you do your best not to startle him. 

“How to what?” you whisper, the moment so fragile. 

He looks up, eyes locking with yours. A reaction happens in that moment—the split second of all his thoughts collapsing into one. You see a clear sky, blue and bright as day, the Satoru he saves for you—while he sees you, with that look on your face, the one that he knows has always only meant love. 

The sincerity in your gaze overwhelms him—makes him look away before it becomes too much. Red blooms at the tips of his ears as he bites the inner corners of his lips, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his pants. You’re afraid he might run away again, but he doesn’t and stays right where you are. 

“You know…” he looks to the side, pouting, “whatever you do….”

“Like…?” you coax lightly, trying hard to hide the small smile forming on your lips. 

You wonder how many versions of Satoru you’ll meet in your lifetime, and if this one, shy and nervous, will be one you’ll fit into the crevices of your heart just like all the others. 

He grips his pants tighter, fabric bunching under his fingers, “When you hold my hand… those things. You get it.” 

And you do (get it), so you don’t push, taking whatever Gojo has to give you like you always have. 

The tension relieves from you slowly, comforted by the fact that at least he’s given you his reasons now (no matter how vague they still seem to be). That at least there are no non-answers this time. 

You tell yourself that it’s okay, that you’re content as long as Gojo’s in your life even without the possibility of becoming something more. 

“Ok—”

But there’s always one thing you forget about Gojo—

“So show me how.”

—in the moments you least expect it, he speaks the words that matter most. 

.

.

.

You choose to show him slowly, gently, like the trickling introduction of water to a man who is first learning how to drink. 

In the first few weeks of you and Gojo readjusting to one another, he turns on his infinity again—but only when he gets close enough to touch you. Lunches together happen more often, dinners sometimes too. Then he puts his infinity down, indefinitely. 

For the most part, your relationship falls into the usual steps of your dynamic with Gojo; there’s no pressure for anything and he likes that, appreciates the time you’re giving him to learn things at his own pace. 

It grows organically that way: knuckles brushing as you both reach for the stapler, pinkies touching whenever you walk side-by-side during site visits—until you’re able to hold his hand fully again, leaving that little infinity between your palms for him to close (hopefully, one day). 

.

.

.

The faculty room is cold, especially during winter. The heating system is never warm enough to keep your hands from shaking whenever you mix your morning coffee. 

“So loud so early,” Gojo saunters into the kitchen, hands in pockets as he approaches the pantry. 

You stop mixing, ceasing the clinking of the spoon against your mug. “How are you not freezing?” 

He shrugs, grabbing his box of (heavily sugared) cereal. “I guess I’m just hot.” he says, turning to wiggle his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and set your coffee on the table, Gojo following with a bowl brimming with cereal and milk. 

Mornings usually consist of you and Gojo, with an occasional new hire who has an early class that day. Most of the time, it’s just you two though, with Shoko coming in much closer to lunch time already. 

“Want some?” he asks, holding out his spoon.

It’s routine—Gojo asks and you decline, choosing to save yourself from the cavities that he somehow manages to evade despite having a diet of 80% sugar. 

Today though, you’re feeling a little adventurous. 

You nod, opening your mouth. Gojo’s eyes widen, nearly dropping the spoon at your request. You see the flush of his cheeks and smile, corners of your mouth extending wider. The spoon is shoved to your mouth too quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed to feed you. 

“Too sweet,” you scrunch your face, swallowing down the copious amount of sugar you’ll feel for days. 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Gojo throughout this whole relationship trial period, he recovers from any state within a nanosecond. There’s no end to how shameless he can be. 

“Like me, right?” he winks.

“Sure,” you drawl sarcastically and Gojo smiles like it’s high praise. 

You sip your coffee slowly, revelling in the heat that flows down your throat.

“Can I have half of that?” you point to his bowl. Gojo looks at you, confused, but slides it over anyway.

What happens next is an abomination to Gojo’s eyes—pure absolute disgust: you pour half of his cereal into your coffee and mix, sipping and crunching on a few pieces every now and then. 

His face contorts into complete distaste, horror and revulsion in the way his mouth hangs open. 

“What are you doing? That’s gross!” he nearly yells, reaching over to bring your mug down. His hand covers yours for a moment, the contact still causing gallops in his heartbeat. 

You laugh, giggling as he processes what you’d wasted his cereal on. It honestly doesn’t taste that bad, you think. 

“You’re weird,” he says to you, the grin on his face uncontained. This morning, he feels fond, like the butterflies in his stomach are warm, tickling him from the inside. “Give me.” he motions to your mug. 

You hold it up for him to take a sip but he keeps his hand over yours when he tastes, sticking his tongue out once the bitterness of your coffee hits. You set the mug down, preparing to reach for your spoon, but he takes your hand in his, long fingers slotting right between yours, interlacing. 

Gojo doesn’t normally reach for your hand, much less interlace them together (a recent evolution to your hand-holding), but this feels nice, how your fingers fit right in the spaces of his. 

You turn to him, a shy smile on your face. The tips of his ears are blush red but he looks at you the same, “Your hands were cold,” he pouts, “is this– is this okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s warm. Thank you, Satoru.” you nod, beaming. And it’s not a competition but he hopes you see the light in his eyes, how it feels to be ignited within him only when he’s spending breakfasts like this with you. 

.

.

.

Shoko asks what you are and you don’t know what to tell her other than you’re happy and it’s good. Gojo’s existence is loud and vibrant, easy to spot from miles away—but he cares for you discreetly, in the hand that gently rests on your lower back while crossing the street, and the seemingly unlimited supply of your favorite coffee when you have no recollection of restocking it ever. 

He gives you a new mug for Christmas, one with little cereals painted all over while you give him his own tube of hand cream that he claims always smells like you. 

During the faculty New Year celebration, you overhear one of the new hires make a move on Gojo. You aren’t bothered by it or anything, simply walking past to sip your sake by the couch. You can hear them talk a bit from the kitchen, but you try not to pry despite how curious you are about his response. 

Until—

“I’m taken,” you hear Gojo say bluntly. 

Everything rings in your ears after that. The countdown music is loud, but your heart beats louder; there are murmurs and footsteps around you, but only one man crouches down to check on you, glass of water in hand. 

You snap out of it and see blue, the sky—a familiar light; you don’t think you can control the smile on your face, the alcohol lowering your inhibitions to paint on something lovesick. 

And when he smiles back, pink lips stretching wide—oh your heart can’t take it. He places one hand on your knee, rubbing gently. You hear it faintly, how he asks if you’re okay, but all you can do is nod, words failing to express how you feel right now.  

The countdown starts. 3 — and you take his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks to an image of him on your phone from many, many years ago. 2 — you go closer and his eyes go wide, a mixture of panic and surprise, but soft at the same time. 1 — you lean in and his eyelids fall shut, his chest on rampage. Then it lands, there, on the tip of his nose: a delicate peck and the smell of sake mixed with mint (like the lip balm you always carry around in your pocket). 

When you pull away from him, you’re smiling the biggest he’s ever seen, and he can’t feel it from how numb his cheeks have become, but he’s doing the same. 

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.

.

That kiss to his nose serves as the catalyst to the months that follow: Gojo becomes more comfortable touching you now, and though he blushes every single time, there’s nothing to be ashamed of because you do too. Shoko can’t believe the slow burn this is taking you both, having watched this on the sides since you were both 22, but you think you like it—like the slow drizzle of honey on Gojo’s favorite breakfast waffles. 

“How is it?” you ask, watching as Gojo takes a big bite. 

“D Beft.” he replies, mouth full as he chews. You take the seat beside him and take a spoonful. 

“There’s a secret ingredient.” you say mischievously, wiggling your eyebrows. 

He swallows before he scoffs, “What?” cutting up another piece, “Love?” 

You’re surprised because he says it so casually, and Gojo’s never talked about love, has never even mentioned the word since this shift in your relationship. He realizes a beat late by the expression on your face and gets flustered, thinking immediately of ways to brush past it. 

You had meant to say that you used that infused sugar he buys whenever he goes to Kyoto, but… you suppose love works too. He should know by now, right? 

“If it is?” you whisper, pretending to stir your coffee. 

Gojo doesn’t know how to approach this, really, but he’s come too far to back out now. He clears his throat, mentally running through what he wants to say, then, “Good. ‘Cause that’s what I put in your coffee too.” 

You laugh and the tension dissipates; there are hearts in your eyes for how hard Gojo has tried after denying himself of this for so long. 

He stares at you—at the laugh lines by your eyes and the soft curves of your lips, the moment moving much too slow, stop motion in his mind. He’s drawn in until you’re all too close, a few centimeters from your noses touching. 

Your laughter dies and your cheeks feel like they’re on fire; he’s so close you think he might kiss you. The signs are there—his eyes scaling your face to focus on your lips, his tongue peeping ever so slightly to wet his lips. 

So you wait. 

But he doesn’t, because he moves away after wiping his thumb on the side of your mouth. Even though you know there was nothing there. 

Gojo continues to eat, blabbering about a site visit he’s assigned to next week, but you don’t miss the way his ears are fully red and how he’s biting his lips to death.

.

The tension this time is different; instead of a growing rift, you can’t seem to be close enough. Every time you part ways, he lets go of your hand more reluctantly—as if he wants to say more, do more, but stops himself while he still can. 

When he leaves for missions, you kiss his cheek, pull him in by the hand and linger there, shyly. He gets embarrassingly red but tries to cover it up by telling you not to miss him too much (even though you know you will, and he knows he’ll miss you more). 

Your near-kisses with Gojo happen more frequently, and it comes to a point where he even manages to land one on your forehead, while you fall asleep next to him on his office couch. 

It’s driving you crazy, this tension—the mixed signals of it all. You try to kiss him a few times on the lips, but he evades them each time. You’ve caught Gojo staring at your lips more times than you can count; if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is. 

Now that Gojo thinks about it, he’s come so far yet the prospect of kissing you properly still scares him. What if he fucks up? Doesn’t do it right? What if it’s not how he wants you to be kissed? 

There’s that secret Gojo will never tell you, of how seeing that look on you has never gotten him more afraid. And he’s worked through that now, but it’s evolved into something else: how Gojo is now afraid of love, more than anything else, not because of loss but because he might not know how. 

And kissing you, loving you this way—he’s never done it before, doesn’t know how to make you feel love without his lips shaking and heart palpitating; how to do it while letting you know he feels the same. 

.

It happens during an assignment out of town. Curses aren’t as bad as they used to be, but they’re still stronger than what any of the available sorcerers right now can handle. 

You don’t remember the last time you saw Gojo use his technique that way—almost forgotten how powerful and ruthless he can be. Every time since, holding your hand, keeping you close—he’s just been your Satoru. 

Your apartment for the weekend is a two-bedroom unit with one bathroom and a decently sized living area and kitchenette; Gojo always chooses the room in front of the bathroom because he tends to wake up in the middle of the night to pee (information you know from your many other assignments with him before). Still, going as what you are now—it feels different. 

There’s a charged air between you as you move around the unit; you make your nightly tea while Gojo looks through the groceries for some crackers. It’s peaceful and quiet—domestic almost, but there are goosebumps on your skin for reasons you can’t explain. Being around Gojo lately has felt that way.

He brushes past you to throw the finished packet of crackers and the feeling intensifies; it’s not awkward, just tense, like anticipation sitting deep in your bellies, waiting on each other to make the first move. 

He announces that he’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind, and you motion for him to go ahead. Your mind is fuzzy and having Gojo around seems to only make it worse.

When you walk past the bathroom and straight to your room, you hear Gojo humming that soft pop tune from a popular girl group on the radio earlier. You giggle, thinking it’s sweet—how he sings obnoxiously around everyone else but is admittedly pretty good when it’s just him, alone. 

You still have the rest of the weekend in this area, having agreed to monitor the site and any nearby locations for other suspicious activity, but at least the worst of it is over (maybe just to you though; Gojo hates paperwork). 

The sound of running water stops and you hear the bathroom door swing open. You don’t see Gojo when you exit your room but he leaves the door open to release any remaining steam.

There’s a reason why people say showers are good for the mind. You’re happy for those who’ve found it, but that couldn’t be you, because the only thought plaguing your head right now is Gojo—and whether you should greet him goodnight, if you should kiss his cheek or hug him tight. The tension between you now is palpable, an electric current waiting to zap on both ends. 

Your mind is so out of it that you don't realize you’re missing your skincare bag until after you finish brushing your teeth and dressing for bed. You open the bathroom door with the sole intention of going back to your room to get it, but instead, you’re met with a wall of chest.

Gojo’s eyes are wide, bright blue with damp strands of white falling like curtains barely shielding the sky. He’s just as surprised as you are, toothbrush in his hand as you hold up the towel wrapped around your head. 

You’ve seen Gojo in his pajamas many times before—white long sleeves with gray cotton pants, but your eyes trail to his collarbones and the way the bathroom lights cast it under a soft glow. The redness on his cheeks, a visual manifestation of the heat on yours. 

Gojo can’t stop staring at your lips, at how soft they look—at how soft you look fresh out of the shower. The little baby hairs sticking out under your towel are cute, and he leans in without knowing—a pull he can’t seem to resist. For once in his life, Gojo’s mind is still. 

You try to meet him halfway, tiptoeing, but you’re a little out of your element; you don’t know where to put your hands and your heart’s about to explode out of your chest. When your noses touch, you can’t breathe, closing your eyes while you wait for it. 

