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jo-harrington · 11 months ago

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Sunsets.

They were always better when you watched them with someone else.

You glanced down at the hands in your lap: yours and Sam's, twined together like your lives have been for the past 5 years. The best of friends from the moment her family moved into town. You couldn't remember a time when you existed without her.

She's chatting now, telling some story about her boyfriend's dunce behavior to cheer you up after Mark broke your heart. Douchebag. You don't really know how you got here of all places; how things seemed to go so right with him and then so terribly wrong.

Sam made a joke at both Patrick and Mark's expense. You laughed and the sound of it was unfamiliar and almost roared in your ear, like a hundred people were laughing.

Everyone always laughed at Sam's jokes. Everyone loved Sam. Everything always worked out for her, even in the most unlikely situations. She was just lucky like that.

You told her once, after she won the talent show at school, that it almost seemed like she was the star of The Samantha Show or something. She found it hilarious, apparently, but you had an inkling that her feelings were still hurt. This was real life, not TV. She didn't just win because she was some main character, she worked really hard on her dance routine.

You felt a little bad after that, never brought it up again. The dark little voice deep down inside you smothered for now.

Because yeah, she did work hard. You knew that. She was smart and talented and funny and caring and a great friend and neighbor and that's just how it was because...

Because...

Because she strived to be all of those thing.

Things you…really didn’t bother with.

Because you were…

You.

Average, squeaking by a three-point-something GPA, wannabe artist who could barely draw, never left town before even when there was that field trip to DC because you got the mumps. A little nervous, a little clumsy, a little romantic with your head in the clouds. You always had a crush but nothing ever really came of those crushes until Mark.

The only boy to ever like you back and then he broke your heart.

“I just want to disappear,” you muttered pathetically and let go of Sam’s hand to cover your eyes again.

"So do it!" Sam finally hopped to her feet in the way that only she could, raring for another passioned, motivational speech that she was known for. You really needed one of those and also loathed that she was about to give you one. "Disappear! Leave!”

This was not the speech you expected.

"Uh, what?" you let out a mixture of a scoff and a laugh, tears forgotten for now. "What do you mean leave? Hello, graduation in a few months. Prom? Then college. What happened to your big plan last week? One last summer in Port Geneva?"

"Forget one last summer," she waved her arms wildly. "This is your life! You're my best friend, I want you happy. Tell me the truth. Do you really even want to go to college? Wouldn't you rather pack up big blue and go on that adventure like you talked about in 8th grade?"

At your blank stare, Sam grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you.

"That's the whole reason we're friends in the first place don't you remember? The ice breaker?! Are you kidding?"

"I don't have a clue," you giggled as she jostled you around.

"Our entire friendship built on a lie. UGH. Ok. Mrs. Mills what-do-you-wanna-do-in-10-years activity? And everyone's was stupid. Tina wanted to be on the cover of Tiger Beat for the Girl Superstar issue. Patrick...gotta love him...but he wanted to be the starting quarterback for the Miami Dolphins. Mine was so dumb I don't even want to say it, great first impressions I made as the new kid.

"But you wanted to see the world! Pack your bags and board a train around the US. Paint the sunset at the Grand Canyon. See glaciers in Alaska! Hell, you even said you'd travel to Middle Earth if you could. And I thought you meant the equator!"

You both laughed and as she went on and on about things you apparently said 4 years ago and as the memory came back to you, your heart ached.

Yeah, you did say that stuff didn't you? You’d been such a silly, idealistic kid before you grew up and reality hit you time and time again.

"That was just kids stuff Sammie," you laughed dismissively. "I'm...I'm gonna take classes at State, and I'm gonna work at the furniture store and I'm gonna..."

"You're gonna pine over Mark Greckman over the rest of your life?" The hands were on her hips again. "No, ma'am, you...you're gonna go on your adventure and...oh my...you're gonna find a prince of some European kingdom or...or a handsome stranger in an Italian villa. Or both. Hoards of men fighting for your affection."

"Please stop," you stood up and grabbed her as she started waving her arms around and pantomiming kissing a tall stranger. "Stop it."

"Ok I'm done, I'm done," she promised. "I just don't want you to be crying over that idiot anymore. And we might be close to graduation but...I don't know...you can still change your mind."

"Hmm," you shrugged. "I dunno. If just sounds so…”

“Unlike you?”

“Yeah.”

"Just think about it," she urged you. "You and your Volkswagen Beetle…and the world...the whole universe if you want it! The possibilities are endless. I just feel like...1985...it's gonna be your year."

There was a spark of inspiration that grew inside of you, and in your heart, you knew she was right.

You pulled her into your arms, grateful to have your best friend.

