#but both of them would meet because of their assigned roles

[rhonissancee]

Thinking about....oc with anterograde amnesia x oc with hyperthymesia......mm

[januaryembrs]

TROUBLE ALMOST ALL MY LIFE | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader

Description: The ONE time the BAU needs you + the FOUR times you need them.

word count: 24k (what on earth was I thinking)

trigger warnings: mentions of spencers addictions + use + side affects. MOMMY ISSUES thankyou ambassador Prentiss. hostage scene + injuries. mentions of forced/pressured marriage. fem!reader. reader and Emily struggle to bond.

authors note: We never meet Emily's dad nor do we see a picture so while reader is given a nickname of Bugsy, she still keeps her real name (no use of y/n) and is given ZERO physical descriptors. ALL of my fem!readers should feel included here, let me know if this is not the case! also I don't speak any language besides English however she does speak many because of her mom, so I really tried to get it right, message me if I'm being stupid!!

series masterlist | next chapter

[this] means its spoken in another language.

—

‘trouble on my left, trouble on my right,

I’ve been facing trouble almost all my life’

1. the one where you become a translator.

“I’ll make some calls, I may still have some friends in the Eastern countries,” Ambassador Prentiss announced to the room, standing from her place on the plush sofa. 

A case had landed quite literally in Emily’s lap when her mother had come by that morning asking for Hotch, a Russian migrant looking for her father with a ransom note and a sliced off finger shoved through her mailbox, wedding ring still attached. 

It wasn’t every day Emily wished she’d brushed up on her Russian, but today of all days she was struggling to keep up. 

“We don’t have much time, we need a division of labour,” Hotch’s serious face settled, the time constraints making him just that bit more dictatorial, “Morgan, someone needs to go to the Chernus’s house in Baltimore in case they are contacted again,” 

“What about the language barrier?” Derek raised, smoothing a hand over the short scruff of his beard, “We can’t have the unsub speaking with the family directly. He could say anything to them without us knowing,” 

Bugsy would hate to admit she fit the criteria for youngest daughter of a workaholic mother and distant father to a tea, but Emily would say different. 

Elizabeth Prentiss had never been a warm woman; Emily used to tell her the scowl was a side effect of the overplucking of her eyebrows, not the serious nature of her job. Her youngest girl once said her mother’s lips looked like she’d sucked a lemon. Of course they admired her work, but world peace meant jack shit to a little girl wanting nothing more than a mother’s hug. 

Despite the fact she’d pushed away her husband and both her daughters in favour of her career, the one useful thing about being the Ambassador’s daughter wasn’t just the money, but the widespread culture the girls had been crammed full of since they could so much as beg for a sippy cup. 

“Baltimore, you say?” Emily asked Hotch with a somewhat doubtful wince, “I mean you could always-”

“Absolutely not,” Her mother cut her off, rubbing the stress lines already creasing her forehead at the very notion of her other daughter, despite the fact Emily hadn’t even finished her thought.

Emily’s sigh was a reflex, the years of her mother cutting her off sparking the frustration on instinct. 

“She lives right in the city, Mother, it can’t hurt to have her just talk for them-” Emily tried to bargain, only for the sharp mouthed Ambassador shoot her a frown. 

“End of discussion, Emily,” Elizabeth snipped, her manicured fingernails twitching with annoyance, “Your sister is much too young for an assignment so serious,”

Emily rolled her eyes with a scoff, as if the two had slipped back into the role of rebellious teenager and scathing mother without much thought. 

“She's twenty-two, mom. She’s getting her masters degree for Christ sakes, she’s not ‘too young’,” The dark headed woman fought back, clicking her pen a few times as if the spring loaded ink would take away some of the temper Elizabeth seemed to flare up. 

Her mother’s lips pursed, in the way Bugsy hated, in the way that meant she was going to be mean.

“Immature may have been a better word, then,” She replied, and Emily seemed to pause. She couldn’t argue with that. “Or perhaps lazy, or puerile; callow, wild, irresponsible. Would you like me to name more?” 

“Asinine would be a good term; deriving from the Latin asinus it not only means foolish, but to be stubborn and lazy like an ass,” Spencer input helpfully to the Ambassador, only for his bright smile to fade when he saw the daggers Emily stared at him with, “Sorry, I love word games,” He muttered into his lap. 

“Asinine. Perfect, Dr Reid,” Elizabeth said, and Emily could only roll her eyes harder.

Hotch huffed, the victim’s daughter watching between the two women’s quarrel with wet eyes, the ice box with her father’s finger clenched tightly in her lap, the cold of the limb bleeding into his own gaze.

“Unfortunately, Ambassador Prentiss, despite just how asinine your daughter might be, Morgan is right. Having the Unsub possibly speaking with the family without us understanding what he’s saying could prove fatal,” He explained, ignoring the way the older woman’s mouth scrunched in bitterness. They didn’t need to be profilers to see that despite how tempered the relationship between Emily and her mother was, a tension seemed to fall between the women the moment the younger Prentiss was mentioned. 

Spencer was sure he was the only person who even knew Emily had a little sister. 

“Very well, but don’t be surprised when you find your hands full of the girl,” Elizabeth said with a shake of her head as she led the victims, a mother and daughter that seemed to cling to one another for comfort as if to rub salt in her matriarchal wound, into the break room to get away from the frosty atmosphere that now lingered around the table.

Emily sighed, picking around her fingernails the way she did when she was bothered. 

“I’m going to hate these next words that are gonna come out of my mouth,” She started with a long exhale, “But my mother’s right. Bugsy is a handful. Just try not to get her wound up, that girl smells fear,” She looked to Reid who seemed none the wiser, “I’m talking to you, wonder boy. She’ll eat you up and spit you right back out,” 

Spencer gulped quietly. 

Derek only chuckled, slapping a hand down onto Emily’s shoulder, “Relax, Prentiss. Your mom’s just got you all worried. Need I remind you I grew up with two sisters? This will be a piece of cake,”

–

Those were the famous last words of Derek Morgan. 

Loud, heavy metal music jumped through the wooden door, so loud Morgan worried his three polite knocks would go unheard as the two of them waited outside her dorm for her to answer. Morgan was about to knock again, figuring the music had drowned out the first lot, when the door swung open and a frown the spitting image of Emily’s stressed expression met their gaze. 

She looked so different to their Prentiss, but the way she seemed already scorned by the two of them told them they had the right woman. 

“Miss Prentiss?” Morgan asked formally, though he felt the warmth grow when he caught sight of a beat up friendship bracelet around her wrist amongst newer gold chains, five white blocks spelling out her sister’s name pulling tight on her skin, as if she’d quickly outgrown the thing but hadn’t the heart to remove it. 

It was then that he and Reid seemed to both reel back slightly at the fact she was standing in a large shirt, ratty around the edges, and what seemed to be a pair of men's boxers covering her bottom half, clearly not suspecting particularly important visitors. 

She looked him head to toe with a frown, a dozen piercings in her ears, her hair highlighted with streaks of cardinal red, as if he was the one confronting her in his underwear, before she moved onto Spencer, who’s face seemed to be getting hotter by the second as he forced his eyes away from her bare legs. 

“Are you guys strippers? Did someone send strippers to my door?” She asked, strawberry gum smacking between her lips as her gaze seemed to finish mulling over Spencer’s tall form and returned to Morgan.

“Emily sent us.” Reid said shortly, the music blaring in his ears making it difficult to focus on what it was she was saying, “As co-workers, no-not strippers. We’re with the FBI,” 

He hated loud noises anyway, cringed at the sound of particularly cutting rock songs, but since he’d developed his … problem, the dilaudid had him feeling like someone was clawing at his skull, tugging his brain through his ears.

“Emily sent you here?” She asked with a scoff, looking the two up and down again. They both easily caught the way her face hardened, “Are pigs flying today or something?” 

“We’re here to ask for your help on a case,” Spencer rushed through a sweaty brow, “Emily said you’d be able to act as a translator for us and some Russian citizens who are being targeted,” 

She sighed sceptically, crossing her arms and leaning against the door frame, “Any strippers or non-strippers can fraud an ID. Emily’s name was in the paper just the other week. I’m gonna need a little more than that,”

She keeps track of her sister despite the supposed distance between them. Spencer was quick to profile, his mind whirring at all the ways she reminded him of her sister down to the way she raised her eyebrows expectantly at them. 

“Emily was born October twelfth, 1970 at 7:12am, graduated from Garfield High School in 1989,” Spencer said as if reporting the weather, her eyes narrowing in on him all the more coldly, “She attended Chesapeake Bay University and speaks six languages, as I expect you do from moving so often with your mother. She coined your nickname Bugsy from your childhood love of ladybugs, which she said you grew out of by the time you turned eleven yet the name stuck, though you still like counting the spots to identify their species. Your parents split when you were five and your father moved in with his now wife, born September ninth-”

“Alright- alright. What are you, living in her walls?” She interrupted incredulously, before turning her attention to Derek who seemed to hide a chuckle with a cough. “Either you really are a stripper or you’re a terrible friend,”

“She loves Kurt Vonnegut,” Derek held his finger as if to prove her entirely wrong, although not much else came to him. Maybe he was a bad friend, he thought guiltily, or maybe he simply lacked an eidetic memory like the wonder boy next to him, who had been about to tell her how old she was when Emily’s pet betta fish died, “Slaughterhouse 5?”

Rolling her eyes, she grunted at them, kicking her door open for them to enter. 

“Everyone loves Vonnegut; only losers under a rock dislike Vonnegut,” She drawled, edging back into her room, the heavy bass rock growing in volume as they followed her in, “I’ll be ready in a second- Emily’s always bugging me about wearing pants,” She said vaguely, scanning around the dirty dorm, until she found one particular pair of jeans laying half under her bed, quickly yanking them up her legs. “Come in, come in.” 

She flicked the speakers way down to which Spencer took a breath of relief. His eyes fell to the laptop that had been set up on her desk, the five different textbooks littered around the spare space, energy drinks and empty mugs filling the cracks where he could barely see the generic white of the table top, his nose crinkling. About as gross as he’d expect from a college student. 

“Emily said your Russian was pretty good,” Derek made conversation, his eyes wandering over the various posters plastered over her walls, some fraying round the edges from where she had likely been moved from bedroom to bedroom when the Prentiss’s inevitably had to move country again. 

“Yeah,” She snarked, pulling a nicer top over her head, “Kinda tends to happen when you live in Russia,”

Morgan raised his eyebrows to Spencer who seemed to give him the same look back, though the latter was biting back a snicker at her words. 

How in the hell was she the Ambassador’s daughter?

–

“This all involves Russian Mafia, it’s really beefed up here the last ten years or so,” Agent Cramer, a tall, slim man who looked entirely overwhelmed by the workload on his shoulders reported, as she listened intently. 

She had been somewhat de-briefed in the car, Emily messaging her for the first time since Christmas, the message a simple: “Have you met with Morgan and Reid yet? Make sure to put on pants,” to which she sent her a thumbs up emoji. She didn’t have much to say to her at the moment, barely even knew her sister anymore. 

“It started off mainly in New York and LA but they send lieutenants from the old country,” Cramer went on, and she caught Reid scratching his arm beneath his shirt. She knew it was mozzy weather, and he was already under the blaring sun in a little sweater, it wouldn’t surprise her if he felt a bit prickly. 

“Pahkans,” She interrupted, the man named Gideon shooting her a glance as she dug through her purse. 

“Your Mom do much work about the Mafia?” He asked, as she produced a clear nail varnish. 

“Here and there, I had to sit with her in her office for a whole Summer once when I got caught sneaking out. Picked up a few things, though,” She said, holding the polish out to Spencer, nodding to his arm, “Here. Supposed to help bug bites,”

He looked at her as if he wanted to say something, perhaps question her sources for such an old wives tale, but he stopped himself quickly, taking the varnish out of her hand with a dejected nod. 

“Thankyou,” He muttered, shoving it in his pocket. 

Three months he’d been in this rabbit hole. She had noticed it in a matter of hours. 

“They open up branch offices in other cities. Baltimore, Saint Louis, Chicago, Dallas, the list goes on,” Cramer added, nodding at her words, “They’re mainly offshoots of the Odessa Mafia and they’re especially tough to crack from a law enforcement standpoint. I mean beside being well organised with sophisticated technical equipment, there’s Vory v Zakone to contend with,” 

“The thieves code, eighteen principles they live by,” Reid jumped in before she could, to which she nodded as Gideon looked to her for more. 

“It means ‘thief in law’, or ‘thief with code’. It's a system of repeatedly jailed convicts that have been crowned or ‘made’ with a strict list of ideals, breaking them usually means death,” She explained, kicking a stone between her feet. 

“It’s like bible to these guys. We’re not gonna be turning any of them informer anytime soon,” Cramer said. Gideon seemed to tune the three of them out however, his gaze locking on the house across the street, where a curtain twitched, and a man’s face appeared in the window, watching the crime scene with guilt. 

“Then we’ll need a witness who will talk,” Gideon replied, heading straight towards the neighbour who seemed just a little too invested in what was happening, much more than a concerned third party should be. Though, she had barely noticed, digging through her purse once more for chapstick. 

“So, you study Russian or something?” Cramer asked as she applied it gently, Spencer swore he could smell the cherry flavour from where he stood beside her. 

“I lived in Moscow until I was six, moved back to France, then back to Italy, then Algeria for a bit. Bounced around Europe for a bit longer, but I still speak better Russian than anything else,” She clarified, and she saw Cramer’s eyebrows shoot up, “Military brat except I don’t get the cool discount at the store,” 

“You must have had a lot of friends though, going to so many schools,” Spencer added, and though there was nothing teasing about his tone, she laughed sharply anyway. 

“You’re funny,” She snarked, but smiled at him anyway.

Spencer had never been called funny in his life. ‘Funny looking’, ‘funny sounding’ maybe, but never funny. 

In fact he was so confused by what she had meant, whether it had been a taunt or genuine that he almost missed the sound of the whole street locking their front doors, dead bolting their lives away when a black prius, an expensive one at that, pulled through the street and swerved into park next to them. 

“Guess who,” Cramer bit, her eyes ripping away from where Gideon had the door slammed in his face. 

Detective Cramer aged by about five years when two tall men got out of the luxury car, opening the door for a shorter man in the back seat, their faces thunder. 

“You familiar with them?” She asked, shoulder brushing against Spencer as she turned to watch the men approach, entirely aware of the .9mm on each of their hips. 

“Arseny Lysowsky,” The detective identified, his voice cold, eyeing the two men who flanked the leader, towering over them. 

“Agent Cramer, how are you?” Lysowsky smiled at him, which oddly enough seemed somewhat real, as he also took stock of the three other people around him. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, noting her lack of gun and badge, trying to decipher if she was local or just a very unprepared fed. 

“Lysowsky, what brings you out?” Cramer asked, a tightness to his tone, his hand all too eager to grab his own pistol. 

“I heard Chernuses had problems,” He kept it vague, didn’t reveal too much, and looked back at the victim’s house with a scorned frown. 

“How did you hear that?” Gideon challenged, stance unwavering as the mob leader turned to meet his cold gaze. 

“And you are?” He asked, a sinister smile on his face that flipped her stomach. She didn’t like the tension that had overcome the little patch of sidewalk they took up, and she was quick to notice how Spencer moved towards her. 

He, by far, wasn’t the best shot on the team, but he was sure Hotch and Prentiss would have his and Morgan’s heads if any harm came to her. 

“Churneses said they hadn’t told anyone,” Agent Gideon ignored his question, hands firmly planted on his hips. If he was unnerved by the criminal in front of him, he never showed it, not even when Lysowsky’s grin widened horribly. 

“It is a small community. Word gets out,” He said simply, looking past him to the neighbours house that had kicked Gideon to the curb, “Are you a friend of Gorban’s?”

A second of silence passed between them, neither of them backing down from the moral standoff they’d engaged in. 

“Mr Gorban wouldn’t talk to me,” Gideon admitted, and Arseny only smiled again, flicking a look at the house behind him, as if hearing his dog had obeyed without command. 

“Would you like me to talk to him for you?” The threat was there clear as day, clear enough to have Gideon’s eyes narrow, “I can’t promise something will come of it,” 

“You!” In a second, Natalya, the victim she’d briefly met when Morgan had pulled up around an hour before, had stormed out of her house, her black kitten heels clicking against the concrete, “Where’s my father? He has my father!” 

“Wait a minute,” Derek called, restraining her where she stood, trying to pull his muscled arm from her shoulder, “Do you know he has your father?” 

“He’s responsible for all of this,” She spat, her eyes cold as she glared at the three men with vitriol hate, “Why everyone’s afraid, him and his animals,” She threw a hand up to his bodyguards that seemed barely contained by Cramer’s silencing hand. 

“I am only here to help,” Lysowsky replied, confident and calm in his words, though not as taunting as the agents would have thought, as if he truly cared for her.

A vast difference to the sadistic mob boss Cramer’s team had painted him to be. 

“Help?” She laughed woefully, tears in her eyes, “You’re a dog,” 

“Natalya,” Arseny said in a warning, the way a teacher would to a student, as her breath rattled in her chest through a weep. 

“How exactly can you help them?” Bugsy braved to speak, Gideon and Reid both flashing her a look. She’d always had trouble holding her tongue. 

Lysowsky turned his attention to her then, his eyes running down her figure, still deciphering whether she was armed; she looked much too young to be an agent. 

“In any way that they’d like me to, darling,” He replied, the disdain in her frown clearly not deterring him in the slightest, though again the act of concern held up in his own grimace, “As I said this is a small community. If one is in pain, we’re all in pain.”

Natalya weeped behind Morgan, sniffling as the boss made his way over to her, “Natalya, [you didn’t have to bring in outsiders],” 

The younger woman’s ears pricked up as he spoke in his native language, Spencer’s eyes flicking to her from behind his sunglasses. 

“[Let me help you],” He continued, taking a step towards Natalya, unthreatening yet she saw Morgan tense, his fingers twitching towards his gun. 

“[My family will never come to you for help],” Natalya hissed back, also in Russian, her face contorted in disgust, “[Get away from my house],” 

“[You are not right, Natalya],” He replied, yet again the concern in his eyes was either genuine or very well faked, “[You have made the wrong decision],” 

Taking a step away from the victim that wept with a scorned sneer, he looked back to the agents, noting the way the youngest of them glared at him hotly, before retreating to his car. 

“What did he say? Did he threaten you, Natalya?” Morgan asked, the woman watching the group of men drive away, as if Mr Chernus wasn’t still missing and they hadn’t just bumped themselves up to number one of the suspects list. “Talk to us and we can do something about it,”

“He said I made the wrong decision,” She said wetly, frustration turning on Derek as he pushed her for an answer, “I hope I didn’t,” 

With that she stormed off back into her house, the same stomping of her kitten heels in her wake, leaving the agents to all look between one another before they simultaneously turned to look at Bugsy, questions hovering on all of their lips. 

“What did he say exactly?” Gideon asked without frills, a hand rubbing his brow. Relaying the information, the men’s faces all drew into frowns as they heard Lysowsky’s parting statement. Gideon huffed, turning to Morgan and gesturing for him to follow Natalya inside. 

“Morgan, keep an eye on her, Reid and I are going to Cramer’s office to look over the files,” He looked at her then, worry lines littering his otherwise friendly face, damn near scowling as she looked over at him, “You are here to interpret, you understand? You do not speak to the suspects, that’s our job.” He growled, watching her with disappointment, the same tone a father used when scolding a petulant child, “Do you have any idea how much danger you could put yourself in? These guys won’t hesitate to take you out the second we’re not around, kid,” 

“But-” She started with a bite, though her whole fight left her when he silenced her with a raised hand. 

“Buts are for cigarettes, kiddo,” He interrupted, and Spencer winced slightly, knowing he’d heard that one a few hundred times when he’d first started under Gideon and had yet to mature entirely. Reid watched something rebellious flare in her eyes, and he worried for a moment she might just slap his boss for the patronising tone he took, “Just keep your mouth shut, you’re doing great so far,” 

She opened her mouth to protest, only to then register his words entirely and stay silent once more, appreciating his praise with a guilty smile. For once, she listened. 

–

The grandfather clock chimed to tell them it was merely 11am; two hours until the unsub would start cutting more if they didn’t get the ransom fee, two hours to figure out who wanted Natalya’s family to suffer. 

Said woman paced her living room at the sound of the hour, as Bugsy picked over the knick knacks on her fireplace, a small smile teasing her lips when she saw a picture of three small children grinning toothily at the camera. 

She had never gotten any photo’s similar, Emily being fourteen years older. The majority of their childhood photos consisted of a very grumpy teenager holding her baby sister that seemed to squirm in the tight, formal dresses Elizabeth Prentiss had forced them into, identical scowls on their faces as they were made to sit for the picture. 

There were some good memories, ones where Emily let herself be a sister and not a mom, where she would put makeup on her for fun and do her hair, let her have all the clothes out her wardrobe she thought looked nice, reading to her before bed, even letting her sister keep her pet corn snake when she left home for good. 

But now, it seemed like she was too caught up in her super serious grown up job to give a shit that her sister lived just an hour away. Still messaged each other for holidays, but the last few times she’d braved a call to the eldest Prentiss, it had gone unanswered. They argued the majority of the time they spoke, or there was an awkward long silence in between words, whichever was worse, but they each knew the other would come running if they were to ever need them so desperately. 

“Are you hungry? I could make something?” Natalya offered kindly, Derek having a poke through her collection of books that sat on the end table, though he’d have a tough job reading them as she’d already caught most of them were in her home language. 

“Oh, no thanks. I’m fine,” He replied with a small smile, putting down the books to calm the clearly on edge woman that looked to the twenty-something year old hopefully. 

She shook her head, “I’m good, thanks,” which seemed to deflate her entirely as she sat next to Derek with a sigh.

“I guess I’m like my mother. When she’s upset, she cooks,” Natalya said with a sad huff of a laugh, running a hand through her short, dark hair. 

“Yeah, mine does too. I think that’s just a mom thing,” He replied, and Bugsy felt the two of them look at her as her finger traced the old brass ornaments gently, “How about you, baby Prentiss?” 

She snorted, “You’re kidding, right?” smiling bitterly, “My mom never cooked for us, she said we needed to figure it out for ourselves rather than relying on the staff. Didn’t stop her from trying to end world hunger though,” 

It wasn’t lost to Morgan the way her eyes trained on the picture of Natalya and her mother, cuddled together with genuine love in their embrace, the snarky humour as she spoke, the same longing Emily seemed almost too good at hiding from them. 

“Your mother is a great woman,” Natalya complimented, though she missed the way the girl’s face steeled over, chewing her bottom lip as if to stop herself from snapping at the woman who meant well. She said nothing. “Where is your mother?” She turned her attention back to Derek who seemed the more talkative of the two of them. 

“Chicago. That’s where I’m from,” He replied, watching Bugsy turn away from the two of them to inspect more of the Chernus’s trinkets on their walls. 

“I’m from Dolgoprudny. Just North of Moscow.” Natalya replied. Opening her mouth to add something else, she was cut off by a knock at the door and the three of them froze in their place. 

“Are you expecting someone?” Morgan asked Natalya in a hushed tone, reaching for his gun and heading for the door. 

She shook her head, “No,” She whispered back. Morgan pulled the curtain back the smallest inch to see a small blonde boy staring back, a box in his hands and a bored look on his face. 

It all happened too fast from there, Natalya opening the door for the neighbourhood kid, opening the box to see a decapitated ear, the blood fresh and pooling in the bottom of the box. It couldn’t have been taken longer than an hour or so ago, unless they were keeping the parts on ice. 

Bugsy’s hand slapped over her mouth, Natalya’s scream piercing through her as she shoved the box into Derek’s hands, fleeing to the toilet, and she heard the woman retching. Part of her felt the same nausea settle in her stomach, looking away from the body part with a wince as Derek got straight on the phone to Gideon. 

“They didn’t wait, man. They sent a box with-” He swallowed thickly, “With Mr Chernus’s ear inside.”

Gideon replied, and whatever it was, it had Derek looking back to her. He agreed, hanging up the phone and rooting through his pockets, producing a set of rattling keys, holding them out for you between the tips of his fingers. 

“Gideon wants you, kid. He said they’re at the Little Kiev restaurant, they’re going to talk to Lysowsky,” Morgan said, grimacing as he held the ear away from her, “You sure you’ll be okay to drive?” 

“I’d rather be on the road than look at what’s in that box,” She said in disgust, taking the keys and heading out to the car.

She thought it best for everyone she didn’t tell him she hadn’t yet got her licence as she made her way over to the restaurant. 

-

“Reid and I will do the talking, just see if anything he’s saying connects with Vory v zakone, think you got that?” Gideon instructed her the second she got out of the car, taking the keys and handing them back to Reid who gave her a small nod. 

“We think the reason it was Mr Chernus who was targeted has something to do with the code,” Reid explained, his hands in his pockets as the three of them approached the restaurant, “You said earlier you understood the tenants,” 

“Why me, though? I thought I was just translating?” She repeated Gideon’s earlier words, almost cocky that they needed her.

“Lysowsky would feel the need to show face in front of men like Morgan and Cramer, even in front of Natalya since she lives locally. Between the three of us, he had less reputation to uphold, less so with a young woman like yourself,” Reid added, holding the door open for her to go in front. 

And so there she was, trailing behind Gideon and Reid over to where Lysowsky sipped a spoonful of borscht, as she tried not to marvel at the grandeur of the establishment inside. Clearly, Arsney had money to build a place like this, and wasn’t afraid to be flashy about it either, that much was apparent from the other clientele that tended to their beers around their own tables, Rolex watches and designer shoes adorning nearly every one of them. She hated to think of how many ears or fingers those suits had cost. 

“Would you like something to eat?” He asked, a chunk of bread in his hand dipping into the thick sauce, seemingly unbothered that they were there, “This borscht is exquisite, it’s my mother’s old country recipe,” 

“Didn’t you forsake all your relatives when you swore the thieves code?” Reid asked, which she guessed was hit foot in to get Lysowsky to talk. 

“I didn’t forsake her recipes,” Lysowsky replied with a shrug, looking to her where she seemed to be staring at his plate, “Borscht?” 

She shook her head, her nose wrinkling, “Much preferred stroganoff, mom used to force me to have borscht to make sure I ate my veggies,”  

His eyebrows raised, surprise written over his face, before he gave a short laugh. 

“[Where are you from]?” He asked in his mother tongue, gesturing for the three of them to sit down, though his eyes lit up as he watched her carefully. 

“[I was born in DC, but my mother worked in Moscow for a few years],” She answered shortly, and he seemed to find it even funnier that the near child they’d brought along on their case spoke as fluently as he did. 

Laughing with a heavy hand smacking on the table, he gestured to a nearby waiting staff to come over. 

“What are you having then, borscht for the gentle man?” He looked at Reid and Gideon, the former shaking his head while Gideon nodded with an awkward smile. 

“I’d love a taste,” He said, though any enthusiasm seemed to have drained out of his voice. 

“And what is the little lady having?” Lysowsky asked, his eyes falling back to her, as she straightened in her seat. 

She chanced a quick glance to Gideon, who nodded at her to play his game. She had not expected to be so deep in criminal territory when they’d said they needed a translator, and truly they hadn’t planned on getting her in the field until they realised she would know much more about this than they would.

“Do you have sharlotka?” She asked, returning his smile wearily as he clicked at the waiter who all but bolted to the kitchen. 

“A sweet tooth. I like it,” Arseny replied, shovelling a heap of beets into his mouth, “Our favourite was always Leningradsky,”

“Ours?” She prompted, giving a polite thanks to the waiter who returned too quickly with a slice of cake. She caught Spencer glancing at the bowl with intrigue, the hunger clear on the quiet man’s face. Gently pushing the bowl and clean spoon towards him, he flicked a look up at her, “Apple cake,” She whispered, sending him a small smile, “Really yummy with the sugar on top,” 

“Mine and my mother’s,” Arseny replied, though Gideon and Reid both caught how he paused before he replied, as if he had to think about the answer he was giving; the oldest tell that it wasn’t entirely true, “We didn’t have much when I was a boy, but that was always our dessert of choice,” 

She stopped for a mere second, missing the moment when Spencer spooned the tiniest bite of the cake into his mouth, trying to ignore the way his tongue exploded in the sweet, fruit taste. He hadn’t eaten anything properly in days, and maybe that was why it tasted so good, but more likely it was just the fact that everything sweet tasted even better when he was on his come downs. 

“We need to talk, Arseny,” Gideon interrupted, ignoring the way Spencer pined to go back in for a second mouthful, but chose to hand the bowl back to her with a small smile. 

“We are on first name basis?” Lysowsky asked, shaking his head, and she took a small bite of the sweet cake for herself, “I still don’t even know who you are,” 

“I think I understand something about this,” Gideon replied, his thumbs tapping together, the waiter returning with his borscht, “You have a problem,” 

“I do?” The pahkan titled his head at the agent, the annoyance clear on his face. 

“That’s why you came to the Chernus’ house this morning,” Gideon answered, unbothered as he began to scoop the borscht onto the spoon, the apple cake in her own mouth going down a treat. 

She kept her head down, took tiny bites of the dessert that certainly tasted like a fresh baked sharlotka. But her thoughts lingered on what Lysowsky had said, about his own favourite pudding. 

It made no sense that he would have ever tasted Leningradsky shortbread, not for the time that he was born, nor with the amount of money he claimed his family lacked. Infact, the way he fully pronounced his vowels, the akanye, the stress he put on certain parts of his words, all pointed to the same dialect you’d heard back in Moscow, more central than anything else. 

So how on earth would he have eaten the so-called ‘Royal Cake’ that had only been made eight hours from there, in the town it grew its name from. 

There was something glaringly obvious about his story missing. 

“A man like me?” She tuned back into the conversation, swallowing another mouthful down as Gideon took another bite himself, though it seemed the topic had turned sour as Arseny wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin. 

“Four watchtowers and a convict signifies a stay in prison,” Spencer cut in, nodding towards the tattoos branded across his knuckles, “Each one of those crosses symbolises an individual sentence,” 

“Twenty three years in prison in the Ural mountains,” 

But she was still stuck on what it was she was missing. It had been such an odd thing to lie about, particularly when he’d even admitted himself that they hadn’t had much money, so he clearly hadn’t been lying to fake a reputation. 

So why lie?

She was ripped out of her stumped silence when Natalya entered the restaurant, her voice grabbing the men’s attention immediately. 

“Mr Lysowsky. You said you could help me,” She said, her purse over her shoulder and her own car keys gripped tightly in her hand as if she’d all but thrown herself out the vehicle to get there faster. 

“Don’t you already have help,” Lysowsky snapped, clearly Gideon had dug under his skin enough to garner a reaction. 

“I made a mistake,” Natalya replied, barely meeting Bugsy’s gaze as she stared at her from her seat at the table. “I talked to my father on the phone,” 

The girl frowned at her, “That’s a lie,” It came out before she could hold herself, brows furrowed at whatever it was she was trying to pull. Gideon said her name in a reprimand, though he too was looking at the woman as if she’d grown a second head. 

“Thankyou for coming, but I don’t need your help,” The woman met her confused look with a saddened expression, nodding to her solemnly. 

Leave it alone, she seemed to be saying, there’s nothing more I want you to do. 

And with that, the two of them left the restaurant, Natalya walking by his side obediently, her purse tucked in close under her arm, as Morgan and Cramer filed in from the parking lot, watching their only leads drive away without a fight. 

–

The team were quick to head back to Natalya’s home, only to find the ear missing and the finger gone too, the only evidence left of any crime being committed leaving with the victim’s daughter herself. 

“She’s not here, and the garbage was never taken out,” Morgan said with a grimace as he walked down the front steps to meet the four of them on the sidewalk. 

“Her dad just went missing, surely we can cut the girl some slack-” Bugsy words were hidden in a huff, rolling your eyes at the man who cut a glance to her. 