But it doesn’t come. 

You feel Gojo’s breath stilling before speeding up into little exhales. Something is wrong. You open your eyes and find him staring back at you, a version of Gojo you haven’t seen in a while—that you rarely see ever, except that day during your confrontation in his office. 

Concern laces your features and you move back a little, hands coming up to caress his cheeks. His eyes still look frantic, but they focus on you when you cup his face so gently. 

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice grounding. His breaths slow down a little. 

You realize that it must be true then, what they say, that those who love to be feared, fear to be loved, because you’ve never seen anyone afraid of something so good as Gojo is of this. 

“Satoru,” you repeat, massaging his temples with your thumb, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Gojo hates it, how you’ve always had to adjust for him. He hates that he can’t give you this one thing, hates that you’re still so patient, that he’s still so afraid. He swallows, closing his eyes tight before opening them again. 

“I want to,” he chokes out, “I just don’t know—”

You chuckle, without judgment, “I don’t either,” you lean forward, foreheads touching, “but do you want to try together?”

You learn that Gojo sees himself so differently from how you do—and maybe that’s everyone, but Gojo tends to say things while doing the other. He says he can’t bother with kids, but continues to take so many of them under his wing anyway; he calls your cereal concoction disgusting but tastes it regardless; and he says he can’t think about love, doesn’t know how, but proceeds to try so much harder, everyday. 

When you look at Gojo, you see a heart so big, so capable, that he can’t see it himself. 

You nudge his nose with yours and he breathes deeply, closing his eyes once again. If he doesn’t do this now, how much longer ‘till he does? 

Gojo hums before nodding his head slightly. His hands come up to cover yours, toothbrush wedged in the spaces between his fingers; they’re clammy, he’s sure, but he’s kept you waiting long enough. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, everything trembles—his pupils, his lips, the breath he takes. It’s all shaky and nervous, but your lips touch and all you know is that you like it there. He’s a little bit stiff but you don’t mind, pressing closer just for a little bit before pulling away. 

Gojo keeps your hands in place, half-lidded eyes staring at you lazily. His ears are fully red now but he’s giving you a look you’ve never seen before—like lightning crackling in the gaps between his eyelids. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, you don’t expect it to be by the bathroom door of a rented apartment, while away on a mission. You don’t expect it to be in your pajamas, towel wrapped around your hair as you’re getting ready for bed. You definitely don’t expect him to guide your hands down his neck while he places his on your lower back, squeezing lightly before pulling you in to kiss you again. 

This time, his lips move more pliantly, parting yours slightly; he tastes mint, mixed with the strawberry candy he had earlier and it’s nothing he could have ever imagined before, but is now everything he’s ever wanted. The push and pull between you is magnetic, soft lips and the intermingling of held breaths. All Gojo can think of now is to take, to devour—to keep you with him, like this, always. 

You wonder if Gojo is lying—that he’s never done this before, because you don’t think you can kiss anyone after this and not think of his lips on yours. 

By the time you part, the air is significantly warmer. Your fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck and you smile, sighing. Gojo looks warm, with his swollen lips and flushed cheeks. 

“That…” you trail off, nudging his nose. 

Gojo looks at you fondly; to ever even think he could have this now, with you—he doesn’t believe in any higher being but you must be his prayer come true. 

“We can practice a bit more, I think.” he pulls you closer, hands gripping your hips. 

You feel it against you, something solid and firm against your stomach and your eyes go wide at the realization; Gojo does the same. 

“Satoru, you–” he moves back and freezes, untangling himself from you completely. There’s a faint outline on the crotch of his pants and your whole face goes red. 

“Let me use the bathroom real quick.” he panics, rushing past you and closing the bathroom door. 

You stand there stunned for a good minute before you shake out of it, laughing. Gojo yells about how you’re being so mean, making fun of him when he’s like this, but you aren’t—not really. 

It’s been a long time getting to this point with Gojo, but considering all things, you think, this might just be the beginning.

thank you notes: i would also like to shoutout @stellamancer for leaving such lovely comments on dybil that it actually kinda pushed me to write this longer piece connected to it!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

"You can't go around judging people on first impressions. That's how mistakes get made." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Honjin Murders

"The police investigate footprints and look for fingerprints. I take the results of these investigations and by piecing together all the available information logically, I am able to reach a conclusion. Those are my methods of deduction." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Honjin Murders

"The Killer had submitted the problem of a locked room murder and dared us to solve it. It was going to be a battle of wits. Perfect. Challenge accepted! If it was brains and logic and wit that were required, I was ready to do battle." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Honjin Murders

"In our world there are some things so dreadful, so terrifying that you would scarcely believe they existed. They are things that common sense and accepted practice would dictate are impossible, but they do exist. Out of reason... that's right. It's a mad state of affairs." - Yokomizo Seishi, Death on Gokumon Island

"Yet, while his unchanging gratitude and devotion to the priest's family were certainly commendable, Sahei failed to realize that everything - even gratitude - has a limit that should not be exceeded, and that his excessive gratitude toward the Nonomiya family would embroil his own kin in a series of bloody murders after his death." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Inugami Curse

"Thirty years can weave strange patterns in the tapestry of life." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Inugami Curse

"With the blind spot that had been hindering his thought process finally removed, everything had fallen into place for him with great speed. All day yesterday, he had been stacking building blocks of deductive reasoning in his mind, with the result that now he had reproduced the entire complex structure of the mystery." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Inugami Curse

"Were it not for the events that I am about to relate, doubtless my life would have continued in that impoverished, humdrum vein. But one day a spot of red was suddenly split on the grey of my life: I embarked on an adventure of dazzling mystery and stepped into a world of blood-chilling terror." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Village of Eight Graves

"Nothing is more frightening in this world than ignorance and stupidity." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Village of Eight Graves

"The events I am about to describe are filled with such darkness and sadness, are so cursed and hate-filled, that not a word I write can possibly offer the faintest glimmer of hope or relief. Even as the author, I cannot predict what the final sentence will be, but I fear that the relentless dread and darkness that precede it may end up overcoming the readers and crush their very spirits in its grasp." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Devil's Flute Murders

"Everyone here is a bit twisted somehow. All they feel for each other is suspicion, resentment and fear. I couldn't tell you why that is. It's as if they're all just waiting for their chance to stick the knife in. As if they think that if they don't, then they'll be on the other end of the blade." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Devil's Flute Murders

Yokomizo Seishi has also been added to the BSD-Bibliophile Online Library!

You can find more information about Yokomizo-sensei on the following pages: List of Books in English Quotes and Facts Collection Fun Facts Author Connections

[shalotttower]

The Art of Disappearing (part 1)

Title: The Art of Disappearing Fandom: Resident Evil Village Characters: Lady Dimitrescu x Reader (female) Summary: Lady Dimitrescu enjoys wine; you enjoy living. You pray to god those don't overlap. Word count: 1800+ Notes: mentions of death, implied torture and violence, NSFWish, WINE Part 2

Hiding in plain sight is a skill honed by necessity here.

Melt seamlessly into the decor of drapes and velvet curtains until you're indistinguishable from them. Become wallpaper with eyes that stare and mouths that don't open, and arms that only pick, and pass, and scrub, and fold.

You're not the girl who was locked in the cellar last week.

You're not the girl who dropped a plate yesterday.

You're not the girl whose blood got so deep into the dining room rug that it's better off being burned.

You want to say that you won't be that girl, but you can't promise anything anymore except that dinner is at 6 o'clock every evening unless stated otherwise by Lady Dimitrescu. Your schedule revolves around hers entirely, like planets rotating around their dying sun, even if it's not your shift. There's no such thing as a day off in the castle.

But there're such things as a quiet day, or a normal day, or a bad one.

Today is a bad one.

Lady Dimitrescu's favourite lipstick is missing.

It's a very rare, expensive shade, like the red shell of a ladybug, or the last breath of a maiden. Your ears pick up the word being murmured from one maid to another — 'if anyone sees the item, return it to the Lady's vanity immediately'.

You hope that someone finds it soon. Nobody here is dumb enough to steal, so it's probably forgotten somewhere. But you don't say it of course, because Her Ladyship doesn't forget anything and you still need your tongue intact.

---

Lady Dimitrescu likes wine; you enjoy living.

You pray that the two never overlap.

So far luck has been on your side — for six months now you've been working in the castle. You've cleaned stains from carpets and floors without asking what they are (because it was clear even without questions); polished silverware until you could see yourself reflected in them and arranged flowers countless times to learn which ones Lady favors over others.

You were a mouth that didn't speak and eyes that saw nothing. A piece of furniture with legs and arms.

As long as you do your job and keep a low profile, you're safe. Humans thrive in delusion, and so do you. It keeps you sane, what an oxymoron that is.

---

At three in the afternoon, you clean the bathrooms.

Bela is the neatest among the three, and Cassandra leaves everything scattered around for maids like you to collect and place where it's supposed to be. Daniela is... unique. You're not sure how she manages to get stains and fingerprints on such random surfaces. Sometimes you wonder if she does it on purpose.

Daniela loves fun surprises.

Like sneaking up on you when you're on your knees, scrubbing the tub. She pokes your shoulder. "Hiya."

Your heart drops into your stomach.

"Lady Daniela," you greet while trying not to let your hands shake under the apron.

She's smiling sweetly today, like she didn't just scare ten years out of you. You're not fooled and know better than to trust that expression. Nothing in this castle is innocent and saccharine and nice. Especially not the daughters.

"Can I help you with anything, my lady?"

Please say "no" and leave.

Daniela rocks on her heels then leans forward, inspecting your work.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

She's bored, you realize. Great. Bored means unpredictable behavior, and unpredictable behavior means trouble for everyone else who isn't Daniela herself. You wait for whatever she wants — entertainment? food? — patiently despite the churning in your gut.

"I'm bored," she announces.

"Yes, my lady."

"Let's play a game. Hide and seek, like little ones."

Six months have yet to make the instinctive urge to flee within you die out whenever one of them wants something from you directly. You'd think that this whole time might've increased your chances of survival, but humans thrive in delusion. In reality, everything is a gamble here. An embroidery of chance and circumstances that determines if you will live another day, that's all.

"I would be honored, my lady."

The bathrooms must be finished by five, and it's almost four. You're not going to make it on time.

"Who is going to hide first?" You ask after a moment.

Daniela claps. "Well you, of course, silly!"

Of course.

---

Hiding in plain sight is a skill honed by necessity here. Melting seamlessly into the decor of drapes and velvet curtains.

But you're not a vase or a coat rack. You're just a girl who's been in the castle for a while and has gotten good at being invisible. You can't hide your heart beat. Your scent and the warmth of your skin are impossible to erase.

"Ready or not, here I come!" Daniela's sing-song voice carries from the other end of the west wing, and then fades.

She didn't count to ten. You know because you've been counting along, just to have an idea of how much time there's left until she finds you. There're no harbored hopes about the opposite happening. Hide and seek is one of Daniela's favourite games, and she dedicates herself to it thoroughly, with great interest.

It's not about winning the game — that much you realized early on when she played against other maids, plucking one out and chasing her around the castle before dissolving into flies with a cackle.

It's about the entertainment good enough to satiate her.

You're not the most agile, not the fastest. Even after six months your knowledge of the castle's layout is patchy, but you try to think logically. What places will she check last? What will Daniela expect you to choose?

Closets are off limits. So is the library, unless you want Bela on your tail as well.

Your mind wanders.

There're so many rooms in this castle that you haven't seen once during all of your shifts. You're always cleaning hallways, sometimes the daughters' parlors, and nothing more.

Down the stairs, past the servant quarters, is a place where rumors are born. Of thick barrels stacked to the ceiling like dominoes and wine in various stages of production. It smells sour-sweet down there — like fruit rotting in August.

Wine that never runs out in Dimitrescu castle as long as there're maids.

That's what others say, at least. Nobody has come back to confirm.

Would she look in the cellar? Would anyone?

It's the last place you'd search if you were looking for someone insignificant and replaceable.

You take off your shoes so that your steps don't echo in the expanse of marble and stairs.

---

There're all kinds of things down here. Broken furniture that's been tossed aside for disposal, boxes and crates of unidentified items, old paintings of people you don't recognize.

And wine.

A lot of it in barrels and bottles, some of which are labeled, some aren't. You walk past them, following the corridors of dusty brick. The air smells like mold and fermentation, damp. It reminds you of the lakeside by your grandmother's cottage in summertime and you feel strangely nostalgic.

You miss home.

The thought is dangerous and you quickly push it away, back to where it belongs — in your memories. Home doesn't exist anymore.

Time passes. Minutes go by without the sounds of buzzing swarms or doors creaking open somewhere nearby. No voices either, except for your own breathing and heartbeat that fill up every corner of silence. You find a nook between the stacked barrels and settle there with your knees pulled to your chest.

The place is colder, uncomfortably so. Cool ground sends its chill through your stockings.

You've done everything you could. Found a good hiding spot, a perfect one, and it's out of your control from here on.

The art of disappearing is simple: be nothing and wait until time decides if you're worth staying like that or not.

---

Daniela finds you after your legs start to numb from sitting.

"Found you," she grins from ear to ear.

Her flies settle as she solidifies into flesh with a giggle, girlish and mischievous. It could be cute if not the bloody smudges around her mouth and chin. She crouches down in front of you, close enough for you to see the specks of gold in her eyes.

"Congratulations, Lady Daniela."

Your fingers dig into your skirts.