"Port Geneva was filmed in front of a live studio audience."

Eddie hit the rewind button on the remote and watched the scene speed in reverse until it hit Sam’s big speech. He hit play and watched for a minute then paused, the blurry image of your giggling face frozen on his screen for the foreseeable future.

He sighed and leaned back on the couch to enjoy your company for a minute.

The living room was dark, only illuminated by the glow of the TV and the street lights outside shining through the windows. There was a stack of tapes on the coffee table, along with his abandoned homework. The pizza he ordered would be here soon but for now…it was just you and him.

“M’sorry Mark was an asshole,” he said aloud into the still room. “To be honest…I kind of warned you about him way back.”

You don’t say anything. You never do.

“I know, the heart wants what it wants.” He picked a piece of lint off of his jeans. “I just want to look out for you honey.”

You stay smiling on the screen, and he can imagine it got the slightest bit bigger when he said that.

“I know you try to look after me too. Guess that doesn’t stop either of us getting hurt right?” He chuckled and pat his hands on his lap.

This was pathetic, talking to a fictional character like they were really in the room with him.

You were just…you were everything. And you’d been there for him, a balm to his woes. You had been since he started watching Port Geneva way back when, but especially since everything went down last year.

With his dad and the house and…

There was a knock at the door and Eddie hit the eject button so he could put in the next tape in watch with dinner. It was gonna be a good episode, you tell Mark off and even punch him; he remembered it fondly.

Defending yourself. He was proud of his girl.

Eddie ate his dinner and watched his episodes, taped from when they originally aired. Wednesday nights at 9pm, right before the news. He did his homework and occasionally repeated the rewind-pause-play act that he had perfected over the years so he could make another joke or, just once, complain about his chemistry homework.

Life was hard. For everyone. But especially if your name was Eddie Munson. Still, he endured. He’d never been a stranger to fantasy and escapism, he had his books and his game and his movies but there was something so…comforting in the realism that was your show.

A small suburban town full of normals. All sorts of mundane activities that mostly everyone made feel were…life altering events. And a handful of misunderstood outcasts—like you and Scott and Bonnie—who played supporting characters to the stars. Stars that were, quite frankly, unrealistic and annoying.

Eddie felt that way sometimes though, like he was just some background character waiting for his chance at the spotlight. Who had been the main character in his story, huh? Ronnie? Yeah…he could see that, now that she was on her great college adventure.

But with her gone, what would come of his storyline? Did he just fade into the background again?

Eddie ejected the tape before the current episode finished and propped his feet on the coffee table as he flipped the channels to something else. He needed to focus on something else. He would come back to his tapes, to you, another night and he would wish that you were real once again. Knocking on his door, taking him on a grand adventure with you.

But for now he just needed to stew in his…sad secondary character thoughts.

You got your time in the spotlight, a 2-episode arc at the end of the season, and as much as he hoped that it would be his turn soon…to be the character everyone loved…the person everyone loved…he knew it might never happen for him.

Eddie the Freak. Eddie the outcast. Eddie the idiot.

He would even take a single scene dedicated to him at this point.

Was that too much to ask?

Coming in 2024.

Find the Masterlist here. And the original blurb here.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #Eddie Munson angst #stranger than (fan)fiction #eddie munson #Stranger things fic

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clavissionary-position · 8 months ago

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Ikepri Rooms Ranked By How Expensive They'd Be As Hotel/Airbnb Suites

1. SILVIO

Listed in the dictionary as the extreme antonym of a cheap room. The type that requires reserving years before in advance because nowhere on earth will you get a better view of dolphins porking. And forget about sheets being washed daily, they get completely replaced three times a day. You feel like a billion dollars after one night's stay, which is great because you've surely spent half that amount on said stay.

2. JIN

The reason this ranking exists. Luxury walls, flooring, bedding. Other hotel suites wish they could be Jin's room. Catching your reflection on any of the surfaces automatically increases libido. The sheets are infused with heady compounds commonly found in massage oils. You can see the mini-bar no matter where you're standing in the room. The fucking complimentary lollipops.

3. YVES

The crown canopy alone is so iconic that it demands a premium, but who wouldn't want to treat themselves to a stay in such a chic and manicured suite? Its amenities rival any high-end spa. There's amenities for actual cats. You go in clean and come out shiny.

4. CHEVALIER

You're paying for the books and you're paying for the balcony. If you face the bookshelves it smells like roses. If you face the roses, it smells like books. It's obvious Chevalier did not put this room on the market, nor did he tamper with it to such inutile effect.