“No, no. When Hotch first talked to us, he said she noticed her father’s car in the driveway when she took the garbage out,” Morgan explained, his shades blocking the way the cogs turned behind his dark eyes. 

“Right?” Reid asked, his own sunglasses now covering his eyes that winced at the brightness, surrounding them.

“Garbage can in the kitchen is completely full, she never took it out.” 

“She lied,” Gideon said with finality, the penny beginning to drop for him too. 

“She could be half way back to Dolgo-whatever by now,” Morgan scoffed, his arms smacking against his side as the lightbulb went off over her head, the final puzzle piece falling into place. 

“Dolgoprudny?” Spencer asked, exchanging a glance with Cramer, “Isn’t that where Lysowsky’s from-”

“Yes, YES, of course!” She exclaimed, grabbing onto Spencer’s arm as he spoke. 

He looked at her with wide eyes, not that she could see since his shades blocked the way, only to feel her shake him harder in the midst of her enthusiasm. Part of him wanted to rip his arm out of her grip, waiting for the sickness to crawl up his throat at a strangers germs touching him, but the oddest part of him reasoned she had the same germs as Emily did, that the fifty percent DNA the women shared negated the fact she was a stranger, just as it did when he met Jack. Jack had Hotch germs. Bugsy had Emily’s. He didn’t feel so sick thinking of it like that. 

“I knew I was missing something,” She said, turning to Gideon, “He was lying before, about his favourite dessert. There was no way he could have had Leningradsky with his mother. Given his age, at that time in Soviet Russia, shortbread was incredibly expensive, only extremely wealthy families could have eaten it. That, and given the Central dialect he speaks in, I’d pinpointed he lives somewhere near or around Moscow, which means there was no way he was eating that cake considering it was only ever baked in one shop at first, one way up in Leningrad, where St Petersburg is now, like nine hours away from Moscow-” 

“What’s your point?” Cramer asked, tired of the somewhat slew of thoughts she’d been saving until she knew for sure what she meant. 

“Before when he said it was ‘our favourite’, I don’t think he was talking about him and his mother,” She explained, looking to see if Spencer at least understood what she was getting at. 

“It was him and his own child…” Spencer finished, as Morgan’s phone began ringing.

“Yeah, what?” He asked, the frustration clear in his tone that they were all still without the evidence needed to pin it on Lysowsky, “You’re sure? Uh-huh. Okay, thanks doll,” 

The four of them looked at him expectantly as he nodded to her, “Garcia just got into the bank’s system, somebody wired 500 thousand dollars into the account ten minutes ago,”

“Who wired it?” Spencer asked, though he was still reeling from the way she’d touched him, the way her voice went up about five octaves and a dozen decibels.

“She didn’t say, but the name on the account is Lyov Fulenko. She says that’s Lysowsky’s wife’s maiden name. Fulenko.” Morgan replied, and her brows furrowed. 

“Why did she bring us into this?” Gideon asked, though the solemn look on his face said he already knew, “Because she needed to put pressure on the other victim,” 

Gideon headed towards Mr Gorban’s house once more, though it was clear he had already sketched out in his head who was their unsub and Natalya’s involvement, he simply needed the confirmation. 

Morgan clapped a hand on her back, “Nice job, baby Prentiss. Those were some mean profiling skills out there,”

She frowned at him, scoffing,  “I’m not a profiler, that’s Emily’s job. It was just basic linguistics really; more a display of how I need to lay off cake for a while.”

The man kissed his teeth with a grin, “Don’t put yourself down. What’s your degree even in?”

She shrugged, picking under her nails for something to do, “Individualised genomics and health.” She said as if it were child’s play, though Spencer’s head shot to her. 

“Biotechnology?” He asked, and she glanced at him with a nod, “What’s your thesis on?” 

Gideon had returned by the time he’s asked, and began corralling the two of them back to the car, “We’re heading back to the restaurant. We need to speak with Lysowsky again,” 

But it had fallen on deaf ears as Spencer looked at her expectantly. 

“Just some new research into prenatal screening, nothing too fun,” She simpered, climbing into the back seat as he nodded with her. 

“I read a fascinating paper on the uses of hCG in a woman’s body-” 

“Reid,” Gideon cut him off with a short glance from the front seat, “Continue this conversation once we’ve found Mr Chernus alive,” 

Spencer blushed, feeling like a kid caught in the cookie jar, “Sorry, sir,” He looked over at her, only to see her hiding a smile to herself. 

He thinks it was then he’d decided Emily had been wrong about her.

-

“You paid the ransom already,” Gideon said plainly, the four of them trailing behind him as he followed Lysowsky to a small seating area in the front of the restaurant. She could tell the whole way Spencer had been itching to ask her more questions about her paper, barely contained as his fingers had twitched in his lap, but he seemed to straighten himself out once she’d reached the restaurant, “You paid all the ransoms,”

“Sit,” The boss ordered, barely glancing at them as he held his strong whiskey up.

“Are they going to kill Mr Chernus?” Morgan asked, cutting to the chase as Lysowsky spared him a bored glance.

“No,” He replied shortly, the look on his face about as grumpy as when they’d left. 

“The account is in the name of Lyov Fulenko. Lyov is a man’s name.” Spencer input, crossing his arms as the boss glared at him, “A son’s name. Vory v Zakone. Never have a family of your own. No wife. No children.”

“Lyov,” He looked at her then, gesturing to her with the glass of strong liquor, “You know what it means?”

“The Lion,” She replied gravely, steeling herself against his dark eyes. 

“No one else would be so stupid,” Lysowsky ran a hand over his weathered face, swigging his drink as if it was the only thing keeping him talking. “At first it didn’t mean much. It was a way of letting him earn his own money. I could afford it, it came from the fund. And no one questions the use of the fund-”

“Where is he?” Gideon asked, his elbows on his knees as he leaned in.

“What else could I do?” He was ignored, “I couldn’t admit I wasn’t blessing the kidnappings, I couldn’t even admit my son existed.” He huffed when he saw Gideon’s face unmoving from the glower, his question still unanswered, “Chernus will be home in a few minutes. You should be there, he will need medical attention,” He shooed them away, with his final words, drink sloshing in his hand. His face darkened, impossibly so, and the five of them looked at him, something sad and remorseful shining back. 

“What are you gonna do?” She asked, though she had a feeling she already knew the answer. 

“Vory v Zakone.” He said heavily, nodding to her, “We take care of our own troubles.”

It was a silent journey back to the Chernus’ house. 

-

Morgan and Reid pulled up to the campus, the younger girl in the back seat almost dozing off with the rhythmic hum of the engine, the evening sun much nicer on Spencer’s sensitive eyes. 

“This is you, baby Prentiss,” Derek’s voice jolted her out of the half sleep she was in, straightening herself from where she had her head pressed against the window. 

“Thanks,” She muttered, rubbing her eyes and unbuckling herself as they did the same, assuming they wanted to walk her back to her dorm since it had gotten dark, “I’ll be okay on my own, campus security should be out by now,”

“You sure?” Reid asked, flicking his watch up to his eyes to see the meagre 6:13pm staring back at him, “I thought they started at 7,”

She blinked at him, her eyebrows quirking for a moment, “How do you know that?”

“Johns Hopkins was my backup option- well actually it was my third, I much preferred Caltech’s curriculum, Yale was my second-” He started, flicking a glance to her where she waited for him to finish, “Not that Johns was bad, there were just better- alternative options out there-” 

“Don’t shit your pants, I’m hardly the dean of the university,” She chuckled indignantly patting them both on the shoulder before sliding over to open the door, “Nice meeting you both, I’ll just get back to my mediocre college with my poor curriculum, nothing like the solid gold bathrooms at Caltech-”

“I never said that!” She laughed again, with her whole chest, at his defensive tone as she stepped out the car, hand on the door to shut it behind her. 

Leaning down to give them both a wave goodbye, Derek’s voice stopped her again, “Baby Prentiss, do us all a favour and enrol yourself into forensics, we need more people on our team,”

Smirking at him, she shook her head, “Very funny. Never gonna happen. I like my little slides and samples, thankyou,” 

Slamming the door on the two of them she headed for the front gates, swinging her purse over her shoulder. She was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, and she quickly realised she’d been too tired to even realise a set of footsteps jogging after her. 

Maybe she should have taken that walk home after all. 

Whirling around, her eyes widened as Spencer had clearly not been leader of the track team as he was half out of breath just from the few feet he’d covered, though she reckoned she could have guessed that seeing his lean ribs beneath his shirt.

He shoved a business card in her face as he caught his breath, though it was more just his name and credentials followed by a phone number. 

“I-I don’t have email otherwise I would-” He huffed, scratching his forehead as she frowned and looked at him.

“I’ve never been hit on via business card before,” She bit her lip with a smile, reading over the card again as he choked on his words even more than before.

“N-no, I-” He spluttered, ignoring the way Morgan beeped the horn for him, seemingly in a debate with a ticket metre that had caught him parked on yellow, “If you needed us for anything, or if you needed a second pair of eyes for your thesis, I’m happy to help,”

“You don’t have faith in the dummy that got into Johns?” She asked, and his head couldn’t shake fast enough, though he seemed to catch her teasing and shared her smile, “Thanks, Dr Reid,” 

“Spencer’s just fine,” He said, giving her a small nod and a wave as Morgan’s palm bounced on the horn a dozen times. She flashed him one more smile, pocketing his number and heading back to her dorm, wondering what the doctor would think about the paper due in tomorrow she’d yet to get started on.

+1. The one where you get arrested.

The case had been heavy. They’d felt it in the car on the way back to headquarters. A little girl, molested and groomed by her own uncle, his own wife covering for him. 

His mother always told him love makes you do crazy things, but Spencer hoped that whatever part of him worth loving would at least stay sane by the time he found the one. He was loyal to his team, to his mother, but that was where he drew the line. He was loyal to his family, undoubtedly so. 

Yet so was Emily. 

The call came to the second SUV, her phone set up to hands free mode, quickly flicking to answer the call on speaker, the other half of the team ahead of them on the freeway. 

“Prentiss, speaking. Who is this?” She spoke clearly to the unknown number, her knuckles going white at the wheel when she heard a nervous laugh.

“It’s me,” Her sister mumbled through the speaker, “You wouldn’t by any chance be near DC would you?” 

She huffed, cursing the knack Prentiss women had for showing up at the worst times. 

“Can’t this wait, I’m on the clock,” Emily hissed, her finger edging towards the ‘End Call’ button, “I’ll call you after,”

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up!” As if sensing her movements, she all but screeched, “This was my one phone call, they won’t let me have another,” 

The car went silent for a moment, Spencer’s eyes narrowing on the dash from his place in the passenger seat, JJ also leaning forward from the back with a frown. 

Emily grit her teeth, her upper lip twitching the way it did when she was mad. 

“What do you mean by one phone call? Where are you?” She bit in a cautious tone, though knowing how reckless Bugsy tended to be, she had a pretty good idea. 

The hesitation on the other end of the line was palpable, as was the way she awkwardly cleared her throat. 

“Fairfax County Jail,” She murmured sheepishly, “But it wasn’t my fault, these assholes don’t know what they’re talking about, I swear-”

“Stay there and keep your mouth shut,” Emily ordered, her expression furrowing into a sneer, “And for the love of god don’t antagonise the officers,” 

The agent didn’t even wait for a response, knowing it would probably be something snarky, her mind already racing at what the hell her sister could have done this time, every worst possible explanation jumping to the forefront. 

“I’ll call Hotch and tell him to turn around,” JJ offered, her fingers already searching her contacts for their boss, as Emily sighed through her nose. 

“Tell him not to worry, I’ll drop you guys back to headquarters, make my way there myself,” She said, picking the skin of her nail softly with her thumb. 

“By the time we’ve reached Quantico, visiting times will be over and she’ll have to stay the night,” Spencer pointed out, his own surprise evident. Sure, she had certainly been a personality when they had met, but a criminal seemed a stretch. 

“Maybe it would teach her a lesson,” Emily mused, shaking her head to herself, “Who am I kidding, that psycho would Shawshank her way out of there by dawn,”

“You don’t actually think she would hurt anyone do you?” JJ said, the dial tone ringing out from the phone she held to her ear. 

“Wouldn’t put it past her. She once cut a girl's pigtail off for wearing the same dress as her on her birthday,” Emily winced as Spencer’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. 

“I thought getting swirlied was bad,” He muttered, watching out the window as Emily made a U-turn at the traffic lights. He and the now twenty three year old had been bouncing research papers back and forth for a few months, the odd one every week, Bugsy even once joking it was much more interesting and riveting than foreplay, which had his face red hot at his desk.

She was like that, he’d quickly realised, had a vulgar sort of humour about her, yet he couldn’t help the snigger that came out whenever he’d receive one of his papers back through the mail with pink writing scrawled all over his ideas. The little hearts that dotted her exclamations whenever she wrote “AMAZING!”, the odd time she’d written “sexy ideas, doctor Reid” which he’d come to understand meant it was really good. He’d even gotten back the drawing at the end of the paper of a stickman of the two of them, his hair a curly scribble and a purple tie which told him immediately who was who, her line of a hand pointing at his caricature with the speech bubble, “everyone point and wave at the smart man,” which had made him laugh. 

She was odd, toeing the line between childish and witty, nothing like the scholars he usually worked with, and the writing he usually sent back on her papers were all in standard black ink, his own pharmacist handwriting staring back at him as he crammed in his every thought of her research into the margins. If she couldn’t read it, she hadn’t said, but he liked to think she took notice of it all, even if it wasn’t strewn with stars and doodles and the occasional flirt he knew meant nothing. He knew her from her writing, knew her from her ideas that sometimes kept him up at night thinking more about them, but the two of them hadn’t spoken directly, most certainty hadn’t seen one another since that day with the Chernus’.

Emily hummed, fingers drumming on the wheel, entirely unaware of the thoughts rattling around in Spencer’s head, then again that’s how it always was, “I just pray to god she’s listened to me for once in her damn life and keeps quiet,”

-

“Fucking bitch. The nuns in Moscow hit harder than you,” She spat, blood dribbling from her split lip. She wasn’t entirely lying, but god did her mouth sing with pain as she tried to muffle a moan. 

“You got jokes, pig lover?” The other woman asked, a tattoo covering half her cheek, her nose crooked from the shiner the Prentiss girl had already given her. “Won’t be fucking laughing when I’m done, bitch,” The woman was quick to tackle the girl around her stomach, slamming her into the hard concrete of the holding cell. Bugsy felt her skull rattle, the wind whooshing from her chest as rough hands grab her shirt and pin her down harder. 

The younger girl reached the nerve under her opponent's armpit, the soft of her ribs, twisting until the woman gave a bark of shock, and she took the opportunity to shove her off, climbing on top of her as they both scrambled for some sort of control.

“I got one for you. What’s got a broken nose, a black eye and doesn’t know what’s good for her?” She swung twice as hard, the other women in the cell rattling against the bars as if watching a matador taunt a bull, the air thick with excitement as the two of them cursed eachother out.

Emily’s sigh was audible across the room as the wardens separated the cat fight, the largest of the officers all but grabbing her sister by the scruff of the neck like a feral beast, dragging her over with stubborn feet to where the BAU stood in the lobby, eyes widened at the state of her. 

“You better start acting your age, little girl. Mommy’s not gonna be around forever to save you,” The officer hissed in her ear, manhandling her over to where Emily glared daggers into the side of her head. She knew that look, it was eerily similar to mom’s that time she’d been caught sneaking out of the house, something in the warm brown of Emily’s eyes frosting over into a cold blackness. Fury. 

She chewed her words for a moment, waiting until the man had turned around with a grunt of acknowledgement to the badge Emily had flashed to get his attention, before she spoke. 

“She’s not my mom, she's my sister, dumbass-” Emily slapped a hand over her mouth, gripping her shoulder with the bear-like strength her jagged nails possessed when she was mad, the scoff of disgrace leaving her mouth as her team trailed behind the two of them. 

“What the hell happened, baby Prentiss?” Morgan asked, ignoring the way Emily’s heated gaze turned on him, “What’s got you so worked up?”

“Don’t entertain her, Morgan,” Emily seethed, all but shoving her into the back of the SUV. She looked up at her sister with an open mouth, the guilt flashing in her eyes as she wavered under the pointing finger Emily jabbed in her face, “Don't you even dare,” 

“But-” She stammered, cut off when she saw the glare intensified, if that had even been possible. 

“I don’t want to hear another word from you for the rest of the day unless you’re prepared to give me a good explanation why I’ve dragged my team out here to save your sorry ass,” Emily hissed, and the girl’s mouth bobbed a few times, feeling the rest of the team watching as she got thoroughly chewed out. 

“Wait-” Emily’s hand lingered at the car door, ready to slam it in her face as she rubbed her cuff over her chin, mopping up the damage. Her head tilted for a moment, hoping her sister had something good to say, only for it to be; “He just called you old, I hope you realise that,”

Emily’s gaze darkened, slamming the door shut with an anger she imagined her mother had kept warm for the past twenty three years, whirling around heatedly when she heard a snigger from one Derek Morgan. 

“Damn, mama, hear the girl out.” He said, slapping a hand on the woman’s shoulder as he passed, heading back to their own SUV, “Maybe she’ll surprise you,” 

If Emily was going to bite anything back, she didn’t. Instead she ran a hand over her brow, the group disbanding to their cars now the problem child had been picked up from daycare, except for Hotch who watched the older Prentiss with a scowl, despite the worry in his eyes. 

“Hotch, I’m so sorry, just take it off my timecard, I’ll cover all the costs,” She said shakily, her own frown adorning her face as she felt herself blush from embarrassment under her boss’s gaze. 

“I understand she’s your sister, but this was a gross misuse of agent time and resources, Prentiss,” He said, his gaze drifting to where Spencer sat next to the girl, pulling a packet of tissues and hand sanitizer out of his satchel while JJ rooted through her own purse for a plaster, “Don’t let it happen again,” 

Emily nodded vehemently, flushed with anger, her palms sticky as she wiped them on her jeans. 

“Absolutely sir. Believe me, this ever happens again, she’s on her own,” She replied, though they both knew she didn’t mean it. Emily would never. 

He nodded stonily, deciding quickly that it was punishment enough that she felt so ashamed, he knew from his years of arguments with Sean what it was like to have a sibling stray so far. 

“We can fill out reports in the morning, just get Reid and JJ home,” Hotch said, putting a tentative hand on her shoulder as he passed her to head towards his own vehicle, “And try not to kill each other in the company car. It doesn’t look good on paperwork,” 

She beat off the smile on her lips as she got back into the driver's seat, the air that engulfed the four of them foul as she glared over her shoulder and into the back. Spencer twitched in his seat uncomfortably, his hand still passing over tissues to the bloodied girl. 

“So, you gonna tell me what that was about?” Emily asked, her tone brittle and warning, not in the mood for any snarky response she could give, “Or is this old lady going to have to lay into you some more,” 

The smell of strong ethanol engulfed her nose as she held the soaked tissue to her face, frowning into her lap silently and avoiding the burning stare as Emily stuck the keys in the ignition and started the car.

“Let’s start with why you were there,” JJ input, the same tone of voice she used as when talking to victims, calm and motherly, unlike the pissed off snarl Emily gave, “You wanna tell us why you were arrested?”

“You two really gonna pull the good cop, bad cop on me?” She snapped, her lip swelling around the wound, tongue grazing it softly despite the heavy taste of the sanitizer.

Emily said her name in a warning, her last warning, and she knew better than to push her luck even more, the SUV pulling out of the station and onto the road. 

“I was just shopping for groceries,” She started, fiddling with the bloodied tissue, wincing under her tongue stroke, “Store clerk made a pass at me, I told him I wasn’t interested. So he put a pack of smokes in my handbag while I wasn’t looking; the alarms went off. I didn’t even know what was happening until security grabbed me at the door,” 

JJ flashed a glance at Emily, like two parents deciding an appropriate punishment, the brunette’s lips straightening out into a line. 

“You’re telling the truth?” She asked cautiously, glancing in the rear view mirror to see how her sister balled the mess of paper between her palms. 

Rolling her eyes, she gladly accepted the other packet of tissues Spencer slid over the leather seat between them. 

“I went out for milk and oranges, I was not looking to get picked up, Em,” She bit back, groaning when she felt it jostle the cut, “And certainly not for cigarettes, you know I only smoke on New Years,” 

Spencer looked at her with a frown, and she caught his confusion quickly, pulling another leaf of paper from the packet. 

“Emily and I had a rule after she caught me smoking when I was like fourteen, that we could have one cigarette between the two of us on New Years eve,” She explained, JJ also perking up to hear it, “So that by the time morning came around, it would be last year’s mistake, and it would be like it never happened,” 

JJ smiled to herself, remembering the time she caught Roz sneaking one of her dad’s cigarettes on the back porch back when she was just ten. She remembered the little secrets the two of them kept back then, held them even all these years later. 

“So how did that lead to, well,” JJ gestured to her lip, “That,” 

“Yeah, didn’t I specifically tell you to not antagonise anyone?” Emily chimed in, signalling she was changing lanes as they headed down the freeway for a second time that day.

“Technically you said not to antagonise the officers,” She pointed out, before Spencer had the chance to, shutting his mouth as he caught the glare Emily shot through the mirror.

“Keep talking,” The older Prentiss ordered, as Bugsy sighed and blotted her lip some more. 

“That woman, Mira I think her name was, anyway, she recognised me from that picture mom had us take on Independence Day, the one they put in The Hill, and she asked me if it was true my sister was a fed,” 

Emily’s fingers twitched at the wheel, knowing the status agents and even people associated with agents held in prisons; knowing just being a Prentiss in a jail cell held a big, dazzling price over her head that said ‘kill me, kill me!”

The air sucked out of the car, a look passing between JJ and Reid as they thought the same thing, waiting for her to go on. 

“So then you hit her?” Emily guessed, the bitterness slowly ebbing as she understood maybe her sister wasn’t as unruly as she thought. 

“No, I told her to leave me the fuck alone, but she said you guys sent her brother down for something a while back, and she asked again if my family were all Pigs,” She picked her nails, the blood stain on her sleeve staring back at her, “I told her if she didn’t stop calling you a Pig, I’d make her squeal like one. And then I hit her,” 

Emily tried to pretend she didn’t smile hearing that, her cheeks tightening, lips pulling down as she fended it off. 

“Is that good enough, officers, or will you be needing fingerprints?” The girl chimed after a moment, a weight seemingly lifted from the car as Emily quickly realised she had, for once, not been entirely at fault. 

“I want a handwritten apology to my boss for wasting his time,” Emily demanded, her unforgiving gaze softening when she saw her smile, “And you owe my team coffee,”

“I can do coffee, coffee coming right up,” She agreed, shoving the used tissues into her purse with a crooked smile, “It’s a date,”

Spencers ears turned red, looking over the seat at where she dabbed at her lip gently. She didn’t look much older for six months, but she had gotten her nose pierced since the last time he’d seen her, unless he just hadn’t noticed it before, and the streaks of red were slowly fading out into a blush pink that said it was old, and he wondered if she’d done it herself in that tiny little cubicle bathroom of hers she shared with the four other girls in her block. 

“You finished your stats papers yet?” He made polite conversation, though part of him was dying to know out of curiosity if she could crunch numbers and equations as well as she could in her own labs. 

“Got two more this week, they’re kicking my ass man,” She replied with a huff, and he didn’t think he’d ever been called ‘man’ by a woman before. He knew if he’d known her in college, ignoring the fact he would have been twelve, he would have thought she may just be the coolest person alive, “I miss my labs with my microscopes and watching all the little baby cells move around in the ethanol. Stats are like, just not sexy,” 

He smiled at her as she stared out the window, unaware of the way she’d managed to make DNA sound like a play pen full of kittens. He held off from telling her he found stats really quite sexy, knowing it would never sound the same coming from his mouth.

He pulled a leaf of the tissues from the packet, producing his own pen from his pocket and began doodling carefully so as not to rip the delicate canvas. 

Sliding it over to her after five minutes as Emily and JJ made conversation in the front seat, she didn’t care that the grin tugged on her split lip, the reaction was instant, she couldn’t stop it if she tried. 

Two stick men stared back at her, her hair a close match in texture and a childish triangle drawn as means of a dress, a very tall stick figure next to her patting her metaphorical head, a speech bubble coming from his mouth. 

“Maths is fun!” It said, and she flicked a glance at him, her smile the most genuine he’d seen yet. He just smiled back. 

+2. The one where you graduate

Emily felt the looks on her the moment JJ had mentioned Maryland. The case was a little under their pay grade, nothing more than a stalker, no bodies or bloodshed, but one very rattled woman that had turned to the communications liaison with fear for her life. 

With Hotch and Rossi in Boston helping a case of their own, the rest of the BAU had been twiddling their thumbs waiting for something to come across their desk. 

“This case is in my hands now, and if we do nothing and something happens to her,” JJ took a heavy breath, her eyes lingering on the three names Keri had given her in case of her untimely death, “I’ll be the one notifying her family,”

Derek, despite his own hesitations about using their time for a case like this, caved the moment he saw the guilt on the blonde’s face. 

“Okay,” He shuffled the papers into a pile, Emily and Spencer gathering their own resources on the case and standing from the round table. 

Luckily, one government SUV was more than enough to carry the four of them for the hour drive North, all of them well aware Hotch would flip if they used more funds than necessary.

JJ piled into the front beside where Morgan climbed into the driver’s seat, leaving Emily next to a particularly fidgety Reid. It took all of fifteen minutes of the man flicking a glance at her, his mouth quirking as if he were about to use it, before he thought better and looked out the window, and the whole thing would start again. 

Derek, the less shy about his thoughts of the two men, even glanced at her through the rear view mirror, before he too returned his gaze out the window silently. JJ shifted in her seat, knowing she had to tread carefully around mentioning Bugsy to Emily, particularly after the last time they’d seen her. Emily had said they’d grabbed coffee once or twice since then, but that was all she spoke about it, which left her team walking cracked eggshells at the thought of bringing her up. 

It seemed the three of them were bursting at the seams with the same thought, and it wasn’t until Reid cleared his voice, his puppy eyes stuck in his loop, that she had had enough. 

“Does anyone here have something to say?” Emily huffed, Derek immediately reaching to turn the radio up the same time that JJ flicked the AC on for something to do. Realising they weren’t easily broken, she turned to Spencer who already looked slightly guilty, thumbing at his sweater, “Reid?”

“Did you want to see your sister?” He asked without hesitation, as if the words had fallen out of him, “You know, since we’re so close on this case. It would be a good excuse to-”

“You did say she owed us a coffee,” JJ pointed out, spurred on by Spencer’s nerves, “Wouldn’t mind cashing in if we’re coming all this way.”

“Morgan, do you have anything to add?” Emily asked with raised brows, though she already knew what was coming.

Derek chewed over his thoughts a second, “I’m just saying, you only get to see your baby sisters grow up once- you know, and it couldn’t hurt to see her even if she runs rings around you with that smart mouth-”

“Shouldn’t we be focusing on the case?” Emily cut him off incredulously, but received three knowing looks back. She met JJ’s gaze where the woman had swivelled in her seat to talk to her, and Prentiss was fast to catch the buried grief in her best friend’s eyes. She knew it pained her to even bring up sisterhood, let alone watch Emily throw hers away for the sake of a decade and a half between them. It was the desperation in JJ’s face that did it, knowing she would give anything to spend just an hour with Roz one more time, that had her drawing her cell out her pocket and calling the contact with the little ladybug next to it, “Fine,”

As a profiler she would have been tempted to ignore the way Spencer smiled into his lap; as a sister, her eyes narrowed at him.

The phone rang surprisingly only once before she answered, and she heard an unnaturally tame version of her sister answer.

“Emily?” She asked, her voice hushed, worried almost, “You okay?”

Her brows furrowed, “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?” She got no more than a hum in return, somewhat agreeing though Emily could tell clear as day she was holding something back. “Look, we’re gonna be in Silver Spring, I was thinking tomorrow we could grab lunch-” 

“Can’t, I’m busy, it’s an all day thing,” Her sister cut her off, yet it wasn’t rude or demeaning like usual. Nervous almost, sad, “Sorry,”

“What’s an all day thing?” Emily asked, the concern matching her words. 

Her sister swallowed on the other end of the phone, before she found her words, or maybe even the balls to actually speak, “I’m graduating tomorrow,”

Emily’s face lit up, the smile spreading fast on her face, ignoring the way Morgan’s words seemed to ring true in her ears; she was growing up too fast. 

“Graduating, why didn’t you say!” She asked, the joy in her tone unmissable, “How’d your papers go?”

Spencer held himself off from correcting her that she’d only done five papers, that the rest of her results had come from theory and labs, thinking better than to interrupt the one conversation they’d had where there was no underlying argument brewing. 

“Full honours, obviously.” Bugsy drawled with a snicker, and Emily shook her head, the smile never dimming. 

“Look at you, y’little superstar,” Emily bit her lip, ignoring the guilt that tore at her when she realised she barely knew what Bug spent her days doing, “Did Mom and Dad get good seats? Oh god, dad’s not bringing Stephanie is he?”

The silence on the other end had her halting, the light in the conversation wavering for a second, before she understood the nerves, the quick defence her sister had been on the moment the call had been answered. 

“Bug-”

“They’re not coming,” Her heart ached in her chest hearing it, “I sent Mom the details, she said she’s in Ukraine this week settling some papers. Didn’t even get a chance to ask Dad before he and Stephanie were off on their fifth honeymoon in the Bahamas until October,” A painful laugh echoed down the line, as if she were holding back the gravity of the situation. 

“Bug,” Emily tried again, picking her thumb viciously, punishingly, hating herself for being so blind to her sister’s troubles, “Why didn’t you invite me?”

“I figured you’d be busy,” Came the reply, sad and tender, the most honest she’d heard in a while, “You’re always busy,” 

“Never too busy for you,” Emily’s guilt tripled when her sister didn’t answer, knowing if she were to counter the statement with hard evidence it would only hurt both of them, “Look, I have some time today, probably,” She didn’t, not even a few minutes, “Why don’t we get that coffee, you don’t even have to pay,”

Bugsy gave a sad laugh, “Sorry, Em, I gotta get my dress fitted today, and some of the lab techs invited me to a party later. Maybe some other time,”

“A party with biology nerds?” Emily asked with false excitement, the air turned stagnant between them now, “Well, rock on, science freak. Don’t leave your drinks with strangers, and don’t walk home alone, and for god sake use protection-”

“Bye, Emily,” She said with a chuckle, the older of the two gracing her with the same, as they put the phone down. 

The car was quiet, waiting for Prentiss to speak, none of them missing the way her lip pulled between her teeth, a bitterness on her face that told them she was holding in something close to sadness. You’re always busy. It echoed around her head, stabbing at her chest to think her sister was graduating alone, no one to congratulate her, no one to pat her on the back and tell her how clever she is despite the fact Bugsy would happily tell anyone just how smart she was on her own. Never too busy for you. 

“She’s graduating tomorrow,” She said to the three people waiting for an update, Spencer’s brows shooting to his hairline. He hadn’t heard from her since her last paper got sent off, and why would he? They had exchanged a few little anecdotes and doodles, sent each other research papers to be graded like teachers exchanging lecture notes, “She didn’t even tell me. She’s gonna be alone,” 

JJ grimaced, “What? What about your mom- or, or your dad, an uncle, someone-” 

“Mom and dad are out of the country, Mom’s brother lives in Mexico with his seven kids, he can barely get a night’s sleep let alone a day off to travel up to Maryland. Dad’s sisters passed away when I was a kid,” Emily explained, running a hand over her face, “I can’t let her go up there alone,”

“So we don’t,” Spencer said, as if he’d never been more sure of anything in his life, “We don’t let her do it alone,”

-

“Graduating with Masters in Biotechnology; Jasper Adams, Tom Adamson, Kristen Afkins, Gavin Agriths-” 

The dean read off the names of the students as she fiddled with the hem of her dress. 