Daniela tilts her head; a fly crawls on her cheek before taking off. "I win! I get my prize now."

You didn't know you were playing for a prize. But nobody tells you anything in this castle until it's too late, like that you're not supposed to open windows in winter, or that you can't touch Daniela's books because she has them organized alphabetically.

"What would you like, my lady?"

Another fly lands on your lips, a thick creature with translucent wings and little fuzzy legs. They tickle but you resist the urge to make a face lest she takes it as an insult. At your question her expression turns impish, one of those you never fail to associate with trouble.

She reaches into your apron's pocket... and pulls out a lipstick.

You stare at it — a simple elegant tube with a golden cap.

"Look what I found!" Daniela waves it in front of your face like it's a toy.

Your blood freezes over. How did it end up there? You've been working for hours today yet you don't recall ever picking it up off anywhere. Where-

"My lady, I didn't take it!" you blurt out in horror, when it dawns on you. "I swear, I wouldn't! I would never-"

Daniela blinks owlishly and then breaks into laughter, clutching her stomach. Her smile is so wide that you can see her gums stained with coagulated blood which makes your stomach turn. The flies swarm and dissipate around you both, disturbed by her unrestrained mirth.

"Silly," she interrupts your stammering. "I know! You should've seen your face!"

Oh thank god.

You're so relieved that for a second all air leaves your lungs.

"...you tricked me?" you ask quietly after a moment, a bit more composed now when the accusation of theft doesn't hang over your head.

"Mhm," Daniela nods and wipes tears from her eyes, still giggling.

You're not sure if it was funny to anyone except her.

Her smile lessens gradually and eventually vanishes from her lips altogether when the initial amusement wears off. Something coy appears in her demeanor, sheepish even, as she fiddles with the lipstick in silence.

"Can you put it back in mother's vanity?" she grabs your hand suddenly and places it into your palm.

That's when you realize that you never even once questioned where she got it from. But Daniela gives you a pout with a warning look, like she's able to tell exactly what you're thinking. All questions die instantly on your tongue; you nod.

"Yes, my lady. Of course."

"Good," she pats your knee. "Don't forget! Or I'll eat you."

Flies descend onto your skirt, buzzing around Daniela's fingers until she disappears into dozens of black insects.

You know that she meant every word.

[inkykeiji]

characters: jouno saigiku x fem!reader x suehiro tecchou

genre: smut

notes: hi hi! sooo this was only supposed to be a lil drabble based on a dream i had a few nights ago, but it grew into a full fic!! absolutely no one is surprised. please heed the warnings below, this one is a lil dark! 

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, sexual torture, edging/orgasm denial, overstimulation, two slaps to the face, dacryphilia, noncon then dubcon, knife play, blood, a hint of mindbreak, a hint of misogyny from jouno, needles, drugs (epinephrine aka adernaline), a hint of degradation, one pussy slap, size kink/size difference, a lil bit of praise, pet names

words: 3.6k

synopsis: 

“Would you like to know what my favourite hobby is?” the first man begins conversationally, busying himself with tugging on your restraints, testing their strength. “It’s breaking pretty little bratty bitches like you. Because as beautiful as you are now, nothing compares to how breathtakingly gorgeous you sound when you’ve been thoroughly shattered into tiny little shards of yourself, smeared with tears and sweat, with those sweet, precious sobs—you know, the ones that rattle your ribs and shudder your chest—spilling from your lips. Oh, it’s the loveliest sound, wouldn’t you agree?” 

At your responding silence, he continues, gloved index finger tracing the curve of your cheek. 

“No? Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll show you exactly what I mean.” 

“Where are the remaining Agency members hiding?” The vibrating wand is ground harder into your puffy clit, a plastic click! echoing throughout the dull room, the wand’s intensity kicked up another notch. “Do not make me ask a fourth time.” 

It sends a shock of tremors racing up your spine, bending each vertebra into a perfect curve, and your body arches off the bed, worn leather restraints cutting into your wrists and ankles, thick silver buckles jingling as you tug and writhe.

“I told you already,” you manage to gasp out through the gaps of your clenched teeth, fury flaming in your gaze. “I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about! Don’t make me say it a fourth time!”

The sharp sound of skin slapping skin slices through the dense atmosphere as his knuckles connect with your cheek, strong enough to have your head whipping to the side, hard enough to leave stinging little indents of his bones in your flesh—marks that will inevitably blossom into blotchy petals of navy and violet.

“Such a foul mouth for such a pretty lady,” he tuts his tongue. “Didn’t your Daddy ever teach you it isn’t polite for a woman to use such nasty words?” 

“Fuck you,” you spit, but the word quivers with your bottom lip, pins of pain searing through your cheek. Reflexive tears coat your vision, burning and bleary, and your nose twitches with a hard exhale, a feeble attempt to quell your crying, bottom lip sucked between your teeth. 

“Aw, crying already? Just from one teensy slap?” the man with the crimson-tinged hair shakes his head, as if he’s disappointed, as if this is such a shame. “Looks like we caught ourselves a cry baby, Tecchou.” The man’s head tilts toward your face, lips curled up in sadistic glee. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” 

“Indeed,” the man with the chestnut tufts agrees, idly swiping the pad of his thumb across your cheek and killing a teardrop mid-stream, salt water collecting in the grooves of his fingerprint. It shimmers in the dim light as he brings it to his face to examine it, turning his finger one way, then the other, before finally sticking the whole thing in his mouth, lips puckering as he sucks it clean. 

“Would you like to know what my favourite hobby is?” the first man begins conversationally, busying himself with tugging on your restraints, testing their strength. “It’s breaking pretty little bratty bitches like you. Because as beautiful as you are now, nothing compares to how breathtakingly gorgeous you sound when you’ve been thoroughly shattered into tiny little shards of yourself, smeared with tears and sweat, with those sweet, precious sobs—you know, the ones that rattle your ribs and shudder your chest—spilling from your lips. Oh, it’s the loveliest sound, wouldn’t you agree?” 

At your responding silence, he continues, gloved index finger tracing the curve of your cheek. 

“No? Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll show you exactly what I mean.” 

Several denied orgasms later—you don’t know how many, you’ve lost count—and everything hurts, muscles dense and sore from the constant coiling before relief is abruptly snatched away, again, fibers unwinding, unraveling, slow and sluggish, barely afforded a moment to rest before they’re being wound back up again by a vibrating toy or two slender, gloved fingers.

It’s hard to gauge how much time has passed since this whole thing began, the officers’ questions dribbling into one another, gooey as they drip from their lips, melding together in one continuous stream before they melt again, mix again, spit out rephrased and repeated. 

They’ve since freed your wrists and ankles from the restraints, the man with the crimson tips—Jouno, you’ve learned—twisting his face in revulsion at the thought of you staining them with blood. 

She’s too weak to fight back now, anyway, he had reasoned. His partner had agreed. 

Crusted salt weights your eyelashes, lids heavy as you blink, hard and slow, in an attempt to rid the bleariness from your vision. But it’s no use, another thick wave of tears rushing to coat your eyes only seconds after it’s been dispelled, rendering everything in your line of sight soft and hazy.

The sterile walls are bleeding into one another, corners fusing into wavering curves, sticky and watery. Someone’s talking, but it all sounds muffled, as if they’re murmuring to you from above the surface, and you frown.

Another slap to the face—open-palmed, this time—throws you back onto their frequency, the pain momentarily clearing the thick static from your head and tuning your ears into their voices.

“I think she’s about to pass out,” the deeper voice—Tecchou—says, a faint note of concern woven into his tone. 

“Oh no,” Jouno gasps mockingly. “We can’t have that, now, can we?” 

Metal clinks together delicately, then the sound of a nail being flicked against plastic twice before something pricks your arm, sinks in about an inch or so, and sends a substance rushing into your blood; little bolts of electricity that zip through your veins, alighting your frayed nerves but doing little to eradicate the stuffy haze blanketing your mind.

Another question is asked, another question you don’t have the answer to, brain so soupy you can barely comprehend the words hanging over you, suspended in the air. The vibrations from the wand climb another grade higher, your whole body shivering with them. You whine a little, a pitiful sound stringy in your throat, before managing to push a few heavy words from your tongue.

“Incompetent,” you gurgle out, the mangled insult oozing past your lips with large, fizzy dollops of drool. “S’what y’are.”

“Oh, are we?” 

“Yeah,” you rasp out, head nodding in messy, lethargic motions. “Wasting time on th’wrong person.”

Jouno laughs, and it’s mocking, mean, stitched together with malicious threads of amusement.

“I don’t think we’re wasting our time at all, actually. On the contrary, I’m having quite a pleasurable time.” 

The wand rubs over your clit, first in slow, almost soothing motions, back and forth, back and forth, the touch resembling something gentle, before it begins to build speed, higher and higher, faster and faster, matching the pace of his rapid-fire questions, and you can feel it, a concentrated ball of flames roiling in your gut, furling in on itself quick and tight and hard, and then—

It’s gone. 

Again.

He can read your body better than anyone else ever has, better than you yourself have ever been able to, keen senses picking up on those tiny telltale signs of an impending orgasm: the sweet little hitch of breath in your throat—catch, hold, exhale; the muscles beginning to be pulled tense and taut by accelerating pleasure—stomach tightening, thighs clenching, face scrunching; the gentle yet desperate twitch of your hips towards the toy—a pathetically cute attempt to milk your own orgasm from your body before he inevitably takes the toy away. 

It’s entirely unfair. 

You’ve gone delirious with delayed pleasure again, hysterically hedonistic, nonsensical babbles pouring from your lips in thick, unbroken weeps, sopping with spit and tears. 

But that’s okay, Jouno can decipher them, can wring them out and and lay them out to dry, brutal berating falling from his lips in reply as he presses two fingers to your puffy clit, sensitive skin rubbed raw and abused, stroking the swollen nub in slow, purposeful circles. 

It’s hard to concentrate on anything when he does this, when you can feel the warmth of his skilled fingers through the thin fabric of his gloves, when he’s laughing at you for being such a good little slut, and look how quickly you drench his gloves!

Because there’s something so much more personal about this, about his hands on the most intimate parts of you, leading you by the nose to the crest of pleasure and allowing you to teeter on the edge, so close to falling, before he harshly hauls you back with a swift slap to your cunt, the heat of his fingers gone in an instant, replaced by a painful tingle.

And then he’s appearing, your brief salvation, your fleeting angel, broad shoulders blotting out the faint light as he leans over your body to wipe you down, strands of chestnut falling to frame his kind eyes. 

“I know, I know,” Tecchou’s humming, dabbing a cloth along your damp hairline, soaking up the little dewdrops of sweat caught in your hair. “It hurts, I know.” 

“Please, Tecchou, please,” you’re whimpering, trembling fingers curling weakly at the hems of his shirtsleeves, nails scrabbling against the thick material. “Please, make’im stop! I can’t—I can’t—”

“You have the power to put an end to this immediately,” he reminds you gently, as if he genuinely believes you have a choice. “You just have to tell us one piece of information, blossom.”

His palm is cool against your clammy forehead, sweeping hair back from your brow. 

“No piece of information is too tiny or insignificant. Anything helps. Just one.” 

Another torrent of tears floods your vision again, instantly overflowing past clumpy lashes, your head shaking in disbelief, fragments of denegation on your tongue. 

“I don’t—” you hiccup. “I du-dunno what to tell you—I dunno what you want—” 

With a sigh, Tecchou clicks his tongue as if he’s disappointed in you—and that hurts, too, an inexplicable ache taking root deep behind your ribs, throbbing with yearning—before slipping easily from your clumsy grasp and melting back into the shadows, Jouno taking center stage again.

“No, please! Wait!” you cry out, head shaking quickly, fingers twitching. “I swear I don’t!”

“Pathetic,” Jouno spits, a merciless type of glee painted across his face, the word so caustic it sears into your flesh, corrosively gnawing away at your skin.

“No, no, no,” you’re whimpering to yourself, eyes shutting tightly as your head shakes again, tears leaking from the crinkled corners. “This is—This is wrong, ’n I—I’m gonna, gonna report—”

“Yeah? And who are you going to call? The police?” they both chuckle, sharing a look between themselves. 

A flash of fury slices through your chest, cutting clean through the decadent daze they’ve effectively cast over your consciousness, and you blink hard, red rage incinerating the tears in your eyes in an instant. 

With an indignant sniff, you lift your dense head from the pillow to glare at them. Their cocks, impressively thick bulges, strain against maroon fabric, the only physical indication this torture is affecting either of them at all, voices calm and features composed. Jouno’s since removed his hat and his cape, the sleeves of his jacket stained with your sweat—ugly irregular patches of dried salt, material crusty and stiff. He shrugs it off easily, tosses it over a chair in the corner and unbuttons the cuffs of his starched shirt, rolling them up to his elbows.

“Oh?” Jouno tilts his head, a subtle response to your morph in mood. “Are you ready to talk now?”

“I told you already,” you cough out viciously, grinding the words between your molars. “I have nothing to say!”

“Hm. Shame. Maybe this will help jog your memory.” 

His fingers dip into his pant pocket, feeling around laxly for an item, a soft hum vibrating on his tongue when his fingers come in contact with what they were looking for. He pulls a piece of glinting silver from the depths, the sharp twinge of metal swiping against metal slashing through the atmosphere as he flicks it open.

A Hattori Higonokami switchblade, beautifully crafted with Jouno’s full name elegantly engraved into the nickle of the handle, the edge of the blade glimmering in the fluorescent light.