5. KEITH

The premiere suite for introverts who simp for succulents. The bright and refreshing color palette is sure to uplift your spirits, and if that doesn't do the trick, who doesn't like fiddling with an actual telescope and accidentally breaking it? The ceilings are higher than you'd find in most suites, making it perfect for taller guests. There's always a fresh galette waiting for you every day.

6. NOKTO

A room that enticingly strays into the realm of maximalism. Staying in this suite with all its souvenirs and foreign effects lets you feel like a globe-trotter while you're getting ravished into the luxurious mattress. No single occupants allowed.

7. LEON

You're paying for the books and you're paying for the sheets. Mostly the sheets because some of the books are a little dusty. Room Service specializes in meat dishes. The windows grant one of the most breathtaking sunsets you'll see anywhere.

8. LICHT (palace room)

Despite the cool palette, it evokes calm and happy feelings. The wolf motif means lots of fur accessories. Just, uh, ignore the collar in the drawer. Even if you're into it. That's not for you. Yeah, this is probably another room that wasn't listed by its owner.

9. RIO

The view, the view, the view. For some reason Rio comes with the suite. 24/7 butler. Partway through your stay and after receiving world-world-class service, your understand why the convenience fee was so much higher than what you paid for the actual room. It's also obvious that this experience is worth far more than what it was listed for.

10. LUKE (cottage room)

A cozy stop on any b&b tour. The owner asks you do not disturb the teddy bears on display. If you find that the teddy bears disturb you, you are free to sleep facing the walls while enjoying the everpresent fragrance of honey.

11. SARIEL

The perfect room to spend an entire day in while reading or cuddling or being spooky and goth. There's spare glasses everywhere. You can see how some of the seemingly-ordinary fixtures could easily be turned into props for more adult-oriented activities. There's also ale flasks everywhere. ...Who put this room on the market? (whip-cracking sounds)

12. LUKE (palace room)

It definitely feels like you're staying in someone's personal bedroom and not an officially sanctioned suite. If you stayed in the cottage room before this, you might even think one of the teddy bears followed you. Well, that's just what they do.

Unlisted properties ranked:

1. CLAVIS (treasure and contraband room)

A national secret too dangerous to list. Expensive based purely on the illicit contents and sheer volume of shovels, which apparently add up.

2. LICHT (cottage room)

A national secret too secret to list. Also if "Simple and Clean" was a physical room. No one should know it exists, even though everyone probably knows it exists. If it were on the market, it'd be impossible to book. It's so picturesque it makes you want to cry. Most of the hypothetical extra charges on the hypothetical bill go toward maintaining the field of flowers surrounding the property.

3. CLAVIS (palace room)

A national secret too dangerous to list, but there have been rumors that you can stay for free if you manage to get past all the locks and traps and tell the owner how much you love him.

4. GILBERT

A national secret too dangerous to list, and there have been rumors that it undergoes regular renovations ever since the owner got engaged. It's the kind of room that makes you think "yeah, that'd probably be expensive as hell to stay in," but it seems the owner doesn't care for pricing things out of the reach of the masses, so that's why it's ranked so far down. If the room were available.

a/n: Thank you for reading. I took some inspiration from the modern headcanons @/leonscape has posted in the past. Also the bit about where Licht keeps his collar I believe is something mentioned in a collection event story, which I read the translation by @/hotaru987 for.

#ikepri spoilers #ikemen prince #jin grandet #chevalier michel #clavis lelouch #leon dompteur #yves kloss #licht klein #nokto klein #luke randolph #rio ortiz #sariel noir #silvio ricci #keith howell #gilbert von obsidian #ikepri ranked

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thalialunacy · 4 months ago

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[written for the @calaisreno May Prompts Safari. E-rating, y'all. and schmoopy as hell.]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) 30: journey (31)

When next they arrive at Sherlock's parents' house, it's the end of May bank holiday and John is more than ready to hand over his child in exchange for a strong drink.

This, he muses as his wish comes true without even having to be voiced, is the magic of grandparents.

---

He's just coming back from putting Rosie down when he hears surprisingly raucous laughter and the words '... the priest was never quite the same after that, was he?'

He comes to a stop in the centre of the furniture configuration, looking round at various family members with a raised eyebrow. 'Holmeses,' he says solemnly. 'Dare I ask?'

'Oh, absolutely,' Sherlock's mum replies. 'We've had enough to drink that we're starting in on rude stories.' John coughs, and she waves her hand, somehow managing not to spill any wine. 'Not rude like that. Well. Mostly not.'

Mycroft, of all people, lets out what could graciously be called a snort. 'I'll start: John, I must tell you that once, at Christmas, Mother told us her shirt had French letters on it, and then had no idea why Grandfather looked so scandalised.'