The dress fit beautifully, her make up done to near perfection, her hair styled neatly, she was graduating with full honours for christ sakes. Why couldn’t she just be happy with what she had? Why had she got to be so spoiled? 

Lots of peoples parents missed their graduation, lots of people her age didn’t even have parents anymore, she ought to be grateful her mother was increasing famine aid in foreign countries, all the lives she would save, or even be happy her father had found a pretty, rich new wife to tour every known vacation destination with. Or even that her sister had called her just yesterday and told her in a few words she was proud of her. 

But none of them quelled the feeling of loneliness that blossomed inside Bugsy. The kind that had always been there, the kind that just wanted someone in her corner, telling her she was doing pretty good for a kid who raised herself in all those big houses they’d moved to, who saw the au pair more often than her own mother. 

All those rooms were so empty, the houses so quiet besides for her. It was like living in a cemetery. 

“Robert Lewsinsky. Marcus Linford. Tara Lorence. Katie Macauley.” 

P would be up soon. Each name of her classmates drew an applause, some whoops and screams, one family she swore there must have been ten of them in the back row cawing and howling like monkeys at a zoo, proud of their son for making it. 

She willed a smile on her face, hearing Orla Parkins get called up, and she knew just by the steward that directed her where to stand in line she was close. 

“Kenneth Patterson. Joshua Perriman. Harriet Pimms. Lauren Pintons.”

She held a rattled breath as Renly Prackett walked ahead of her, strolling over the stage to collect his degree, flashing the crowd a wide smile and a fist pump. She had always liked Renly, having been his experiment partner for a year, despite the fact he never washed up after himself in the lab. 

Then it was, her name was called. The one no one but her mother and Stephanie ever called her, she solely went by Bugsy courtesy of Emily. It was a family name, a nice one at that. Maybe it had been the fact she had been eight and her cool big sister crowned her the new name, or maybe it just rolled off the tongue better, made her feel less like a Prentiss, that she chose to go by her monika. 

She tried not to think about where or what Emily was doing, only hoping she was safe, as she began walking over the stage, her heels clicking loudly with her hesitant steps. 

To her utmost surprise she heard a loud whistle echo through the auditorium, a group of jeers and screams of her name, even an air horn signing off that had her almost tripping over her own feet turning to see who it was. 

Surely it was a joke, a cruel prank, she barely had any friends in her class. Acquaintances sure, but no one so bold as to make such a fuss over her. 

Squinting down at the audience, her cap nearly slipping off her head as her head turned to the source, she felt her chest burst when she saw the dark hair and bangs, her sisters butchered fingertips in her mouth with a loud cattle whistle, screaming like a firework right to the stage where she graciously accepted her award, despite the fact she barely paid any attention to the dean anymore, more to her sister who smiled at her widely as she clapped. Behind her, her team she’d met on the off chance, the pretty blonde, JJ, who pressed the air horn a few more times, cheering just as loud for her. Morgan, the handsome one who had stood himself on top of his chair, cupping a hand over his mouth to scream “Kicking ass, baby Prentiss!” at her, ignoring the way other people stared wide eyed at them. 

And Spencer, tall enough to be seen over the crowd even without the help of a chair, who smiled at her, clapping those big hands of his loud enough to reach her, his own whoops never ceasing even as she stepped off the stage to head back to her seat. 

The rest of the ceremony dragged, a speech from one of the alumni and the exit music playing, but she simply grinned into her hand, where her degree smiled back at her, counting down the moments she would be allowed to stand. 

And then she was fast walking down the stairs, amongst the bustle of students, the black gowns flurrying around her as she burst out into the square where parents, fiancees, brothers, sisters, cheered their loved ones, pulling them into tight hugs. 

Her eyes scanned the wave of black hats, landing on two dark eyes, the thick sable hair framing the dazzling smile that awaited her with open palms. All but shoving her way through the crowd, she stopped in front of her sister, the urge to jump at her with a hug shying the moment she got close. 

“Told you. Never too busy for you, Bug,” Emily said, pulling her in by her shoulders for a tight hug. She knew her sister wasn’t one to beg for affection, wasn’t one to let her guard drop so soon, but she also knew she’d needed it by the way she melted against her, the way she chuckled into her hair, pulled her closer. 

“Do I owe your boss another letter of apology for this or do I get you guys for free?” The girl asked, as her sister pulled away, keeping an arm around her shoulder as they turned to the rest of the team. 

“No, this one is entirely on us, promise,” JJ said with a smile as she saw Emily beaming maternally over at the girl, the flat of the cap knocking against her cheek as she squeezed her in once more, “We’re very proud of you,” 

She heated under the woman’s words, wriggling in her shoes as bad as Emily did when she felt awkward, Derek chuckling and taking the degree out of her hand. 

“Alright, lets see the creds, Prentiss,” He held it up next to her face as she shrugged, the ‘4.0’ clear as day next to her name, “Good looking, and smart. Those boys in the lab ought to watch out,”

She grinned under his teasing, “What can I say, I got the deep end of the gene pool,” She teased, feeling Emily swat her ear, her eyes falling to where Spencer held a plant pot with a poorly wrapped bow of twine around it, the soil a little displaced from the journey.

“This is for you,” He said, handing her the small green sproutling, his cheeks blushing as her face lit up, reading the small inscription on the front, “It’s-”

“Dionaea muscipula,” She said, biting her lip as she smiled at him, “This is so cool! Where on earth did- I had a paper last semester on the ways to study their electrophysiology you just have to read- oh thank you!”

“English, please?” Emily asked, though the warmth flooded her chest when her sister threw her arms around a very rigid Spencer. 

Thinking she should grab her and warn her the man disliked touch almost as much as she does, she was surprised to see him give her a small embrace back, smiling proudly the way he did when he’d made someone happy. 

“Piège à mouches Vénus,” Her sister responded cockily, tugging herself away from the tall man, to inspect her new plant, well aware that Emily rolled her eyes at her use of French, “Venus Fly Trap. I’ve never seen one so young, still I should be able to pull some slides on the Rhizomes in the soil-”

Emily put a hand to her temple, JJ smiling widely as she saw for once Spencer be the one on the receiving end of an earful, chuckling to himself when she began dishing out name ideas for the sapling. 

“Holy shit, there’s two of them,” Morgan grumbled, nudging his shoulder into Emily who simply sighed, her migraine already starting as Reid began jumping in with his own thoughts, which didn’t take much effort.

“Don’t even,” 

+3. The one where you’re taken hostage

“Tell us about the 911 call,” Spencer requests, flicking through the file himself beside her in the back seat. She had her own set of paperwork in front of her, her pen attached to a clipboard the lanyard around her neck reading her real, honest credentials, unlike the fake ones Emily and Reid were given. She’d been to one of these sects before, invited kindly as part of her research on the effect isolation has on cultivation of crops, knew one of the mother’s well from her last research paper, and had managed to get the group a foot in the door to entering the Separtarian Sect with little fuss. 

Hotch, usually hesitant to allow outsiders in on the job, especially as young and spirited as Bugsy, had to admit it would calm any potential unsubs and make them see the team as unthreatening if they had a friendly face there. He’d signed the papers with a frown that morning, and they were on their way to the little apartment the girl occupied just outside Baltimore, sample tubes stuffed into her pack ready. 

“I believe the he that they refer to is the church’s leader, Benjamin Cyrus,” Nancy, a woman from child protective services, replied from the driver's seat, Emily thumbing through her papers as they neared the compound. 

“Benjamin Cyrus, no criminal record; no record of him at all actually,” Reid replied, watching Bugsy scribbling notes into her lab book, perfecting her report before she had even begun, “What else do you know about him?” 

“The sect I spoke to before, the one in Utah, said he was rumoured to be practising polygamy and forced marriages,” The younger woman said, looking back at him with a frown, “They were much more modern in their beliefs than these guys. Last time I spoke to Marina she was happy there, I can’t see why she would want to move here,” 

Spencer looked as if he were about to answer, perhaps to tell her he was sure her contact would be just fine, when Emily shrugged and turned to Nancy. 

“Do we know who the caller is?” She asked, sipping her now lukewarm coffee out of the disposable cup. 

Nancy’s head tilted in a so-so motion, “Uh, Jessica Evansen is the one who the age fits, but we can’t be sure.”

“Well given their view on outsiders, it would be best if you didn’t identify us as FBI.” Emily instructed, handing Reid his new, fake credentials and his gun she’d kept in her bag through customs. “Just use our real names and introduce us as child victim interview experts.” Nancy nodded, the compound coming into view, the dust flurrying under the car wheels as the road turned into nothing more than a sandy path. 

A guard seemed to be expecting their arrival as he stood, unarmed at the main gate, unlatching the bolt in the middle and opening it wide for their vehicle to pass through. She nodded in thanks, her eyes flicking out the dirty window to see a collection of mobile homes surrounding a large church, a few smaller outbuildings dotted around the compound. It was quiet, not full of laughter like the last group she had been to, the children nowhere to be seen, only a few of the handier members of the flock that were either fixing up walls, trimming trees besides a man sprawled too casually on the steps of the chapel, a bible in his hands he seemed to be catching up on. 

The car pulled to a stop in front of the man that barely batted an eye at their arrival, the safety locks flicking off each of the doors, Nancy collecting her briefcase and exiting the car first. 

She had all but reached for the handle when Emily stopped her, swivelling in her seat to look her dead in the eye. 

“Your job is mediator, you got that?” Her sister had never looked more serious, but then again she did know her almost too well, “You and your field research are a… buffer between our investigation and the unsub. Just try to take the focus off what we’re doing, but do not provoke anyone,”

She raised her hands in innocence, “Got it, jeez, what could I possibly do that could ruin this investigation?” 

Emily stared back at her blankly, unnamused, as if they both knew there was a lot she could, and would, do that would blow the whole thing. 

“You look like mom when you give me that look,” She bit back, leaving the car, as Nancy spoke to the man laying on the steps, “It’s terrible,” 

“I’m looking for Mr Benjamin Cyrus?” Nancy reported, her tight, knee length skirt and blouse entirely out of place amongst the dirt track. 

“You found him,” The man replied, still not so much as granting them a glance of interest as he flicked through his passages. 

“I’m Nancy Lunde, we spoke on the phone regarding the allegation,” She replied, which was the only thing that garnered his attention as he looked up at them behind slightly bent reading glasses. 

“Savages they call us; because our manners differ from theirs,” He said, though it was clear it wasn’t entirely his own words, more likely a segment of his preach he’d repeated a handful of times. Bugsy tried to hide her disgust behind her hand tightening around her lab books she kept tightly to her chest. 

“We didn’t come here to hear you cite scripture, Mr Cyrus,” Nancy snipped as he approached the group, pocketing the glasses though he kept hold of the bible in hand as if it was part of his own arm. 

“Actually it’s Benjamin Franklin,” Spencer murmured to the woman, which had Cyrus’ cold brown eyes narrowing at the tall man, assessing for a motive.

“Emily Prentiss, Spencer Reid. They’re child victim interview experts,” Nancy introduced them quickly, the two of them flashing their badges, the unofficial ones at least. Gesturing to the youngest woman, she introduced her with her real name, his gaze flicking to her as he seemed to recognise it.

“Marina’s friend? The plant lady?” He asked, face half amused as she fought her lip from twitching into a sneer. Instead she smiled, holding out her hand. 

“That’s what they call me,” She said, shaking his hand, ignoring the way he flashed her a cheshire cat smile, “Hope you don’t mind me dropping by, Marina said I could take some samples for my research,”

He laughed, shaking his head, looking at Spencer, “Women and their flowers, right?” Spencer swallowed back a retort, shrugging his shoulders, though Bugsy’s eye twitched. Benjamin patted her on her shoulder, “Of course you can honey, I’ll find Jared, our head gardner, and you can run along for your research,” 

He said it as if she were lying, that her degree and endless hours of work would only ever chalk up to a few doodles in a notebook, or a garden full of hydrangeas, or tulips, or roses, because she couldn’t possibly care about anything else but pretty flowers. 

Nodding her head graciously, choking back the hateful response she wished to spit in his face, she gave him a polite thankyou, feeling Spencer’s eyes burning into the side of her head. 

“The children are in the school as I indicated,” Cyrus said, turning back to the other three, Emily and Nancy taking off in the direction he pointed, the former knowing her sister was at risk of blowing a fuse if they were here for long. 

Spencer hung back, partially because he had a plan of distraction in mind to allow the women a chance to speak with the children whilst Cyrus wasn’t around, partially because he didn’t want to leave Bugsy anywhere on her own. Sure, Emily had said they were both trained in self defence when they were kids, but with no weapon of her own, he was reluctant. 

“You're using solar power?” He prompted, gesturing towards where the eight blue panels warmed under the Colorado sun.

“We’re completely self-sufficient,” Benjamin nodded along, catching the impressed look on both their faces, “Electricity, food, water. Ben Franklin said ‘God helps those that help themselves,’ you look surprised,” 

“No, impressed actually,” Spencer replied, and he wasn’t entirely lying. The system was incredibly complex, particularly if they received no help from outsiders, for as many people as there were in the compound. 

“Thankyou; for admitting that,” Cyrus said earnestly, flicking his gaze back to Bugsy who studied the solar panels, “I’ll go find Jared, he can take you to the greenhouses,”

Thanking him again, he led the way towards the school where Nancy and Emily had headed, as the two of them exchanged a look, Spencer smiling half piteously, wishing he could shake her and tell her just how smart she was and that Cyrus knew absolutely nothing. 

He didn’t miss the way she walked closer to him, or how she thumbed the corner of her notebook, or how she looked back at him, biting the inside of her cheek. He thinks he might get slapped if he pointed it out, but Emily had the exact same tell when she was nervous, which is why he bumps their shoulders together in means of reassuring her he was still there. 

It was only then she gave him any sort of smile back. 

-

Jared, as expected, had been just as condescending and patronising as Benjamin whilst she slipped on her latex gloves, scooping no more than a handful of homemade fertiliser into one of her test tubes. It had been a partial cover, their story, but she had been telling the truth when she’d contacted Marina and asked if she could drop by. She’d been meaning to expand her field research in hopes of stumbling on a job opportunity since she spent most of her postgraduate days reading while her cat pawed at her leg for more treats than he deserved, the odd phone call with her sister much more common than it had been before. 

She didn’t miss the way Jared’s hand fell into the small of her back as he led her back towards the school, after having noted down a few more readings, fussing over the state of the carrots that seemed to grow entirely naturally thanks to the systems they’d been smart enough to set up. He seemed rather bored by the whole thing, for a head gardener, more interested in staring at her legs as she leaned down to identify the fat black beetle that crawled along the rockery. 

It wasn’t until they were halfway to the school that the sound of tyres on a dirt path met her ears, and she saw five armoured SUVs out the corner of her eye. 

She hadn’t even the time to question what was going on, before Jared’s face dropped, the hand gently holding the soft of her back grabbing on her forearm hard enough to leave bruises, as he was dragging her to the chapel they had seen when they had pulled up.

 Emily had said the rest of the team stayed in Quantico, if it wasn’t them, who was it. 

“Whats going on- who is that?” She asked him lamely, her feet stumbling as she half fought his heavy hand off. 

That was when the shooting started. 

She thinks it came from the compound first, she’d seen two men stationed on top of one of the outbuildings, thinking nothing much of it, until she saw clearly now the assault rifles they bore, pointing it straight at the vehicles that drew closer. The whistle of bullets, bangs of the chambers emptying their artillery, and it wasn’t until she heard the doors to the SUVs start opening, more gunfire began hitting the wall ahead of them that she started running. Running fast, for the cover the church provided until she figured out just what the fuck was happening. 

Jared all but threw her past the chapel door, where Cyrus and four other men were waiting, a heavy barricade in their hands, her chest pounding with adrenaline, she couldn’t help the yelp that left her as Cyrus whirled on her, grabbing her shoulders firmly and looking her dead in the eye. 

“Did you know anything about this?” He asked, his calm demeanour cracking when she scrambled for a response, “ANSWER ME,”

“No-no not at all.” She shook her head, voice weaker than she’d like, but the sight of more guns in the men’s hands twisted any resolve she had, “Where are the others- the- the experts-”

“Take her into the tunnels,” Cyrus ignored her question, nodding at one of his men to grab her as Jared armed himself. She felt another callused hand yank on her upper arm, and part of her wondered if that was how men handled all women here, as if they were herding cattle, as she was dragged down into the catacombs below the church. 

They’d made plans for a day like this to come, she realised. 

Her heart constricted at the sound of bullets rattling above them, she hadn't been able to tell in that last moment whether Cyrus believed her or not as, nor whether she was being taken to the tunnels for her own safety or to be questioned harder about the gunmen. 

She could only hope Emily was safe. 

She felt her tongue too big for her mouth as the man all but shoved her into the bunker, the nervous chatter of women and children, some of the more elderly men, as they clung to one another for safety, the scathing remark she would have usually made about his heavy hands failing her as she scanned the room for her sister. 

Emily was faster however, and she nearly yelped again as two bony arms yanked her into a hug, a rare one, and she knew by the blazer and the sigh of relief in her ear it was Em.

Usually she would bat her off, tell her to stop fussing like a mother hen, but today she embraced her right back, trying to note if her sister had any bullet holes in her before she allowed herself the same relief. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Emily asked, the whole thing coming out in a slew of worry, and she nodded, pulling away as if she needed to see the proof in person. 

Bugsy’s eyes were wild, as if she were a doe in a meadow hearing a rifle cocking near. No scratch that, she was a doe being chased and shot at and hunted, narrowly escaping being mounted on a wall. 

“They were all shit shots,” Bugsy said, through a laugh she didn’t quite mean, “You would have done much better.” 

Patting her sister on the shoulder, Emily finally released her when she realised the humour meant she at least had her head on her shoulders. Spencer watched her with meticulous eyes, knowing the shock that registered on her face, knowing it was the same one he wore when he first had shots fired at him. He saw her own eyes quickly check him over, satisfied with a breath of relief when she saw they were both fine. 

“Where’s Lunde?” Emily asked, and she realised then Cyrus had followed her down into the shelter, two of his men grabbing handfuls of guns she had never seen before, likely imported out of country, and returning to the ground level, preparing for more shooting. 

“It wasn’t us,” Cyrus replied, as if that negated the fact their recklessness had gotten the agent killed. 

“What? You can’t shoot it out with the cops, you have children in here,” Emily seethed, her voice harsh and incredulous.

“I didn’t start this,” Cyrus bit back, looking towards his men as they grabbed boxes on boxes of ammunition, “I’ll take the front, you take the roof,” 

And with that they stormed their way back through the tunnels, leaving the three of them to look between each other, knowing this could only end badly. Knowing the only people that could figure out how to get them out of this mess was the BAU, all 1,700 miles away. 

–

They’d been in the bunker for fourteen hours when there was finally movement. The shooting seemed to have quietened down, in which Spencer whispered it was around 11pm and it was likely neither party had a clear shot. She’d managed to fall asleep leaning against the wall, Emily’s blazer draped over her legs. She’d regretted wearing cropped pants, despite how the shade of green complimented her eyes nicely, and she’d been shivering by the time she fell asleep, Emily’s hands stroking her hair gently as if she knew she was struggling to relax. 

She hadn’t realised she was staring at her little sister, frowning even as she slept, which made part of her want to laugh, until she caught Spencer’s tired eyes looking between them, something knowing and warm in his gaze. 

“You know, she’s always scowled in her sleep, ever since she was born,” Emily said, quiet enough it didn’t interrupt the hum of small snores, the odd baby cry that filled the bunker, but loud enough for him to smile at her, “She used to sleep walk terrible too. I’d find her in the kitchen trying to make pancakes with a cheese grater. It’s like that big brain of hers doesn’t know how to shut off,” Emily shook her head with a fatigue, rubbing her eyes. 

“Was it weird? Being fourteen years older?” Spencer asked, his own hands shoved into his sleeves to try defend from the draught. Emily thought for a moment, her hand slowing for a second on her sister's hair, before she answered. 

“I felt guilty leaving her in that house with my mom when I went to college,” Emily answered, Bugsy unconsciously tucking her face closer into the jacket, “I think part of her kind of hated me for it for a while.” She went quiet, the shame in her voice thick as the silence that encompassed them, “She’s never been very affectionate you know? Before her graduation I don’t think I’d hugged her in twelve years,”

Spencer held himself back from pointing out that she had been just as touchy with him since they’d met, and that maybe it was Emily’s own regret that seemed to shut the both of them down. He wasn’t one to rub salt in the wound, not since he’d gotten this job and learned to watch what he said. 

He didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to give her advice, knowing the whole subject of their slowly repairing relationship was a sore one. He had no siblings of his own, had a mother who loved him despite how much she grappled with her own mind, and he had only known the girl briefly enough to consider her a friend at a push. 

“I always thought the two of you were similar,” Emily chose to continue, offering him a small smile. He returned it, his face blushing at the fact that was a huge compliment to him, “Granted, you roll your eyes at me less and don’t act like I’m dumb, but you remind me of her,” 

“Thankyou, I wish that were true,” He replied, eyes flicking to her sleeping form, the way her eyebrows were indeed scrunched in a permanent frown. He wondered if she was actually angry, or if she was just thinking hard, perhaps her dreams were full of equations or labs she needed to sort through. Either way, he wanted to know. “She’s much cooler than I’ll ever be,” 

Emily snorted, shuffling against the wall to cosy herself, “That’s one way to put it,” She said, smiling over at him as he did the same, his head resting against the wall, Bugsy’s legs stretching out to knock against his feet, and he didn’t mind that she scuffed the bottom of his already dirty trousers. “Get some sleep,”

And so they did. 

–

Cyrus had corralled the whole flock into the church, where the shooting had stopped and the bodies had been removed, stating at the break of dawn that there was a hostage negotiator coming in to make sure everyone was safe before they made any deals. 

She sat next to Spencer, the three of them stiff from their sleeping arrangements, and her stomach churned with hunger. It had been over 24 hours since they’d gotten here, and besides the small bit of bread and water Cyrus gave everyone for breakfast, she was starving. 

“Remind me to never leave the house, ever again,” She grumbled, as everyone waited in the pews for the negotiator to arrive, “My cat is gonna be pissed I’ve not fed him,” 

“Since when did you get a cat?” Emily inputted from the other side of Reid, keeping one eye on the door in case any agents start shooting again. 

The girl shrugged, “I got lonely, there’s not much to do now I’m not studying anymore,” 

Reid watched how she clutched her stomach, feeling his own complaining at the lack of nutrition, “Morgan wasn’t lying when he said you should sign up for the academy. We could always use the help, we wouldn’t have solved that case in Baltimore without you,” 

She snickered, nudging his foot with her boot, “You’re being modest, you would have done it just fine,”

He was a little, wasn’t surprised she called his bluff either. “Okay, so probably yes- but it would have taken us a whole lot longer. Mr Chernus likely would have died,” 

She shook her head, glancing at Emily who watched her carefully, “That was all you guys. I just translated.”

Emily and Spencer exchanged a glance, leaning back in their uncomfortable seats calmly. 

“You’re probably right,” Spencer said, dusting the dirt off his trousers, “Probably couldn’t handle it, high intensity mind games and such,”

She blanched, looking at him as if he’d grown a second head, not knowing him to be so brutally honest, realistic yes, but not bordering on rude. 

“And it’s a lot of work,” Emily jumped in, her mouth a straight line, “I don’t know if you’d be dedicated enough,”

Bugsy scoffed, indifferently. “I have a masters degree, I was offered a scholarship to do a PHD, asked to be an assistant professor at Yale, I can work hard, Emily,” She snipped, and perhaps she was particularly just hangry or they had struck a nerve with their doubt, “and I could do it if I wanted to, I’d have the best shot they’d ever seen, guaranteed- mom made me take lessons when you left- trust me I could do it-”

She shut up when she saw their small smile exchanged, as if she’d told them a joke, or moreso they’d had the same identical thought and that alone was hilarious. 

Scowling at them, she looked from where Spencer looked almost, almost, guilty at making her the butt of the joke, to where Emily had a ‘told you so’ smirk, and she kissed her teeth at their childishness. 

“Are you guys reverse psychology-ing me? Seriously, so original guys,” She snapped, crossing her arms and straightening herself in her seat, ignoring the snigger that passed between them. 

“You’re not wrong though,” Emily replied quietly as Cyrus walked past them, his eyes falling to them with a frown. Bugsy kept her head down, heeding Emily’s warning of not provoking anyone, and Spencer eyed the way she leaned closer to him.

If she was going to retaliate, whether agreeing or not, she stopped herself, the doors the church opening and an older gentleman walking through the doors, arms full of supplies she’d figured must have been part of the negotiation. He was patted down by an armed guard, searching for his own weapons do doubt, or a wire perhaps, as he handed the box over to another who took it without a thankyou. 

“Rossi,” She heard Reid whisper beside her, and from the look he shot Emily and Spencer she gathered he was from the BAU, just as they’d expected. His eyes fell on her, softening as alot of Emily’s team did when they saw the two of them, as if they were picking her face apart for the tiny ways in which she resembled their Prentiss, or maybe it was the way she curled up in her seat, tired, hungry, on the defence. He just looked sorry for her. 

 “The children,” Cyrus said with no greeting, the air between them particularly frosty. He gestured towards the three of them, though Rossi had already clocked their tired faces staring at him with worry, “And our guests,”

She saw him trying not to react, guessing they had not let it slip to Cyrus he worked with the two undercover FBI agents, looking away from them as if the sight of their forlorn figures was enough to turn him sick. 

Judging by the way Cyrus and he spoke quietly, tensely, Bugsy just hoped they had a plan to get them out of here soon as he soon left with a rigid handshake to the man keeping them hostage. 

–

The three of them had been moved to a backroom a few hours later. Her stomach ached, the little sustenance Rossi had brought being distributed to the community before they’d been offered anything, which hadn’t left much. Reid and Emily had tried to get her to take some of their sharing, and despite how her insides cried out for it, she declined, stating they would be more use than she would; that they needed their strength more than her if they were going to get out of here alive. 

The two of them hadn’t liked that answer judging by the frowns on their faces, but they sat in their seats with little fuss as they waited for things to quieten down after Cyrus’ staged “mass suicide” that had turned out to be nothign more than a test of loyalty and grape juice. 

They had been sat in silence, aside from her foot bouncing on the floor impatiently, as she picked at the threads on her pants, the material uncomfortable on her skin after a day of wearing it. The door slammed open, Cyrus entering the room with nasty scowl. She didn’t know what had changed in the man in a matter of hours as he stormed over to them, two of his men behind him, loaded rifles in their arms. 

This was not good. 

“Which one of you is it?” He asked almost too calm for his demeanour, his eyes flicking between the three of them, where Emily attempted to brush her hair using her fingers, Reid played with the hem of his cardigan, an she sat beside him, resting against the cold stone wall behind them, her eyes narrowing at his furious expression. 

The three of them remained silent, waiting for him to explain more, though clearly it was not the answer he was looking for as he threw his jacket open, revealing a loaded pistol tucked into his jeans. Drawing it into his dominant hand, her body tensed up, her back straightening like a rod as she looked up at him through fear. 

“Which one of you is the FBI agent?” He repeated in that same calm tone, and her heart fell through her stomach. 

She opened her mouth to say something in retaliation, though the way she saw his hand shaking with fury, she knew it was better to stay quiet in case her voice would be the final straw that made him trigger happy. 

“Why do you think one of us is an FBI agent?” Spencer replied softly, and if he was panicking even a fraction amount she was he held it back, though his eyes flicked to Emily. 

But it was a tell. The smallest movement alone was a tell he was lying, or perhaps it was the fact he’d answered a question with one of his own, distracting from the attention on them with the unsubs own answers. Maybe his quiet and calm showed how trained he was for a situation like this, showed he had gone up against bad guys before and won. 

Whatever it was about him, it had Cyrus cocking the barrel of the gun straight at Spencer’s temple. 

“God forgive me for what I must do,” The preacher murmured, his finger moments away from the trigger, when she lurched forward in her seat, hand shooting out to grab his wrist deathly tight. 

“It’s me,” 

She hadn’t realised she’d said it until the room went quiet. She thought for a moment it had come from Emily, Emily had always been the braver of the two of them, but it wasn’t until Cyrus’ unforgiving, dark gaze fell to her where she froze in her spot, that she understood her mouth had been the one moving. 

Emily looked as if she was about to vomit, Spencer looked dumbfounded, but all she could do was stare back at Cyrus as if to will herself not to back down, knowing all three of them could fall victim if she gave them reason to doubt her; he could kill all three of them just to be sure the mystery agent was dealt with.

“It’s me,” She repeated, voice stronger this time, and she felt her chest relax just the tiniest amount as he turned the gun away from Spencer’s head. 

He stared back at her for a moment, before the weapon smacked across her face in a sharp whip, her cheekbone crying out in a sting she knew was going to bruise. 

He grabbed her hair at the nape of her neck, yanking her into a stand hard enough she yelped, despite not wanting to give him the satisfaction of the torture. 

“Watch the other two,” Cyrus barked, dragging her out of the room as she squirmed under his hand, feeling it only tighten into an unforgiving pull. 

She barely caught Emily bolting out of her seat to yell at the other men, all but fighting in their heavy grasp to follow wherever it was he was taking her, only for the door to be slammed shut behind them. 

It was only then she realised how fucked she truly was. 

–

She struggled to breath through the blood clotting in her nose. She didn’t think it was broken, not that she could check where her hands had been tied to the bedpost, tape over her mouth to stop her calling for help, her feet bound. She’d done nothing but give him hell as he’d been laying into her, keeping her cries and groans of pain silent as he’d kicked her in the ribs hard enough to know he’d damaged something at least. 

She’d not made it easy for him to tie her down, worried about what they were planning next, she’d managed to headbutt him in the mouth, and the way he clutched at his jaw when he’d left gave her a sick satisfaction, though her temple now hurt more than she’d like to admit. But they’d only covered her mouth after she’d screamed obscenities at them for an hour or so, hoping to attract attention, hoping if the BAU were on their way, Emily and Reid would be able to find her fast before they could dispose of her. 

Bugsy didn’t want to go like this. Tied up like cattle, gagged and beaten, the spirit kicked out of her as the dehydration gnawed at her limbs, making her too weak to even try wriggling out of the binds. 

She felt herself dropping off to sleep, or maybe it was a concussion, he’d slammed her face into that mirror quite viciously, she wouldn’t be surprised if it had rattled her head around. Fighting with her eyelids to stay open, she jumped in her battered skin as the door unlatched, and she thrashed on the rickety bed to get away from the impending second beating. 

But it wasn’t Cyrus. A fawn haired woman entered, her eyes falling on the girl on the bed, where blood trickled down her cheek, pouring from her nose like a thick liquor. Frowning, she was on high alert as the woman approached, a small, damp cloth in her hand. 

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you honey,” She hushed, approaching the young girl. Bugsy didn’t believe her for one second, her head pulling away from her as far as it could, her eyes wild and distrustful as the woman kneeled down beside the bed. “I’m Kathy,”

Bugsy debated jabbing an elbow in her face then and there, telling her in few words to stay as far away from her as possible, that the moment she was free she didn’t care who she hurt; she was getting out of here even if she had to crawl. 

“That woman’s your sister right?” The blonde said, and the words stopped her heart for a moment, giving the woman the chance to run the cloth over the dribble of blood, “Emily,”

“Where is she?” She tried to ask, but the gag made it little more than a muffled cry, the woman’s eyes turning down in sadness. Pity. Bugsy hated every second of it.

“She’s okay, she’s worried about you though,” Kathy said, wiping under her nose, making her wince at the feeling, “Put up a hell of a fight after they took you away,” 

She must have rolled her eyes, or perhaps it was just telling on her face that that didn’t surprise her as the older woman wiped over the superficial cut on her forehead she hadn’t realised was deep until the cloth went over it and she yawped like a dog having it’s tail pulled. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Kathy cooed, and she seemed genuinely guilty as she did. She tutted, shaking her head, fighting the urge to smooth the girls hair down the way she did when her own daughter was upset, “Emily said they’ll be coming for us at 3am, Cyrus has a mass suicide planned but they think they can stop him, you just have to hold on a little longer honey,” 

“I want to see her,” Bugsy tried to talk again despite her mouth being covered, only for it to come out unintelligible once more. Huffing, she resigned herself to glaring at the ceiling, biting back frustrated tears. Kathy seemed to want to say something else, but thought better of it as the twenty something year old turned away from her to stare out the window, as if she were being dismissed. 