“I know it’s not as impressive as Tecchou’s sword,” he begins, turning the knife over in his hand, the very tip of the blade pressed precariously into the fleshy pad of his index finger. “But it still serves an exceptionally important purpose.” 

As if to demonstrate, he runs the point of the blade along the line of your jaw, featherlight and stinging. It’s so sharp it leaves a raised scratch in its wake despite its gentle pressure, quivers coursing through your body as your nerves furrow. 

He circles the hinge of your jaw, then continues down the curve of your neck, outlining your collarbone before tracing your sternum, coming to a stop in the middle of your chest, pressure of the blade increasing ever-so-slightly, piercing the thin skin. 

“Shall I cut your heart out?” he asks, voice irritatingly calm, lips curled into a polite smile. The tip of the blade travels back up your sternum, retreading its previous trail, before it sinks into your skin, right above your left breast. 

A yelp catches in your throat, pitchy and cracked, and your body instinctively bows off the bed, pressing further into the knife. A laugh falls from Jouno’s lips, the sound silk and syrup. 

The blade curves, then drags down your sternum and to your ribs in a perfect slant before sharply pivoting upward in a V motion, curling around your breast to meet its initial starting point. 

A heart. 

It isn’t dire, the wound too shallow to require any stitching or attention, but it’s deep enough to have blood seeping from the slashes in a slow, smooth ribbons. They flow as one, not as singular drops but as a whole entity, cascading warm and sticky over your breast and ribs. 

“I bet you look so gorgeous like this,” Jouno breathes, and that’s the most impacted he’s sounded all night. Two fingers trace the heart carved into your skin, slow and hard, smearing blood across your chest in crude strokes. 

Inhaling deeply, he brings his blood-glazed fingertips to his nose, whole chest expanding as he fills his lungs with the coppery scent. A deep moan rumbles behind his ribs, and he presses both fingers flat to the back of his tongue, dragging them along the expanse of the slimy muscle and depositing thick streaks of crimson. 

Revulsion churns your stomach, features puckered in sour distaste, but you can’t help the way your cunt flutters pathetically, wickedly, a shameless gush of heat flooding the apex of your thighs—so much so that you can feel it, leaking down the soft skin, slick smudged and slathered across the dry layers from earlier as the muscles clench and squeeze together—and Jouno laughs.

He can smell it. 

Tecchou emerges from the shadows then, the pungent stench of alcohol clinging to his fingers. 

It burns as he pats a rough cloth drenched in the substance across your steadily weeping wound, pacifying condolences falling form his lips in little hushes as he works, attempting to ease your pain, his words working as a salve to his partner’s crimes. 

“Can’t you just be a good girl and cooperate for us?” he murmurs as he tilts a glass to your lips, sure to feed you in short streams of water. His eyes are brimming with mercy, begging you to to be good, to obey, like the proper little girl he knows you are.

And, really, its his kindness that breaks you, that thoroughly smashes you to pieces, his sheer and unwavering compassion—so genuine, so real—that has a sob tearing from your throat as your head shakes in slow, lethargic strokes, breath stuttering in your chest. 

“I don’t—I’m, I’m not—” your tongue fails, trips over itself as the letters tangle around it, curls in on itself and drowns in pools of saliva. “I’m trying, but you aren’t—aren’t listening—” 

A fierce sob smothers your words, whole body shuddering from the force of it, and your limbs weakly curl into your chest in desperation, as if you’re trying to hold yourself together, to keep your ribs from splintering and splitting you in two. Your voice is thin, stretched and staining beneath heavy distress.

“Please, please, please,” you’re nearly wailing, nails scraping against your own skin. “Please, stop—I promise—”

A coo of contemplation marinates on the back of Jouno’s tongue, both men peering down at you. 

“Perhaps we do have the wrong girl after all,” Jouno muses after a moment, voice painfully indifferent, as if they didn’t just spend hours torturing you. Your heart leaps, potent relief melting your bones, and he chuckles, a thumb caressing your clammy forehead. “Oh?” he questions, a teasing laugh infused in the question. “Does that make you feel better, cry baby?” 

Yes, yes, yes, your head is nodding, fingers latching around his wrist and clinging to him. Another soft chuckle slips from his lips, and he lets you hold him, maneuvering his hand to lace his fingers with yours.

“I’m beginning to think so, as well,” Tecchou chimes in, frowning slightly, head tilting as he observes you. “They usually talk by now, and she’s been thoroughly broken, yet all she can seem to say is that she doesn’t know...” 

“Well, Tecchou, I think we owe her some relief from all of this, don’t you think?” 

“Yes, I do. I will handle it.” 

And it’s decided so easily, so simply, so fucking quickly it has you wondering if there was ever any doubt that you were the right person in the first place, if you were merely chosen because you were a pretty girl in a short skirt, plucked from the street between Jouno’s forefinger and thumb, just because he wanted to. The thought tugs at your consciousness, but it’s too frayed and and ruined to fully sew it together, to make sense of it all, the sound of clothes rustling—the drop of a heavy pair of pants against the tiled floor—recapturing your delicate attention.

With an affirmative nod, Jouno pulls his hand from yours, the action more tender than anything he’s performed all night, grinning at the discontented little whine that sounds at the back of your throat. 

“How curious,” he murmurs to himself, Tecchou busy unbuckling his belt and shoving at his waistband. “Even after all I’ve put you though, you’re still seeking comfort in me, huh?” 

You can’t say anything, can’t do anything but nod dumbly and gurgle to yourself, mind stuffed full of the solace that comes with the promise of repose. 

The mattress dimples as Tecchou crawls between your legs, knees spread wide and digging into your thighs, effectively keeping them open and wide. He wraps a palm around the base of his cock, massive and drooling out thick dollops of pre-cum, fat crystalline drops that roll down the shaft to pool in the creases of his fisted fingers. 

“Tecchou, T—Tecchou,” you’re whimpering as you reach for him, the name a knotted mess, soaked in spit, hands little grasping claws at the space between the two of you, desperate for the man that has been so sweet, so sympathetic, to end this, to take the pain away and relieve the bulging pressure in your gut, finally. 

“She’s been on the verge of cumming for hours,” Jouno says nonchalantly, concentrated on the dirt he’s cleaning from his nails. “She’ll probably cum within seconds of you shoving your cock into her.” 

“Shh,” he hushes you gently, taking your shivering body in his strong arms, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders. “I’ve got you, I’m gonna make it feel better, hush, now.” 

The head of his cock bumps against your hole bluntly, taking a moment to find its proper place before he pushes into you, pace slow and steady. He’s fucking huge, thicker than anything you’ve ever taken before, and you can feel your delicate flesh stretching, straining, splitting to accommodate him, cute little hole sucking him in, gorging on his cock as it stuffs you full. 

The sting isn’t too terrible, though, his motions aided by how embarrassingly aroused you are, another onslaught of slick streaming down his shaft as he bottoms out, head pressed snug to your cervix, juices pooling in the folds of his heavy balls. 

And, as always, Jouno was right.

Because it’s over pathetically quickly, only a mere three snaps of his hips before you’re creaming all over him, tears cascading down your cheeks in glittering streams, collecting in the hollows of your tired eyes and leaking into the hair at your temples. 

Tecchou doesn’t fair much better, though, collected composure splintering beneath the pleasure as your cunt convulses around him, the whines flowing from his lips stuttered by the uneven rutting of his hips, hard and fast and flexing against your body. 

“Holy fuck,” he’s gasping out, a dewdrop of sweat running down the bridge of his nose. “H-Holy fuck, she’s—she’s so tight, she’s so tight, it’s so good—” 

It only takes a few more pumps before he’s following after you, cock pulsing almost viciously as it spurts load after load of thick, hot cum into you, so much so that you can feel it oozing out of you, seeping past his cock and rolling down your ass in fat globs to form shimmering ivory puddles in the ridges of the rumpled sheets. 

Sobs are still scraping your throat, lungs swelling painfully with them, so violent they have your whole body shuddering, expanding with each wail before it shrivels up again. Because the alleviation is so pure, so potent, so intense that you’ve gone boneless and pliant, your flesh rippling with chills. 

It feels so good, to finally have the tension that had wound your organs and muscles into tight knots releasing, tissues and fibers disentangling, dissolving, stress seeping through your pores; it feels too good, every brush of the threadbare bedspread against your sensitive skin nearly painful, as if your entire body is overexposed, nerves frayed to the nub.

It’s hard to stitch even a single word together now, letters unravelling at the seams, disintegrating into strands of smoke every time you try to grasp them.

But it’s okay; you don’t have to say anything, Tecchou gathering what’s left of your body in his arms.

“You did good, petal,” he pants out as he cradles you to his heaving chest, voice barely more than a wisp of breath. “You did so good for us.”

“Yes,” Jouno chimes in with a murmur and a small, knowing smile. “I think we’ve caught ourselves a very good girl.”   

[writingbyshiloh]

Cautious yet Optimistic and Graceful Part 2

Part 1 & Part 3

CW: Morally gray reader, F!Reader, John Wick-type universe (ie, killing, the reader thinks about past injuries from fights. training not descriptive). Not smut but suggestive thinking from both Vincent and the reader, mutual pinning, and worldbuilding but no description of the reader. Smoking, a nonsexual cigarette burn on the reader, brief drinking. MAYBE OCs (Fictional staff for the fictional hotel). NO BETA

Summary: The Marquis de Gramont still annoys you. But he needs help from you(r hotel). Like a good manager, you help. 

AN: PART 2 everyone!!! Thank u for the likes/comments/reblogs! This takes place a few months after part 1. IDEK if this is ooc the man had like 30 minutes of screen time overall and I’ve been writing this for a week. I read it a few times for spelling but something got messed up copy and pasting and a para or 2 got dropped. Part 3 will be out ???? soon(ish)

Something about today had his words bouncing around in your head. Out of all the ways to describe someone, he narrowed it down to three (well technically he used six). 

Cautious. Sure, you can see that. Out of a love of being alive, you tried not to take any unnecessary risks in your fighting days. You also tried to avoid having a marker whenever you could. There was one in existence with your blood on it. A favour for someone you thought was a friend. You held up your end, the bloody fingerprint stored in the New York Continental as proof. 

Optimistic. That also makes sense. You actually enjoy what you do, loving being part of the criminal underworld before and now. You haven't been the manager for too long but would already die for this hotel. 

The part that was throwing you was graceful. You didn't think you were that graceful physically. You have scars to prove that you've taken a hit, slash, or burn many times. Did he mean gracefully with people? Camille did so much for the hotel, you just deal with regular hotel things (like getting Monument Historique status for a collection of French weapons, take that, Vincent). The other part was implanting rules from the high table. Maybe just being graceful and polite when you were resisting the urge to claw your eyes out. 

It could also be flirting. You felt he wasn't the type to hit on someone out of the blue. Sure he was smart and confident, but it seemed like too big a risk for him to take. Unless he is just a playboy, which is something you find yourself tempted to google twice a day. 

You would rather die than admit it, but you almost like when he called you Mademoiselle. Almost. It was like a nickname, plus it brought out his accent more. When you found yourself enjoying.

To make things worse Camielle caught on to your crush immediately. While embarrassing, it did show how clever she was and you were glad she was the concierge. Her knowing also gave you an excuse to just tell Vincent your direct number, so Camille would stop reminding you how frequently he called.

You love the bar in the hotel. It is beautiful, decorated in an Art Nouveau style, with large windows allowing for the sun to filter in during the day. You were almost pleased that Vincent asked to meet you there, allowing you to subtly show off your business. 

Finding him at the bar wasn’t hard, no one else was wearing a dark green three-piece suit, complete with a complexly tied tie and their coat of arms pin. He looks good but tense, one long leg crossed over the other. Plus, you could see Chidi and another guard in their gray suits keeping an eye. You were thankful that you took extra time this morning on your outfit. 

You slid into the chair next to him, after shaking a few hands with other big names down in the bar for a late-night drink. 

“I hear you have a problem.” You say, while not knowing the full details, just that he wanted to meet you in the bar and something was wrong. It kicked your heartbeat up, even if you only told yourself it was the stress of him being here. 

“Correct.”. 

“I’m sure you know because of your love of rules, but I can only help those who are using the hotel services.” 

You didn't care that much, and would absolutely bend the rules to do him a favour, but couldn't resist a chance to get a dig in.

The Marquis pulls out two gold coins and slides them across to the bartender. He orders a top-shelf spirit before his eyes cut to you. Now he's buying you a drink in your own hotel. You would want him to buy you a drink in a different situation but at least he didn't order for you. That may cause you to actually kill him.  

Clearing your throat you order your usual, quietly thanking the bartender when the drink was placed in front of you. 

The bar wasn't loud, but he dropped his head towards you so you could hear him better and to give the conversation some privacy. 

“You have a cartographer here, no?”

You nodded. The cartographer is excellent. He had blueprints for buildings past and present, as well as the catacombs. He also had knowledge and keys to abandoned buildings if something had to be desponded and not be found. 

“How soon do you need him?” While one of the best, he was away for his daughter's wedding

“Tonight.” 

You took a small sip of your drink. You could probably get the information he was looking but you wouldn't be as efficient. 

“While we do have a cartographer, he's gone to a family event. If your plans are that urgent I can try my best to fill in.” 

Content with your answers, Vincent leaned back into his seat taking a swig of his drink. You took the finishing sip of yours before pushing out of your chair. 