John looks to Sherlock, perplexed. 'Condoms, John,' Sherlock explains. 'Eighteenth century Britons called them, among other things, "French letters."'

John swallows his mouthful of scotch. 'Of course.'

'Oh, oh!' Sherlock's mum starts. 'John, there was a time when Mycroft was so worried that baby Sherlock would roll out of bed that he found every blanket in the house and made him a huge nest. Then wouldn't leave his side.'

Mycroft purses his lips. 'I did no such thing.'

'Don't lie to your mother. You were there for days. You nearly suffocated him, you were so worried.'

Sherlock's father chuckles. 'There was also a time, John, that he and Sherlock volunteered to be ushers at church and ended up fighting over which offering plate had the most in it at the end. The Altar Guild was cross with us for months.'

John does laugh at that one.

'Yes, yes,' Sherlock drawls. 'And believe it or not, John, Father frequently used to play hangman with me in the church bulletin during services.'

His mother turns to her husband, genuinely surprised. 'Did you really?'

His father shrugs. 'It was better than the alternative.'

His mother eyes her younger son. 'Yes, that's probably true.' But she doesn't bother hiding her fond smile.

This goes on for quite a while, all four Holmeses using John as their audience to tell increasingly far-fetched stories about their shared histories. John, sat next to Sherlock and making his way slowly through two fingers of fine alcohol, can't help but be charmed. They're ridiculous, and, let's be honest, fairly weird, but they obviously have great affection for each other. Despite what Mycroft and Sherlock might claim.

When there's a lull, he just asks it: 'Out of curiosity, why are you telling me all this? Not that I don't find it amusing, obviously, but… Sherlock?'

John's eyes narrow, his stomach somersaulting, as he realises Sherlock has slid off the sofa and onto both knees, his whole family is situated on various pieces of furniture behind him like a posed picture, and he's got--

'Oh.'

--he's got a rather distinctive item in the palm of his outstretched hand.

'Oh.'

'Yes, very good John, knew you'd cotton on eventually.'

His voice is strong, yet a bit off. John searches his face. 'You're not taking the p--' He glances at Sherlock's mum. '--mickey?'

'Yes,' Sherlock deadpans. 'I gathered my whole very hilarious family of known pranksters to pull your leg in an elaborate and expensive manner.'

'Alright, keep your shirt on. I just-- You're serious. You actually want to get-- be-- married. To… me.'

'If you and Rosamund will have me.'

John feels it like a surge, but tamps it down. 'And Reginald the cat?'

Sherlock is slightly taken aback. 'Obviously. Unless that would be an issue for you, if Rosamund--'

John barks out a laugh, plucks the ring from Sherlock's hand and yanks him back up onto the sofa. 'Oh shut up, you absolute disaster, of course we bloody will.'

Sherlock's mouth curves, but he doesn't fully relax. 'Even though I come with this lot attached?' He waves at his family without looking at them. 'Those stories, I assure you, are only the tip of the iceberg.'

John wants to tackle him. 'You've met my "A-leveled in alcoholism" sister, have you not?'

'Well, yes, but--'

'Shut. Up.' John glances at the rest of the family, feeling his ears turn a bit red at their blatant interest in the proceedings, but clears his throat and grabs the back of Sherlock's neck anyway. 'I love the hell out of you, remember?' he says quietly.

Sherlock's gaze jumps around his face, searching. 'I seem to recall something about that, yes.'

'And if the shit we've gone through in the last decade hasn't broken us--' Sherlock opens his mouth. '--inoperably, hasn't broken us inoperably, then I'm pretty damn sure we'll be fine.' He touches their lips together very briefly, then presses their foreheads together for a moment longer.

Sherlock's mum very cheerfully breaks the moment. 'Wait until Rosie's a teenager to say that, dear.'

'Mum.' John feels Sherlock's groan rumble through him, and can't help but chuckle.

He pulls back, dropping his hand, and gives the family a sheepish but unashamed look. 'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I think.'

'Indeed. Life is a journey, not a destination.'

Everyone turns to stare at Mycroft.

He stares back, lifting his chin. 'What? Am I not meant to know Emerson?'

'Are we sure he's not been replaced by a cyborg?' John whispers to Sherlock.

'Who would be able to tell the difference?' Sherlock parries immediately.

Mycroft huffs. 'Oh, please. Go consummate this new relationship status so I can have some peace.'

John clears his throat. 'Beg pardon?'

Mycroft rolls his eyes and stands. 'Shall we fetch another round of drinks before we move on?'

His parents exchange a look, then stand. 'That is a brilliant idea,' says his mum.

'I am rather known for them,' Mycroft says dryly, heading to the kitchen without a glance backwards.