Sighing, she rose from the bed and headed for the door, praying the FBI would get them out in time, before Cyrus put his plan into action. 

–

Bugsy didn’t start panicking until it hit 2:50. She’d managed to kick the small analogue clock on the beside into working, the red numbers seeming to take a millenia to change over. 

Yet it wasn’t until 3am neared, and the hallways remained silent, did she start to wonder if Kathy had been telling the truth at all. What if they had found out Emily and Reid were FBI and not her? What if they’d already been caught?

She really had wanted to see Emily, wanted to scream at the woman, who had meant well, to bring her sister to her or she would make every damn bible basher in this compound regret the day they were born. She felt helpless. She despised feeling helpless. 

It was only when she heard shots rattling from outside did the cold fear set in. 2:52. Any minute now. 

It was then an even worse thought struck her. What if they didn’t bother to come for her? Reid and Emily were safe downstairs, at least that was how Kathy had made it seem. If they got the women and children, the agents out first, she wondered if they would leave her for last since she wasn’t their top priority. 

2:53 stared back at her. 

At least Emily would make it. She was more important, had more going for her. She was supposed to be an only child anyway, mom had said it herself. Bugsy was the product of a failing marriage and a shared bottle of 1896 Bourbon that had been a wedding gift they’d never opened. 

2:54.

She could have sworn she tore something the way her head snapped to the door as it swung open on its hinges, as if two large men had thrown their weight into it. But it wasn’t two men at all, just one frantic Derek Morgan with an FBI grade assault rifle. 

The relief in his eyes was immediate, and he pulled a pocket knife from his boot, rushing over to where she lay, almost in shock, wondering if he was real at all, her heart pounding as she heard shouting in the corridor. 

“I’m gonna get you out, kid,” The man promised, slinging his gun over his shoulder as he sliced through the rope on her ankles, her eyes trained on the 2:55 that watched them as if to laugh at them. 

She whimpered, cursing behind her gag when she heard footsteps pounding through the hallway, and she was sure they were going to get caught. She thought then it would have been better if they’d forgotten about her, that at least Derek would have been safe, and he could have made sure the children got out safely, could have gotten Spencer and Emily medical. 

Derek whirled on the doorway the same as she did as a tall figure all but skidded around the corner, his legs weak as hers felt, too long and not at all built for running. Clumsy almost. 

Spencer. She should have known from the way he looked white as a sheet the moment he saw her it was him, but maybe she really did have concussion, as it seemed within moments he was fussing over her face, tearing a little too sharply at the tape over her mouth. 

She thinks she groaned, or maybe cursed him out, as he started apologising immediately, his eyes a puppy kind of sad as she stared up at him, Derek handing him the knife to cut her arms free. 

He was talking, but she couldn’t make a lot of it out, just that he was really sorry, it was 2:56 now. It was like her brain switched itself back on when she realised she was free, and the two of them were trying to haul her to her feet. 

“Come on, princess, we gotta get out of here,” Derek said, as Spencer looped an arm around her waist, helping her limp across the room where her weak limbs did little to hold her upright, her ribs throbbing with every step, “We managed to stop Cyrus from detonating it manually, but the circuits are all still live,”

Morgan took the lead with the rifle, knowing some of Cyrus’ men had stayed to look for them, that they would go down with the building even though he’d already shot their leader the moment they’d breached the front door, because that was how loyal they were. They’d proven so already with the wine. 

She kept her groans behind tight lips as they made it down the stairs, knowing Spencer didn’t mean to hold her bruised bones so tight, that he was just worried and her legs were doing the bare minimum to keep them both moving very fast. It wasn’t until they made it within a few feet of the door that they seemed to pick up the pace.

And she saw why. 

Jesse, Cyrus’ child bride that had been the reason they’d come here in the first place was holding the detonator, her face tear streaked at the sight of her husband and prophet dead on the floor, the people responsible all but dragging a lame girl through the foyer and to the doors as if they hadn’t killed a handful of her flock tonight. 

Bugsy saw the moment Jesse decided she wanted vengeance on them, but then, she guessed Spencer had already acted as he slung one of her arms over his shoulder, yanking her out the front door in a matter of seconds as Morgan pulled up the rear, and the two men shoved her down behind the small wall outside the church steps. 

Bugsy expected the bang to be louder as the rubble flew over their heads, the floor shaking with the impact of the bomb detonating, and it was then she realised one of Derek’s large warm hands held her head into his shoulder, protecting her already rattled skull as best as he could. Spencer had done the same, throwing half his body over her back as he covered his ears, the two men tucking into the wall tightly and waiting for the dust to settle. 

Spencer started coughing first, though his position over her never faltered, and she heard his chest wheezing, and knew they needed to move away from the thick smog that blew into their faces. Morgan released her ear, tipping her head back to check her over once more. 

“Kid! You okay?” He fretted, noticing the way her nose had started bleeding again from all the movement; the way the bruise had already started blotching her cheek from where Cyrus pistol whipped her. 

“I didn’t think you’d come for me,” Was all she could say, and Derek thought it was the saddest he’d ever heard her. 

Reid was pulling her to her feet then, where he was still hovering over her, despite the fact the blast had already cleared,  still sputtering and hocking up a lung, but it didn’t stop her from throwing herself at his middle, burying her face in his dusty sweater, not caring one bit if he jostled her aching ribs. 

He was trying to be gentle with her as he squeezed her back, but she knew by the way he pressed his face into her hair he needed it just as badly. 

“You saved my life,” He said, his long arms wrapping around her waist, hauling her whole body against his. 

She laughed through a cough, their cheeks brushing past one another as she pulled him in tighter, thankful, relieved. 

“You saved mine,” 

And then she heard Emily. Emily, who sounded frantic and heartbroken as she called for her, her voice breaking as if she was crying, or atleast on the verge of, and as comforting as Spencer’s long arms around her cracked ribs were, she needed to see her sister was okay. 

Ripping herself from his embrace immediately, she tore off after the sound, and there she was. Her older sister, who had always seemed immovable, like she wouldn’t so much as budge for a bucking horse, like water couldn’t drown her, or however many unsubs she’d faced could stop her from catching them. Her older sister, who looked like she’d taken a few punches of her own, judging by the blood on her blue blouse, that looked around the crowd of fleeing people with watery eyes and a shaking bottom lip.

“EMILY,” She yelled, her voice a bleat, a lamb calling for its mother, as she sprinted down the steps, whatever strength she had left carrying her to where Emily was rushing towards her, taking the stairs in threes, “EM-”

She crashed into her sister’s chest, and it was only then she started crying. 

“I swear I’ll never give you trouble again, I’ll never talk back, I’ll never be a bitch ever again-” It was all a slew of mumbles against her sisters shirt, that was beginning to wet through at the rate the tears were coming, “I thought he was going to shoot you-”

“I was so scared, Bug, oh my god,” Emily murmured into her hair, squeezing the life out of her baby sister that sniffled and sobbed, “You don’t ever, ever do that to me again,”

Bugsy shook her head, clawing at Emily’s back as she pulled her closer, feeling Emily stroking her hair softly to calm her even in the slightest. They stayed like that until she managed to wrangle her sobs into little sniffs, the fire burning her eyes where it burned the rest of the church to ashes. 

She stayed with Emily for a month after that. 

+4. The one where you leave the altar. 

She knew she was turning heads, walking down the street of a drizzly day in Virginia, hair wet and sticking to her face, makeup running down her cheeks, and the sodden, dove white wedding dress clasped in her hands as she paced towards the government building. 

Whether the guards recognised her as the Ambassador’s daughter, or whether they really didn’t want to get into it with a bride looking like that on her day, she didn’t know, but they opened the door for her nonetheless, exchanging raised brows as a trail of wet followed her gown over the marble floors. 

Heading up the desk, she flashed her driver's licence, which was enough to gain her a visitors pass she didn’t bother putting to use as she headed for the elevator, her ballet pumps squeaking under the body of the dress. Waiting for the doors to start closing when she finally let a few tears slip, burying her face into her cold, drenched palms, undoubtedly making the mess of mascara even worse. 

Her heart gave a leap when she heard someone stop the doors, hoping she could get to her sister with little delay, and she quickly wiped her face with whatever was left of her pretty, dobby cloth shawl she had yanked on before she’d ran. 

Whatever excuse she was about to give, whatever one liner she was about to drop to clear the awkwardness this agent was about to walk in on was sucked out of her when she saw Spencer staring at her, his briefcase in his hands he’d used to hold the doors, a wide eyed look plastered on his face as soon as he saw her state. 

“Bugsy,” It was somewhere between surprise and sadness, jumping into the elevator before the metal could shut again, the button for the sixth floor already lit up in a ring of red, “What are you- I didn’t even know…”

“Spencer!” As seemed to be a common occurrence between them now, she threw two very cold arms over his shoulders, tugging him for a hug he quickly reciprocated, feeling like she needed it in the moment, “It was so awful, I just couldn’t all those people staring at me, and he- I just feel so-”

“Hey slow down,” He soothed, slipping his favourite cardigan off his body to put over her shoulders, ignoring the way he cringed as it quickly got sodden, “Let’s get you to Emily, I’m sure we can fix this,”

She nodded, though he could tell she was still shaken up, the elevator dinging to a stop on the fifth floor where an agent looked ready to step in, his face dropping when he saw the sight. 

“Sorry, we’re full,” Spencer said, with little room for discussion, pressing the button to close the doors once more, and taking her by the elbow as she began shivering, “We’re gonna be just fine, you look beautiful,”

She laughed sadly with a roll of her eyes, the tears sticking to her cheeks. She knew she looked no better than a drowned rat, windswept and disgruntled, her dress full of muck from the street. 

“Thankyou, Spencer,” She mumbled, the door sliding open to the sixth floor, where Penelope and her everlasting smile greeted her favourite boy genius. 

She almost dropped her glitter pen when she saw the woman stood next to him looking like Dorothy dragged through the twister. 

“Oh you poor little lamb, what has happened to you honey!” She all but cried, the cute little pom poms in her hair bouncing as she brought Bugsy closer, taking her hands tightly. “Your hands are ice! You’ll catch cold with that wet hair, and your gorgeous dress-” 

“Garcia,” Spencer cut her off, though the woman didn’t seem to mind being manhandled into the kind grip, he guessed her state had her letting her guard down, “This is Bugsy, Emily’s little sister.”

Penelope gasped, her ponytails swishing around some more, the gems on her glasses as bright as the light in her eyes as she yanked the younger girl in for a tight hug. 

“It is so nice to meet you! Emily talks about you all the time,” She said, pulling away and fumbling through her pockets for her fresh pink handkerchief she always carried around, mopping up the girl's eyeliner. 

“She-she does?” Bugsy asked, sniffling, her body trembling as the AC beat down through the water ladened on her body. 

“Of course she does, come on, let’s go get you coffee, I have a new machine in my office that makes the best espresso-” Garcia grabbed her hand as if they were kids in the playground, as if she’d known the girl years, which she sort of had. She had, of course, stalked every single one of Emily’s known relatives, even a distant cousin that never left Europe, and that had thrown up the quiet corner of the internet that Bugsy took up.

“I needed to talk to my sister, if that’s okay,” Bugsy braved enough to say, the swishing of her dress on the carpet making her wince, practically hearing the gallon of rain that soaked the expensive fabric. 

“Ofcourse! How silly of me, I’ll bring it out right to you, little bug. You just go with Spencer,” Handing him the handkerchief, she set off towards her ‘bat cave’ in search of a hot beverage for the shivering woman, “Spencer, clean her makeup!” 

He did as he was told, dabbing the water off her face as he led her to the BAU, where Emily and Morgan sat on their desks, chatting as they finished off lunch, Emily flicking through photos on her phone of baby Henry that JJ had sent over to her that morning from maternity leave. 

“He’s just the sweetest little boy, he’s got the biggest blue eyes just like Jayj,” She said through a smile, “You know Will even said-”

“Holy shit-” Morgan cut her off, and she glanced at him, wondering about his use of a curse. Following his eyes over her shoulder, she swivelled in her position to see where Spencer led a very wet, shaken version of her little sister through the doors of the BAU, a snowy ball gown hanging off her, a veil clinging to her hair that had seen much better days. 

“Holy shit,” She agreed, immediately darting for the girl that tugged Spencer’s cardigan tighter to her body, “Bugsy,” 

“Emily, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t take up too much time- I just couldn’t do it- and I know mom’s always saying ‘Bring home a doctor, bring home a rich man,’ but I just couldn’t no matter how rich his daddy is, he wasn’t even too bad-” It all came out in a slur, not making too much sense, and she didn’t stop until Emily held up her hands, as if easing a wild dog. 

“Woah, take it easy, kiddo,” Morgan hushed, as Emily brought a hand over her sister’s cheek, wiping away the last of the mascara, “What happened?”

Bugsy took a deep breath, looking between Emily and Derek, feeling the rain drip down her back. 

“So a few weeks ago, Mom made me go to that stupid debutante ball,” She started, rolling her eyes already as Emily winced, knowing Elizabeth loved any excuse to dress her youngest up like a Barbie doll. 

“I hated those things,” She confessed, shaking her head, “I thought you’d agreed you didn’t have to go to them anymore,”

“That was while I was in college, she said at least I could focus on my studies,” The girl explained, as Garcia tottered back through the office, a steaming cup of coffee in her beloved Bratz mug. Taking it from the chirpy woman, she took a deep gulp, not caring if it burned her mouth as she wished for the damn chill to go away, “Thankyou- But she made me go to this one on the condition she would pay off some of my college loans, and I was dumb enough to fall for her bribe,” 

She huffed, taking another sip, her stomach warming with the hot liquid settling through her throat. 

“You know how she is at these things, she knows everyone, and everyone knows her. I had four guys asking for my dance card within minutes of arriving there, it was like trying to walk through a dog pound wearing a meat suit, all the hand holding, trying to touch my waist- one guy even called me Madam Prentiss,” She grimaced, shuddering at the thought of it, “Madam? No one even calls mom that-”

“Focus,” Emily reminded gently, and she seemed to nod to herself, setting back on track.

“Right. And then he was there. Byron Hastings.” Bugsy said, wrapping her hands around the mug some more. 

“Oh, isn’t he that super yummy bachelor that just inherited his fathers business?” Garcia jumped in, not noticing how it made her wince, “I hear his dad totally owns a bunch of shares in Facebook and as like just signed a deal with a new company that will change the future of computing-” 

“Not now, baby girl,” Morgan said calmly, patting Penelope on her shoulder when she saw the bride’s crestfallen face.

“Right, sorry. Your turn, little bug,” She said, shaking her head and fiddling with her dozen rings. 

“Yeah, that’s him.” She replied, running a slightly warmed finger over her eyelash where rain even collected there, “And you know, I wasn’t complaining, he was certainly easy on the eyes, and he smelled nice, like he just smelled rich, but man alive he was so boring,” She sighed, “I like computers as much as the next girl, no offence, but he didn’t once ask me what I was into or, and when I tried to bring up my degree he just patted me on the head and said ‘That’s nice’ like I was some child that had brought him a pretty colouring or something,”

“Ouch,” Emily grimaced, rubbing her arms over the cardigan to warm her up a little more, “And then?” 

“And eventually, his dad and my mom cut a deal that we’d make a good pair. He said we could be married within the season, and suddenly everyone seemed up for it, and it was like no matter how hard I tried to dig my heels in, no one would listen, and mom just seemed so pleased with me-” She spluttered, sipping her drink to catch her breath, “I just let it happen and just thought, you know, maybe we could learn to like each other, or we could just be like mom and dad and separate in everything but paper,” 

“It’s your life, who is she to tell you how you’re gonna live it,” Emily was outraged, the tip of her nose pink, her dark eyes stormy as her hands fell to her hips, huffing as if it had been her backed into a corner, “I can’t believe she would do this to you,” 

“I was fine with it, really. It's not like its the fifteenth century when I’d be forced to consummate- anyway,” Bugsy rubbed her face, “I just got there, and mom put on my veil and told me I’d make a lovely Mrs Hastings, and just the sound of it- I couldn’t-”

“What on earth is going on?” A new voice cut through the BAU, and the group disbanded like kids caught trading answers to the homework. Rossi and Hotch stood by the unit chief’s office, brows furrowed at the wet bride and his team that tended to her as if she were a princess. 

“Should we be expecting four wet bridesmaids too?” Rossi asked, the two of them making the steps down to the floor, approaching the guilty faced woman, noting Spencer’s cardigan wrapped over her shoulders. 

“Nope, just me,” Her joke fell flat as she met the stony face of Aaron Hotchner, who looked thoroughly unimpressed, “Nice to see you again, Mr Hotchner, sir,” 

His gaze slid to Emily, mouth opening to share whatever scathing remark bounced around his mouth, but the younger girl beat him to it, everyone’s eyebrows raising when she all but cut him off. 

“This wasn’t on Emily, sir, I just showed up out of the blue, I can go- I’ll go- I just need to figure out where I’m staying since I left my purse at the church- don’t you worry I’ll be out of your hair, Aaro- sir,” Bugsy stammered, plonking the mug onto Emily’s desk, backing away to the doors of the office, clutching her visitor pass tight in her fist. 

Maybe it was because she looked so hopeless, or maybe it was the way his team shot him the same look of horror he would be so regimental, or maybe even it was the fact part of her reminded him of Sean, only his brother wouldn’t have had the courtesy to apologise for his mess. 

Sighing, he gestured her to come back, “Wait,” He said her name, her government name because the other one didn’t fit right in his mouth, “Reid, get her some clothes out your go bag. Emily, tell your mother she’s safe and will be staying in Quantico until you can figure something out,” 

Heaving a sigh of relief, she launched her still sodden form at the chief, wrapping him in a stiff hug, bolder than anyone else on the team had ever dared to be. 

“I swear to god, Mr Hotchner, the next letter you're getting will be the best one yet,” She mumbled into his hard chest, and he fought off the way the corners of his lips twitched upwards. Patting her on the back gently, he ignored the way his dress shirt wet through. 

–

let me know what you think! mAYBE A FEW MORE PARTS COMING UP ??

Edit: This is a part one of 3 or 4 I have planned, thankyou so much for all the love on this I did not expect the reaction 🥺🥺

SECOND EDIT: part two and three are out now!! Have a look at the top where it says ‘next chpt and it’s there bbys!!

THIRD EDIT: we are now balls deep into this universe here's th link for the masterlist

[shaiyasstuff]

pretend | zayne

synopsis : In a tale of academic burnout, fried chicken, and poor impulse control, chaos incarnate—that’s you—somehow convinces your emotionally constipated med-student best friend to drink half a beer—which, shockingly, nearly kills him. Queue: slow realization that maybe, just maybe, you’ve both been idiots in love this whole time. content : fluff, drunk zayne, i wrote this with absolute zeal in mind, college!au

“Yes!” you exclaim, throwing your hands in the air like you just won an Oscar for Most Sleep-Deprived Human Alive.

Across the table, Zayne lifts a brow and smirks—annoyingly composed for someone who just witnessed you spiral through caffeine-fueled thesis chaos.

“I’m finally done,” you announce dramatically, like you just ended a war. “Let’s go out tonight. I need meat on sticks and bad decisions.”

Zayne closes his book with a soft thud, taking off his glasses in that maddeningly slow, deliberate way—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to your blood pressure.

“I pity the skewers who will die by your hand tonight,” he deadpans.

You snort. “I pity you, who’ll have to witness me demolish a six-pack like a college frat bro on a redemption arc.”

It wasn’t a dig. It was a fact.

Zayne doesn’t drink—ever.

You’re convinced his blood is 80% black coffee and quiet judgment.

So, naturally, you’d assigned him the title of Sir Zayne, Protector of Drunk Y/N, a role he never officially accepted but continues to perform with the patience of a long-suffering saint and the sighs of a man who has seen too much.

Honestly? If that’s not love, you don’t know what is.

But you and Zayne never crossed the line.

Not because he didn’t want to—at least, you hoped that was the case—but because you never let it happen.

Courtesy of your own sparkling cocktail of overthinking, self-doubt, and the lingering fear of ruining something good.

Zayne was tall, handsome, smart—the kind of man who made professors nod in approval and grandmothers sigh wistfully.

And you? You were the chaotic best friend with a penchant for questionable snack combos and emotional repression.

You’d watched him grow up beside you, shedding his shy, bookish shell to become the quietly confident man sitting across from you now.

The same man who still gave you his hoodie when you complained about the cold and remembered your coffee order down to the sugar granules.

And sure, you said you loved each other. Threw it around between jokes and “don’t die today” texts.

But it was always buffered by a safe, platonic bubble wrap. You never dared to mean it the way your heart did—aching and wistful, quietly begging for something more.

Because admitting it out loud?

That would change everything.

And some things felt too fragile to risk breaking.

“I’m gonna take one very relaxing shower and meet you there, cool?” you say, slinging your backpack over your shoulder like the protagonist of a teen drama walking off into the sunset—except sweatier and more sleep-deprived.

Zayne gives you a look, all cool and composed as usual. “Don’t make me wait again.”

You gasp, offended. “It was one time!”

But he’s already walking off like he just won that round—he probably did, and you’re left chasing after him, muttering something about false accusations and revisionist history.

Back at your dorm, you kick the door shut with your foot, strip off the layers of thesis-fueled misery, and step into the shower.

The hot water hits your skin, and for the first time in weeks, your shoulders unclench.

Your body, a battlefield of all-nighters, instant noodles, and bad posture, finally starts to forgive you.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t just be about beer and skewers.

Maybe, just maybe, you’d let yourself hope for something more.

You step out into the cool night air, tugging your hoodie sleeves over your hands and rubbing them together like a gremlin summoning warmth.

The city hums quietly around you—streetlights flickering, distant honks, the occasional bark of a dog that clearly has beef with the moon.

It doesn’t take long to reach the barbecue stall, that familiar greasy heaven you and Zayne have treated like your unofficial therapy spot for years.

And there he is, already seated inside, calm and collected like he hadn’t just been abandoned seventeen minutes ago. Your favorite order of fried chicken sits next to him, still warm.

Because of course it does.

You beam, tapping him on the shoulder before plopping down beside him. “Was I late?”

He doesn’t even look at you. “By 17 minutes, yes.”

You snort, already digging into the chicken like a woman possessed. “Big deal,” you mutter through a mouthful of food, completely unapologetic.

Zayne simply shakes his head, the corners of his lips twitching in the ghost of a smile.

You were chaos, and somehow, he always made room for it.

“So, what are your grand post-thesis plans, Doctor Zayne?” you ask, popping open a can with a dramatic pshhht that echoes like a battle cry into the night.

Zayne glances at you, then at the can in your hand like it personally offended his morals. “Hopefully not babysitting a tipsy gremlin.”

You raise your can in mock salute. “Too late. You signed up for this the day you let me copy your homework in seventh grade.”

He exhales through his nose, which is Zayne-speak for you’re unbearable, but I’ve made peace with it. “I’m thinking of applying for that research position at the hospital. Maybe specialize in cardiac surgery.”

You pause mid-sip, impressed. “Heart guy, huh? Makes sense. You’ve already stolen mine.”

He gives you a slow, pointed look.

You grin. “Kidding. Kind of.”

He doesn’t reply, just leans back and sips his coffee—the man’s choice of poison—and you wonder, just for a second, if maybe your heart wasn’t the only one on the table tonight.

Who were you kidding? Of course it isn’t.

If there was anything Zayne was good at—aside from saving lives, surviving on black coffee, and giving you judgmental looks—it was being honest. Blunt, even.

The guy didn’t know how to sugarcoat if his life depended on it.

So if he felt anything beyond friendship, he would’ve said something… right?

He wouldn’t just sit across from you night after night, remembering your order, walking you home, and quietly watching over you like some emotionally constipated guardian angel—unless it really was just friendship.

Right?

You shove another piece of chicken into your mouth, suddenly feeling very attacked by your own thoughts.

Maybe you were reading too much into it.

Maybe the long stares and rare half-smiles meant nothing.

Maybe he looked at everyone like that.

…Or maybe he didn’t.

But knowing Zayne?

If he wanted something more, he would’ve told you.

And that’s the part that hurts the most.

You finish your chicken in record time, like a seasoned warrior who’s trained her whole life for this exact moment.

Zayne watches you with the mild horror of someone witnessing a natural disaster unfold in slow motion.

“With all that grease you eat,” he scoffs, sipping his drink with far too much elegance, “it’s a wonder you’re still so thin.”

You wipe your mouth with a napkin and flash him a smug, greasy-lipped grin. “Courtesy of late-night study marathons and crippling stress. Better than any diet plan.”

He shakes his head, muttering something about clogged arteries and self-destruction, but the corners of his mouth twitch in that way that tells you he’s more amused than annoyed.

You lean back, arms stretched, feeling the food coma start to settle in. The air between you buzzes with something unspoken—comfortable, familiar, and maybe just a little tragic.

Like always.

You take a long sip from your beer can, eyes narrowing playfully at him over the rim. “You know, you should really start seeing someone.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. He just turns his head, gives you that pointed, deadpan look—the one that says I’m humoring you, but only barely. “I am perfectly fine, single.”

You snort. “Yeah, perfectly fine sitting alone in your apartment reading medical journals and judging me for my life choices.”

He raises a brow. “Someone has to.”

You laugh, nudging his leg under the table. “Seriously, though. You’re handsome, smart, stable. Tragic levels of emotionally unavailable, but that’s practically a dating app requirement these days.”

Zayne doesn’t respond right away. Just takes a calm sip of his coffee, gaze lingering on you a second too long.

“Maybe I’m just waiting for the right kind of chaos,” he murmurs.

And just like that, you forget how to breathe.

You quickly look away, composing yourself with the grace of someone pretending not to be internally combusting.

The heat crawling up your neck? Yeah, definitely the alcohol. Totally not because of that look or that line.

You take another sip, stalling. “Seriously? I always thought you’d go for the quiet, put-together type. You know, the kind who alphabetizes her spice rack and drinks herbal tea.”

Zayne hums, eyes still on you. “I already have enough order in my life. Why would I want more of that?”

You blink, caught off guard. “So… chaos is the goal?”

He tilts his head slightly, a rare glint of mischief in his gaze. “Not chaos. Just… someone who makes life feel a little less dull. Someone who challenges me. Keeps me on my toes.”

You let out a breathy laugh, unsure if it’s the beer, the tension, or just him.

“Sounds exhausting,” you mutter.

He smiles. “Not if it’s the right person.”

And suddenly, you’re not so sure you can blame the warmth in your chest on the alcohol anymore.

You push all your thoughts aside—shove them into that dark mental closet labeled Feelings: Do Not Open.

With a practiced grin, you raise your can in mock toast. “Well, be sure to send me an invitation to the wedding,” you quip, voice light, smile lighter.

For someone who lives and breathes chaos, you’ve gotten remarkably good at pretending things don’t get to you.

Zayne just smirks, as if he sees right through the performance. And then—without a word—he reaches for a can of beer.

Pop.

The sound cuts through the air like a record scratch. You freeze, staring at him like he just broke the laws of physics.

“Wait, are you—what—you’re drinking?”

He shrugs, raising the can to his lips. “It’s just one.”

You gape. “You’ve lectured me for years about alcohol rotting brains.”

He glances at you, his voice calm. “Maybe I just needed a reason.”

And this time, it’s not just your cheeks that feel warm. It’s everything.

You cough, almost choking on your drink. “Are you sure?”

Zayne glances at the can in his hand, then back at you with that maddeningly unreadable expression. “What, afraid I’ll lose my sense of control?”

You blink. “Yes! That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Who are you and what have you done with ‘water-only’ Zayne?”

He takes a slow sip, completely unfazed. “It’s just beer.”

“You say that like I didn’t once watch you refuse soda because it had too many bubbles.”

He shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Or maybe you’re trying to impress someone.”

He doesn’t answer. Just leans back in his seat, eyes still on you—calm, unreadable, dangerous in the way that makes your heart skip.

And now you’re the one who needs another drink.

Soon enough, Zayne learns the harsh truth of his choices.

Because not even halfway through the can, the damage is done—his face flushed a deep, telltale red, his breath coming in shallow little huffs like he’s just walked through a wind tunnel.

You glance over at him mid-sip, eyebrows shooting up.

“…You good?”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice stiff and defensive—classic Zayne—but he’s blinking too much, his back too straight, like he’s focusing really, really hard on staying upright.

You stare. “You’ve had half a can.”

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt as if the night air suddenly turned tropical. “I didn’t eat much today,” he mutters, clearly struggling to save face. “Also, the ground feels… uneven.”

You nearly snort beer up your nose. “The ground is fine. You are uneven.”

His glare is valiant, but his ears are glowing, and he’s gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“I told you this would happen,” you say, half-concerned, half-delighted. “You’re like a lightweight legend.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his flushed face. “Remind me never to do this again.”

You lean your cheek into your palm, grinning. “Remind me to never let you not do this again.”

He exhales sharply—half sigh, half chuckle—and despite the mess he’s in, there’s still that look in his eyes.

Soft. Open. A little reckless.

And God help you, it suits him.

The night carries on, as nights with you usually do—spiraling steadily into chaos.

One of your many bad decisions includes convincing Zayne to finish the rest of that cursed can. He protests, of course—weakly, half-heartedly, with the conviction of a man who already knows he’s lost.

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Just a little more,” you grin, shoving it toward him like it’s a dare and not a crime against his entire system.

He sighs, long and resigned, then tips the can back with the tragic acceptance of someone walking into a trap they dug themselves.

Moments later, he’s slumped over the table, forehead resting on his arm, a soft groan escaping him. “I think I’m dying.”

You? You’re no help.

You’re already tipsy, which means your moral compass has long since clocked out. You’re doubled over with laughter, wheezing uncontrollably at the sight of composed, stoic, impossible-to-rattle Zayne looking one sip away from meeting God.

“You look like a Victorian lady with the vapors,” you cackle.

“I hate you,” he mumbles into the table.

“This is love,” you giggle, nearly falling off your stool.

And despite the headache he’ll definitely have tomorrow, he doesn’t argue. Not really.

After a few more cans—questionable choices all around—you find yourself leaning back in your seat, finishing the last of your skewers with drunken determination.

The stall’s almost empty now, the night stretching quiet and still around you, save for the low hum of streetlights and the occasional car passing by.

Zayne, meanwhile, is completely knocked out beside you.

Head lolled to the side, glasses tucked away somewhere, lips parted slightly as he breathes slow and deep.

His usually sharp features are softened, flushed, and peaceful in a way that makes your chest squeeze a little too tightly.

If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked cute like this.

But you do know better, so you just shake your head and smirk at the very real mess you helped create.

Tossing the empty skewer stick aside, you slide off your seat with a wobble, then crouch beside him.

You nudge his shoulder gently. “Come on, let’s go,” you whisper, voice low, a little fond, a little guilty.

He doesn’t budge.

Just lets out a tiny groan, eyelids fluttering like he’s having an incredibly dramatic dream about betrayal and liver damage.

You sigh, laughing under your breath. “This is what I get for enabling you, huh?”

Still, you loop an arm under his and begin to help him up—because even if he’s heavier than you remember and absolutely no help at all, he’s still your idiot to carry home.

And for once, he lets you.

You somehow manage to haul him upright—well, half-upright—his arm slung over your shoulders as he leans most of his weight on you.

He mumbles something incoherent against your hair, something that sounds like “never again” but could also be “chicken skewers are evil.” Hard to tell.