“I have spare keys in my office. I’ll meet you back here in five.” 

For how commanding and prideful he is, you never expected him to need the services from your hotel.

The maps room was fairly boring. Three out of the four walls were filled with lockboxes to various maps. Blueprints, and documents for France and even some other countries nearby. 

“Are these your beloved catacombs?” The Marquis asks, studying the paper taped to the wall. You asked the map maker for more information and for ideas on what you could do with them. 

You hum in agreement, deep down thrilled that he remembered such a small part of your conversation ages ago. 

Your eyes jump over the numbered lock boxes in front of you, trying to find the one he needs. 

You half expected him to help you pull out maps and building plans, a blend of chivalry, showing off his height, and getting under your skin. He didn’t, letting you struggle with the lock instead. 

Vincent knew he should help you, but the way your back was arched as you tried to open one of the lockboxes out of the dozens was more interesting. His gaze moved over your legs, before looking at your ass in your skirt. 

Feeling the lock give a turn to the side, you peek inside the box to make sure the plans were there. Hand sliding in, you pulled the thin tube out, double-checking the label on the front to make sure it is the one you need. Leaving the box unlocked you turn to face Vincent, a triumphant grin on your face.

Maybe your grin and pride in getting the correct documents were a bit unprofessional but he didn't care. Not since the small room amplified the smell of your perfume and how the spent the better part of the last five minutes checking out your legs. 

Uncapping the tube, you pulled out the blueprints and spread them on the backlist glass table in front of you.

“Here are your prints,” you state awkwardly. You're not sure why he needs them, and why he personally came here. Chidi is keeping guard outside the map room, despite you repeating the hotel policy of no business. 

The Marquis nods in response already focusing on the table. You flatten a small map from the tube in case he needs context on the area. Not likely since he already knows what to look for, proven by his notebook and the constant sound of his pen against the paper taking notes. 

Watching him study the map may have been alright at first, but three hours later you are tired. There are only so many times you can look at his hair and wonder if he would get mad if you run your hands through, or gently tug it. Or what his hands would feel like, especially with his signet ring. 

The grandfather clock tells you that it's only 2:36 am but you feel like it's later. Even Vincent looks slightly less than perfect, hair falling out of place from where he had gelled it that morning.

He is a guest of your hotel so you're going to keep helping him no matter how long he stays. Just with a bit less optimism. 

“Mademoiselle?” Your eyes snap to his face at the sound of his voice, pulling you from your thoughts. 

“You look tired. You should go to bed,” he comments. 

Wow. Thanks, you think. 

“I’m okay. I’m happy to stay here as long as you need,” you say while hoping he leaves soon. “How are the plans going? The cartographer can help you with the finer details when he gets back.” 

“That is not necessary. I have all I need here.” He slowly stretches and starts to stand. You never considered it but being hunched over the table must have been hell on his back given his above-average height. Finally seeing your chance to go to bed, you quickly make it over to the door, opening it for him. 

“Merci, again.” He thanks you as if this is not your job. 

“Do you want me to walk you to the main door?” You have all your floor plans memorized. 

“We are fine.” He replies. 

He looks at you and you can't read his expression. He's less tense, obviously getting what he needed from the plans. 

“The high table did a good job making you the manager.” 

You feel pride swell in your chest, despite the exhaustion you feel behind your eyes. 

“Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle” 

“Bonne nuit. Bon matin.” You quietly wish him as he leaves, wasting no time putting the plans away and locking the map room door. 

You let out another exhaust of bitter smoke, watching it curl away on the cool night air. You didn't start smoking in Paris, but dropped and picked the habit a few times.

“Fumes-tu, Mademoiselle?” a voice behind you makes you flinch. You didn’t tell anyone that you have a secret smoking place, let alone that you went out to smoke. 

You spin around before relaxing at the sight of the Marquis, clad in a dark suit, his signature pin on the lapel reflecting the light. 

You nod, before realizing he probably can't see you well under the lights in the alcove. He is by your side quickly, long legs carrying him the short distance. 

You tip your head to the small table, where your rolling papers, tobacco and other smoking paraphernalia sit in a silent offer. Vincent looks at the table before facing you again. Guess he's too fancy to smoke you assume while taking a drag.

You turn your head to blow out more smoke, careful not to blow it in this direction, a hard feat considering he was extremely close to you. The smell of his cologne drifted under the smell of smoke. 

You move your cigarette down and out to the side, fully ready to see why the Marquis interrupted you. Watching his face, his eyes dipped down to your lips and then back to your eyes almost a silent asking. The smooth and sophisticated era was still there but there was uncertainty under it. 

You slowly leaned closer, not wanting to make the first move, but you want this to happen. He hand-cupped your face, the cool metal of the ring nice as he shifted closer, leaving a small gap for you to make the final push to kiss him. Just a few more inches and then -

Pain. A sharp burning pain on your pinky finger. 

You jerk back, trying to examine what happened. Your cigarette slipped while you were distracted and the glowing embers of the end dropped only to land on your pinky. 

“Shit. Sorry,” you apologize, letting out a nervous huff of a laugh while holding up your burn. The Marquis was unreadable, hand withdrawn. Does he think you rejected him? 

He reaches for your wrist and you let him take it. Slowly he brings your hand up to the outdoor lamp to inspect your burn. The stinging has subsided but you are sure the flesh is a bit swollen. 

With his free hand, he takes the offending cigarette and brings it to his lips. You can't help but stare, cigarette burns long forgotten as you watch him take a deep inhale, before exhaling over your head, so no smoke blows in your face. Part of you regret not making the final push to kiss him, while another hopes he takes another puff. 

Vincent brings your cigarette down to examine it in better lighting before placing it back in your hand, still firmly in his grasp. 

“It is not a well-rolled cigarette. It is too tight.”

There it is you think. The classic Vincent snark. But you secretly hope he rolls one so you can watch his hands and watch him smoke it. 

“You don’t have to smoke it.” 

“I just wanted to give you this.” He reaches into his suitcoat pocket, retrieving a white envelope. His hands brush yours while you grab it. 

You know his handwriting from the time with him in the map room, and you could easily tell he wrote your name on the front. 

“Thank you?” you weren't sure what was inside but you were being all the things he described you as. 

“I will go, and let you read it.” 

You watch him leave, thoughts racing too fast to try and save the situation.

Do you call out after him? Does he think you rejected him? Maybe not because he still gave you the envelope. 

You ash your cigarette before collecting your things and going back to your office. Maybe things would make more sense there.

Taglist: @heartrot666

[stararch4ngelqueen]

In spirit of ur last Jason fic can u do a Drabble or small fic w ghost where he has a night terror and when reader tries to help him he really hurts her? Even though she forgives him he doesn’t trust himself. (Maybe she is also a military personnel)

This is not proofread

- -

It’s unclear who’s hand Simon believed he was clutching back with all of his strength. A forearm withholding glimmering, serrated steel from his jugular by an enemy.

The hand of his bastard spawn labeled as his father preparing to strike him down with a fist.

Hands attached to painted faces grasping rusted butcher hooks behind their backs.

A whisper invaded his conscience. A trembling plea from quivering lips, begging him to wake up from his cursed agony. Your voice was soothing, like warm milk and honey, encouraging him to open his eyes.

His heart never hurt so horribly when his mind slipped back into reality, meeting your petrified gaze full of distressed tears.

“Simon.” You speak up through a forcibly calm demeanor, like you remembered to practice.

“Simon. It’s okay, you’re okay … you’re fine. You’re safe.”

He almost believed you, until he fully collected his bearings.

What he saw, what he had done, made all your calm words reach chiming ears.

Its unclear if he had you pinned down to the mattress like he’d done with his shadowy victim. No, regardless, why are you choosing to forgive him so easily?

What he remembered that night was scrambling out of bed, tossing the sheets off his sweaty back. He didn’t look back, refusing to acknowledge your worried cries when you follow him, only halting once the front door slams shut behind him.

He didn’t come home the first night. All phone calls going straight to voicemail for a solid nine hours, just until you remembered he didn’t leave with it.

Simon told you to slap him if he ever caused harm on you. Hit him back, punch him, stab him deep in his scarred ribs, but you never could. Violence struck with violence never stuck well with you, regardless of the battles you fought for your country.

Simon said nothing to you when you greeted him from the kitchen when he came home the next evening. You behaved as if it didn’t happen at first, offering him a sweet, hopeful smile he had no right to visually bare.

“It wasn’t your fault, Simon,” you attempt to convince him, not seeing the wrong he believed he had some to you the night before. No, the wrong he knew he had committed.

“Better off putting a bullet in my damn head.” He murmurs, exhausted eyes refusing to meet yours.

It was the first words he had said since he came back home. Those very words striking a bullet in your heart instead.

“No. No no,” you approach fast, grasping his face in your hands. “No! Don’t you ever say that. Don’t even think about it, Simon!”

Without warning, he clutched your hand, wedding bands clinking against each other as he yanks up your long sleeve, revealing the damage he’d done.

“I hurt you!” He shouts, forcing your other hand off his face. “Get that through your head! How can you stand here and forgive me for this?!”

Bruises. Broad, indigo bruised the size of his fingerprints. Grape colored crescents from his naturally crooked nails painfully digging into your skin, nearly drawing blood.

“You did hurt me,” you say, meeting his furiously narrowed expression with glassy eyes. “You’re hurting me right now the more you keep blaming yourself.”

Simon scoffs after releasing your hand, wanting nothing more than to rid himself of your presence out of self disgust. However, your hand grasps hold of his arm, encouraging him to halt in his step.

“Did you intend it? No,” you shook your head. “You didn’t. That’s not your fault, this is something you can’t control. You can’t blame yourself for that!”

There you go again, continuing to insist he wasn’t to blame for your injuries, conveniently hidden under your long sleeve to appear presentable. As if you could pretend it didn’t happen.

Simon wished he could pretend too, but he’s a strict believer to reality.

What else could you tell Simon to get it through his mind? It was difficult. Even after this discussion, he slept on the couch for nearly two weeks. His natural silence was painful, his heartache for harming you without intent was difficult for him to process.

You couldn’t take it, sleeping alone without your husband. He hadn’t had this kind of episode in weeks, nearly two months in total. Yes, he never hurt you before, but the harm he inflicted upon himself left you feeling powerless to help him.

“Simon?”

Your sweet voice opens his eyes to darkness, his rattled mind preventing him from receiving an ounce of sleep.

There you stood in front of the couch, a thin blanket draped over your shoulders, a heavily distressed expression invading your sniffling face.

You missed him. Even since before you were married, you used to enjoy sleeping alone. These weeks of distance had you realizing what hell you were immersed in, sleeping in an empty bed without your death masked killer protecting you from the cold.

Sleeping on the couch wasn’t new, crammed together like little fishes in a tin was how the both of you slept when you first moved into your home late at night. The both of you too tired to construct the bed frame or unwrap the mattress from copious amounts of heavy plastic.

Simon missed you too, regardless of his guilt. He missed your koala like tendency to cling to his body as if you lived in the Antarctic all your life, submerged in your dreams with the sound of his heartbeat to keep you company.

Thousands of screaming apologies express in the silent essence of his tears as he holds you, pondering over what he could do to make sure this never happens again.

[hms-tardimpala]

Ficbinding: Saw collection

Warning: long post

As you may have noticed, I recently got into Saw, and the fanfic quality is phenomenal. The writers in this fandom are exceptional and unafraid to write the kind of freaky shit I love. In a month, I've read enough amazing fics to fill a small book, so I did!

As usual, the fics come first. There are nine, by four different authors (I found writers I love right off the bat in this fandom).

By @theflirtmeister:

Our land is sharp and glorious (3.5k, E) (special mention to this one for being the first Saw fic I ever read <3)

Tell me sweetheart (1.6k, M)

What suits your taste (3.3k, E)

By @degloved (Wolverton on AO3):

See me bare my teeth for you (1.9k, E)

The Issue series (3 fics, 7.5k, E)

Pig on speed dial by @gurokatt (2.9k, E)

Helping hand (1.9k, E) is by an anonymous author I salute, wherever they are.

These are all great fics I wanted to bind to make rereads easier and I recommend them all strongly (just mind the tags). A big thank you to the authors for replying positively when I reached out, I hope this is a good surprise!

Now let's talk shop.

This is my smallest book to date, and I have a good reason for that. As silly as it sounds, I wanted to make a book that could fit in a pocket of Amanda's cargo pants^^ I chose red for the cover and black for the headbands and bookmark to mimic the Jigsaw coat. This cloth is amazing: the pictures above show the book in real lighting (I took them at the window to catch what light was left today). It's a non-uniform blood-like dark red, which is perfect for Saw. It's also slightly reflective, as if it were slick, as you can see in this video under artificial lighting:

I went crazy with the cogs, I know.

I'm very happy with the fonts I chose: "s'AWsome" for the title, "impact label" for the fic titles (reversed for the author names), "underway" for the drop caps and "reem kufi" for the body of the text.

I decorated this book more! Every fic starts with an image of an object related to Saw (I used chains, blades, a puzzle piece, a bear trap, a scar, etc...). I also put the title of the fic and the author's name at the top of the pages. I wish I could have put something between these and the page numbers, but it would have been too small to look good. I used barbed wire for breaks in the stories because of course I did.

I'm especially proud of the "underway" drop caps, look!

They look like fingerprints!!! The oily residue and everything, you know!

What didn't work?