John tries again. 'Beg p--'

Sherlock's mother pats him on the cheek. 'Oh, we have a movie night planned. With lots of explosions.'

'Ah,' Sherlock says, as if this explains everything.

John turns to him with a questioning look. 'The home theatre room,' Sherlock clarifies, his droll tone belied by his slightly pinked neck, 'is at the opposite end of the house from the rooms they've given us for the weekend.'

John considers being embarrassed for half a second, but then decides it's of no use. 'Ta, Holmeses. We'll see you in the morning.'

'Oh, and don't worry about the baby's wake-up,' Sherlock's father adds as he's following the rest out of the room. He gestures at his wife's retreating back. 'This one will take care of her so you lot can be as lazy as you like.'

'As if John is ever--'

John nudges the detective's elbow. 'It's a euphemism, Sherlock.'

'Oh. Certainly.' He nods, once, at his father. 'Thank you.'

---

Sherlock gets up the stairs ahead of him, but they're still yards from the door to their room when he stops and unceremoniously herds John against the wall. John grunts in surprise. 'What? Are you--'

Sherlock's lips stop up his words, and distract him so much he doesn't really clock that Sherlock's gorgeous hands are working efficiently at his trouser fastening… until all of the sudden he does.

'Are you mad?' he manages when Sherlock mouths across his jaw, his hand plunging into John's pants with finesse. John is soft, but he won't be for long at this rate, Jesus. He has to tighten his hold on Sherlock's biceps.

'Of course I am,' Sherlock answers, voice like butterscotch against John's ear. Then he drops to his knees, and John nearly swoons like a Victorian maiden.

'Your family!' he hisses instead, unable to stop a hand from weaving into Sherlock's hair. Not to pull, not this time at least. This time, to just… be there.

'They're all occupied,' Sherlock replies, the words throwing heat against John's now-exposed hip. 'They may be feckless but they still have some propriety left.' He looks up at John, his lips hovering tantalisingly near the tip of the plumping cock he holds in his hands.

'Fuck,' John breathes. 'Go on, then.'

Sherlock needs no more permission.

John has had more illicit liaisons in his life, it's true, but for some reason (he knows the reason) he goes from half-mast to panting to mindless word repetition in a record amount of time.

'Sherlock--' He tries to keep his voice down, so it comes out much more desperate than he'd intended, but fuck it. 'If you keep-- Sherlock--'

He hears--and feels--an urgent sound come from his partner, and looks down, past those fucking eyes, to the hand speedily opening trousers and drawing himself out.

John probably whimpers, that's how fucking hot he finds that view, and in combination with Sherlock's admirable oral efforts, he speeds towards climax at a rate he's not achieved in years. There's a flash of a thought of inadequacy, but it's overcome handily by watching Sherlock fuck his own hand at a near-frantic pace. He does clutch Sherlock's hair, finally, as he comes down his gorgeous throat.

He hears a curse and opens his eyes just in time to see Sherlock ejaculate almost neatly into a handkerchief he must've pulled from his pocket.

He wants to laugh. He pulls Sherlock to his feet, heedless of their state of dishabille, and kisses him, hard. Well, as hard as he can before he does indeed start to laugh.

'I can't believe you did that,' he rasps as he barrels them through the bedroom door, finally. He feels stupid, giddy. Frothy.

'Which part?' Sherlock replies as they shed their already-unfastened clothes and fwump somewhat gracefully onto the bed.

'You bastard,' John groans without heat. 'Despoiling a handkerchief? Getting off where anyone could come walking on by? Proposing to me with your whole family around like a flock of posh geese?'

'What a ridiculous image.'

John rolls over to partially smush Sherlock, who wheezes slightly and wraps his arms around John's torso. 'I'll show you a ridiculous image,' John says, giving his best Randy Lad smirk.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 'So soon?'

'Maybe. Okay, no, but I can still do some damage, ta very much.'

'Such as?'

John sobers. He drops his eyes to Sherlock's chin. 'You'll laugh at me.'

A long, graceful finger traces around his orbital socket. 'Don't let that stop you.'

'Berk.'

'Such as?'

John just breathes for a moment. Then he reaches out to touch a small nevus on Sherlock's collarbone, then travels the trail to another one. 'Oh, just…' He follows his finger with his tongue, tasting. 'Want to trace the constellations onto you.'

He hears Sherlock inhale, and feels it as his chest rises. Then John finds himself pulled into a long, deep, ridiculous kiss.

'By all means,' Sherlock finally says against his lips. 'I look forward to your very thorough survey.'

John releases a breath, and settles in to get started.