His dorm’s way too far, and in his current state, he’d probably collapse somewhere tragic and inconvenient—like the middle of the sidewalk or a bush with questionable origins.

So, you make the executive decision.

“My place it is,” you mutter, shifting his weight and starting the slow, awkward shuffle back toward your dorm.

He stumbles once or twice, groaning like a disgruntled old man, and you stifle a laugh.

“This is karma,” you tell him, breathless from both the effort and the ridiculousness of it all. “For every time you judged my life choices.”

He doesn’t respond, just leans more heavily into you—like he knows you’ll carry him anyway.

And you do.

Step by step, wordlessly and willingly, until your dorm door finally clicks open and you ease him inside, one breath, one stubborn heartbeat at a time.

You finally manage to plop him down onto your bed with the grace of someone who’s done this exact thing zero times and is running purely on muscle memory and spite.

Zayne flops back like a ragdoll, one arm splayed dramatically over his eyes, as if the sheer emotional weight of the night has bested him.

You shake your head, chest heaving, cheeks still warm from your own drinks. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Crossing the room, you grab your water bottle—your trusty, slightly dented savior—and take several deep gulps yourself before crouching at the edge of the bed.

Then, without thinking twice, you press it gently to his lips.

“Here,” you say, voice softer now. “It’ll help you feel better.”

Zayne makes a vague, pitiful noise. But he drinks, eyes still closed, brows faintly scrunched like he’s never tasted water before in his life.

You hold it steady, watching him carefully, your expression torn between amused and quietly tender.

It’s such a stupid, intimate moment.

And somehow, it feels like more than it should.

To your horror, he downs the entire bottle. Every last drop.

“Hey—hey! That’s mine!” you protest, trying to pry it from his hands, but Zayne holds it like a lifeline, drinking until it gives a dramatic little hollow gulp at the end.

He sets it down with an exaggerated sigh, flopping back against your pillows like he just climbed a mountain.

“You have legs,” you grumble, snatching the empty bottle. “The water dispenser is literally down the hall.”

“It’s too far,” he mumbles, eyes closed again. “Your bed is nice. I’m dying. Let me die hydrated.”

You roll your eyes, turning to set the bottle aside—and then pause when you feel the weight shift beside you.

Zayne suddenly sits up.

You glance over and freeze. He’s staring at you.

Not blinking. Not swaying. Just… staring.

A little too intently. A little too seriously.

“…What?” you squeak, completely thrown.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just keeps looking at you like you’ve said something outrageous.

Or like he just realized something important.

And suddenly, the room feels a little too quiet.

A little too close.

He stares into your eyes, and for a moment, everything else fades—the buzz of alcohol, the low hum of the city outside, even the dull ache in your limbs.

Then, slowly, his hands reach out and grasp your arms—not rough, not urgent, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. Before you can say a word, he pulls himself to his feet, swaying just slightly, and starts walking.

Pushing you back with each quiet, deliberate step.

You move without thinking, heart hammering in your chest as your knees bump into the edge of your desk.

You’re trapped between the wood at your back and the look in his eyes—sharp, unreadable, burning through the haze of the night.

“Zayne…” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you’re warning him or yourself.

He doesn’t answer. He just stands there, too close, the heat of him bleeding into your skin, his hands still lingering on your arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

And in that moment, you swear the entire world narrows to the space between you.

And whether it’s the alcohol or the truth breaking free—

You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“Uhm… are you okay?” you ask, your voice uncertain, breath catching in your throat as you stare up at him.

Zayne shakes his head, just once. “No.”

You blink, concern flaring. “What’s wro—”

But you don’t get to finish.

He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat, hands moving to cradle your face as his lips crash against yours.

It’s not soft. Not hesitant.

It’s hungry.

Like he’s been holding it back for far too long. Like something inside him finally snapped loose.

Your back presses harder against the desk as he leans in, kissing you like he’s afraid this moment will slip away if he doesn’t take all of it now.

And for a second—just a second—you forget everything else.

The drinks. The laughter. The years of pretending.

All that exists is the heat of his mouth on yours and the staggering, undeniable truth of it.

His lips crash into yours before you can even finish your sentence—urgent, messy, filled with too much longing and too little clarity. It catches you off guard, your breath stolen, your thoughts scattering like the loose papers on your desk.

At first, you freeze.

Then your hands move to his chest, trying to push him back. “Zayne—wait—”

But he’s already pulling you closer, an arm slipping around your waist, the other sweeping across your desk in one rushed, careless motion—books, pens, everything clattering to the floor.

He grabs your hips and lifts you effortlessly, placing you on the desk like it’s instinct, like he’s done this a thousand times in his head.

“Zayne, stop!” you protest, voice sharp now, your palms pressed firmly against him.

And just like that, he halts—everything in him going still.

His breath is ragged, face flushed, eyes wide with a dawning realization as he looks at you—really looks.

Silence stretches between you.

Then he slowly steps back, as if waking from something he didn’t mean to fall into.

“…I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, shaken. “I shouldn’t have—”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still catching your breath, still feeling the echo of what just happened.

Because part of you is furious.

And part of you is trembling.

And somewhere, buried beneath it all, part of you wanted it.

But not like this.

Not drunk.

Not blurred.

And certainly not like something he’ll regret in the morning.

You try to steady the shaking in your voice, the racing in your chest, and force out a laugh—thin, awkward, strained.

“See?” you say, trying to make light of it, to patch over the tension like you always do. “This is exactly why you should get a girlfriend. Someone to… I don’t know, handle all that bottled-up intensity.”

But he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.

Instead, his gaze sharpens—sober, unwavering, cutting right through your joke like it never existed.

“I don’t want one,” he says.

Simple. Final.

The room falls quiet again. The words hang in the air, heavier than you expect.

Your smile fades a little, the humor faltering on your lips. “Then what do you want?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

But his eyes never leave yours.

And that silence says more than words ever could.

“I want you,” he says quietly, each word deliberate, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he takes a step closer.

“Only you.”

Your breath catches—completely, helplessly.

There’s no teasing in his tone, no drunken slur, no hesitation.

Just the raw, unfiltered truth of it. It lands in your chest like a drop of ink in water, spreading fast and uncontrollably.

You should say something. Anything.

But your voice is gone, swallowed by the weight of his words and the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re the only thing in the world worth reaching for.

You’d spent so long convincing yourself that he didn’t feel this. That he couldn’t.

But now?

He’s standing in front of you like he’s known all along.

And like he’s finally tired of pretending he doesn’t.

You open your mouth, stammering, grasping for something logical to say—anything to bring the air back into your lungs, to slow your racing heart.

“Zayne, you’re—this is just the alcohol talking, you don’t mean—”

But he cuts you off, his voice low and steady.

“I’m done pretending.”

The words hit you like a sudden shift in gravity.

There’s no hesitation in him now.

No trace of the usual restraint he always wore like armor. He’s standing there—bare, honest, and dangerously close.

You search his face for some sign of doubt, some crack you can cling to. But there’s nothing.

Just the truth laid out between you, heavy and real.

And your heart doesn’t know whether to run or leap.

“I don’t want this to happen just because you’re drunk,” you whisper, barely able to look at him.

It comes out softer than you mean it to—fragile, almost trembling—because beneath all the banter, beneath all the years of pretending, you’ve always been afraid of this exact moment.

Of wanting it too much and it not being real.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens—his gaze steady, clear, unwavering.

“I’m not drunk enough to forget this,” he says quietly. “And definitely not drunk enough to lie.”

You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you don’t see the walls he always kept between you. They’re gone. Just like that.

What’s left is him.

And the truth you’d both been trying so hard not to touch.

His hand reaches up, fingers brushing against your skin as he gently tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His touch is careful—soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

“It’s hard to see you trying to push me away,” he says, voice low and raw. “All the time.”

Your eyes widen, guilt and surprise rushing in at once. “I just thought…”

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your lips, eyes searching yours like he’s waiting for you to see what he’s been trying to show you all along.

“No more thinking,” he murmurs.

Then he kisses you again—but this time, it’s slow.

Careful. Like he’s trying to tell you everything he couldn’t say with words.

And when he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, the space between you now completely, irreversibly gone.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “about earlier.”

A pause.

“But I’m not sorry for this.”

And just like that, you close your eyes and let it all fall away—the fear, the doubt, the need to overthink every moment.

Because for once, the truth is simple.

He’s here.

He chose you.

And despite everything you tried to convince yourself, despite all the ways you kept your heart guarded—you want him too.

You exhale, slow and shaky, forehead still pressed to his, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like an anchor.

No more pretending.

No more running.

You let yourself fall—not blindly, but willingly. Into him.

Into this.

Into whatever comes next.

masterlist

[obaewankenobis]

close to you; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair x reader (afab, rare/no use of y/n, female pronouns are used)

word count: 14.5k (sorry)

warnings: the usual hunger games warnings (violence, child murder, prostitution, etc). also smut (fingering, p in v, oral (m receiving)) mdni -- pretty pls!

summary: you're both victors — him from four, you from eight — assigned to mentor tributes from district nine who lack a mentor. you hate him because he played the role so well, accepting the gifts and glory of the capitol with a wide smile and charming words. unbeknown to you, the feeling is not mutual.

a/n: crashing out because of sunrise on the reaping so i wrote this.

DAY TWO — THE OPENING CEREMONY

It had been too soon since you'd last seen him, six months ago at your victory celebration in the Capitol. The circumstances were vastly different now, but the routine remained the same.

Physically, you were feeling your very best: strong and healthy, plucked and scrubbed and painted to perfection. But your prettiness, and all the work your prep team had done to your face and body paled in comparison to the unattainable beauty of him.

He, of course, was Finnick Odair, the person next to you subtly coughing and dragging you from your own mind and into the real world. You chose to ignore the cough, knowing who it was from and that he was doing it on purpose.

“I know you can hear me,” the voice said in an almost sing-song voice. No response, you wouldn't give him that. “You’re standing right next to me.” Again, silence. “I know you’re just ignoring me now, I’m not stupid.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” it slips out before you realize you’re supposed to be ignoring him, which only infuriates you further. Defeated, you turn to face the person with a voice so irritating you were about to commit a crime.

“Ha! Knew that would work,” Finnick smiled, showing off perfect rows of pearly white teeth. He was so perfect it was infuriating. You noticed, with an ounce of satisfaction, that his canines were razor sharp, sharper than most, and his front teeth stuck out from his lips ever so slightly when he smiled. It felt nice to know even the great Finnick Odair had flaws. Even if they only added to his charm, it made him imperfect, human.

“Whatever, Odair,” you rolled your eyes, trying to brush off the fact that he knew just how to get under your skin. It worked every time.

“Whatever, Odair,” he mimicked, raising his voice several octaves in a poor attempt to imitate you.

You were going to kill him, you were sure of it. Grab that stupid statue next to you of a soldier with a sword, and fashion it into a weapon of your own.

“Easy there, sweetheart. I can see you plotting already… so just remember, we’re supposed to be working together on this,” Finnick let out a chuckle as your eyes flashed in frustration, not because of what he said, but because he was right. You two were stuck with each other, whether you liked it or not.

“You two!” A high pitched, accented voice snapped, which you instantly recognized as Phaedra Day, the District 9 escort. “Please, come meet the tributes before the parade!”

Immediately you dislike her. Aside from her obvious disregard for her tributes’ wellbeing — that’s obvious from the way she shoves the two children forward — she’s the pinnacle of Capitol excess, and it shows everywhere. All the cosmetic surgery she’s had over the years gives her face an overly full effect, like a stuffed turkey.

She’s got this awful orange hair, not like the lovely ginger color you’ve seen, no, this is as bright as the flames of a house fire.

Her makeup, you think, is the worst of all. It’s hard to pull off orange eyeshadow, orange blush, and orange lipstick, and Phaedra is definitely not the exception. You suppose it’s meant to compliment her hair, but it just looks clownish.

Finnick greets her with a kiss on each cheek, and comes away with two orange splotches on both his own. You decide then you’ll hang back and let them do the talking.

“Well,” Phaedra nudged the two tributes forward. “They're your mentors, they're not going to bite. Introduce yourselves!”

“Hi.” The girl couldn't be older than twelve, with sandy brown hair, bright green eyes, and a smattering of freckles that made her look even younger.

“Eulalia!” Phaedra clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You can’t have expected them to remember you from the reaping, and that is not a proper introduction! What did we practice?”

The girl — Eulalia — straightens her back immediately, the curious, childhood look in her eye fading into something somber. “I’m Eulalia Overfell, I’m twelve years old, and I’m from District 9.”

“Nice to meet you,” you force a bright smile on your face, hoping this girl can't see the sadness in your eyes. You're rooting for her already, she’s your tribute, but you know realistically her chances are so very slim. You introduce yourself and look expectantly at Finnick, who seems like he's busy cozying up to Phaedra instead of paying attention to who actually matters: your tributes.

“Finnick Odair,” he rolls his eyes in a dismissive gesture, as if waving away the pointed glare you'd been shooting in his direction. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

You give him another look that you hope can only be described as shooting daggers.

Then he surprises you — sticks out his hand and greets Eulalia like a proper adult, giving her his undivided attention. “It’s nice to meet you, Eulalia.”

It’s so unlike the eye roll and bored tone he used with you; he’s done a complete switch in a matter of seconds.

“Miller,” Phaedra gives him a pointed nudge, reminding you there’s another tribute. “Go on.”

The boy wears a brooding expression, brown eyes dark with distrust and hate, refusing to open his mouth.

Phaedra sighs, like she’s been dealing with this all day and expecting no less. “This is Miller Keene, he's fourteen. He has yet to learn his manners, so don't mind him.”

She shoos him away like a fly buzzing around her head, and focuses all her attention on the two of you. Or maybe just Finnick, by the way she's batting her lashes and twirling a strand of her hair. “You know, I’m just so glad that I have you two for this year! Old Mazie was absolutely dreadful company! I mean, she could barely hold a conversation. Always muttering to herself in the corner…” Phaedra sniffed in displeasure, then turned back to Finnick. “I look forward to working with you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he flashes her a smile that's borderline seductive. You're about to object that this whole thing feels inappropriate when Phaedra is gone, rambling about finding the District 9 stylists and how they're never going to be on time at this rate.

You feel gross and uneasy in her presence for a number of reasons, however harmless she might appear. One, because of the way she was looking at Finnick, like she’d devour him in an instant. Two, because Finnick didn't even look bothered by the attention, no, he seemed to relish it. Three, because you knew of Mazie, of her story: she’d been driven mad during her games almost fifty years ago from a cumulation of starvation, dehydration, and witnessing multiple deaths right in front of her. Phaedra never had to worry about something every parent’s worst fear in the Districts. She had no idea how heartbreaking it must be, to lose your child once in the Reaping and then twice upon returning home.

Her comment also makes you wonder why Finnick was chosen for the task of mentoring tributes that were not his own. I mean, it made sense they’d give the tributes to you; you had no experience and the Capitol likely didn't care. But Finnick? The Finnick Odair, Capitol Darling? Wouldn't he be of better use mentoring his own tributes?

You zone out a bit, curious to be on this side of the parade — it was only last year you were preening in a chariot just like your tributes were now.

Unfortunately, your tributes didn't stand out in any particular way. You’d been chatting up a storm with as many people you could find, but none seemed interested in taking such a huge risk on two tributes who were not likely to make it past the bloodbath. Finnick had spent all his time with Mags, the aging District 4 mentor, and the Capitol citizens with her, instead of being by your side.

Right now you’re watching him as he talks with what you think is one of his many admirers, though you doubt he’s doing it in favor of Miller or Eulalia. No, her hand is squeezing his bicep and she’s laughing a little too hard for the conversation to be about sponsorship.

You feel a tug on your arm and tear your gaze away from Finnick and down, to find Eulalia slipping her hand into yours. You murmur a quick hello, unsure as to why she’s requesting your attention, when she whispers, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“What— oh, definitely not—” You splutter, your cheeks burning. “No, what would make you think that!”

She shrugs, “I dunno. You just keep staring at him. When my sister had a boyfriend, all she did was stare at him.”

“I—” How could you explain to a child that you were essentially slut shaming him in your head for not doing his actual job?

“Everyone stares at me, Eulalia. She just recognizes perfection when she sees it.” Finnick’s somehow snuck up behind the two of you and overheard everything, which is mortifying. He’s grinning at you, placing his hands on Eulalia’s shoulders while she giggles.

“Finnick’s a little self obsessed, don't mind him,” you say as you tug Eulalia back to your side, intent on leading her and Miller back to the tribute penthouse before he can bother you two any more.

When the two tributes are fast asleep, you whirl around to face Finnick, who has the sense to look a little bit worried at the anger etched into your features, though he still retains the easygoing air about him. His body leaned against the doorframe of his room — coincidentally across from yours — with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes surveyed you with an air of caution, waiting for whatever storm that's been brewing in your brain.

“This is not something I’m doing alone! They were eating me alive out there, and you were gone!”

“Relax,” he sighs, dropping his arms so they now rest at his sides. “I’ve done this before, y’know. I know what I’m doing.”

“It didn't look like you were doing anything, honestly!”

Your heart is racing now, palms sweaty as the weight of responsibility comes crashing down on you all at once. His nonchalance bothers you even more. You wish he'd show a sliver of actual human emotion, not this cocky, flirty personality that leaves no room for anything else.

But it’s his, “grab a drink, honey, and calm down”, is what really sets you off.

“Look, if you want to do… whatever it is you do with all your Capitol friends—lovers—whatever, do it on your own time! Not when we’re supposed to be securing sponsors!” You whisper-shout, careful not to wake either Eulalia or Miller.

His mild expression melts into something unreadable. You think a hint of anger flashes across his face for a split second, but it’s gone before you can confirm if it’s real or just a figment of your imagination. You’re leaning towards the latter, because you’ve never seen Finnick angry before.

“You have no idea how lucky you are, do you?” He scoffs without bothering to give you a second glance as he retreats into his room.

“You better be here tomorrow at breakfast to help them before training!” You call after him, but he doesn't respond, just slams the door shut behind him.

It felt good to get a reaction from Finnick, but now, in the silence that followed, you couldn't help but feel a bit bad. Confused, but also guilty — your last comment had certainly struck a nerve. But what did he mean by lucky?

Lucky to be in charge of training two children who were bound for death? Lucky for your grandmother to die while you were in the arena, leaving nobody left in your life to care for you? Lucky for your friends to have all but abandoned you once you'd returned, off put by how much you'd changed?

If anything, he was the lucky one. He had Mags, who cared for and loved him like her own son. He was adored by everyone in the Capitol, and had a string of lovers that trailed behind him, ensuring he would never be lonely.

It was time to face it — maybe your anger towards him was misplaced and rooted in something else entirely. You were jealous of how he was surrounded by people admiring and loving him. It was something you yearned for so deep inside your chest it hurt.

DAY THREE — TRAINING

You were up before the first light, dedicated to making today better than the disaster known as yesterday. You were busying yourself before the rest of your ensemble awoke, pressing powders and creams into your skin, tickling your lips with a painted brush, and penciling in details that would make you seem up to date on Capitol trends without appearing too gaudy.

Soon you begin to hear the stirrings of everyone else in the apartment — Phaedra’s loud, obnoxious voice rang much louder than the quiet chatter of Miller and Eulalia as she directed them towards the dining room.

By the time you sat down for breakfast, almost everyone was there: both tributes, their prep teams and stylists, and Phaedra. The only one absent was Finnick, whose empty seat was directly across from you.

“I know you must be nervous,” you began, noticing how neither tribute had touched their food. “I want you guys to go to as many stations as you can, okay? Not just the weaponry — the survival stations really came in handy for me last year.”

Eulalia poked at her scrambled eggs with a fork, face pale and filled with concern, not disinterest. “Everyone’s a lot bigger than me.”

You weren't sure what to say to that, because it had never been an issue for you. You’d been eighteen upon your Reaping, and there were only two mouths to feed in your home: yours, and your grandmother��s. She’d owned a tailor shop, and while the two of you were never wealthy, you never battled real starvation. Compared to the tributes you had faced, you were fully grown and only slightly malnourished, like all district children were.

A scrape of the chair legs against the floor alerted you to the fact that Finnick had arrived and was taking his seat, saying, “Size can only go so far. You’re small, but you're quick. Use that to your advantage.”

Of course he would know something about that; he'd won his games at just 14, the youngest ever victor in the history of Panem.

“What about weapons?” You look towards Miller, surprised that he’s saying anything at all.

“Well… there will be stations that can teach you, find one that comes easier than the rest and—”

“You’d probably be pretty good with a scythe or pitchfork,” Finnick interrupts you like you weren’t even there. “I’m assuming, at least, since you're from District 9. Grain and all.”

Miller nods, sinking back in his chair as if to muse over what Finnick has said.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, shooting a pointed look at Finnick. “You shouldn't count on unusual weapons being in the arena, and tributes are rarely gifted their weapons of choice, even if they’re exceptionally talented.” That last part was a dig at Finnick, and you study him from the corner of your eye, hoping he’s just as annoyed as he makes you. You know it's petty and childish, but you're still upset about last night.

Of course, he doesn't give you the satisfaction. “The gamemakers want a good show more than anything. If you see something in the training center that you think you’d be good at, practice and use it later for your private session with them.”

“Don’t show off your skills in front of everyone,” you interjected. “You don't need to become a target.”

He finally turned to you, his voice laced with displeasure. “Well, they're already targets, sweetheart. They're going to be in an arena full of kids trying to kill them.” He turned back to Miller and Eulalia, who were both staring with wide eyes that shifted back and forth between the two of you. “Listen, the more practice the better. Focus on the weapons, it’ll give you the best chance.”

“Well, I was just telling them to go to all the stations, actually. Most tributes die from natural causes.” You’re trying not to grit your teeth for the children’s sake, but he’s making it exceptionally difficult by going against everything you’re saying.

“Okay, that’s fine and all, but I don’t think—”

“Well, I think they should be heading down now to the training center! Don't want to miss a moment of such valuable time!” Phaedra interrupts Finnick before it can turn into a full scale argument between the two of you, shooing Miller and Eulalia out the door before either of you can protest.

“What's your problem?” You ask Finnick once the room is empty.

“My problem?” His voice is brimming with disbelief. “You’re the one who's had a problem with me since the beginning!”

“I’m so sorry,” you almost let out a laugh at how ridiculous he was being. How could he not realize it? That he was a traitor to the Districts, and you weren't obligated to like him. “Is this the first time someone's ever disliked you? I mean, I know you're probably used to being pampered by all your Capitol buddies…”

“There you go again,” the muscles in his jaw suddenly have his mouth sealed shut with tension. “You make all these assumptions about me, and you haven't even bothered to ask if any of them are true. Do you know what I—” He cut himself off, glancing around the room like he's looking for someone. Or like he's being watched. “Nevermind.”

His fork clatters against his plate as he pushes his chair back abruptly, before heading off to his room.

Well, he was right about that. You did have your assumptions, but they were all based on everything you'd seen the past couple of years on live television.

Dinner is perhaps more awkward than breakfast, mainly because Finnick and Phaedra don't bother showing up, so it's just you, your tributes, and their stylists.

Making conversation is painstakingly difficult, mainly because neither of them seem to have much to offer to the questions you ask them past a nod or a short “yes” or “no”. Not that you blame them — no, that would be entirely unfair.

You’d spent the day alone in the Capitol, chatting up various people who'd sponsored you or were known to be particularly generous in past games. But it seemed like no one was willing to take a risk on a small twelve year old who looked no older than ten, and a brooding boy who wouldn't offer so much as a grunt to anyone.

“You'll have tomorrow and the following day in the training center,” you started. “But the last day is when they start to do the private sessions, so tomorrow’s your best bet to lock down any skills you've been working on.”

Eulalia nods. “The trainer at that foraging station said I was really nifty with plants,” she offers, but in a way that you suspect is meant to try to cheer you up more than anything.

“That's great, Eulalia!” You beam at her, because you remember the worst part of the Games — keeling over as sharp stabs of hunger plagued your body, while your throat turned as dry as sandpaper.

She asks to be excused the same time Miller stomps off to his room, leaving you alone in the living area of the penthouse.

I need a drink, you sighed softly to yourself, finding a near empty bottle of wine from dinner and pouring some into the same glass you’d used.

You turn the television on, flicking through the channels of awful reality shows, Panem news updates, and of course, recaps of previous Hunger Games in preparation for the 70th.

You’ve seen this one before— it's the one where the arena was a snowy forest, the freezing temperatures killing off nearly all the tributes in the first few days. You’re so engrossed in the recap you almost don't hear the door opening.

You do hear Phaedra’s loud laughs echoing down the hall from the entryway, and turn back to see her stumbling through the door. Finnick is right beside her, offering you a tight smile as he guides Phaedra, who has to be drunk, with one hand, and holds her heels in the other.

Not my problem, not my problem, not my problem, you repeat the mantra in your head, hoping your attention will go back to the TV in front of you.

You weren't drunk (you decided you’d want to be shot the day two glasses of wine inebriated you), but you were a little tipsy. Just a little. Enough for your filter, but not your inhibitions, to be gone.

The now empty wine bottle sat pitifully on the coffee table next to your equally empty glass, as if begging to be refilled. Since it’d been almost empty when you'd scavenged it, you weren't too far gone. Not far gone enough.

You happen upon the kitchen in search of another bottle as Finnick re enters it, not sure whether or not to make polite conversation or ignore him.

He makes the decision for both of you, “How’d they do today?”

“Alright,” you shrugged, biting back a jab about him not helping you during dinner. An awkward pause follows before you realize you're meant to give him something back, so you add, “Eulalia’s got a knack for foraging.”

“That's good,” Finnick’s clearly in his own world and paying little attention to you, searching the fridge for something to eat instead of asking for an Avox to do it.

He’s so lost in thought, saying absolutely nothing to annoy you, that you realize, for the first time, how young he is. You’d always associated him with being much older, since he had so many years of experience on you.

But his features were just so quintessentially… boyish. There were no lines on his face like there were so many other tributes, save for the small indents where his dimples popped out when he smiled. He was tall and lanky — not awkward with his long limbs, but like he still had time to grow into broader shoulders. His face, although perfectly chiseled and sculpted to perfection, had a fullness to his cheeks that could only be thinned out with age. The only thing that felt fully grown about him was the deep frown etched into his face at the moment, like he was worrying about something a nineteen year old wasn't meant to.

“I thought we already talked about your staring problem,” his voice is low and smooth, bringing you out of the trance you'd been in.

“I was just… observing,” you say, embarrassed at being caught in the act. You were just curious to know more about him, and whenever you spoke you seemed to stray further and further from that objective.

“Uh huh…” He squints his eyes at you, like he's studying you as well, to figure out what's going on in your head.

“Try to show up on time tomorrow.” It felt foreign to have a conversation with Finnick without it resorting to an argument, so of course you had to ruin the moment. “They’ve only got a day left before the private sessions, and I think… I think they could use your experience. And I think Miller likes you, for whatever that's worth.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “An insult and a compliment in the same sentence, all wrapped up in a bow just for me,” his teeth were beginning to poke from his lips, transforming his face into a full on smile. “You’re spoiling me.”

There was another beat of silence before you say goodnight and rush back to your room, hoping tomorrow will be better — it seems like that's become a daily wish before you fall asleep. One day it'll get better.

DAY FIVE — PRIVATE SESSIONS

Everyone was fast asleep in their rooms, the house silent save for the low murmur of the television as you watched an interview recap from previous years, a notepad in hand. You were trying to decide if it was a good or bad thing that neither of your tributes had nothing to make them stand out. With mediocre training scores, your job was turning more into an impossible task than ever.

The elevator door dings open, and you know it can only be Finnick, since he'd yet again left right after dinner.

“Why are you still up?” you ask as he passes by, though this time he doesn't bother slowing down and heading straight for his room.

“Just… preparing for tomorrow, I guess.” You notice his lips are inflamed and smudged with a lavender shade of sparkly lipstick, glitter trailing down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. His eyes are just as puffy as his lips, red rimmed and glassy, but all that pales when you see the long, rather deep scratch on his chin. It’s still bleeding slightly and trickling down the same path carved by the glittery lipstick, disappearing beneath his shirt and leaving a slight stain against the white.

Your instinct want you to jump up from the couch and ask what's wrong, any disdain you have towards Finnick melting away for just a brief moment. You're not even sure why, but maybe it's because this is the first night in several days he's left after dinner and not returned until late.

“Are you okay?” It slips out before you can suppress the humanity in you entirely. It had to be the blood that was making you ask.

He doesn't respond, save for a short nod, and slams the door behind him. You're left feeling disgruntled at what you saw. Who’d hurt him?

You went back to your interviews, but your mind remained distracted by what you’d seen. You’re trying desperately to return to the state of engrossment you’d been at before you were interrupted, but it was no use. With a sigh you shut the television off, rubbing your eyes that were growing heavy with sleep. You’d just passed the door of your room when you heard a loud clatter of something against something ceramic, followed by a quiet fuck.

“Finnick?” You called softly, uncertain.

“It's fine, I’m fine,” came the hurried response, though it was accompanied by a hiss of pain.

You decided, against your better judgement, that you were going to investigate what all the commotion was about. As quietly as you could, you opened the door to his room and tiptoed towards the adjoined bathroom, where the soft glow of a light under the door crack gave away his location.

“Finnick? Are you okay? I— I’m coming in.” You wait for any sign of protest, but upon hearing none, take a deep breath and open the door.

“I told you,” he said through gritted teeth, leaning towards the mirror in front of the sink. “I’m fine.” The countertop was scattered with clutter, colognes and lotions and other knick knacks. There seemed to be an array of things that’d fallen into the sink as well, which explained the clatter you’d heard earlier.

“Holy fuck that looks horrible!” You blurt out, then instantly wish you hadn't said anything. The small scar was now oozing more blood than before, dripping down his face and neck. He hadn't bothered to wash off any of the glitter either, so now he just looked… well, horrible. As horrible as someone with Finnick’s face could look, which still rivaled you on your best day.

“Thanks,” he said dryly, not even turning to look at you, still obsessing over the wound on his chin. “You can go now.”

“You’re doing it all wrong,” you blurted out as he wiped at his chin with a cotton pad, which only further irritated it. “Here,” you made your way towards him, grabbing a gauze from the first aid kit he'd opened and carefully turning his head to face you, pressing the gauze gently into to the wound.

He didn't say thank you, but he wasn't protesting, either. Just watched you from the mirror out of the corner of his eye.

“How’d you get this? It looks…” nasty, “...bad.”

The smile that appears on his face is rueful. “Capitol trends have gotten a little wacky lately,” he begins, and then hesitates. “Some people have cat claws instead of fingernails nowadays.”

Oh. So it was one of his lovers? It certainly didn't look like he was okay with it, but what could he have done to warrant such a reaction?

You threw the gauze in the trash, craning your neck to get a closer look at the wound, before reapplying more. “That… that sucks.”

You want to ask him how exactly he acquired this, but something tells you he won't be forthcoming in his answer.

“Yeah,” he huffs, “It does.”

“You’re probably going to need stitches,” you squinted at the cut. It was precariously deep; you wondered why he wasn't more vocal about the pain he must be in. “You can probably go to one of the hospitals in the Capitol—”

“No,” he says abruptly. “Absolutely not, I don't… I don't need that right now.” He pauses, “Can you do it?”

“Oh, I don't think I’m—”

“I’ve seen you stitch before. Saved your own life with it,” he says softly, and you're suddenly embarrassed and flattered at the same time. He remembered your games? Where you’d stitched 17 and a half stitches into your own stomach, passing out before the 18th had been completed, just as the trumpets began blaring.

“But this is your face, this is like…” you splutter, hands beginning to tremble, “... a national treasure! I don't want to fuck it up, they’ll have my head for sure.”

“You just keep showering me in compliments.” A real, genuine laugh passed from his lips, and you're surprised at how different it sounds from the one he gives when Phaedra makes an awful joke, or when a Capitol woman lays her hands on him. This one is sweet, melodic almost.

“Just… are you sure?” You tug at your lower lip, drawing blood by how hard you bite.