This time, most of what I did worked perfectly. Well, I did have to print, cut, fold, sew and glue this three times because I made mistakes when trimming the textblock. But in the end it's fine because I don't think the uneven edges are jarring when it comes to a Saw collection. There's a small spot of glue on the cover that I'll be the only one to notice. I could have strenghtened the back less for a book this size, it would have made it bendier.

One the whole, I love this book and the stories inside it and, as a craftsman, I'm very proud of myself.

Reminder: Feel free to ask me about materials, fonts and tools, it won't bother me at all to tell you what I used, but I'm too lazy rn to write it in this post that's long enough already.

[katyspersonal]

hey sorry i know you get a lot of asks but i really wanted to know if you think midra and shabriri could be related by blood? i am not sure who else to ask.

Awhhh it isn't just this, it is also that I am stuck on my phone and only got so many pictures here, when I prefer to answer asks with screenshots spam! XD But this question doesn't offer very much to bounce off of from what the source material offers so time to use my imagination..? 🤔

I did an analysis of Frenzied Flame's and Three Fingers' "timeline" in this ( x ) post, but the thing is! Previously those afflicted by Frenzied Flame had to contact the Three Fingers and had to be grasped by them directly, not only if they wanted to be a Lord, whereas the "become too sad and you will get Frenzied Flame" disease is stated to start FROM Shabriri! Even when eyeballs afflicted by it across Lands Between carry his name now:

^ Vyke's one is unique in this case, because he WAS grabbed by the Three Fingers! Meanwhile, as for the Shadow Realm:

So, in case of Shabriri's relation, I believe he'd have to be of younger generation than Midra and his servants! I also think this because Three Fingers are imprisoned under Leyendell. In fact, BURIED there!

(Tomb of an ancient god line) Also, there are no Winter Lanterns (the ER edition I mean xD) or wandering Aging Untoucheable that apparently are heralds of big Frenzy Nuke that collect the frenzied eyeballs in the Lands Between where Frenzied Flame is! It is also a pointer towards Three Fingers having been weakened/"killed" since the time Midra himself was grabbed by them!

My idea is that whereas Three Fingers are called readerless, technically Shabriri was the one and only "reader" for them! Functionally he is comparable with Gowry more than with Enia, but I have the mental image of him having the glimpse at these fingerprints desperately trying to get out, and deciding that it was a good idea to bring about what they wanted rather than personal pain/revenge or some grand idea of ending all suffering. (As much as I LOVE the joke that Allant and Shabriri are depressed and manic side of the same concept hdgfjfhfjgdf)

^ The crime of slander he got punished for WAS accusing Nomads of worshiping the Frenzied Flame, and judging from his expression he knew it wasn't the end 🌛 That's why I think he knew what he was doing all along, playing with Marika's fear of fire because no way any of that shit gets anywhere near her precious Erdtree *looks at Fire Monks incantations repeatedly stating Fire of Giants was enemy for GO it could burn the Erdtree* *looks at her being scared of Messmer's flame*

So, if we say he is a later relative of Midra, there is still the important factor that he inflicted Frenzied Flame on himself rather than was already infected by it! If we say he had a natural affinity to "listen" to Three Fingers because of being born by someone in Midra's Manse who was infected, that'd be direct relation! I do think that the torch Nanaya is cradling IS that of hers and Midra's son, so let's say they had another child who they yeeted out of their place for hopeful adoption so Inquisitors don't kill them or at least they have a better life 🤔 Either that child then would be ancestor of Shabriri, or Shabriri himself! He could have still had a natural hunch, or be vaguely aware that his ancestors were isolated and perished by Frenzied Flame and got curious to learn what it WAS! Maybe that's why he went digging into the tomb, rather than just found it?

Personally, I think emotionally it works better if Midra and Nanaya only had one child, who failed to become a Lord! But as I was typing this response, the idea of them getting (another) child outta here for better life started to look fun x) Coincidentally, 1) I draw Shabriri's original body with black hair that Nanaya has and 2) I was discussing the similar "dooming self by getting curious about heritage your ancestors SAVED you from" trope recently about Beatrice from DS1 vfhgfhh It looks like I can't escape this trope xdd

^ I also can offer an idea of collateral/distant relation, since devs made darn sure you can see Midra's Manse used to have the same flowers as Shaman's Village! Midra's servants, who were Hornsent unlike him, were hunted by Hornsent Inquisitors as "heretics", and tolerating all that WAS what brought Midra and his people to Frenzied Flame! They probably bullied fellow Hornsent exactly for serving the shamans (or closely related people) as nobles when by their understanding shamans were unworthy of living!

I insist that Dominula Celebrants are descendants of surviving shamans (here ( x ) are more justifications for that), so, say, Midra's relatives from there escaped, and Shabriri was amongst their descendants! + yeeted to live in another place because apparently no shamans not celebrants keep males around jfggvbgh

Latter one would imply a very long generational gap though! However, this idea might have given more insight on why Shabriri's word had a weight to begin with! The interesting detail is, developers edited out the part about him having been a noble! It was in the original unpatched version, then patched out:

And for now, the mention of him being a noble is only saved in Shabriri's Woe version as one of keepsakes we choose at the start of the game.. but that is only in localization! The Japanese original DID patch it out as well!

Fuckin sneaky patching out Nameless Moon Presence flashback hfgyygjg And before, I didn't second-guess it! If his word mattered so much as to people to believe his slander about something so crucial for the fate of the Erdtree, he had to hold an important position anyways! But after the DLC I start to question whether instead, he was amongst the people Marika held dear due to sentimentality 🤔 Especially much earlier in the timeline. Maybe she was slightly more willing to trust what little was left of her folks than anyone else! She might have even been aware of what happened with Midra's Manse if he was connected with the shamans (or just shaman but not living in the village as a male), let alone the possibility of sealing Three Fingers herself, so the "not this shit again" effect worked very well!

___________________

In the conclusion, I think the relation is possible! I AM weak for "consider not being so curious about (bad) fate of your ancestors because nothing good will come of it" trope it seems hfgthvgg It could even solve the weirdness of editing out his noble status! I am still giving him pretty clothes tho

[tommy-kinard-buckley]

This is for chapter 5 of giving a friendly nudge and Tarlos are back 🥳🎉!!!

They find out that the fingerprints on the weapon somehow belong to Tommy, which launches a full-fledged I.A.D. investigation. “This is going to be quick since a lot of the other Officers and Sergeants here don’t like me or Hondo, also I was driving past Hondo’s block when they think that it had happened.” Tommy watches as Stevens and Deacon leave the interrogation rooms and starts walking towards them with Evan right behind him “Sergeant Kinard, this will be quick since I already have 90% of your fellow cops in this building vouching for you and your honor.” The boyfriends share a shocked look with one another before focusing back on the woman in front of them. “Thank you for telling me about that.” Tommy gets comfortable in his chair while Evan fidgets nervously, not knowing what to expect from this. “We have witness statements placing you and your truck driving through the block that Sergaent Harralson lived on before stepping out of the vehicle and arguing with him, is that correct?” Tommy gives her a confused look, remembering driving past the block but never turning onto the street. “No. I drove past the street to get to an open cafe for a date but never turned onto the street.” Tommy leans on the table just as the door opens and his union representative walks in and sits next to him. “Not another word, Rocker.” The Sergeant sees through the open door that Pearce is standing and talking frantically to Street, making his stomach turn in all the worst ways. “This investigation is not yet done, but I am done talking with you, Rocker. Thank you for your cooperation.” He all but runs out of the room to be able to ask Pearce why he was here, knowing that it couldn’t be anything good. Tommy curses to himself when Pearce walks out the door just as he walks up to Street. “What the hell was he doing here?” Tommy lets his anger and hatred for the Paramedic finally seep into his voice and facial expressions, knowing that Pearce is probably behind all of the things that are happening. “He was here to inform us that he saw you enter the outdoor cafe with blood all over your hands and jacket 10 minutes after Hondo was attacked.” Tommy breathes a sigh of relief when he hears the disbelief in Streets’ voice as he recites what he was just told. “You don’t seem to believe him all that much, why is that?” Tommy puts his hands in his pockets and leans back a little, completely calm and collected, which surprises Buck. “He is clearly obsessed with Buck and every time that he visited here with Buck, he always looked at all of us like we were competition for his boyfriend’s heart.” Tommy closes his eyes and when he opens them again they are this dark, stormy blue instead of the usual ocean blue, which scares Buck just a little bit. “Do you think that he might be trying to frame me for the attempted murder of Hondo? How did he even plan on pulling that off?” T.K. and Carlos walk in at the end of Tommy’s question and they suddenly get scared for Buck. “Rocker, what happened to Hondo, what do you mean by attempted murder, and why is someone framing you for it?” The couple walks up to the trio and hugs Buck, glad that he wasn’t hurt by this random person. “We believe that Pearce MIGHT have beaten him half to death with a hammer outside of his house and is framing me for it.” Carlos has seen his fair share of calmly angry expressions in his lifetime (thanks to his father) which allows him to identify it in Tommy instantly, and yet it still scares him.

No pressure tags

@lemonlyman-dotcom @alrightbuckaroo @reeeallygood @buckevantommy @kinardscake @kinardevan @paperstorm @reyesstrand @firstprince-history-huh @carlos-in-glasses @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @carlos-tk

[saltsicklover]

To Love, To Die, and Everything In Between

This was a requested work, you can find the request HERE Find my Master List HERE Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader Word Count: 3k+ Rating: R Should I put an old school Wattpad excuse as to why I've been gone so long? Also, I really hope my tag list is right!

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of war and fighting, mentions of death, regular cannon violence (probably less), No use of y/n, the term Sweetheart, Tons and Tons web weaving, credit at the end. This is so fucking angsty.

---

They say it's about the journey, the destination itself nothing more than an ending, all the importance found in the steps it takes to get there. But really, it's the destination itself that holds the meaning. After all, if that wasn't the case, the destination wouldn't come with a soul crushing grip, fingers digging into the folds of my lungs just to starve out the capacity for air. 

The journey's memories would not be left with inky smears of fingerprints, the clarity nothing more than the orange tinted, overexposed film and the whirring of a projector still clicking though no more film is passing through. Nothing left but the flickering light of the present, the whirring akin to blood rushing over ear drums. 

Destination means death to me. If I could figure out a way to remain forever in transition, in the disconnected and unfamiliar, I could remain in a state of perpetual freedom.

And this in and of itself is death. Squinting through the glaring light that is now I can see the curve of his lips, the way they give frame to perfect teeth and a tongue that has done nothing but speak promises that his hands have kept. And his hands are gentle. They are clean. They have guided me, unseeing, through the journey of the last year. 

It's been months through screens. Fingers hovering over buttons. The decision of to call or not to call. Messages collecting in inboxes and photos of moments I never had the hope of being a part of. It's better than our mother's had, or their mother's before them. Crackling phone lines and tear soaked stationary from wars past. Though the story has been the same, it has always been the same. And the story is this: man fights for his country, for his love, for his honor, for the women behind them and the men standing at his shoulders. They fight for dignity, out of duty, out of order and for a future they have no hope of seeing. That is not to say that they won't make it out alive, that they won't come home. No, it is to say that they are leaving a legacy, moving pieces of a chest board from which the game was erected at the turn of the first war and shall be played until the end of the last. 

Legacy. What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. 

And what are we? The women who stand behind them. The women, the families, the love that stands behind them as they fight for dignity, out of duty and out of order as they search for their honor. Tear drops on stationary, kisses pressed to closed envelopes spritzed with perfume. We are crackling voices through barely connected telephone lines. We are the viewers of the photographs and the "likes" on social media, the wish you were here comments and the well wishes from worlds away. We are the same as every woman that has come before us. In love with a Soldier, an Airman, a Seaman, a Marine who's gaze is forward. 

You have a row of dominoes set up; you knock over the first one, and what will happen to the last one is that it will go over very quickly. 

From NAS Pensacola, to just east at NAS Jacksonville. Jacksonville turned to NAS Yorktown which gave way to Miramar in the way the coast gives way to the waves. The letters came in sparser than the phone calls ever did, but maybe that's what did me in. That last letter, an acknowledgement of life in the wake of something horrible having been prevented that now sinks below the horizon, down, down, down. 

It's always my own breathing, my own heartbeat. After all, I am still alone, even if he is alive and well. He stands an ocean and a world away. It's always my breathing. 

She runs, trips and pitches down the stairs, holding her letter.

She follows the letter down, down...

Blackout. A clatter. Strange sounds—xylophones, brass bands, sounds of falling, sounds of vertigo.

Sounds of breathing.

The Hard Deck on a sunny evening is all rich wood and the stark smell of the ocean, the windows pushed open to invite the fleeting warmth into the bar. I haven't made it further than the front stair case; Jake Seresin's smiles, an invite and a warning all at once though it isn't directed towards me. He doesn't even know I'm here, and I could keep it that way. I could run now, I could leave, deal with everything over the phone and through ink strokes of dying fountain pens in the same way we have been dealing with everything for months. 

I can at least be neat. Walk out and be seen as clean. 

The thing is this, Jake is home. Here at the Hard Deck, on the beach in Miramar, California surrounded by his squad, his newly minted and now permanent squad. The Daggers, the name fitting the feeling that the news pushes into the space between my ribs. An ache lives there now, unrelenting and dangerous. A reminder that the journey, our journey, has found the light at the end of the tunnel, and it's a train heading straight for us. We stood no chance, not with out feet planted firmly on the tracks. 

The shame of being seen consumes me. 