[<3]

#It's gonna be MAY 2024 #BBC Sherlock #MayPrompts2024 #May Prompts 2024 #Johnlock #Here there be sexytimes #Yarrrrrr

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little-cereal-draws · 1 year ago

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Some sad Ballister and money headcanons

pt 1? maybe?

Ballister has a very complicated relationship to money

Growing up poor, the threat of not having basic things like a home, food, or other necessities hung heavy over his head. He might not have understood the full scope of it, but he was a smart kid and understood enough to feel its affects

He didn't have nice toys, his clothes were full of holes, their meals were small. He knew other families had more, he would see them walking down the street, but knew that wasn't for him or his family

He wouldn't ask for ice cream in the summer, wouldn't complain when they ate the same stew for dinner every day for a week because that's all there was, never cried or whined the few times he asked for something and was told "no"

It bled into guilt. When his mom offered to cut his hair one summer when he was sweating up a storm, he said no. He didn't want to bother her; she already was so busy and stressed. She assured him that it would take five minutes and wouldn't cost anything but still he refused

Or one fall, he helped a neighbor fix his heater (he held the tools) and got paid $10. He was so excited; this was money all for himself! His first thought was to give it to his parents because he knew how much they needed it but this was his money. He bought himself a sandwich for $6. The rest of it he gave to his parents. They didn't want to take it from him but he insisted and eventually they gave in

That night, he cried. He wanted to help, he knew how much they needed the money and how hard his parents worked, and he had selfishly spent over half of it on a single meal. $10 would have been much more helpful than $4 but he just had to treat himself, didn't he? He knew those fancy, expensive foods weren't for him but he bought it anyway

It was around this time that he decided he wanted to be a knight. They were so brave and strong and helped so many more people than he could. And they probably got paid pretty well, their armor was always so shiny

So he would pick up any odd jobs people could give to a kid (walking someone's dog, watering their plants while they were away, sorting recycling from garbage, etc) while dreaming about being a knight. The jobs only paid somewhere between $5 - $10 but it wasn't about the money. He was a hero of the realm and they only needed the safety of their people to be satisfied

But he would go home and count every dollar before he went to bed

When the Queen offered to keep him at the Institute and train him to be a knight, neither him nor his family could believe what they were hearing. There was some back and forth about what this would mean but ultimately, they let him go. He would have food, shelter, stability and all the things they couldn't provide

Joining the Institute was very overwhelming for many reasons but Balister did have to say he did enjoy not worrying about money all the time. He never had to worry about if the lights would shut off or where his next meal would come from. He didn't have to budget his few dollars and didn't feel guilty for wanting things. The other kids had so much stuff, surely he could have some too

This... wasn't totally true. Even though his life was more stable now, he still didn't have the latest sneakers or stories about long vacations to country houses or anything else that these kids had. He tried to ignore it but it was a glaring middle finger to the face every time someone casually mentioned their new pet pony or other ridiculous bullshit

The first few years of his training were fine, they were all using fake swords with plastic armor on straw dummies. But as he reached his teen years and training got more serious, he realized he was going to be left behind again

The Institute and the Queen did provide some things for him but it turns out that most of those kids' families provided their knight equipment for them. Ballister's family would be expected to do the same and he knew there was no way that was going to happen. He had come here to make his dreams a reality but if he had to choose between his future or his family starving/being homeless because all their money went to his armor, he would go home in a heartbeat. It would kill him but, in his heart, he knew it's what he would do

So he went to class everyday with only a sword that wasn't his. Ambrosius gave him a sword when he first got to the Institute and saw he didn't have one. At the time he was thrilled but told him he couldn't accept it, Ambrosius needed it. The blond boy had simply shrugged and said "You can keep it, I have a whole bunch." He was ecstatic to finally get a real-life sword but now it was a reminder that these other kids could trade these thousand dollar weapons like baseball cards. The monetary value meant nothing to them

Despite having a sword already, he didn't have any armor and got his ass handed to him so many times. Turns out having protection against people thrusting blades at you was important. Todd and the other knights made of him mercilessly but he would just have to endure it because there was no way in hell he was going to tell his parents he needed equipment. He was going to have to deal with it himself

At first the Director wanted him to stop training until he was able to afford armor but he begged her to keep going. He got really good at blocking attacks, because if he didn't, he would get hurt, but he knew it wasn't enough

It was nearly impossible because training took all day and then left him dog-tired but he started picking up odd jobs on the weekends again. People paid much better in the wealthier neighborhoods and he could get quite a decent sum for cleaning someone's gutter or mowing their lawn. It was embarrassing that he had to do this while the other kids could relax but it was worth it to not be covered in bandages all the time

He had saved halfway to his goal when he got seriously hurt. Sparing gone wrong, he fell for a fake-out right move and got slashed across his left side. It was bleeding a lot and he was whisked away to the informatory. After he got stitched up, the Queen came to see him. He hadn't expected her but apparently the accident was big enough to reach her