He nods, so you lead him to sit on the toilet, and stand in front of him to get a closer view. The circumstances are much better than they were in your arena, but it's still far from ideal. You, a wannabe seamstress with minimal experience, should not be working on a face famous for his exceptional looks. This could all go so wrong, and you didn't even like him as a person, which made it worse, because if you didn't like him, then why were you so nervous to fuck it up?

You get to work soon after, trying desperately to calm the shaking of your hands.

You wet a washcloth under the sink and bring it to the wound, patting it carefully. Gently, you move the washcloth down to his neck, wiping away the glitter that stained his bronze skin. He didn't object, just sucked in a sharp breath as you tugged the collar down, revealing an angry but fading purple bruise and wiping the cloth over that, too.

The silence is so, so loud. Yo turn to grab an antiseptic, the quiet hisses of pain making you pause before he urges you to continue swiping it across his chin. One hand gently cleans while the other rests on his cheek, allowing you to move and angle his face to best suit your needs for the task.

Aside from that, there's nothing, not even an insult or two thrown either way.

Like when he'd been in the kitchen he's zoned out, allowing you to take a closer look at him.

His eyes, glazed over and off into some far off place, were a perfect representation of the ocean; mostly green with a light blue mixing together to form a beautiful seafoam that people always claimed to get lost in. He had that youthful look about him, the frown he wore had melted away into an almost relaxed expression, which was odd considering the situation he was in.

You continued to work in silence, taking an extra long time to clean the wound to avoid the stitching for as long as possible.

He let out a hiss of pain as the needle pierced his bronze skin for the first time, to which you immediately jumped back and said, "I'm sorry! I can stop, just tell me when you need a break. Please."

He shakes his head ever so slightly, in silent approval for you to continue. "It's fine. Just do it."

Your fingers steadied after the first stitch, like a natural instinct summoned all your grandmother's teachings and flooded them through you.

It was over quickly, but you forced him to remain still, busying yourself with preparing a dressing so you didn't have to acknowledge the way his eyes followed your every move.

"Just hold still," you said quietly, pressing the cream to his chin and leaning in ever so slightly to make sure every inch of your stitches were slathered in ointment.

When you step back to take a look at your handiwork, you feel like somehow you're overstaying your welcome.

You didn't like how the bathroom had grown hot and stuffy, didn't like how his eyes had gone from glazing over to staring intently at you and never leaving.

You didn't like how his hands, which had been resting motionless on his lap, had started to fidget with the loose fabric of his pants, occasionally brushing against your legs, which were pressed up between his — as you worked on his chin, of course.

And you especially didn't like how whenever his fingers accidentally brushed against the skin of your legs, you felt like jumping out of your skin.

"Change it tomorrow," you instructed, clearing your throat. He nodded, watching you leave.

DAY SEVEN — THE INTERVIEWS

Today had been no better than the last one, or the one before that. The only thing was different was that you and Finnick had gone an (almost) two full days without getting into any squabbles, which was a big improvement. Even Phaedra commented something about civility at dinner.

He’d also made an effort to help Miller and Eulalia prep for the interviews; he was so loveable in the Capitol it only made sense for him to take the reins on this one.

You’d tried to help when you could, adding in tidbits of information that you thought could be useful. Phaedra even chimed in once in a while, whenever she would wander back to the penthouse in between her very full day of… whatever she did. Certainly nothing useful.

Now, night was just beginning to fall, and only you and Eulalia were sitting on the couch watching the interviews. Miller hadn't even bothered to stay past mealtime, and Phaedra and Finnick were off doing who knows what.

Both tributes had remained entirely unremarkable, and while that was not to their advantage, it wasn't to their disadvantage either. They were brushed off as tributes certain to die in the bloodbath, nothing more, and as much as that angered you, you understood why people thought that way.

“You should go to bed, Eulalia. You have an early morning tomorrow,” you said once the interviews had concluded. You felt that alluding to the fact that she was headed towards her death was a better thing to do than outright say it.

Eulalia nodded her head, though she didn't make any moves to leave. “I’m scared to go to bed,” she admitted after a long moment. “I… I think I’ll have nightmares.”

“I know,” you purse your lips, remembering how you felt the night before your own games. “But you need sleep, you'll regret it tomorrow if you don't even try.”

With a resigned nod she stands up, making her way slowly into her room.

Then, it's silent on the District 9 floor, empty in the living spaces save for yourself.

You’re halfway through a much needed massage of your temples when you hear the door creak open and assume it’s an Avox, until you open your eyes and see Eulalia running out of her room with a terrorized expression frozen on her face.

“Eulalia!” You jump up from the couch and run to her, “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered, eyes as wide as saucers.

“About tomorrow?” You asked, a hand on her shoulder and trying to coax an answer out of her.

She nodded, her bottom lip wobbling for a moment before she immediately burst into tears. “I miss my mom,” she let out with a sniffle, her little body shaking from the sobs that began wracking her body.

You could almost hear your heart smashing on the ground in a million little pieces. You were there in an instant, on your knees to be at eye level with her as you held out your arms. She didn’t hesitate, burying her face in your shoulder and continuing to sob, which only broke your heart further.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” you said in what you hoped was a soothing voice, trying hard not to let a tremor seep in. “It’ll be okay.” Now you’re just lying to her, an evil voice in the back of your head snaps.

She clung to you like a lifeline, her small hands wrinkling the silk of your dress but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

“It was so scary,” she hiccuped, “I didn't even make it past the bloodbath.”

You pried her hands from your clothes so your own could find her face, thumbs gently gliding over her tear stained cheeks. “You are so brave, remember that, okay? And remember what Finnick and I have been teaching you, and you’ll be okay.”

Her sobs turn into small hiccups as she listens to your words, trying to make the rational part of her brain take over. But she's so young, and she's feeling so much, it's only a moment before the tears explode once more, and she's inconsolable.

You wish there was something you could do, but all that comes to mind is helping her back to bed, a proper routine despite it being in the middle of the night.

The door open and Finnick walks in, stopping short at the sight of you two curled on the floor of the living room. His eyes widen when you mouth the word nightmare, Eulalia’s face still buried in your shoulder.

“Hey, look!” You said as brightly and spinning Eulalia around to look at Finnick. “Why don't we both put you to bed?”

Eulalia nods, still sniffling, and says, very meekly, “Okay. Finnick’s strong.” She says it like he'll protect her from her own mind. Then she straightens up. “Can we please stay out here? I hate my room, it's so dark and scary and—”

“Of course,” Finnick spoke up. “You know, the night before my games, Mags made a pillow fort for us in the living room.” He begins to drag pillows from your room, his room, and Eulalia’s room while you tend to her.

You take time to brush her hair before your fingers twist the long locks into two loose braids. Her sobs have quieted down again, her eyes closing on themselves as sleep began to lull her.

The two of you crawl under the couch, which Finnick has done up with pillows and blankets to make a true fort that eases Eulalia’s fears just a bit. Not enough to coax a smile, but enough to quiet her sobs and hiccups.

“Please don't leave,” Eulalia begs, looking slightly embarrassed, but it's clear she's too tired and worn down to fight the embarrassment completely.

“Of course.” You tuck the blanket under her chin, trying not to let the rising bile in your stomach spill from your lips. She was just a baby, with little tear stained cheeks and deep circles under her eyes. Too young to be weighed down with the possibility of imminent death the next morning.

You lay down next to her, still in your finery from the interview day, but you don't even let that bother you anymore.

You’re so focused on Eulalia you don't even notice Finnick’s been by both your sides the entire time, settling down a little ways away from the both of you, with Eulalia in the middle.

She’s fast asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow, even snoring softly as she cocoons herself into your side.

When you wake, the sun is streaming through the cracks in the blinds. Eulalia’s gone, the only trace of her being the dried tear stains on your dress and the mess of blankets and pillows around you.

Your heart is heavy as you go through the motions of getting ready, allowing your prep team to do what they pleased. You’d be in the Capitol all day starting in an hour, watching the games.

DAY EIGHT — THE HUNGER GAMES

The night dragged on without an end to what had been a torturous day, which had passed at a snail’s pace that had only added to its misery.

Despite everything, all your blood, sweat, and tears, Miller didn't make it out of the Cornucopia. Not like you'd thought there would be a different outcome; he'd made it clear he didn't want to give anyone a show, he just wanted to die. He'd been slaughtered by a Career not even thirty seconds into the Games. Eulalia had surprised you, her face not projected onto the sky next to Miller’s, grabbing a pack by her feet and racing for the mountains.

That didn't mean you weren't miserable and drowning your sorrows in a bottle.

“I need another glass,” you decided out loud to no one but yourself, mustering up the balance to rise from the couch and head over to the kitchen and make the drink happen.

“Easy there, sweetheart. I don't think being hungover is a good look for sponsors. Especially since you seem to know best,” a small chuckle sounded behind you, scaring the ever loving shit out of you and causing you to drop your wine glass on the floor.

“Shit— What the fuck, Finnick?” You almost shouted, before realizing you had two sleeping children down the hall. “I thought you'd be out all night again!” You lowered your voice to a hiss as you crouched down to pick up the larger shards, not knowing if there was an Avox around at this time of night.

Finnick had been leaning casually against the doorframe until he heard the glass shatter, and was by you in an instant. “My plans ended early,” he offered little more than that.

You let out a sudden cry of pain as a shard sliced your palm open. The blood, dark and red and warm, immediately sent you into a panic.

Your heart quickened, a strangled cry barely managing its way past your lips as you were thrust back into the arena like you always were. Other people’s blood you could handle just fine, but the sight of your own caused your vision to become slightly blurry, from dizziness or tears you weren't quite sure.

Then, a palm on your shoulder. Grounding you, bringing you back to the present. You’d cut your hand on a broken wine glass, you hadn't just murdered a child. You were in the penthouse as a victor, not as a tribute. Blinking back tears you looked up at Finnick, whose hand was still on your shoulder, and stood up abruptly. You hated the look of pity in his eyes, it made you sick. You didn't need pity from someone who was contributing to the very system that made you like this.

You were about to open your mouth, lash out at him to distract from the pain of your hand, when an Avox melted from the shadow and hurried to clean up the mess you’d made.

“We should fix that up,” Finnick suggested gently, cautiously — like you were a wounded animal — his hand trailing down to the small of your back and gently guiding you to a bathroom. Normally you’d be brushing him away, because in what world would you accept help from him.

But you didn't have the strength to argue. Not when it was the night before. Not when Miller was dead and and Eulalia would soon follow. You simply nodded and let him lead you to the bathroom in his room, your head on autopilot as you stood leaning against the cool marble of the countertop.

You remembered being here a couple nights ago; things had remained the same except now your positions were reversed.

“Didn't think I was that sneaky,” Finnick joked as he looked around for first aid supplies, trying to fill the awkward silence.

“Don't give yourself so much credit, Odair,” you rolled your eyes, the quip making you feel slightly more normal. This was what you did. Show him you hated him through petty jabs and dirty looks. The past few days had been too pleasant for either of it to last.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, holding your wrist and gently examining the cut to make sure there were no glass splinters. “Then what was so interesting you didn't hear me open the door?”

“My brain. Duh,” you huffed, hoping he couldn't smell the alcohol on your breath.

“Your brain, or the wine?” Finnick’s eyes, that beautiful green flecked with blue that you pretended not to notice, were lit up with laughter.

“Maybe a little bit of— ow!” You yelped, trying to pull your hand away from whatever was making it sting so bad.

“Oh relax, don't be a baby,” Finnick kept a tight grip on your wrist so he could work, gently cleaning the wound with an antiseptic. “I know you've handled much worse.”

“I was so much nicer to you… This shit still hurts,” you grumbled under your breath, trying not to think about the last part of his comment. Yeah. You’d faced much, much worse. But perhaps the softness of the Capitol had grown on you, and you were becoming less and less accustomed to hardship. “Oh my god!” You exclaimed in horror. “I’m turning into you!”

This gave him pause. He had discarded the alcohol wipe and was reaching for a cream when he stopped. “I’m assuming that's not a compliment, coming from you… so tell me, what does that mean?”

You laughed, then hiccuped. “I’m getting soft! I’m letting all this nice stuff in the Capitol blind me from every horrible thing I’ve ever experienced at their hands.”

You’d meant it as more of a lighthearted jab than anything, but he’d gone completely still as he looked at you. His eyes seemed to darken, erasing any traces of blue or warmth, leaving an unreadable expression behind. Your eyes trailed down to his jaw, which was now clenched.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He asked softly. So softly, you thought you’d imagined it. It was then you noticed how close his face had gotten, forcing your neck to crane up and meet his gaze as he towered over you, your back pressed against the sink counter.

“I mean… yeah, sort of,” You shrugged. “People adore you here. I mean, look at all the gifts! All your friends and girlfr—”

“I hate the gifts. And they’re not my friends. Or my girlfriends,” he cut you off sharply. “You don't know… just… nevermind.”

His grip on your wrist tightened as he applied the cream, his movements slow and his eyes glued to your hand as to avoid eye contact.

“I— I don't know,” you admitted, watching his nimble fingers work expertly to wrap your hand. He exhaled sharply but didn't respond, pretending to be absorbed in his work.

“All done.” He dropped your hand and took a step back. Already you felt his body heat disappear from you, but it wasn't a warm welcome. You just felt cold. And mean.

“Wait, Finnick,” you grasped onto his wrist with your good hand, stopping him in his tracks and forcing him to look back at you. “Explain it to me.”

You wanted to know what he meant, and perhaps you felt a little bit guilty for the genuine hurt you'd seen in his eyes. One of the many assumptions you'd made about Finnick Odair was that he was immune to feeling anything but cool and charming.

He looks around for an escape, nostrils flaring and his palms closing and then flexing. Those famous sea-green eyes get that faraway look you've seen only a couple times.

Selfishly, you take time to notice the features you hadn't absorbed before. You observed veins of his forearms that ran up and disappeared behind his sleeves, where the muscle of his biceps were barely concealed through the thin material of his shirt. You even took notice of how his bronze hair seemed to match his skin, the pearly white of his teeth making his sun drenched tan even more striking.

“I won't judge you,” you say quietly, stupidly, because that's pretty much all you’ve done.

He seems to see the irony in your statement too because he laughs, coldly. “I’d tell you if I believed you even a little bit— but all you’ve done is judge me for things out of my control.”

“You're right,” you inhaled sharply, though it pained you to admit you were wrong to his face.

There's a long pause before he speaks again.

“President Snow sells me— my body. To the Capitol citizens. Those gifts… they’re pity gifts from people who buy me. I don't love any of them.”

Out of all the things you thought could come out of his mouth, that arrangement of words was something you could never even imagine.

“Oh.” Think of something better to say, you fucking idiot! You began cursing yourself for such a bland response, but nothing could compete with the overwhelming guilt that was rising in your chest.

Every awful, horrible, vile thought you'd ever had about Finnick Odair was based on the assumption he liked the Capitol’s attention, relished in it. But they were— they…

He took your lack of response as a dismissal. “Yeah, told you. Your hand’s fine now, so I think you can go now.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry!” You hurried to correct your response. “I didn't mean— I just didn't know he did that.”

It suddenly occurred to you that he might be listening in on your very conversation. Finnick sees your realization and shakes his head. “We’re fine in this room.”

“Oh.” Now you can't stop thinking about every awful, horrible thing you'd ever thought about Finnick, every malicious word you’d spat at him was now resurfacing as a bitter bile in the back of your throat. “Oh my god, Finnick, I had no idea, I’m so sorry—”

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don't need your pity. There's nothing I can do to change it, he’ll… he’ll hurt Mags if I try to say no. I just wanted you to know so you’d stop looking at me like that.”

Suddenly his words make sense. Lucky. Because in a way, you had no one left you cared about, no one Snow could hold over your head. You were lucky, so lucky in that sense, you didn't even know it was a possibility.

“I know you don't want pity, but I really am sorry. Not just for your situation but— for every awful thing I’ve ever said to you. I would've never said any of those things if I knew.” How do you begin to bring up why you felt the way you did? That you were so incredibly jealous he could lead a life full of luxury and companionship?

“Thanks,” he shrugged. “You didn't know. How could you? Everyone you loved was already dead by the time Snow got his hands on you. You’re lucky for that. Once Mags goes…” Then I’ll be free, is what you're certain he wants to say.

There's a lapse in the conversation and you just stare at him, talking him whole in a completely different light. You don't even care that he's staring right back at you, when normally you'd be embarrassed with his undivided attention.

“Well thank you. For fixing up my hand.” You raised your bandaged hand up and saw a slight smile cross his face.

“Just returning the favor,” he responded simply. “Can you let go of my hand now, or are you planning on hanging around all night? Not that I mind—” You dropped his hand like it was a burning coal, much to his amusement.

“Can we… start over? Please?” You asked, feeling like a little kid on the school playground again. “As friends?”

“And here I thought we were friends all along…” He sighed dramatically.

“Forget it! I take it back!” You rolled your eyes and shuffled your feet in an attempt to bypass his large frame blocking the doorway, when his hand slid down to your waist.

“I was being serious! We’ve always been friends, since the day we met. You just didn't know it yet. You had to go through a mean streak.” His eyes bear into yours and suddenly the fingers splayed across your waist feel like burning embers against your skin. His eyes, that always remind you of the ocean, feel like they're setting you aflame with the intensity of his gaze.

“Alright, now you're just being dramatic,” you huffed after a moment, sidestepping him and heading towards the kitchen. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk, trying to focus on the ground in front of you and not the way your heart was beating so rapidly, like it was determined to leap out of your chest and run back towards the bathroom. Towards him. Your mind traced back to that drink you’d been in search of when Finnick scared you.

Every trace of your mess was gone, from the broken glass to the drips of blood that had threatened to stain the carpet. You rummaged around the cupboards for another bottle of wine, sighing in frustration when your search came up empty.

“It’s on the top shelf,” Finnick appeared out nowhere again, causing you to jump.

“You have got to stop doing that!” You whipped around. “Didn't you learn from literally ten minutes ago?”

He put his hands up in self defense, though a ghost of a grin outlined his features. “I’ll try to remember. For next time.”

“Can you grab it for me?” You asked, surprising even yourself as you looked back at him standing in the hallway.

With a nod, Finnick crossed the space between the two of you into the kitchen. Instead of asking you to move, you felt a feather light touch at your hip as his hand ghosted over your dress. You could now feel the heat of his body radiating on to your back, could feel the light, warm breaths he took as he stood for a moment before reaching above you. With a gentle firmness, he scooted you over so he could strain to reach the last of the wine bottles.

You sucked in a breath as you felt his chest against your back, sturdy and warm, and resisted the urge to lean into him. You were so tired of being strong for your tributes. You wanted someone to protect you, tell you everything would be okay.

But you didn't have that. Not anymore. Ever since your grandmother had died you’d been all alone — alone on your Reaping Day, alone on your victory, alone now.

“Red or white?” You felt Finnick’s lips almost brush against your ear, snapping you out of your morose thoughts and sending a shiver down your spine.

“Uh— I— you choose.”

The heat was gone just as quick as it had arrived, and the rest happened in a blur. Before you know it you were one, two more glasses into the newly opened bottle, your cheeks flushed from laughing and your body hot from the alcohol.

Ugh, how did you even hate him? He was so funny. And pretty. Especially his eyes. Had you mentioned how pretty his eyes were?

“I think I’ve heard it from everyone but you, to be honest,” Finnick chuckled.

“Oh— did I really say that out loud?” You hiccuped, now entirely sure you would fully overheat.

“Yeah,” he grabbed the glass from your hand and placed it on the coffee table in front of you. “Not to ruin your fun, but you should probably stop now. It’s… a big day tomorrow. You need to be ready. For Eulalia.”

“Right.” Suddenly the lighthearted atmosphere turned somber, like all the joy in the world had been sucked from the room. Your head was still heavy and dizzy, but you no longer felt as if your lips were so loose.

The two of you take your drinks to the couch, where you see a glimpse of Finnick’s real personality. He's still charming and confident, but not in a cocky way. He's surprisingly sweet, and somehow remembers everything about you. No seriously, everything. Things you hadn’t even mentioned directly to him or anyone around you, but from your interview and the interviews from your former friends once you’d reached the final eight.

In turn, you tried to learn more about Finnick, the real Finnick, and not the persona he put on. You learned his mother and father had died when he was young, just like you, and that he'd trained in the Career Academy in 4 as a poor substitute for finding a family. He found it in Mags, who’d been the closest thing he had to a mother, friend, mentor, and grandmother all in one.

“Does it get easier?” You asked after a particularly morbid joke about the Hunger Games.

Finnick shakes his head. “Not really. You just get more used to it,” he hesitates before continuing. “It's like grief. You just think about it less often, but it's always there. And when you remember…” his voice catches in his throat. “It hurts just as badly as when it first happened.”

“Well that fucking sucks,” you sigh, downing the last bit of your wine, earning a laugh from Finnick.

You chat a bit more about things that don't even matter, but there's something that continues bothering you as you talk.

“I really had no idea,” you blurt out, repeating yourself for what seemed like the millionth time that night. You’d apologize a billion more before you felt even an ounce less guilty.

“I know,” he says simply, and that's what you like about talking with him. He doesn't brush it off, say everything you said is okay, but he doesn't blame you either. He just accepts it as is.

“How'd you get so… okay about all of this?” You asked him.

He ponders for a moment, like he’s never really thought about it himself. “I’m just desensitized, I think. I care about Mags, and as long as she's safe… I can deal with the rest of it.”

“And if something happens?” You can't help but ask.

He shudders slightly. “I don't think you’d recognize the person you become.”

“Evil? Insane?” You half joked.

But he's not smiling anymore, and the glazed over look in his eye has returned. “No. More like damaged beyond repair.”

Oh. Well isn't that a morbid thought. Another question suddenly pops into your mind. “Why are you telling me all of this? I said all those things… I hated you up until like… four days ago.”

The smiles returned, though this one is unlike any one you’ve ever seen before. It's genuine and sweet but it's so, so sad. “I’m lonely, I guess.”

That hits you right in the gut because you’re lonely, too. So lonely.

So the two of you decide, at least for the night, to seek company in one another's loneliness.

DAY NINE — THE HUNGER GAMES, CONT.

Your mentoring had been cut short early into the second day. Eulalia, who'd done everything right, had been killed by a pack of bat mutts, who'd descended upon her while she sought shelter in a shallow cove in the mountains. With their huge wings and even bigger talons they'd dragged her off deeper into the cave system, though not before you’d witnessed them ripping out chunks of her flesh.

It was so bloody and gruesome you’d run off in the middle of a conversation and thrown up your breakfast.

That's why you were in the bathroom stall, leaning against the cool ceramic of the toilet and not caring how disgusting it was. You felt sick, so sick to your very core, wishing that Eulalia’s nightmare had been her reality instead of whatever had just unfolded before your screen.

All you want to do is go back home — not back to the tribute apartments, not your house in the Victor’s Village, but home. The little, shoebox apartment above your grandmother’s tailor shop in 8. It was tiny but it was cozy, perfect for the two of you and always smelling like the home you were now longing for.

But that's not an option. The most you could get away with was showering and retiring for a few hours, returning after lunch. You wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your shirt and force yourself to stand, wobbling a bit on your heels.

When you walk out the door you’re greeted by Phaedra, who’s got a sour expression on her face.

“Oh— there you are. Can you believe this! Day two and I’m already done for the rest of the Games! Why didn't you train them better! Oh, I bet Finnick probably distracted you— not that I can blame you, but you could've been a little less selfish!” You realize now that she's drunk, but that doesn't stop the anger boiling in your stomach at her comments.

She's probably one of the Capitol citizens buying him for her own pleasure. Your lip curls in disgust but you have the decorum and common sense not to make a scene.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” is all you end up saying. This just causes Phaedra to scoff and push past you.

Today is the worse day of your life. So much worse than your Reaping Day, than your victory tour, than anything. Because this time, it's your fault.

When you walk back to the apartment, it reminds you more of a graveyard than anything.

Finnick seems to think the same; you're not sure when he came back but he's sitting on the couch with his face in his hands.

There's nothing you want to say to him. Nothing you can say, really, but he says something that forces you to listen anyways. “It's better this way.”

“How,” you gasp in disbelief he could say something so horrid.

“The alternative would've been worse for her.” And suddenly it dawns on you what he's thinking, he says it at the same time the thought comes to your mind. “She would've turned out like me.”

“She was only twelve, they wouldn't have—”

“I was fourteen,” he cuts you off, though not harshly. If anything he seems pained. “They said they waited until I was sixteen, but they lied. For their own consciences.”

Yeah, now the conversation’s over. You make your way to your bathroom, trying as hard as you can to compose yourself, make yourself feel just the slightest bit human.

It doesn't work; you spend the rest of the day feeling like a zombie, laying on the plush mattress of your bed and not moving. The goosefeather pillows are so comfortable it has the opposite effect you desire, only reminding you more that you’re in the Capitol.

You only know it's become nighttime when Finnick comes in because the sun of midday and sunset have both passed, fading into a deep twilight that remains. All you want to do is sleep, wash away this horrid day with a good night’s rest, but you can't. You remain paralyzed on your bed, studying the intricate carvings of your ceiling, counting how many little birds there were in a row.

“Glad to see you're alive,” Finnick’s voice is grounding and familiar, but also a reminder of what has happened the past two days. Of who you’ve lost and how you lost them.

“Barely,” you groan without lifting your head to look at him, a numbness overtaking your body as you're brought back to reality.

“I told you it'll get easier,” he said, “the first ones are always the hardest.”

The bed dips and you can feel Finnick’s body heat radiating off of him, but you don't move, don’t. even turn your head to look at him.

“I know,” you sigh, defeated. “It just kills me that I can't do anything about this.”

There's a long moment before he responds, “I know. I hate feeling powerless, too.”

It's nice to lay with him, have him articulate every emotion you're feeling without even having to tell him anything at all. It's comforting.

You’re not sure how much time passes before you hear Finnick rustling around, and ignore it until he's tugging on your wrist. “I have an idea.”

You hope he's going to whisk you away somewhere so incredibly far from here, but your journey stops at the pillow fort you’d created two days ago. It feels like a memory frozen in time, too painful to look at but too painful to move.

You’re not even sure why you’re doing this, subjecting yourself to feeling your grief so strongly. When the two of you are comfortably settled into the fort, it's as if you're thrust back in time. It feels weird, but not unwelcome. You’re lying flat on your back like you were earlier, beginning to count each thread in the plush blanket.

“I don't even know why I feel like this! I barely knew them — I spoke like, four words to Miller!”

“Because you're human,” he responds almost immediately, rolling over and propping his head up with his hand. “It would be weird if you didn't feel so bad.”

You suppose he's right. Not mourning them at all would make you no better than the Capitol citizens betting on and cheering for tributes.

You’re burning alive. You pound on the door to the oven, begging and screaming to be let out, until your vocal cords are fried. You try to move, but it's such a tight fit you can't help but squirm uncomfortably, feeling restrained.

Let me out, let me out, let me out! You scream into oblivion, but no one hears you. It's just you, the oven, and a pile of burning embers that crackle and pop as they get hotter.

Stop moving, the oven groans, starting to shake you.

Then let me out, you struggle harder against the straightjacket that binds you.

Go back to bed, the oven grumbles again.

Wait — the oven?

You wake with a gasp with sweat dotting your forehead, desperate to inhale gulps of cool air.

What a weird dream, you think sleepily, the stuffiness around you making you feel as if you’re melting.

You remember, then, that you’re sleeping in a pillow fort, which has to be trapping all your body heat within the confines of the blankets and pillows. All you want to do is fling the blanket off you and strip yourself of the pajamas that stick to your skin like wet paper. And move away from this stupid heated pillow. Who even has heated pillows?

With a groan, you move to throw the blanket off you and sit up, only to find your arms trapped against your body. Now you’re a little more awake, blinking the sleep from your eyes as they adjust to the darkness.

“Has anyone ever told you about your sleep habits?” A very familiar, very human voice rumbles against your ear. “Because they suck. You move around so much.”

Oh.

You were not confined to a straight jacket. No, those were arms you had examined carefully when he wasn't looking, studied the smoothness of the tan skin, the muscles rippling underneath when he flexed to tighten his grip around your waist.

His arms circling your waist, tugging you closer.

His voice, causing vibrations in the chest that was currently pressed against your back, repeating the voice of the oven in your dreams.

“Wh— what are you doing,” you whispered, relieved your voice was working but hating how unsure you sounded.

“Dunno… kinda just woke up like this,” he yawned, not moving. “Think this means I’m irresistible even in my sleep.”

It's nice, but weird. His voice is heavy with sleep, making it sound deeper and rougher than it normally is. That, combined with the way his arms, corded with muscle, don't leave your waist, and the firmness of his chest… it makes your heart beat at an astronomical pace, your breath quickens, your knees weak.

“You’re trembling.” He's propped up on his elbow again, his fingers drawing small circles up and down your arms in a motion that's meant to be soothing, but it just makes you want to squirm.

Every fiber of your being is vibrating, all the emotions of the past week finally catching up with you in this very moment.

You’re not sure when the energy shifted, but it's gone from something warm and compassionate to something far more serious.

He loosens his grip enough for you to roll over onto your back, the breath catching in your throat at the intensity in his gaze. Yet again you’re reminded of the ocean, letting those sea green eyes with flecks of blue swallow you whole.

When you speak, your voice is shaking like the rest of your body, your words muffled with unspilled tears. “I’m so tired of being lonely, Finnick.”

“Then don't be.” Without hesitation, his lips dip down to meet yours, and it feels like you've jumped head first into a frozen lake, then dipped into molten lava the way you're both shivering and on fire at the exact same time.

They're warm and soft and they feel like the home you've been craving, and it’s crazy you could ever think otherwise. His hand reached up to cup your face and glide a thumb over your cheekbone, the rest of his fingers tangling their way into the hairs at the nape of your neck.

As he pulls you impossibly closer, the kiss deepens and you can finally taste him. It’s so new it just makes you hungrier, like you’ve been starving your whole life until now.

It makes you feel alive again.

You whine as he separates from you, then quickly change your tune as his mouth reattaches further down. The sensation of his cool teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your neck, followed by the warmth of his tongue elicits a moan which he quickly swallows with another kiss.

You want him more than anything you’ve wanted in your entire life, you're sure of it.

Still connected, your hands trail down the exquisite planes of his chest to the ridges of his abs, marveling at the hard muscle and how they flex instinctively with each touch.

He's just as touchy, mesmerized by the softness of your skin as his hand slips under your shirt and inches its way up to the underside of your breath, stopping immediately when you let out a soft gasp.

He whispers your name, coaxing the two of you apart just long enough for him to look at you. Really look at you — not just as an enemy, or a fellow mentor, or even a friend. He stares at you like you're the only other person on the planet, the only one that ever mattered.

The intensity of these emotions startle you and you instinctively draw back, because how can you feel so strongly for someone you’ve known for so little time?

“Are you okay?” He asks immediately, his hands leaving your body and leaving you not only cold, but wanting more.

You nod earnestly, “I just got overwhelmed for a second— I’m good. You don't have to coddle me.”

He shakes his head. “I'm not coddling— I’m just making sure this is something you want to do.”

You remember then, the conversation you’d had with him about Eulalia’s death.

And I was fourteen when it started, but they lied about that too.

Suddenly you feel ill— no, selfish. Your hand immediately retracts from its place by his torso. “I’m so sorry, I should've asked— I didn't even think—”

He cuts you off with a kiss, a sweet and gentle thing that eddies all worries from your mind. You doubt he's ever kissed anyone with such tenderness before, especially since he's said his only encounters have been with Capitol citizens. “It's okay,” is all he says.

This time it's you who surges forward and closes the gap, desperate to make up for the lost seconds you'd spent talking.

If you were going slowly and sweetly before, pulled back by hesitation, it's all gone now. Finnick’s fingers unfurl from the back of your neck and trail down to your hips, pulling them flush to his own. You felt his desire for you then and there, evident through the thin material of his pajama pants, and suppressed a shudder.