I know the look that will streak across his eyes before that smile lands full and glistening on his lips. I know that look of happiness, the one that is unburdened and surviving though it shouldn't. A smile that knows nothing of the pain looming around the corner, the dagger still stuck in my side and the way that I have been tracking blood behind me, droplets splattering crimson sick on the pavement as I limp out from hiding. He's not going to notice the way my skin is still slick with blood or the way the proverbial handle still hangs from it's new sheath between my ribs. It's red ink under his rose colored glasses. 

I think I've already lost you. I think you're already gone.

Though it wasn't a choice he made, at least, it hasn't been since he agreed to this job in the first place. The moment that ink dried on his contact, royal blue and officially binding, it hasn't been his choice. Not really. And maybe somewhere along the line I got tangled up in it all. In the kindness of his words that snuck out from his cocky grin and the way his eyes raked over the unbroken skin of my body and claimed it as land to tend. Maybe my heart has always been in my hands; why he has shielded me from the horrors of the world with his own body, even before he had a chance to see them with his own eyes. Maybe he knew my skin was supposed to stay unbroken. 

Maybe it wasn't. 

But either way, I still bleed now. And Jake still wears the rose colored glasses that come along with survival like this. A second chance at life, he declared proudly over the phone no less than a week ago, a chuckle laced in his voice in a shallow attempt to hide his utter bafflement. He wasn't supposed to make it back from this one, no matter the promises his Captain made. Jake's tone worn thin over the phone like he knew it was the end. He wasn't supposed to make it back. Our story was supposed to end there, my own body on the other side of the railroad crossing while Jake fell gallantly from the sky; a blaze of glory and red hot heat. 

But now he's home. Home, home, home. 

That's the whistle of the oncoming freight train, a warning call. 

It’s not enough nearly to survive. One needs to flourish.

I push into the bar, squaring my shoulders with my chin held high. There is no white flag here, no surrender. If one of us must fall from the sky, all burning red heat and glory, I guess it's going to be me. 

To love means to radiate with inexhaustible light.

I know the look that's coming, the look that will dash across his eyes and the smile that will bloom. Worse yet, I know the look that will succeed his smile. That look where he will square his jaw and narrow his eyes, batting down the hatches to make sure no sense of hurt will make it through. 

The hurt will make it though his eyes anyway. The cracks in his facade akin to the humanity he wishes he could keep from display. Hangman: a persona to keep emotions at an arms length though they already has a noose securely around his neck. I can see it in the pinprick tears collecting in the corners of his eyes even as he lifts his chin up; a Tarantino tilt of the head.  

He spots me, eyes going wide as his smile. "Oh my god, Sweetheart, what are you doing here?" The sight of him in all his blond hair, blue eyed glory gives me pause. God, he is beautiful. He is beautiful, with kind hands that have guided me through these last few months and now, this moment will be the last time I truly get to appreciate it. 

Those kind hands are working their way around my frame as he pulls me into his chest. He bleeds warmth, and for a moment I wonder if he can feel how much blood I've already lost, if it's wet against his palm as he grazed over my ribs. I wonder if he can feel it, and if it would still be warm. Warm with the feeling of me, and the love that I have for him. God, I love him so. 

There can be no friendship with someone I am not ready to betray. 

It's in this moment that I know, with his hands wrapped around me and my cheek pressed against the heat of his chest as his heart beats thickly in my ear, Jake Seresin is my best friend. He is my best friend and he doesn't know I'm bleeding out. 

The train is getting impossibly closer, now. It's horn blaring in my ears so loud it's giving me vertigo. I sway a bit in Jake's arms; he grips me impossibly tighter- I begin to hemorrhage. 

"Oh, Sweetheart, I am so glad you're here. If I would've known you were coming, I would've picked you up! I can't believe you didn't tell me you were coming! Jeez, I can't believe you are here, Sweetheart, really. God, you feel good," Jake's words come uninterrupted, punctuated with another squeeze of his arms. 

"Yeah... I'm," The words come out muffled against his chest, though it sounds like my own voice is a million miles away, "I'm here." 

A moment more passes gently, stuck in the confines of his embrace before he pulls back. His eyes meet mine for a moment, stark blue in the way the the flag is, embedded with stars and glory and a weight I can not even imagine- before they are flicking back up to his squad.

And it's in this moment where I realize that Jake Seresin may love me, and I may love him, but there is no blood left in me. I have nothing left to bleed, only words to bare. There is only desperation on my tongue to beg the man before me to love me more than he loves his own glory, his own noble sacrifice, and his country. 

Let me be very clear: every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered. 

I will be slaughtered too, whether it be from the knife still stuck in my side or the incoming train, I will be flayed open under the hot California sun for the world to see. 

I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly. 

And yet, it will be okay, because I will be seen. Jake Seresin will see me, unclean and unkempt, void of blood and tears, the only thing left over will be the ghost of us and all the love that I still have left to give. Atoms cannot cease to be- I think my love for him is one in the same. 

I hope death is like being carried to your bedroom when you were a child and fell asleep on the couch during a family party. I hope you can hear the laughter from the next room. 

"Can we step outside?" I peer up at him, my chin pressed to his sternum. Truth be told, I look past him, over the prominence of his brow bone and up to the planks of the ceiling. It's easier to take a hostage when you don't have to look them in the eye.  For a moment I wonder if I should have feared getting blood on him to begin with, but knowing he himself could not feel it even as it coated his own palms helps me guide him from the audience of his friends. His wrist held loosely in my grasp until we've made it to the sand. For a moment I almost forget to let go. 

Of course love is still there. Still, still, still. 

There is a sort of sticky sweetness in the cavern of my chest now as I stand next to him. Maybe it's been there this whole time, encasing  my heart and thickness of it's beating. Jake wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side with gentle hands. He hums with contentment, fingers brushing over my arm. 

"I can't believe you're here," Jake still looks at the sky, the horizon line drawing his eye. "What are you doing here, sweetheart?" 

My heart stutters in my chest. What am I doing here? My eyes catch the horizon too, as I pull the proverbial blade from it's place between my ribs. It too is sticky sweet with blood and smeared fingerprints. 

I write my own deliverance. 

The words are written on my tongue in bile. My hands shake. I shove them into my pockets, eyeline still stuck on the orange of the setting sun. It's warmth accompanies Jake's, sinking into my hollow corpse. Again I threaten to sway under the momentum of the moment. This is it. The ending.

"I came to say goodbye," They are not the correct words, the letters all jumbled up and ill-fitting in my mouth. "I came to wish you well." He turns his chin down to me, eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

"Goodbye?" The word rakes itself out of his throat, all gravel and uncertainty. His hold tightens on my shoulders, just a little, pulling me tighter into his side. Heat continues to roll off his frame. My hands form fists in the confines of my pockets, an attempt at clutching this moment before it  slips past. 

"Yeah, I mean..." There's a pause. Breathing room. A forcing of air in and out of my lungs. Jake doesn't seem to breathe at all. "This is it, isn't it?" 

"What could you possibly mean by that?" His gaze meets mine for the first time, steady and unyielding.  Suddenly I am aware of just how much blue surrounds me now. From my cheap cardigan, littered with holes that still manages to fight off the chill of the breeze to the royal of the ocean waves. The sky is azure too, melting into orange and pink hues that will give way to the vast deep navy of the night. But there is nothing more royal that of Jake's irises. Still weighty with stars and glory, but reflecting my own strangled feelings back at me. The destination grips my lungs just a little bit harder, the train wheels squealing against the tracks, but it's too late now. 

Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, too tight, and everything my eyes see is blue then, too. "I came to say goodbye, so you could continue your life, you know,?" I shrug vaguely, hoping he will get the idea, "Like really continue your life here, settle down. This is your home base now, and your family is in there. I'm not really sure what else you'd be expecting to happen right now." 

The words pour out of me, not crossing my brain before they leave my tongue. A strangled sound of confusion leave Jake's lips as his arm slips from it's place around my shoulders. The chill gets in after that, right down to my bones. 

"I-" The words catch. I hold my breath waiting for a moment, then another, then another. Jake breathes deeply now, forcefully. Taking each beath deep into his lungs like it's painful. I continue to hold my breath. 

The spot between my ribs, now void of proverbial blade still aches, but now with more loneliness and finality than strikes of pain. A fact dawns on me in that moment, as my lungs  burn for air, watching Jake's jaw stutter with upspoken words. Maybe this wasn't supposed to be an ending. Not like this, maybe not at all. 

You are a burning house that I want to live in. 

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" With Jake's unsure words, I manage an uneasy breathe. My lungs feel aflame with new oxygen. My eyes meet the sand, my dirty sneakers looking out of place next to Jake's nice leather boots. I can't help the almost chuckle that escapes my lips, it comes out as more of a grimace. 

It occurs to me that maybe Jake has no idea about just how much I'm falling apart. Just like my mother, and her mother before her. Loving men from afar as they fight- Soldiers, Airman, Seaman, and Marines. The shock of it all ricochets through me; a generational pain that is now mine to hold. 

The splendid thing about falling apart silently... is that you can start over as many times as you like.

"If you're saying what I think you're implying here, I need you to say it out loud," Jake breaks through the fog of it all, his voice stern and commanding. It sends a shiver down my spine. I have never seen him like this, burning so fiercely with love and it makes the sticky sweetness of my insides warm. "If you're saying what I think you're saying, I need you to say it. I need you to say the words out loud for both of us to hear, because I need to hear that goodbye if you're going to walk away from me. Oh God, Sweetheart, please don't walk away now,"

"When you were on that ship," I kick some sand with the toe of my shoe, a neat little pile of it forming in front of me, "When you called, I didn't think you were coming back, and now that you're here, you're alive... God, you're alive... I just thought that I'd be holding you back. I mean, if we kept this going, there would always be something dragging you backwards, and I don't want to drag you back, Jake. But, I also can't do it like this anymore. Our relationship has been spent through phone calls and letters and I don't think we've spent more than three days consecutive together, ever," 

"I am so fucking glad that you are alive," I can't help but laugh, the pressure a little less crushing, "But we are both worth more than this," 

When I finally gather the courage to look up, Jake's eyes are already on me, running over my features so slow like he's working on memorizing them. I have so much more to say, so many words that wouldn't fit on the collage ruled paper or in the textbox of a message.  All of these words just begging to escape from behind my tongue. 

"I love you," I blurt out, eyes linked with his blues, unhindered and unbashful. "God, I fucking love you, and I can't believe I'm saying it for the first time now, not over the goddamn phone, and we are on the periphery of a fucking ending," 

"It's only an ending if you call it as such," Jake reaches for my hand. I extract them from the their denim confines and let them slip into his. "Because I am not fucking walking away. Do you think that I would?" 

What a question. What a loaded fucking question. 

"No," I answer honestly, "Not on purpose, but I know the fight is always in front of you, and that leaves me in the rearview, and I am not going to ask you to give up that, to give up all of this, for me. You have a family here, now, even if you don't want to use that word. Those folks in there, the people you almost fucking died with, those are your people forever, now. They are who you have to fight with, and fight for."

"Yes, they are my family, but that doesn't mean that you aren't anymore," Jake squeezes my hands, pulling me just a little closer. 

"Anymore?" I barely hear my own voice, but I do feel the tears welling up in my eyes. "Have I been your family before now? Before this moment, before you almost died?" 

"Of course you have," Jake chokes down a chuckle. "You are my person, my home, and I want you here, here with me,"

"But what about everything that comes next. The next time you have to go somewhere in the middle of the ocean to fight an unknown battle, with enemies who are just trying to do the same thing. Everyone is just fighting to stay alive, to get home, what then?" 

"Who do you think I was fighting so hard to get back to?" Tears fall from my eyes at his words, his hands coming up to cup my cheeks. "Who do you think I will continue to fight to get back to? Sweetheart, I will dogfight my way out of anything if that means making it back to you," Thumbs swipe at my tears as he leans in, pressing his lips over mine. A welcome home and a goodbye all in one, but not a goodbye from one another, but from the people we used to be. 

Death frees us from the torment of parting. 

And so the train passes, I remain un-flayed to the world and Jake didn't go out in a blaze of glory and red hot heat. I may have bled out, but that dagger was never mine to carry- even if we were both fighting to get back to each other. And maybe a part of us died there, on that beach, our lips pressed together as Jake breathed life back into me. It's a death, but not one of finality, because If you're lucky, you die many times before you ever really do.

----

QUOTE CREDIT

Destination means death to me. If I could figure out a way to remain forever in transition, in the disconnected and unfamiliar, I could remain in a state of perpetual freedom. - David Wojnarowicz

I can at least be neat. Walk out and be seen as clean. - A burning Hill - Mitski 

"She runs, trips and pitches down the stairs, holding her letter.

She follows the letter down, down...

Blackout. A clatter. Strange sounds—xylophones, brass bands, sounds of falling, sounds of vertigo.

Sounds of breathing."

― Sarah Ruhl, 

Legacy. What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. - Hamilton 

"You have a row of dominoes set up; you knock over the first one, and what will happen to the last one is that it will go over very quickly." - President Eisenhower in April 1954 

The shame of being seen consumes me. - Cynthia Cruz from  diagnosis, The Glimmering Room

I think I've already lost you. I think you're already gone. - Matchbox 20

There can be no friendship with someone I am not ready to betray. -slavoj zizek 

Let me be very clear: every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered. - anecdote of the pig, tory adkisson

I hope death is like being carried to you bedroom when you were a child and fell asleep on the couch during a family party. I hope you can hear the laughter from the next room. - lilies abounded

It’s not enough nearly to survive. One needs to flourish. - Jack Tanner, The Source of Dreams, When Human Imagination Died

To love means to radiate with inexhaustible light - rainer maria rilke

I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly. - Anne Sexton, A self portrait in letters.  