She asked him how this happened and embarrassedly, he admitted he wasn't wearing armor during practice. She was shocked and asked "why in the world not???" After a moment debate, he admitted that he didn't have any. That opened the floodgates, and everything came pouring out. He was ashamed that he got hurt, he was embarrassed he didn't have armor, he was guilty that he didn't ask for help, he was stressed that his parents would help him at their own expense, he was tired from spending every second he wasn't in class working

The Queen comforted him, letting him cry on her shoulder and combing his hair. It only added to his shame, this was no way for anyone to be treating the QUEEN. He pulled away and then the unspeakable happened. She offered to buy him a suit of armor. He sputtered, trying to refuse it, or at least let him pay for the part he had money for but she refused to negotiate. It was unacceptable that one of her knight cadets was left without the basic equipment required to succeed, that the Director did nothing to fix the problem, and that the environment of the Institiute made Balister feel too ashamed to ask for help and got him seriously injured

She bought him his thick black armor and the first day he wore it to class, he couldn't stop grinning. He beat the shit out of everybody who dared spar with him

Time went on and Ballister's armor got chipped and dented but he never wanted to buy a new pair like all his classmates in their shiny chest plates. This armor was old but it was his, he was allowed to have this

#i might do a part two of this set after the moive bc i hit the character limit on this post lol #i know a lot of ppl have done analysis posts on bal class and the institute but i wanted to do more of a personal approach #also i like the hc that bals really good at fighting bc his lack of armor/poor quality of armor wouldn't protect him very well from attacks #he had to really really learn how to block and dodge which led to his victory many times #nimona #ballister boldheart #ambrosius goldenloin #the director nimona #the queen nimona #nimona headcanon #whew long post

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whump-place · 4 months ago

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Adopted.

5-And the last one.

Masterlist.

Content: Multiple Whumpees, Carewhump, Pet Whumpees, Conditioned Whumpees, Multiple Whumpers.

It has been a few days since Master took in that Pet, and yesterday Liam almost fainted, probably because it was too hot in the kitchen. He never takes his health seriously.

Star sighed, it wasn't their place to correct their siblings behavior.

They know their brothers aren't the most stable Pets, they all had their own quirks and roles, and it's okay; they learn fast.

Liam is the smart one, a chores Pet too proud for their liking, but Liam always took good care of them, and he loves them, even if it's hard to see.

Leo is a mess. Not that it's their choice, though. He is a Pet trained to take pain, a good punching bag for his master. He craves punishment, but never does anything to get his siblings in trouble; Star would never admit how much they appreciate that.

And Star. They were the first one, the one that Master brought home even after he saw them at their lowest. They have a simple thing to do; being perfect. Being cute is not that hard. Getting along with the new Pets Master bought from his friends is not that hard. What is hard is what's expected of them.

Master is important, and he has a lot of expensive things. Liam, for an example. Star isn't expensive. They still remember how much their former Master paid for them, it was $10 and no more.

Because they were ugly.

Master had liked them, even covered in dirt, and with their hair messy. Now they have to be perfect, to thank Master for everything. Even if that means Liam says they are dumb, or that they never get taken seriously, that's fine. They only have to be pretty, and everything else will be okay.

But right now...

"Master wants to see you." Star looks down at that ugly looking Pet. He is a guard dog, so he is strong, and still he crawls away when he sees Star. It makes them chuckle.

"Didn't you hear me? Master wants to see you. Or is that you don't want to obey?"

He's hiding in the shadows, and Star knows full well what is going on in his mind. All the times they had tricked him to get him in trouble.

"You want me to call him over? He's going to be so mad. But maybe that will for the best. A good beating will teach you your place."

And for the last, and obviously least important, Ray.

Master took him in right after Star, and it had been the most humiliating punishment Master made them endure. But then again, it was okay. Star made their own personal goal to make sure that idiot wouldn't get in the way for Master to love them. And they did a pretty good job, looking at how Ray obeyed almost every order.

He soon stops crawling away, and instead gets on his feet. He's tall, and strong, and still he tries to make himself as small as possible.

Star is in control.

Star is fine. Everything is okay. Star gets to be loved, they get to sleep in a comfortable bed. They knew that the new Pet won't change that. Master loves them. Right?

Right?...