He continues grasping at your hips until he finally rolls flat on his back with you on top of him, head bumping against the blanket roof of the pillow fort.

One slow rock of your body against his and you know it's all over. “Please—” you beg, your earlier conversation still on your mind though you were desperate not to let it ruin the mood. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

His fingers gripped your hips even tighter, staring at you like you were ethereal. “I don't think I’d ever ask you to do that,” he admits, which only makes you blush harder, on top of the heat you were originally feeling. You kiss him again, desperate for the feel of his lips on your own.

Your hips rolled more forcefully this time, earning a moan from Finnick’s lips that barely escaped past your own. He broke the kiss for a moment, only to tug impatiently at the thin shirt that did little to cover your hardened nipples, which had grown sensitive to the slightest touch. Once the shirt was off and he was in full view of your newly bared skin, he reattached your lips immediately, then broke the kiss yet again to stare. He shifted you easily so that he was more in a sitting position with you on his lap, his back pressed against the bottom of the sofa behind you.

You felt slightly embarrassed at this and the way his sea green eyes roamed your skin, devouring every inch that he came into contact with.

It seemed like he was completely in tune with your mind, always knowing what you were thinking without you saying anything. “You're so beautiful,” he whispered, swallowing hard before bringing his hands up to your chest. They were large, warm and a welcome contact against your breasts, which were aching for something. You arched your back towards him, desperate for more, more, more, and let out a sigh of pleasure as he kneaded them between his hands before bringing his mouth to your chest.

He trailed open mouthed kisses around the swells of your breasts, teasing you as his tongue before taking one nipple into his mouth.

You don't think you can wait honestly. You're certain you’re a wet mess beneath the silk of your pajama shorts, so desperate to feel him you want to skip everything else.

Finnick seems to be keen on taking his time though. When his hands leave your breasts and trail down to the waistband of your shorts, you stop him, shaking your head ever so slightly.

“No,” you remove his hands and urge him to lie flat on his back, wetting your lips in anticipation. “I want to say sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?” he looks at you through half lidded eyes. When you plant a kiss on his collarbone and suck a hickey onto the hard planes of his chest, his eyes immediately widen as he lets out a groan. You can feel his heartbeat increase rapidly as your kisses descend downward, taking your time to kiss every freckle, every scar, everything imperfect that makes him so much more real.

One hand tangles itself in your hair when you reach his waistband and palm him over his pants, while the other fists the blanket next to him as he tries to regulate his breathing.

He can't help it though, as his hips buck involuntarily at your touch. You know it's just his body’s reaction but it makes you feel desired; something you haven't felt in a long, long time.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of his pajama pants and boxers, a little nervous at the sight that awaits you. It's long and thick and already glistening with precum, twitching as you wrap a hand around his cock and truly feel him for the first time.

“You don't—” his eyes flutter shut, like doing anything but moaning requires great effort “—have to apologize for anything.”

“Finnick,” you laugh a little. “I want to.”

He seems to like this answer, his head falling back on the pillow behind him as you flatten your tongue and run it along the underside of his cock.

He’s so obviously into you there’s no time for any insecurities to cross your mind. It's given you a new state of confidence as you take the head of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue around and lapping up the bead of precum that had gathered. Finnick’s hip twitch, like he's fighting the urge to thrust up into your mouth.

You don't want him to hold back, not even in the slightest. You want to see him completely unraveled at your touch, which is why you squeeze his hip and look up at him through your lashes.

“Fuck,” he gets out through gritted teeth, the hand in your hair tightening its hold as you begin to move, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm, determined to take him deeper with each one.

“You're so— I—” he can't even muster a full sentence as you moan around him, sending vibrations down. It's addictive, having so much power over him while also wanting so desperately to please him.

His hand that's in your hair pulls you back from his cock.

You begin a protest, “I wasn't done—”

“I need to feel you,” he chokes out, fingers still locked in your hair as he brings your head towards him. Your lips crash together in a perfectly synchronized move as he sits up, flipping you over so that your back is now the one pressed against the blanketed floor.

Despite his eyes being so wild with desire, Finnick is so, so gentle as he connects your lips together once again, this kiss being so much more searing than any of the ones you've had before.

He wants you, so bad he thinks he might die if he doesn't get you. But when he looks down at you, eyes wide and wanting, he knows there's no need to rush, because he has you. All of you.

His hands fumble with your shorts before he pulls them down your hips, tossing them to the side before returning his full attention to you. His hands tease you as they pry your legs apart, trailing slowly up your legs and rubbing small circles along your inner thigh.

“Stop— teasing—” you squirm, desperate for something, anything he could give you.

“Patience is a virtue, you know,” he grins, his hands sneaking up further and further until they've just barely brushed your clit, but it's enough to have you whining again.

“Finni—” he cuts his name off with a kiss, this one just as sweet as the rest of them. At the same time, he connects fully to your clit, rubbing slow, tantalizing circles that have your hips bucking for more.

He takes this as an invitation to sink one long finger into you, enjoying how your back arched as you chased his touch. After more slow, easygoing pumping he added another finger.

“That's it,” he coos, his eyes never leaving yours.

You realize at this point neither of you have been very chatty — but that's probably because you prefer to have your lips connected, not spilling out ramblings.

“Please, Finnick— I can't wait any longer, I—” You let out a moan as he adds a third finger, and you can feel the familiar tingling sensation begin to take over.

“You can do it,” he coaxes, “Just a second."

You try, you really do— but when he curls his fingers inside you and presses his thumb to your clit the coil unravels and you're gripping his shoulders, crying out his name as your fingers rake through the soft bronze waves of his hair and tug on them ever so slightly.

You inhale and exhale quickly, trying to regain your composure. He's looking at you with a self satisfied smile, but you're not satiated. You want him, all of him, and you tell him so.

This time he obliges.

He leans in and kisses you once more, tongue sliding past your lips, and you can feel his cock pressed against you. He's hesitating again, half wanting to make sure you're okay, half trying to reassure himself it's not a dream. It's real, he's about to be inside you, and you're practically begging for it.

In an act of finality you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer until in one thrust, he's done it.

It stings, and you gasp, only because it's been a while and his size takes some getting used to. His fingers grip your thighs as gently as he can muster, his lips never leaving yours.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Finnick groans, burying his face in your neck and peppering kisses along your collarbone.

His pace is slow and steady at first. As it becomes more comfortable, his pace becomes more relentless, his hips snapping against yours as he fucked you with deep, powerful strokes that leave you breathless, sending scratches down his back and marring his otherwise perfect skin.

His thrusts increase in both force and in pace as you feel every inch of him filling you.

You're overwhelmed with pleasure, unable to say anything and resorting to just squeezing his shoulders and digging your nails into them.

His lips find yours for the millionth time, and it's then you can feel that all too familiar pressure building.

“That's it, sweetheart,” he panted between kisses. “You’re so perfect — squeezing my cock so good.”

You can't muster a response as the overwhelming pleasure of your second orgasm overtakes you, not even noticing Finnick continuing his pace to chase his own release.

You feel him as he collapses on top of you, pressing a soft kiss to your neck before he rolls off you. You're empty and cold for a moment before his arms wrap around you. Their weight is a welcome presence. It makes you feel protected. Safe.

He falls asleep before you do, and in the pale morning light, not only is Finnick’s face relaxed, it's truly weightless. His arms don't move from your torso, even in sleep. His eyebrows occasionally twitch in response to whatever dream he's having, but overall he looks so peaceful. So much younger, too, without the frown or seductive smile he normally wore.

It's then that you decide you’re no longer as lonely as you thought, because you need to study him for the rest of your life.

You’ve never been inside the President’s Mansion. It’s even more intimidating than the grounds that surround it. The walls are tall and imposing, making the rooms feel empty and chilled and making you feel tiny and insignificant.

They’re decorated with wood paneling, hand carved with so many details it makes you dizzy trying to look at them all. Plush rugs just as ornate as the walls cover the dark wood of the floors, making your steps — and anyone else’s — near silent.

“Your home is beautiful,” you breathe out to the man in front of you. He doesn’t look that intimidating, but you are on the verge of screaming in terror if he doesn’t say something soon.

“Thank you, my dear. It’s a shame you haven’t gotten the chance to visit before now.” President Snow motions for you to take a seat in front of his desk instead of continuing to stand there awkwardly.

You fumble your way into the chair, and you hope he can’t hear your heart threatening to leap out of your chest and explode all over his beautiful carved oak desk.

“Have I done something wrong? Like— am I in trouble?” You force out the question that’s been eating you alive.

He smiles, the corners of his mouth pushing into his puffy cheeks. “How did you find mentoring with Finnick Odair to be?”

The way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes terrifies you, but not more than the fact that he hasn’t answered your question. The way his eyes, beady and cold, are staring at you expectantly suggests he knows everything that happened in the tribute apartment. Everything.

“Oh— it… it was fine.” Your nails are now digging into your palms, probably strong enough to draw blood.

“I’ve heard you and Finnick Odair have come to a newfound�� friendship.”

Your blood runs cold, confirming every anxious thought you’ve had since stepping foot into this place. “We…”

He raises a hand to stop you, like he’s not interested in any excuses. “I’m sure he told you how he helps the Capitol,” he began, and you feel sick. Help was a poor excuse of a word to describe what Snow did to Finnick. “And I’m sure you know why you haven’t been asked to help as well.”

Because everyone who loves me is six feet under, you think. All except— no. He wouldn't.

“Well I’m telling you, that changes now. If you have any reservations about this, I encourage you to think of your new friend.”

There’s no way he would harm Finnick to keep you in line, he’s so much more valuable than you are. Surely he’s bluffing, and you want to say that, when he continues.

“If you’re willing to risk his life to see if I’m bluffing, there’s nothing stopping you. I would just encourage you to think hard.”

Panic is rising in your chest, threatening to force sobs out your throat as you nod. “Can I go now?”

He nods, and you try not to sprint out of his office.

Finnick, on the other hand, doesn’t need a meeting with President Snow to be reminded his newfound fondness for you has its consequences.

Once Mags had passed, he was supposed to be free. Now, he’s only extended his sentence to life.

[feefivefoe]

Surely Dick wasn't too at fault. He wasn't there for the majority of your mistreatment! He was starting up the Titans, or taking care of his own city, Bludhaven.

And when you had first come to the manor, both you and himself weren't exactly ready to have a new family, with him still having unresolved trauma over the death of his parents, and you having watched your apartment complex burn down from the inside!

You were both hurting and emotionally repressed back then, so you can't blame your big brother too much, can you?

At least, that's what he tries to tell himself at first. Because no, he wants to HELP. And he's one of the most well adjusted ones of the family (as though that's saying much-), so he can't be one of the biggest ones at fault.

Of course it isn't yours either, you were just a poor baby. You just didn't know what you were doing. And you still don't! It's so clear you're trying to push them away because you're afraid they're going to hurt you again, but they won't! They've learned their lesson, honest!

Don't you know what the realization that you're gone did to Jason? It almost tore him apart, you know! And Damian is just so curious and eager to meet you. He has so much to make up to you, so just come home and let big brother handle everything, okay? He's so eager to shower you in all the bonding moments he missed out on when you were little!

Why didn't you tell him you did theatre shows? He was in the circus, you're both performers! (In the back of his mind he can't help but wonder if that similarity is what drove you to start in the first place. Had you been desperate for a connection before genuinely falling in love with the art?) Ah, but don't get too involved now that you're out of school! That might put you in the same location as Clayface at some point.

Why don't you just perform at home? You can do a show where you play all the parts, or you can assign them roles...he's sure the other would agree if you were the one asking!

He's insistent on showing you off to the media at first, wanting everybody to know what a happy family the Wayne's are. Ah, but being in the public eye puts you at risk, and questions rise about your whereabouts for so long...maybe be a homebody! Don't go out without one of your brothers or dad, okay? They're used to handling the media, and how harsh they can be.

And the handful of villains who know their identities can't target you if you're at home. Your home. Not that dingy, unsafe apparment where they can't make sure you're warm, and fed, and safe, and happy-

Just...just stay where your big brother can look after you, okay? You both missed out on so much, after all!

[oct0bra1ns]

can you do a platonic yandere teacher? like maybe the teacher kidnaps the darling (his fav student) because he has always wanted a child and you just seem like the perfect child to have! and he kinda gets pissed off if you mention your old family. Reader can be High school or Middle school age i don’t care which.

teehee, i hope you don't mind but i combined it with another another ask which was similar, i went to keep both aspects of the ask so there'll be two yandere characters, they can be a couple or just two people who live together, whatever you want. once again, no names :P

Reblogs and comments are appreciated

Yandere Teacher and Yandere headmaster who used to argue all the time despite the fact that they live under one roof. Yandere teacher hates what the headmaster deems as necessary for the students and teachers while the headmaster hates how the teacher never listens to anything he says.

All the staff hate whenever a meeting is called, not because their day was disrupted, no, but because they have to sit and listen to these two arguing over the most stupid things.

They couldn't seem to agree on anything until they met you. Yandere teacher had always kept an eye on you, the one student in his class who used to submit everything on time, complete every assignment to perfection nd rather well behaved.

He usually hates having to explain himself over and over again but if you ask him to repeat something, he will, even if he has already gone though the topic like 100 times.

If by chance you don't do well on a test, he'll give you another assignment to make up for it, or be less harsh with his grading on that certain paper.

He'll let you disturb his free time if you have any doubts or topic you don't understand.

You've always been his favorite student, so well behaved, never causing a scene in class and doing everything he assigned you to the best of your abilities.

With all this in mind, there was no surprise when you decided to run for the President of the student council, with your track record, you were bound to be selected by the teachers*.

That was until he found out one student from a more well off family was planning to run as your rival and for once he went to the headmaster to ask for help.

The headmaster has always kept an eye on you, someone who managed to impress the Teacher who was known for being nitpicky with everything his students did. Of course, that wasn't the only reason, always participating in events, getting awards, representing the school in inter school events, all made him quite interested in what you could achieve within your school years.

Naturally the moment the Teacher came in, asking for you to be selected as the next president he agreed without hesitation,bringing down the reputation of a spoiled child in the eyes of the teachers was no problem for him.

It didn't take long for both of them to agree it would be better if you were staying with them, after all, being the child of the headmaster of one of the most prominent schools was nothing to scoff, that too along with a teacher who had years of experience and a well known reputation in the eyes of various boards.

Of course, being the student council president meant that you had lots of duties to attend to, ones which included you staying late in the school while most of the staff and teachers left, as such, it was quite easy for them to bring you the unfortunate news that your family perished in an accident, when in reality, they made sure to use their influence to make sure they'd never be found.

Under the disguise of being concerned for you, they'd offer to let you stay in their houses. They'd use the first week to make you forget your old family under the guise of giving yourself closure and giving you time to yourself.

They wouldn't rush anything, in time they'd start acting as if you had no other family except them, both of them would step in the role of your parents.

They'd do anything to keep you happy, learning all your likes/ dislikes, cooking whatever dish you wanted, helping you with whatever and buying you everything you ask for.

The headmaster is not someone who cares if you mention your old family, they don't matter because they're gone and as long as he has you with him, he doesn't care while the Teacher on the other hand, tends to get irritated if you mention your old family, he'll bear it to a point before he snaps and goes on a long lecture of all he's doing for you and how clinging onto the past is not good for you.

At that point the headmaster steps in and drags him aside to have a few words with him and he'll come back and apologise to you over his behaviour. The next time he goes on such a rant, one look from the headmaster and He'll stop talking.

Being the headmaster's child comes with a lot of perks, teachers giving you much more respect, students also making sure they don't upset you. If even after all that a teacher or student manages to do something that makes you upset, the headmaster deals with them personally.

*In schools over here, the student council is always decided by the teachers after a few rounds of interviews and 'tests'

[blackynsupremacy]

SMITTEN

pairing: nicholas chavez x black!reader x cooper koch

summary: as their new co-star on an upcoming project, nicholas and cooper are swiftly captivated by you.

inspo: how them dudes from tvd act around kat graham. also, when actors work with niecy nash.

contains: mostly fluff, cuteness, a bit of suggestiveness, mention of filming an intimate scene, the boys being simps, the boys are lowkey smitten, the boys are clingy, mild swearing, reader is an actress, this can be perceived as platonic or romantic, it’s up to the reader.

taglist: @supaprettyg @austeenbootler @greengoblinswifey @hoffmansgirl @oscarisaackissmykitty @hnch33rios @titsout4nicholas @niteskysx @miguelspvssy @thabiddie23 @venic-bxtch @sheydnni @sabrinasopposite @hopefully-saturn @jkr820 @simply-lovley44

• you were an upcoming actress with a few small roles and obscure movies under your belt, but now it was time for your big break!

• you were casted as the female lead of a psychological romance drama. you know those scenarios of when there’s a little devil and angel on each shoulder? it was based on that concept, but your character is a woman entangled in a sensual, conflicted relationship with the assigned angel and demon that serve as her conscience and her morals are deeply affected.

• you were so pumped when you got the call confirming your role.

• on the first day of the table read, you finally got to meet your opposite co-stars, nicholas chavez and cooper koch.

• nicholas was casted as the demon, while cooper, the angel.

• as a true crime fan, you were geeked as you’ve seen their recent project on netflix.

• and maybe a couple of edits on tiktok, but that’s besides the point.

• you had to contain yourself because they were both so tall and even more handsome in person.

• when you walked in, cooper found you to be absolutely adorable.

• nicholas was a little bashful because he didn’t know you were gonna be a stunna’!

• it was more than just your beauty, your overall vibe was amazing.

• they were so friendly towards you and welcomed you with open arms before the reading starting.

• you studied your character with such precision and once you read the first couple of lines, everyone tuned in as if the scene was rolling in real time.

• you went in.

• you had everyone at the table sold.

• the chemistry was off the chain as you read your lines with nick and cooper, there was an unspoken passion between all three of you.

• after the reading was done, it was time to go home to prepare for another day on set, but the boys caught up with you real quick.

• they obviously complimented you on your work.

• you all got to chatting and it wasn’t too long before they asked for your number and socials.

• when they saw on the gram, they’d put expected nothing less.

• you had some gems!

• of course, they hit like on some photos.

• “dude, is she even real? fuck!” nicholas commented to cooper while gesturing to your vacation photos that you took on the beach.

• they each took a selfie to put as their contact photo and typed their names in your phone.

• from that day forward, they stuck to you like glue everyday on set.

• as soon as you’d clock in, they’re trailing behind you, already asking about your well-being or if you need anything.

• “hey, how’d you sleep?”

• “have you had breakfast? i can get you something if you need.”

• “that bag looks heavy, here let me carry it.”

• or compliments.

• “you look so pretty, y/n.”

• “that outfit looks amazing on you.”

• “i love the way you did your hair.”

• “wow, you’re glowing!”

• girl, your face would be heated, but you always reciprocate the kindness which drives them crazy.

• they crave for when you give them hugs or they offer to hold your hand to guide you to a location on set.

• they find it adorable when you stand on your tip toes to peck them on the cheek or they’d lean down for you to do so.

• if you’re just standing casually next to one of them, he brings his arm around your shoulder to bring you in closer.

• they smell immaculate, so you don’t mind.

• total gentleman they are!

• every door you desire to walk through, they’re already there to open it.

• if it’s cold, a hoodie or blazer is already at your fingertips.

• when you film romantic scenes with them, you can feel that vibe with each of them, whether the cameras are rolling or not.

• you love cooper’s striking hazel eyes. they were soft and sincere.

• nicholas’ gaze was a warm brown, but it could darken or intensify if needed depending on the scene.

• nicholas is a pro at the triangle method. (look it up!)

• you play your role so well, you even get them flustered.

• prolonged eye contact or lingering touches with you during takes results in the most funniest of bloopers, but they eventually compose themselves and get back to work.

• and the kiss scenes…

• oh my god.

• the guys live for those, but they couldn’t be so obvious. cooper did his job and simply complimented your work.

• nicholas could get really into character.

• his kisses were passionate and hungry, it was only supposed to be brief between you, but you laughed a bit because the man couldn’t keep his mouth off of you even after the director said to cut.

• in playful jealousy, cooper teases, “nick, you gotta let her breathe, man!”

• feeling embarrassed, nicholas apologized to which you laughed it off.

• “i guess we were both enjoying it too much!”

• they were both so sincere and gentle during explicit scenes.

• kings of consent.

• “is it okay with you if i do this?”

• “if i’m hurting you, just let me know.”

• “i want us both to feel comfortable.”

• “it’s okay if you’re nervous, do you want a break, so we could start over?”

• they always maintained eye contact, despite your exposed breathtaking figure.

• after the scene was cut, they’d help put your robe on for you.

• the boys wanted to be in every corner of your life.

• your trailer was the chill spot for them!

• they just felt at ease in there.

• they could hang out and talk to you for hours if they could.

• when you sit on the couch with candy or a snack, one of them would lay his head on your lap. you found it so funny and adorable.

• “you smell nice.”

• “feed me?”

• he’s lucky he’s cute enough to eat some.

• they’re vibing to whatever playlist you have on. sza, meg, bey, kendrick, michael, whitney, prince, stevie, or usher. no matter what, they are vibing with it.

• especially old 90s and 2000s r&b.

• they enjoy watching you do your own hair or makeup. they’re impressed by your skill and how you take time to get the right look.

• it smelled like your perfume and hair products, so they were in heaven.

• they are never in their trailer except for when they were called for costumes, hair, and makeup.

• if you were taking a photo of yourself and one of them were walking by, they’re definitely jumping in.

• they like to either wrap an arm around you or like the giants they are, put their chin on your head or shoulder.

• or if you want to do a mini-shoot of yourself to post on social media, trust them to secure those photographer credits in your caption.

• you three have fun on set when you talk them into doing tiktok dances when you have a break.

• you taught them the simple dance challenge to jordan adetunji’s “kehlani”.

• you giggle and point as they spin to the beat as best as they could.

• you were getting so into it that you don’t notice their stares when it’s your turn, their eyes raking your figure.

• after you post it to your tiktok, your followers joke about how lucky you were to work with them and vice versa.

• they even joke about that the boys look so in love with you while you’re dancing in the comments.

• when you put your phone down, they’d take it and leave pictures of themselves on it.

• cute little momentos.

• speaking of pictures, the shoot for the promo was so much fun for you, cooper, and nicholas.

• to finally see your characters come to fruition made this all seem like a dream for you.

• you each did solo photos. then it was you with just nicholas, you with just cooper, and finally with both.

• no matter what pose you did, their eyes lingered. the camera loves you!

• when you each posted it on social media, you all received mostly love from the fans, but of course you’re gonna have a couple of trolls in the comments. you don’t even give them the attention.

• filming had wrapped up and the night of the premiere came. you were dressed to the nine’s in your designer dress. your makeup and hair was so on point that night!

• you, nicholas, and cooper all rode together and they could not stop showering you with compliments!

• they’re such gentlemen. when you get out the car and onto the red carpet, cooper travels in front you and nicholas, behind you for safety reasons.

• when you all pose the cameras, cooper and nicholas widely grin as they each take your hand.

• there’s even a picture circulating with you giggling in between them as they lay a kiss on each side of your cheek.

• when asked about what it’s like to work with you during solo red carpet interviews, they instantly light up at the mention of your name before they sing their praises about your talent, personality, and beauty.

• if you happen to walk by or send them a wave while they’re talking to a reporter, they get distracted and trail off.

• “ah, sorry! what was i saying?”

• the press conferences is where they really show out.

• you always sit in between them, so there’s no conflict over who gets to sit with you.

• nicholas would absentmindedly put his hand on your knee while cooper would put his arm around your chair.

• if it’s your turn to speak, they’re attentively looking and listening. by this point, you’re sort of getting used to their eyes on you.

• their attention to detail is nothing to be played with.

• if a piece of your hair was in the way or you were close to a wardrobe malfunction, they’d fix it instantly.

• or they’d just love to play with your hair or touch you in general.

• cooper was being his usual bubbly self, even more so when you give him a compliment during the conference.

• “stop! you’re literally the sweetest.”

• nicholas usually had a serious, focused expression on his face, but it switches so fast when you place your hand on top of his, give him a compliment, or make him laugh.

• “there goes that smile!” you say, chuckling.

• nicholas opens up about your work relationship.

• “i know that people joke about coop and i being in love with y/n, but can i just tell you that if you had the chance to work with her and get to know her on a personal level—you can’t help, but to fall in love a little bit! i mean, look at her.” nicholas enthusiastically claimed in the microphone gesturing towards you as you bashfully grin, the audience is hooping and hollering at his statement.

• “i can’t say that i disagree, she’s just a product of loveliness. the way she talks, walks, and carries herself says it all.” cooper chimed, turning his beaming face towards yours.

• nicholas speaks again, “it’s crazy because we all hang out all the time on set and even when she has to go off somewhere else, i sorta get sad and i’m just like ‘damnit, i wish i could talk to her for a little bit longer.’ that’s just how cool she is.” the crowd erupts into a chorus of “aw’s”.

• “oh, my goodness. thank you both! it’s always such a pleasure.” you reply with a humbling smile, but on the inside, you were tweaking as they both took your hands.

• butterflies are in your stomach.

• both cooper and nicholas were just adorable in the way they would hype you up.

• they stood right by your side when you were presented with your first emmy and when you gave your speech. you were about to burst into tears.

• cooper had a handkerchief ready and nicholas reassuringly touched your shoulder.

• you were grateful to work with people like them.

[gemini-atz]

Seonghwa as your Boyfriend₊˚⊹♡

('Realistic Imagines' + Astrology Based)

Background/Disclaimer: !!This is all my own interpretation based on my personal astrology knowledge and research. I consider myself an amateur!!

✩Gemini Notes✩ IDK what happened but I ended up getting really into writing the NSFW part of this and it got long so I'm making a part 2 for it which I'll post tomorrow night! I'll create a link at the end of this post and in my Astrology Series Pinned post. If you'd like a tag please comment!

SEONGHWA SUN Aries MOON Cancer MERCURY Aries VENUS Aquarius MARS Aries

Dating Seonghwa is pretty much like being with your best friend. He's such a caretaker and protector in your life almost from the moment he enters it. You guys probably had a base of friendship for a bit before you started dating, and it would have probably (definitely) been you crushing on Seonghwa hard first before he even notices his own feelings for you.

Aquarius Venus and really anyone with their Venus in an Air sign tend to seek intellectual or stimulating connections with people before falling romantically. For Seonghwa his partner should be someone he also considers a close friend. He'd be like the guy you'd meet in your second year of college in class because you were put in a group for an assignment and of COURSE you two turned out to be the only two that even gave a shit and tried. Showing a sincere interest in his hobbies or likes would really endear him to you, and he would try to return the favor by getting into yours. For Seonghwa, a comfortable kind of friends to lovers thing is ideal. He loves spending quality time with you but his idea of quality time is very much giving parallel play, where you both do your own thing in the same room, maybe listening to a playlist you made together. With his three Aries placements, he has the potential to have a really explosive temper. It's a little diminished by his Moon in Cancer but he's probably the type of guy who holds in all his annoyances until he can just get them out at the end of the day either through his hobbies or physical activity. Basically, he likes to keep his mind focused and his hands busy. Air Venus signs can come off as aloof occasionally to other passionate signs who literally want to be with you all the time. He's the kind of boyfriend that will give you some space if you need it, because he'll need it too. You'll be soooo tempted to go an interrupt him when he's focused on his Legos because he's just so beautiful and cute when he's focusing but the thing he loves about you is how much understanding you always give him; its all you can do to just kiss his forehead and go to read a book while laying on the couch. Eventually he'd come over to you, bouncy and energized and flop onto the couch, wiggling up to rest his face into your chest and wrapping warm, solid arms around you. "Can I show you the set I just built?" He'd ask, and of course you say yes! His eyes get so sparkly while he shows it off to you, smiling so proudly at your reactions. If you're a person who loves being spontaneous or adventurous with your plans, having Seonghwa as your boyfriend means you two will genuinely have a lot of fun together. He's the boyfriend that wants genuinely does want to go to art museums and fashion archive exhibits with you, and you guys can chat excitably about your opinions of different works, be it games, anime, fashion or music. As a couple, you are always ready to try something new and probably always have weekend plans.

As a Cancer Moon Seonghwa might gravitate toward the caretaker role in your relationship and tends to anticipate your own needs before you do, just doing little actions to look after you, like preparing your coffee or tea in the morning while you rush around getting ready for work. He isn't super big on PDA, maybe holding hands in public is as much as he's comfortable with but once you're alone....he's your personal giant teddy bear. So many hugs, so many cuddle sessions where you both play on your Switches and pause occasionally to show each other something cool or cute in your game.

You'll end up thinking its funny that some people have the impression your boyfriend is quiet or shy; If he's not saying anything, he just might not be interested in the conversation. Once you get him talking about his interests he's a certified YAPPER. And, surprisingly one of the most stubborn people you have ever met. Like, good luck feeling like you can ever "win" an argument. With both a Sun and Mars in Aries, Seonghwa feels like he can give you energy just from being near him. Aries men tend to have a lot of physical stamina and can push themselves pretty far in that aspect.

Which brings me to my next point......

NSFW

I see Seonghwa as someone who eventually gets into orgasm denial on his partner because of just how long he can go for. That Aries stamina feels like he's the type who can cum and be ready to go again faster than you were expecting.

Read More

[allbuthuman]

love for one's children / love for humanity

I think a big part of Vash putting Rem on a moral pedestal, thus clinging to unrealistic standards for himself, has to do with him projecting the particular kind of love that Rem had for him and Knives onto humans indiscriminately, while Rem didn't mean for it to be that way.

He thinks that, in order to honour her memory, he has to love everyone to the point of self-denial, to have space in his heart for every person he meets and to grieve them when they're gone as if they're his friends and family, because that's how Rem loved him.

The thing is, Rem loved him, Knives and Alex, and she also loved humanity, but those are not the same kind of love. Being fond of humanity as a whole and devoting yourself to it with your work is very different than loving your children or your spouse. Both are loves, but Rem, having had a life on Earth, would be able to tell them apart.

But Vash, at the time of Rem's death that marked him irreversibly, hadn't yet lived among humans at all. His conviction to live by "Rem's wishes" traces back to when he'd only been alive for a single year, among his immediate family. The only love he's ever known is his mother figure's towards her children – unconditional, self-sacrificial. So, with Rem having told them that they are humanity's protectors, he twists this into thinking that he has to suffer for everyone in the same way she would suffer for them, jumping in front of bullets like she jumped in front of that knife.

Being assigned the role of the protector, in combination with having wholly internalised his otherness (alongside his massive guilt complex), he fully believes that he has to protect every stranger as if they were a family member, a child or a spouse, and anything less is a betrayal to the woman who simply loved her children as her children.

It takes him actually getting close to people on a personal level and loving them as his friends versus indiscriminately as humans, it takes him realising that they don't see him faltering as a betrayal, that they'll forgive him if he breaks his moral code, that they will neither leave nor die because of it, to begin to deconstruct this.

[spacedace]

“Hey, I need to get married for bullshit Infinite Realms reasons, you two in?”

“Tt, of course.”

“Sure thing! Do we need to get going for that like, right now? Or later?”

“Eh, like in a couple of hours? The Observants are demanding some Royal Ball or something and they pulled out some stupid old laws out of their collective asses that if I’m not married by the time it starts they can assign me spouses of their choosing, can you fucking believe that shit?”

“Woah, what the hell? Can they even do that?”

“I was under the impression they were only permitted to observe.”

“Right? It’s total crap, but apparently there’s like this super old law on the books and they didn’t bring it up until now when there’s like no time left to try and force me to marry someone they pick.”

“They are training to gain influence over you?”

“Eh, more like they’re trying to get control of my Dad by way of me. But still fucked as hell.”

“So why do you need to marry both of us? Or do you just need to marry one of us and we should play rock paper scissor for it?”