Of course love is still there. Still, still, still. - unknown, tumblr

Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. - Halsey 

You are a burning house that I want to live in. - unknown, tumblr 

“The splendid thing about falling apart silently... is that you can start over as many times as you like.” ― Sanober Khan, 

If you're lucky, you die many times before you ever really do. - Jake Weasley Rogers. 

Death frees us from the torment of parting. lighthousekeeping, jeanette winterson 

TAG LIST @its-the-pilot @t4medicroe @inkandarsenic @kmc1989 @inky-sun @harperdoodle @possiblyexisting @eloquentdreamer @ravenwtfbro @jessicab1991 @muddwheelz123

[laneaconite]

Saintly Stranger

There was an angel on the train, White, wiry blonde hair disheveled Asleep across two seats beside me On the Amtrack lower level.

Raised divine bedhead and blinked blue eyes Fixed them upon me, waved both hands. Smiled gently, and she’d surmised: “You can’t wear those all the time, honey.”

Pointed furrowed hands toward the braces on my legs. “Oh, because of blood clots?” I replied, Carefully she stood up, walked across, knelt at my feet. “Edema, fluid collection in the lower legs.” and I spied As she pressed a white fingerprint into my skin.

Without a moment’s hesitation I pulled velcro straps apart to ease them off And wondered in passive fascination How a nameless woman might inform me of a requisite rite.

“You’ll want to elevate them too.” The woman stood and smiled as I, beguiled, Placed my backpack underneath my feet. “That’ll do,” And, “I’m sorry, it’s the mother in me.”

Upward I beamed, “No, you’ve been lovely.” “I only received them recently.” I see her expression quirk. Furrowed brow, cheeks crinkling eye makeup: “I’m sorry that you got hurt.”

I could only shrug. “It’s genetic, I’m afraid.” “Oh, that’s a shame. You have a great body for dancing.” WIth one last smile she crosses the aisle And leaves me marveling.

-Lane Aconite, April 6th, 2023

[gra93fruit-blog]

shitty blood Angel art.

Ever think about what happens to all the shitty blood Angel art?

Like I know, I know, they are SPACE MARINES!!!! they are good at everything. And most dexterous mother fuckers in the emperors own galaxy. But no amount of genetic cheat codes and space steroids are going to make up for learn skill and practise.

so what happens to the scout art? Is it like displayed in neophyte and scout displays? Do squad Sargents and captains like just have a collection of well meaning, but subjectively fingerprint quality art just hanging around, to torment their younger brothers with later?

do they sell shitty scout and neophyte art they don't want, to pay for the sheer amount of art supplies the chapter must use?

I really want to know what happens to the very first and practise pieces of blood angels. They are the emperors angels, they gotta do something with it. We talk about the vampire Blood Angel a lot, I wanna talk about the inner weird art kid in every blood Angel. And what the hell they do with years and years of note books.

[yaut-jaknowit]

Your mxm idea generator is back at it. hear me out, what if the reader was a homocide detective and all the overworking on a case and having to keep it to himself just gets to him, how would his mate react to finding him like that?😭 (zamn this is so specific i’m sorry💀) and as always love you and your works keep up the amazing work🫶

Long Nights

Pairing: Wolf x Reader

Word Count: 2175

Summary: This is your job, your livelihood. How else could you live your life without death and murder? This is all you pretty much know. So when you're beat tired from a long, long day, you head straight to bed. Wolf was gone. Somewhere in the universe. You were left to sleep countless nights in an empty, cold bed. But this was life. Nothing else would stop you from getting into that bed.

Author Note: Never apologize for these great ideas you send my way! I love all of them. This one was fun to write. Sort of gives me ideas to write an actually story about it. Do I have the time or energy? Probably not unfortunately.

Masterlist

Ao3

The first few days of a case are the most important. It’s crucial to collect all and any data possible to further along a case. As a homicide detective, you know this. Through and through. Yeah, you’ll still complain in the solitude of your office or back home. Nothing a cup of coffee or a can of Red Bull can’t fix to keep you up another few hours or so.

A yawn interrupted your thoughts and progress. Your head shook to clear any leftover of exhaustion still in your system. A heady can of Red Bull has helped you for the last hour, yet it seems to be wearing off so soon. Maybe, you needed another one. There was still a lot to do until you could go home and collapse for a couple of hours. Your eyes shifted over to the mini refrigerator in your office.

Or was this your sign? The countless hours, sweat, blood, and tears poured to find the murderer have worn you down. It was far beyond rubbed you raw and bloody at this point. You take a gander at the clock to find out what time it was. Big hand over the two while the small hand rested on top of the seven. Shit. It was morning. Not much light peeked through your closed blinds.

The streetlamps nearby didn’t have enough energy to fight its way into your office. Morning. How long have you been here? Had to be… at least… fourteen hours at the office alone? That didn’t account for the time you took to head over to the crime scene once more.

Yeah, there’s pictures of the night it happened. There’s something different about being there in person. Get a feel for the area, the surroundings. See what the murderer saw. Get an idea on how it was done. What he done to kill two average people in cold blood.

Take a moment. You leaned back in your uncomfortable office chair and filled your lungs with air. It was held on for a few seconds before it was released. Twenty-five days and counting. There has been little on revealing the killer. It was clearly planned well and executed down to the minute details. Not a trace of him has been found. Just the fact there were two bodies and stab wounds that littered them. It was clear it had been personal.

The killer had taken his time, was comfortable with his area, to kill these two people. Similar to the well known case of ‘The Nightstalker’. This murderer had sat down for a bite to eat at the dinning room table. It wasn’t a cantaloupe. Instead, a watermelon. Still, no fingerprints of sorts. You hoped to any one who would listen this wouldn’t become a serial killer case. You didn’t need another one of those. Not after Wolf had found you buried in your work.

Kind of like right now.

Wolf. Your heart panged at the thought of him. Away. Somewhere in the universe. Without you at his side. Someday though. You might grow the balls to join him out in there. Where it probably wasn’t safe for you. But not today. Or tomorrow

Twenty-six days. That’s when you last saw him. The day before this whole shit-show hit the fan. You woke up to find your phone buzzing off the night-stand with your commander’s name on the screen. Off you were. To work. More death and blood spilt. You groaned and leaked back in your chair. It bounced with the movement. Your brain screamed to finally get home, to go home and sleep till six o’clock. Wake up and come back here.

Without Wolf. Again. Fuck, you can’t do that. Not when you’re in this kind of state. You were going to cry yourself to sleep once more. Why did he have to leave without you? Go on to save the universe one infestation at a time. You didn’t even know if he was alive. There was no real way of knowing. He can’t give any true day of return. Somedays, it could be an overnight trip. Others, weeks.

This one is becoming weeks. Again. Without him to warm your side. Or wherever you pass out on top of him. You sighed, head leaned against the back of your chair. He’ll come back. He always does. Then, he can give you the support to continue this dreadful case.

Horrifying. A father and daughter erased from earth. Gone with just a bullet to each other their heads. But this killer had to make it fun. Like any other one. You rolled your neck, popping the joints that lined it. Another day in this messed up city. You should really leave with Wolf. Make off with him and live out the rest of your life out there. Together.

Your knees cracked as you put weight on them. A cringe passed over your features at the sound. Either you’re getting old, or that was a sign to move around more than a couple of bathroom breaks. None of matter though. You made the decision to find go home. Despite the fact you’ll be alone another night. You knew your body needed the sleep to continue this day. Sleep it was.

Everything from closing out of tabs, locking your room, and making your way out of the building was all a blur. There wasn’t a coherent thought between your eyes. Which lead you to make the horrible decision to drive home in this condition. Thankfully, the drive home wasn’t long. Just enough to make you complain along the way.

.

A cool breeze washed over his hot scales as he stepped into the dark apartment. Dark, cold, and quiet. All the things he didn’t want to find. Worst of all, your scent – one he’s been craving since he left – was distant. You hadn’t been here in almost the cycle of your planet’s sun. Where have you gone? Where are you? Why have you been gone for so long?

It was unnatural to feel this way for his kind. That didn’t stop his heart from twisting in its cage. His hands didn’t shake like yours did though. Instead, his breath grew a hair shaky. One you had to listen for to know it was happening. He didn’t let it best him. He took more steps into the main living space and took note of the area.

Disarray. Blankets not folded. Plates of old food sitting on the table. A few clothes strewn across the place. It didn’t smell clean or well-orderly. What has happened to cause this?

Wolf, himself, wasn’t perfect by any means. But he understood what a clean station and living space meant for himself. A pristine work space offered him a greater outcome of his job. If everything was put back to where it needs to be, he can find it faster. He stared at the main living area with furrowed brows.

His hands twitched at his sides. A whispered calling ordered him to pick up. Something nice for you until you came back. You would come back to a clean home. Then he question what has occurred while he was gone to remedy it.

As the Yautja reached for the first unfolded item to clean, a jungle of keys had him stopping. From the many times he’s been here, at your apartment, he’s learned the cues, the sounds of the apartment. Most of the people here have a set schedule of work. Not you though. He’s been awoken to your phone ringing to either an alarm or work calling you in the middle of night.

First that happened, he smashed the device. It had disturbed both of your sleep. When you start to yell at him out of frustration and exhaustion from only three hours of sleep, he learned not to do that. You needed that device to function at your job. Like his own weapons to kill.

He perked his head up, tresses swaying as he listened. Heavy, uncoordinated footsteps slugged their way over to your door. It didn’t sound like you. He activated his cloak and waited in the middle of your living room.

The keys smacked against the metal doorknob. The one key you needed to get into the hole wasn’t working. Each try, it scrapped against the golden doorknob. Without fail, it didn’t go in. You made a soft, frustrated cry and rested your forehead heavily against the front door. All you wanted was you bed. Though, lonely, it would be better than that damn chair at work. How anyone thinks those are comfortable… Fucking crazy.

That sound. Then, your smell waft into the room. Fresh but… something was wrong.

Immediately, Wolf dropped his cloak and marched over to the door. Within two long strides, the door finally opened to reveal… you? Similar to the state of your apartment, yourself wasn’t well kept up. Hair, greasy and a mess in the low light coming from the hallway. Your clothes were wrinkly and smelled heavily of you. Like you wore them to bed and rolled out looking like that.

You trudged inside, lanyard tossed haphazardly to side. They crashed loudly on the counter, momentarily hurting his hearing. Wolf flinched before shaking his head. He waited, slightly to the side for you to react. He had been gone for longer than he wished.

Nothing. Your feet dragged across the hardwood floor. Each slide created a horrible squeaking noise that usually would have you scrunching your nose. Except, your face was blank. Eyes vacant. Dark patches of skin hung below them. He’s seen this before on you. It was rare, thankfully. But he knew what was happening.

He softly trilled at you, as not to startle you. Yet, you kept moving. Slowly but surely enough, you make it past the threshold of your bedroom. The apartment door left wide open. First, he closed it and locked it. Then, Wolf followed quietly behind you, calling your name.

Each time you didn’t react, he said it louder and louder and louder. To the point, your neighbors could hear him. You finally stopped and blinked slowly. Those lifeless eyes of yours met his. He watched a drop of recognition rolled through you. It wasn’t heavy or thorough by the looks of it. You just smacked your lips together and made a popping noise with them. “Huh. Oh, hey,” you greeted, voice gravelly and dry.

For the first time, Wolf didn’t know what to do. All he could do was watch as you collapse face first into the bed. The heavy, long sigh that escaped your body had him moving towards you. His own sigh breathed into the air as well.

In the dark of your room, the Yautja slowly flipped you onto your back. You would be thanking him later. Next, the thick boots that covered your feet were pulled off. They were gently placed next to the bedroom door. After that, came your dirty clothing. Those were tugged off of your body and thrown into your hamper. He took note of how full it was becoming. A project he’ll take on later when he knows you’re taken care of.

In one of your jean pockets, Wolf pulled out your phone. The bright light hurt his eyes in the dark room. He was quick to turn it off before it come make any noise. Wolf could survive you yelling at him for turning it off the next time you woke. For now, he’ll ensure you get sometime to yourself, away from that job of yours.

Don’t get him wrong. He’s highly proud of you and what you do among your kind. Slightly similar to what he does for the Yautjas. Yet, when he sees what it does to you. It pushes you past the limits of the ooman body. It doesn’t even seem like you care that it does either. A good hunter knows his limits, what he can and can’t do. That’s why his last hunt took a bit longer to complete. Or else he wouldn’t be here right now.  

Some days, he truly wanted to pick you up from this damn planet and take you far away; show you what the universe has to offer for even a ooman like yourself. Then, maybe you’ll join him at his side. He would give you anything you wanted to have you stay.

Wolf scooped you up from the bed and crawled on top of sheets. With a skill that only a Yautja could harness, he used his foot to scoot underneath the blankets. Your body was carefully placed upon his torso, chest to chest with him. Your face buried into the crook of his neck, as if hiding away from something. Wolf let an arm drape over your back, fully securing you to him.

You melted into his body, lax and malleable. A gentle, rumbling purr began in his chest, vibrating across your skin. He was more than relieved to be back with you. More than you’ll ever know.