“Technically I only need to marry one of you, but I don’t want them pulling out any loopholes or something. So, it’d be great if one of you could be my consort for my role as Queen of Mirrors, and one could be my consort for my role as Crown Princess. You two can figure who’s who on that all that, I’m good with whatever.”

“Oooh, can I be consort for the Mirror Court? I can annoy Kon more that way.”

“I am amenable to that. Grandfather will have a fit when he learns that I can cut his access to the Pits off at my discretion and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“Awesome, okay are you two good for meeting up at like, three? We can pop over to my Lair and get everything sorted out there.”

“Works for me, my only class til this afternoon is at one and the professor already said we’re cutting out early because she has to go out of town this weekend.”

“Four would be more agreeable if possible, I have to take Titus to the vet for his checkup.”

“Okay let’s aim for four then. It’s just signing some paperwork, making some quick blood-slash-ectoplasm pacts and swearing a couple binding oaths… Should only take like five or ten minutes?”

“They’re not gonna make you have a huge royal wedding or anything?”

“Nah. Dad keeps things pretty chill so as long as the paperwork is all in order we’ll be good. Though once Auntie Dorathea finds out she’s absolutely gonna make us have one. She loves planning weddings. Swear its what she makes her hoard out of somehow.”

“So long as we have a say in some of the proceedings I have no issue with that eventuality.”

“Same, it sounds like it’d be a fun way to annoy the Observants even more.”

“Don’t for get all the weirdos trying to be my suitors and all that bullshit.”

“We have an accord then. We can reconvene at the usual place.”

“Awesome, you two are the best! I gotta jet and let everyone know and get the ball rolling on the paperwork stuff. See you guys at four!”

With that, Nomad - Stella Phantom, Crown Princess of the Infinite Realms, Queen of Mirrors, Core of the Speedforce and ghostly hero of the Titans and the Justice League - tore a rip in the fabric of space and time and darted out of the room the same way she came. Through the mind-bending tear in reality the eerie, eye-searing green of the Infinite Realms glowed in all its unsettling glory, Phantom Keep a glittering expanse of night sky made solid in the distance.

Jon waved at her cheerfully as Damian gave a nod of farewell before both silently turned their attention back to their respective tablets as the portal closed behind their friend and teammate and the glimpse of the Ghost Zone disappeared again. Completely unbothered by the conversation just held or the life changing implications that came with them.

Jon was humming as he tapped away at something on the screen before him, Damian propping his head up on his fist in vague boredom as he frowned down at the information he was reading.

The rest of the room Nomad had left behind was caught in a frozen, stunned silence in the wake of the baffling conversation they’d all just been witness to. All eyes in the room darted between Flamebird and Pheonix seated calmly at the end of the table, then to the space where Nomad had disappeared to, back to the young men, and then towards the head of the table where Superman and Batman sat looking bewildered and a bit on the verge of heart attacks.

The short status update meeting was about to become much, much longer it seemed.

Though a lot more entertaining.

[incorrectbatfam]

Julia and Bruce have the potential to have an interesting sibling-like relationship. What are some hcs with the two?

We can't easily slot Julia into the batfam as a pseudo-sibling or cousin-like figure to Bruce. Alfred left her to take care of a rich family and raise another child overseas. She canonically resents Alfred for leaving and the Waynes for keeping her father away, even if they do end up allying together later on. She had a whole life and successful career in England without any of them and it feels wrong to shoehorn her into this fluffy fanon family dynamic without talking about what she went through.

So some headcanons I have:

Julia still operates out of England. Bruce offered her a key to the Manor and a role among the batfam, which she promptly handed back to him

She's long overdue for some catharsis, which she finds in her secret agent training

If she finds anything on her end, like a threat or any important intel, she forwards it to the Watchtower for the whole Justice League instead of just the batfam

Julia is also long overdue for a conversation with Alfred, so when she has a layover in Gotham, he takes the evening and meets her at coffee shop away from the others

They leave that first meeting at least agreeing to call each other instead of just the annual birthday and holiday cards

She also sends postcards from wherever her assignments take her, always addressing it to one of the pets

One time someone asked if she and Bruce were siblings and she said "Ew fuck no" in the most passive-aggressive British way possible

Bruce isn't offended. He's seen what siblings are like through his kids and is perfectly content being an only child

Her unpopular opinion that would get her exiled from Britain is that Cadbury chocolate isn't that good

Bruce (as Batman) unknowingly crossed paths with Julia in Washington D.C. but he didn't notice her because she was wearing the same stuff as everyone else instead of traipsing around in a weapon-loaded fursuit

They also unknowingly crossed paths in college when they were studying abroad at the same time and he asked to borrow her syllabus because he forgot his

She has commitment issues. She can't stay in one place or with one person for very long because she's afraid of making the same mistakes as her mother

Julia asks people to be honest from the get-go. She'll tell people to cut to the chase and tell her what they want from her

Her comfort snack is Alfred's cookie recipe paired with her mom's homemade ice cream. Bruce's is Alfred's cookies with Selina's homemade espresso

Coincidentally, both she and Bruce get seasick, and both are good at hiding it

Julia doesn't like to be referred to as an "aunt." The kids call her anything from Jules to Penny-Two to Her Royal Highness

[lostintransist]

Sacrifice Doesn’t Hurt Less if They Don’t Love You

I can't decide if I want to write a whole fic for this chapter that spawned fully formed in my head but a mutual told me I could post it here.

Context. Soap and Ghost are lovers. They are both wanting to work through some issues and ask reader (female pronouns) to become their third for a time. Reader was unsure about joining a thruple, so they offer to pay her. Reader is a soldier and works with the 141.

CW: Mentions of onpage violence, can be read as suicidal ideation, self sacrifice.

Watching Soap and Ghost share a look of goodbyes with only their eyes cements for you the knowing, deeper than your bones, that no one will ever love you like they love each other. No room exists for you to shelter inside of their love. The pain is freeing somehow. Like every message pounded into your head about being unlovable was true.

The call of the void had abated for a time, since they paid you for your body. The urge to jump without pulling your shoot, to kink the hose to your oxygen lessened. It returned now. It didn’t call though, it sang. Staring into the horizon where blue became intangible you know that even if you listened to the haunting call if you go home today an ‘accident’ would befall you soon enough.

A hand on your thigh pulls you back from the discordant notes. You look from the hand to the face and see Price looking at you, concern in the crinkles around his eyes.

“You with us Everest?”

“Sorry Cap. Just mentally gearing up.”

He nodded, accepting the strange behavior and the explanation. He had used the shared channel everyone could listen in on over the headphones. Helicopters were not the place for private conversations.

Feeling Ghost’s eyes you turn. Looking at one eye and then the other you find nothing but the mask inside and out. The horizon draws your attention again as you listen to the symphony from within the void.

Price had organized groups of three before everyone piled into the helicopter. You had been assigned to Soap and Ghost. As the ghost ship came into sight you slipped into your operator role. Rearguard would be you duty. They trusted you to step backwards over the dodgy doorways and ensure no one attacked them from behind. A place of trust.

Everyone knew the mission. Locate and terminate the computer that would signal a series of bombs dotting major cities. It would be highly guarded and most likely booby trapped. Six teams split as they enter the darkness of the ship. It creaks with each bob of the waves and every step as if she is moments from careening into the depths to become a home for the deep dwelling fish.

Soap takes the lead, heading aft. None of you encounter resistance until six levels down. Movement from barely beyond your vision as you step down another set of ladders. You fire off two shots, a body falling into the light. Not one of yours. A hand on you shoulder is the warning you get before Ghost and Soap step over the body, heading deeper into the darkness.

Smaller stature is not often an advantage in your line of work. But tiny halls become your safe haven because you are not an overly large man.

Moving before your mind can process you are grappling for a knife that connected with your vest. A man had stepped from the deepest shadows and swung at you after the guys had stepped through the next porthole. He pulled back and swung downwards, aiming for your neck. Leaning back you caught only a nick from the blade along the crease where jaw meets neck. Because all wide swings must be returned by an equally wide swing you step in and jam both hands into his forearm.

The enemy fights his arm up, your upper body strength no match for his. Instead of fighting him in a losing battle you place one boot on the wall behind you, leveraging your best asset in the fight.

It impressed the men on the 141 that you could match or often beat them in dead lift squats. They did make fun of you for how low your numbers were on upper body though so it all came out in the wash.

The man brought his second arm up to support his knife wielding hand, the tip of the blade inching closer to your face. Forcing your second boot up the wall you press with all the power your foremothers blessed you with. The light bouncing around from your rifle shines off whites of the mans eyes as you shove the blade into his windpipe. He slumps as his life flees.

Gravity takes hold of you now that friction has abated and you slam to the ground with a grunt. Your knee took the bulk of the blow. Up on your feet you limp after your lovers. They must have circled back to find you since you find them only three rooms away.

“What happened Everest?” Ghost barks at you.

“Your job is to protect each other, my job is to protect you. I did my job.” You snap at him. He would want to take it from your hide if there was a later. On jobs he was your superior and sass could not be accepted.

Soap reached around him and lifted blood from your collar.

“We are here to protect you too Ev.”

The sweetest blade to your heart came from Soap’s tongue. Lies, because if they were here to protect you they would have noticed sooner that you were gone.

His finger hovers as you turn your head slightly away from his touch.

“We’ve got more ground to cover. Let’s go.” Voice harsh, you focus on limping forward.

Several more engagements occur, but the guys don’t leave your sight once. After clearing a particularly well guarded tiny red room you find what you have been looking for. Soap drops to a knee at the computer, typing away.

You and Ghost take up opposite positions staring down the hallways watching the darkness.

“Why didn’t you call for help?”

Ghost’s even tone hits like a lash across your back.

“Didn’t really have time with a blade at my throat.”

“Why are you mad at us?”

Even now the distinction between your place and theirs is hammered home in the phrasing of the question. Us denotes a you, an outsider.

“Now is not the time to unpack our relationship problems, Simon.”

“I’m getting no response from the computer and I don’t dare move it. This group really loves their bombs to trigger when people touch things.”

A head poking around the walls you to fire off a few rounds.

“I’m jammed, Soap replace me. I can work on disabling the computer.” You step into the small, red, red box trading places with Soap who steps into the hall, gun drawn on the shadows.

The instant his heel passes beyond the door frame you swing the heavy metal door shut, slamming the bar into place. Faraday cages are interesting things. They can be made by accident, or opportunity.

You couldn’t disable the computer you had fought so hard to get to the bowels of the ship, but you could stop it from sending a signal. As the bar clanged down, the bell tolling of your death, two irate faces appeared in the small window. Two men you love more than any reasonable person could understand stare at you, yell at you, beat at the door demanding entrance.

A beep from the computer tells you there is four minutes left until the signal is sent. Your lip trembles. Mouthing the words so carefully they can understand even beyond the slightly distorted glass you give your final goodbyes.

‘Love you.’

Blowing a shaky kiss to their horrified faces you slide the cover in place, sealing your tomb.

The void’s lilting tune is sweet in your ears. The pounding on the door stops. No sounds squawk from the radio in your ear, your play worked. They would be safe. They didn’t need you anyways, a matched pair didn’t need a third.

With nothing left to do but breathe in the last of your oxygen you decided to strip down to your uniform. Emptying every weapon on you of its rounds you place them gently on the floor a fair distance from the door. No need for them to get stepped on when someone can finally reach your body. Next goes the holsters and the heavy tactical gear.

It’s getting harder to breath now, your lungs heaving for a breath more. You sound like a baby you once saw with RSV. You place a hand to your ribs, finding the flesh pulling between the bones with each breath. Laying down seems the best option now. Your mind feels pulled, stretched. Taffy for brains. Stretching out you get comfortable. With your eyes fluttering you can almost imagine yourself on a cot somewhere in the tropics.

Distantly a beeping starts, the thirty second countdown. One long beep reaches through the fog of oxygen deprivation, you strain your ears. Even in the bowels of the ocean you would have heard something, shouting, if you had failed. When none occur you sigh and surrender to the darkness.

You might not have been important to them. They might have never loved you. But god dammit you were going to be remembered.

I also write COD over on AO3, same handle.

Masterlist

[yeonbinwyd]

Jungwon next plsss

sure!

fever

pairing: soft sub! fem!reader x soft dom!Jungwon

synopsis: You and Jungwon work together in the office. He’s an intern and you’re assigned to train him. You and him get closer than you imagine.

genre (w/tags): smut, minors DNI, mentions of alcohol

Word count: 1,260

“Hi it’s nice to meet you” you greet the new employee. He has a sweet innocent smile.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He says in return.

“You’ll be training him going forward. His desk will be next to yours so be sure to answer any questions he may have.” Your supervisor instructed. You both agree. You show him the ropes along with any tricks that might help pass the time. Though out the time you were speaking, you couldn’t help up but notice he would stare at you for a long period of time in awe. Like your word was law, he took it very seriously when you told him to be sure not to do something. It was time to be off and the team was going out for drinks but Jungwon wanted a head start on tomorrow’s work.

That happened weeks on end. He was always dedicated to the role and because of your help, his numbers were exceeding his peers. It would bug you how he wouldn’t come out with everyone though. Just to even relax a bit. This Friday, you decided that it was your mission to get this man to relax. It was 5:50 and the whole office was gearing up to go home for the weekend.

“Jungwon! Any plans for this weekend? “ you tap his desk.

“Ahh nothing really. Maybe play some league.” He rubs the back of his head, looking away shyly.

“We should get a drink. I really want to hang out with you outside work.” You try and convince. You had been wearing a lower cut shirt today which gave you some extra attention. You noticed him glancing down your shirt for a second. He looks away again.

“Aah maybe another time” he tries to escape. You grab the arm behind his head.

“Please Jungwon. For me?” You plead. His face turns a bright red.

“Ok I guess one drink won’t hurt.” He caves

“Yes. It’ll just be with me ok?” You reassure. He nods in agreement. Right at 6, you two head to a bar close to the office. He was ready to order a beer but you ask for two shots. It’s too late to stop you. You hand him the tequila shot and a lime.

“Ready?” You asked with a very cheeky smile. He sigh and takes the shot glass from you. You both down the shot and take the lime. After taking the shot, you both make a sour reaction.

“One more?” You ask. He shakes his head. “Maybe just that beer. What do you want?”

“A margarita then.” You request. Jungwon runs up to the bar to grab your drinks. You notice his built frame, standing firm. He dances a bit as he waits for the bartender. He’s always been a little silly whenever you two were together. His sense of humor was charming. As he returning with your drink, you noticed his sharp eyes, making eye contact with you. They pierced your soul. It ignited something within you. He places the drinks down, motioning a cheers. You take the glass, clashing yours against his.

One drink turned into one more and one more. Soon you find that you are stumbling out of the bar. Jungwon, barely faded, helps you make it out of there. He’s worried about you so he takes you home. You both get inside your apartment and you aim for the couch . It was such a beautiful night though, so the balcony was calling your name. Jungwon following close behind you.

“Do you have any water? I’ll get you some.” He runs back into the kitchen and spots some water bottles. He grabs a couple and brings them back to try to replenish you.

“You’re so sweet Jungwon. You gotta be mean sometimes.” You say drunkenly. He chuckles and agrees.

“It’s just easier to be nice” he admits.

“You should try being a bad boy. They’re sexy” you chug the water bottle he gave you.

“Hhhm what else do you think is sexy?” Him curious as to what you could say.

“Guys who are aggressive and assertive turn me on honestly.” You speak mindlessly. His brows jump a bit.

“I can be aggressive.” He pins you along the balcony wall. Those sharp eyes of his take you in.

“Show me then” you demand. He gets caught in the moment, kisses you lightly but in no time his tongue darts into your mouth. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close. He drags his hands all over your body, not missing an inch. You can feel him breathing heavy, sweating a bit even. He was still a bit nervous. You move to caress his face while moaning into the kiss. It relaxes him. He mirrors your moans, guiding his hands under your skirt, his fingers moving your panties to one side. He pulls away quickly to give his fingers a lick. He then slips his fingers inside with a strong hold. You, with your jaw dropped, groan in response. Jungwon, with his other hand, gives your ass a squeeze. He continues to finger you and giving you kisses on the neck.

“I love when you moan for me.” He suddenly drops to his knees before you staring up into your eyes. Both hands holding your thighs this time, seated himself in front of your entrance. He spreads them enough to go for a taste. You caress his chin before he goes for your lips.

“Moan really loud for me ok?” He asks. You nod, anticipating his next move. He takes in your clit giving it a lick. You listen and yell in pleasure. Music to his ears, His eyes roll back, continuing on your clit. Impressed with his skill, you push the back of his head in more so you can grind his face.

“Jungwon, don’t stop” you instruct. He takes it all in, humming against it causing you to cry out.

He takes out his length and gives it a stoke while he continues to eat you out. Extremely turned on, he rubs his face in your cunt. Drunk with pleasure yourself, you manage to bring him back to his feet. He takes the hint and turns you around, holding on to the ledge of the balcony. Jungwon aligned his cock at your entrance, fucking you slowly.

“Oh yes that feels so good.” You encourage. He grabs your neck with a light choke, picking up the pace. As your skin collides with his, you both moan so loud your neighbors can hear you. He caresses your breasts now, giving your nipples a pinch. Pulling and twisting them while the back shots keep coming. You’re pushing back to meet his thrusts. He can’t help but feel the pressure of wanting to cum already but he was going to make sure you were satisfied. He bends you over now, clenching your wrists, fucking you harder than before. He exhales, eyes rolling back, fighting hard not to cum.

“You’re so hot. You’re making me crazy”he confessed as he speeds up. He grips your wrists tighter, bruising you but you don’t feel the pain.

“Oh god I’m gonna cum.” You crumble, tightening around him. He gives in a cums with you and whimpers. He lets go but holds your waist so you don’t tumble forward. You both stay silent for a moment to take in what just happened.

“I guess this is a dead give away that I’m into you” he admits

“I had a feeling” you say with a giggle.

[blueskittlesart]

ok apologies for lurking but in 2022 (!!) you wrote an answer to a question about AOC and in it you wrote that in BOTW link does not choose zelda over his duty to the kingdom and in AOC he chooses her over his duty. iirc (I don't) the calamity stuff in botw is only through diary entries etc....... how do we know that in botw he doesn't choose zelda (genuine question my botw copy is not with me rn :( )

ok i don't remember saying that exactly, but what i DO remember saying and what i'd continue to argue today is that AOC link made the choice to favor zelda over his duty much EARLIER than botw link, and that is the reason he was able to subvert his fate and remain alive to defeat the calamity in his own time. before the calamity hits and the time-travel fuckery really starts in aoc, it's implied that what we're witnessing is near 1-to-1 with the events that happen pre-calamity in botw, with a few key differences. The major difference is, of course, the existence of terrako, which sort of has a butterfly effect. Most importantly, terrako's initial interest in Link has him and zelda interacting much more closely much earlier on in the story. at the time that link and zelda meet and interact in AOC, link is a simple hylian soldier. he has either no rank or a very low rank, he's taking orders from captains and engaging in battle on basically the same level as every other solider. the first battle in the game is implied to be one of the first times he really grabs his superiors' attention with his skills in combat, specifically by taking down those moblins basically on his own. because he is the first one to run across terrako, he and zelda are given a reason to interact before either of them know what is in store for them, so their relationship has a foundation that is not built on the baggage and animosity that comes with that. In botw, in contrast, it's implied that the two of them never interacted without that baggage. what we know of their past is admittedly scarce, and most of it comes from zelda's diary. the first page reads:

After meeting with the Champions, I left to research the ancient technology, but nothing of note came of my research. The return of Ganon looms—a dark force taunting us from afar. I must learn all I can about the relics so we can stop him. If the fortune-teller's prophecy is to be believed, there isn't much time left… Ah, but turning over these thoughts in my head puts me ill at ease. I suppose I should turn in for the night. P.S. Tomorrow my father is assigning HIM as my appointed knight…

already this timeline is incongruous with what we see in AOC--in the botw timeline, link is not assigned to be zelda's knight until AFTER the champions have all been found, whereas in AOC, he accompanies her to meet with each one of them:

Lamenting the kingdom's plight, King Rhoam sent his daughter to gather pilots for the Divine Beasts. Alongside Link--whose brave conduct had earned him a role as her knight--Zelda would meet with the four candidates.

In later pages of her BOTW diary, zelda makes repeated reference to link as wielding the sword that seals the darkness, and in link's own memories he never interacts with her without it on his back. I'd wager that in the BOTW timeline, he is not appointed her knight until AFTER he has the sword. (this also accounts for the way she talks about him being appointed in her diary--she'd have no reason to be upset about it if she didn't already see him as being ahead of her in terms of prophecy progress.) This is important because this percieved slight on zelda's part colors every bit of their interactions in botw--they both percieve the other as standoffish and haughty, and thus it takes them an INCREDIBLY long time to actually communicate healthily with each other. In fact, the only time we REALLY see them communicate receptively with one another in botw is during the sanidin park memory, which is days if not hours before the calamity actually strikes. In AOC, in contrast, link and zelda behave much more like equals if not friends from the very beginning. Their interactions are of course still colored by their respective ranks, and Link is still obviously suffering from the communication issues that come with his mutism, but they very clearly have a better understanding of each other from the getgo because the foundation of their relationship was built before they knew the extent of their destinies in connection to one another.

All of this lays the foundation for the climax of their story thus far--the night of the calamity. we know how this goes in botw--Link and zelda, woefully underprepared and miles from hyrule castle, race desperately to the sanctum. it's implied that they get all the way to actually fighting calamity ganon, and only when they realize that they can't win does link take zelda's hand and run. By the time they get to fort hateno, link is ALREADY majorly wounded from their failed attempt to quell the calamity, so when he turns to face those guardians, both he and zelda know that there's no way he'll win. It's important to note that the guardians at fort hateno never actually hit link, zelda stops them in their tracks before they're able to fire, but he collapses anyway due to his previous wounds. he was already mortally wounded going into that battle, and no matter what zelda did at that point, he was always going to fall there.

In AOC, however, the story is different. the calamity comes while link and zelda are in the castle, and rather than attempting to fight it, link makes the decision to take zelda to safety immediately. Because of that choice, when we get to AOC link's "grave danger" moment with the reanimated blights, he is able to survive. the major story beats still play out the same way--confronted by an ambush of incredibly powerful enemies (this time the reanimated blights) which he likely cannot defeat on his own, link attempts to fight anyway to protect zelda, despite her protests. Zelda, terrified for link's life, reaches out to him and her power instinctively activates to save him. the difference is that, while aoc link likely couldn't have survived that fight without zelda's interference, he had no pre-existing wounds because he was not coming straight from another impossible fight. So in AOC, when zelda's power destroys the blights, link is unwounded and able to remain standing. there is no impossible decision to make regarding his life, and, crucially, he remains alive to seal calamity ganon in his current time now that zelda's power has finally awakened. None of this would have been possible had he not chosen to flee the castle during the initial strike instead of attempting to fight a losing battle anyway, and THAT is a decision he was unable to make in BOTW because, at the time of the initial strike, his fear of failure still outweighed his love for zelda.

[wetpussyju1ce]

undercover secret agents negan smith x fem!reader pretending to be a sugar daddy and his much younger sugar baby to infiltrate a society of filthy rich criminals.

suggestive content. +18 mdni

the agency thought it was the smartest way to get through w this mission. it was the perfect roles for them, negan who was a highly experienced agent and their young and full of energy newer addition to the team.

reader wanted to protest abt how sexist it was to have that role pushed onto her, but quickly accepted her fate when she realised she could live out all her fantasies and maybe get to keep the shit her "sugar daddy" will buy w the country's money. So she smiled wide and sharp, and skipped out of the meeting room while swinging the file in her hands, excited to study her new identity and role before packing her things and hopping on the next private jet to Milan.

negan felt a little nervous abt how excited his partner was, and felt that this assignment was not going to be easy.

the day of the flight, negan was early and waiting by the jet, arms crossed and looked too handsome to be annoyed at the crack of dawn. sunglasses perched on his black and grey hair, wearing a plain white t-shirt and black jeans.

just perfect, his partner was fucking late.

however, when she finally arrived, he couldn't even tell her off because she came out of the car wearing bedazzled low rise jeans with uggs boots, the tightest and tiniest baby tee negan has ever seen on someone and a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. All she did was snap her fingers and the staff ran to her things from the trunk car as she casually made her way to negan, as if she wasn't already 30 minutes late.

"Hey, daddy," She greeted, landing a sticky kiss to the corner of his mouth and walking up the stairs, her sickly sweet perfume wafting behind her and Negan couldn't breathe.

"You're 30 minutes late, girl!" He called after her, running up the short flight of stairs to enter the jet, completely ignoring the staff greeting him as he glared at his supposedly sugar baby.

He saw her take off her shades and putting them in her handbag, getting comfy in her seat, already ripping a bag of peanuts open. Negan sat next to her, his wide shoulders squeezing her against the window, "What the fuck was that all about?"

She rolled her eyes and dramatically turned her whole body to face him, "I'm in character, and since you seem to have forgotten already, considering you're an old man who should've retired last Christmas, I'll remind you; I'm your sugar baby, spoiled rotten, a little stupid and immature, m'kay?" She flashed her perfect sharp teeth to him, batting her thick eyelashes as negan was left speechless.

He stared at her young and audacious face for a long time, then glared at her as she was popping salted peanuts in her mouth, looking at him like the cat that got the cream.

"Oh, I get it now," He said, nodding once and brushed her hair away from her neck, thumbing at the untouched skin there, "I should spank your little ass raw for being so disrespectful to your daddy."

She frowned, jutting her lower lip out, "No, you can't!"

"I can and I will," He said as she dramatically gasped, grabbing onto his arm and hugged it to her chest, squeezing the big arm against her tits, "Please, please don't!"

"Be good and everything will go well." He hummed, pinching her cheek.

And they both knew in that moment that he wasn't talking about the spanking, but the whole mission. All she had to do was be good and follow the rules and everything will go as planned.

back at the agency, their mission was observed for safety purposes, but also just for entertainment back at the offices because everyone gets a kick of watching a surveillance footage of reader, as the sugar baby throwing a tantrum at the mall because she changed her mind and wanted the other bag and would not go home if her sugar daddy, or as they know him as; agent negan smith, doesn't buy it for her. So he drags her inside the mall, back to the store to get her the ridiculously expensive bag. and it turns out that she threw a tantrum after noticing a sniper on a building and had to think of a way to get him inside without raising suspicion.

things happen like that all the time, where she has to think of ways to keep them both safe. like refusing to leave the taxi until she's done fixing her makeup and making negan wait outside with an umbrella until a high profile criminal leaves the building so they can safely go back inside.

reader who whines and begs and cries and is hella dramatic when she doesn't get what she wants, would purposely storm out in the middle of dinner because why hasn't her sugar daddy taken her to Bali too?? Absolutely unforgivable!! How dare he!! She storms out and everyone at the table is laughing at him while she sneaks around the villa and bugs it until she comes back to the table and says she forgives him because she just saw the money transfer he did to her bank account.

reader who acts dumb and gets away with going to places where she's not allowed to be in because why is she in the kitchen while a bunch of hitmen are planning to kill this guy's nephew?? oh she was looking for the room w the best lighting! duh!!

negan who ends up shooting someone in their rented summer house, and that someone broke in to kill them after raising suspicion and he wraps the body in the carpet, cleans the blood and reader scrambles to spray the place with her £100 perfume to mask the scent. and if someone comes in and notices a drop of blood on the floorboards, she'll just gasp, bring her hands between her legs and say, "I forgot to wear undies under my dress! and I'm on my periods, nooo!!" and they believe her.

Reader who ends up fighting a killer behind a bush in the gardens of a 5 star restaurant, she gets hit in the throat and can't speak properly because of it. when negan eventually finds her, they go back to the table w a human trafficker and an oil tycoon, they ask her abt what could've happened to her voice, and she shrugs, sighs and says, "He forgot I had a sensitive throat, that always happens, It'll get better in a few days." And Negan tries to act cool, but all he can do is chug his glass of wine as their guests leer at her hungrily as she stabs at her salad.

when she gets even in more tussles w hitmen and killers, she comes out of the fights bruised up, so naturally, when negan and her have to appear somewhere to their new friends parties, her bruises are noticed. but the only explanation she's giving them is a night spent w her daddy w her tied to the bed and slapped until she's raw. she's not shy. and pretty graphic too. as to make them not ask any more questions.

and when they're sneaking around somewhere when they're clearly not meant to be. when negan is keeping watch standing behind her while she's on her knees, picking a door lock and they hear someone coming up the stairs pretty quickly. she doesn't have time to get up, so negan holds her head in his big hand and shoves her face in his crotch right as she unzipped his trousers, holding on to his legs as he presses her back against the door. when they're caught, he acts surprised and quickly puts himself back together as she giggles, hiding behind him as they run down the stairs hand in hand.

"You do that to me again and I'll kill you," She hisses when they're far enough.

"Oh, you don't mean that, I know you grew quite fond of me. I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not looking."

"Yeah, uhuh, whatever, keep dreaming, grandpa." She sticks her tongue out and crosses her arms over her chest as he rolls his eyes and chuckles.

[winniefrezcomics]

So i have 2 questions

Why do iris and perry have godparents?

Does Dale still suck as a father in your human au?

(Will get to second question in a separate post 🧡)

The short answer for the first one is that , despite being best friends in preschool, when Perry and Iris reconnected in elementary school, it literally went SO BAD that they made each OTHER mutually miserable enough that they both got assigned godparents 😬😬

Perry IMMEDIATELY recognizes his childhood friend, but B-lining to HUG the school bully on his first day went just about as well as you’d expect ☠️☠️

This hug actually freaked Iris out SO much that is took him DAYS to finally get a good look at Perry, and when he did, well…. 😬

As much as I hate to torment my bby boys, Its still Peri and Irep- The two of them having ZERO communication skills is intrinsic to my characterization of them tbfh snsndndndndjdj ☠️☠️

LONG ANSWER:

I actually wrote some drabbles about these events! (mostly so that I wouldn’t forget them if I get questions that allow me to illustrate parts of them for the blog)

I’ll put the link below! 🥰💜💙

As for why they STILL have fairy god parents even after clearing up their hurt feelings and becoming friends again-

💜Perrys mom is often out traveling for movie shoots, and Perry’s Dad is very busy with his accounting job, especially at the end of every month- tho they used to spend every waking moment with thier little man, Perrys terrible habit of people-pleasing has led to him majorly downplaying how lonely he feels, especially now that his big brother and best friend Timmy has left for college, and took thier dog Sparky with them (something that Perry INSISTED he was fine with, despite being very much not fine with it at all)

💙On Iris’ side, if you directly ASKED him why he was deemed miserable enough to get a godparent (despite coming from money and having attentive, adoring parents) I’m not sure he’d actually be able to tell you himself! Between mod and readers tho, the reason Iris is miserable is that deep, deep down, he secretly RESENTS the role of “the scary kid” that his natural fangs and unorthodox upbringing have forced upon him, but because he’s always been SO SMALL for his age (my poor evil son was a preme, and spent much of his first few months in the hospital) he committed to the bit so hard he doesn’t even know HOW to be nice anymore, instead pushing ALL his peers away so none of them ever get close enough to see his flaws and weaknesses, because being “the scary kid that no one would dare mess with” is the only thing that makes him feel safe- despite how desperately he wants to be loved and praised by his peers 🥺😭

Here’s the Doc detailing Perry and Iris’ first meeting, godparent assignments, AND eventual reconciliation! 🥺💕(Hoping to get questions that I can finagle into excuses to eventually draw the vast majority of these events tbh 😂)

(Cw for UNINTENTIONAL misgendering and mild- mostly just implied- child violence ☠️)

Aaas for your second question: he’s even WORSE! 😃

Just a second, I’ll answer that one in a reblog so I can tw for Dale Dinmadome lmao (Only Half joking. Fairy Dev’s backstory is NOT going to be a pleasant read 🙃 you have been warned dbdbdjdjdjddjej ☠️)