Taglist:

---

If anyone wants to be added to the taglist please let me know :)

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@sola-whumping

@octopus-reactivated

@risk606

@otterfrost

#whumpee #whump writing #whump #caretaker #pet whump #conditionated whumpee #fear of abandonment #multiple whumpees #Adopted #guard dog

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azulcrescent · 2 months ago

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Hi Azul! :) I started following your silly scribbles about a year ago, and seeing Cheryl model how she came out to her friends and family in the comic helped me articulate my gender experience better with my wife and even come out to my friends and family. Thanks for sharing your art! I also wanted to say that I'm sorry that you're experiencing poor sleep and burnout lately. :( Those can make you feel awful. I've had a chronic illness for the past six years -- and I'm fully aware that's something separate, nor do I want to equate it with your experiences -- but, at risk of giving any unsolicited advice, I do wish someone had said something to me about this when I first felt those as well. Because I was pushing myself to work for 2 hours a day as a special education paraprofessional in a wheelchair due to fatigue and systemic dysfunctions throughout my body -- so I had to quit my job since I was making my health even worse. When I stopped working, I was fully bed bound for a time but even still kept pushing myself to attempt grad school online despite only being able to sit up for 5-10% of the day. My point is that, even when our bodies are burnt out, we still push ourselves because that's generally just our human nature to do. And I wish that during that time someone had gently said it's okay to slow everything down and listen to what my body was telling me it needed.

With slowing down, I also get that finances are a thing, and I wouldn't have been able to recover from severe to moderate ME/CFS without my wife working her butt off for us to cover medical expenses by switching jobs and upskilling. (She jokes that she has no more butt anymore because of those years :'(... )

So, although this is stepping into unsolicited advice, but as someone who was burnt out and constantly eepy for years, I feel like it would be remiss of me to not try to say something and just give a bullet point list of free things that helped my nervous system not be so overstimulated and tired but wired that I couldn't sleep and even when I did it was unrefreshing and yucky to wake up the next day:

•Search for "ally boothroyd yoga nidra" on YouTube and pick a 10 minute video •Do belly breathing to expand the diaphragm (one of the few ways we can give input to our parasympathetic nervous systems -- the rest, digest, and heal system) •When breathing, breathe in for 4, hold for 4, out for 4, hold for 4, repeat to tell your body it can be calm •Spinal flossing in bed: start from your lowest vertebrae you can, try to isolate it with your muscles, and shift it up down left and right, then go up to the next one •Listen to how your body responds to foods: maybe try cutting out gluten and refined sugars for a week to see if it helps in any way; a lot of our immune system is in the gut, and being in a stressed state can cause our immune systems to mistake food molecules for pathogens which then activates the immune system and turns off the parasympathetic nervous system •Drop your jaw fully open like you're going to yawn, then stretch your tongue upward outside your mouth as far as it can go and stretch it around. This is a stretch for the muscles near your vagus nerve near your ear/neck behind the jaw to help them relax •Plan a bedtime routine for the thirty minutes before you go to bed and be consistent •Brain retraining: When you feel stressed or anxious about sleep or being burnt out, compassionately tell yourself "Stop, stop, stop." Thank that part of you for bringing up its concern, then remind that part of yourself that it doesn't need to worry anymore because you are working on recovering and healing. And if the insomnia or fatigue do happen, you have plans for what to do and will be okay. •Remember the conclusion from the American TV show Mythbusters: https://www.tumblr.com/gretchensinister/678474387179077632/one-of-the-most-life-changing-things-i-ever You're still getting rest even if you just close your eyes. You've talked about having ADHD, and while I don't have it, I get that it messes up brain chemicals and can contribute to both insomnia and burn out. There might be a reddit discussion that speaks to you better about medications or deficiencies. I hope you get to rest. Cheering for you. It's always fun to see your art. Thanks for what you do! :) Sleepy cat tax:

Glad to hear you like my comics! And thank you for the very informative and helpful info on sleeping better! Ill try to put your advice to use!

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ihatedean · 2 months ago

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please help my baby get his ear surgery done<3

thank you for clicking read more :)

so after months of testing the vet informed us a few days ago that our cat does, in fact, have skin cancer. to get more specific it's actually squamous-cell carcinoma.

(text is in spanish but im sure google lens can translate pretty well.)

it's affecting the tip/side of his left ear and hasn't spread to his nose or the other ear, so the vet recommended surgery to get the ear removed as soon as we possibly can. this would be on september 2nd, this monday.

exams like x-rays and biopsies have already been pretty expensive so i'm making this post to hopefully offset the cost of his pinnectomy (ARS$180,000->USD$189) even just a little bit. the whole thing has been really stressing and adding to that a messed up family situation where i can't ask them for help, please trust me when i say i wouldn't do this if i didn't need to.

details for the fic commissions:

my ao3 account for reference

right now im working on stuff for supernatural and formula 1 so that's where my brain's at, mostly, but ive done a lot of writing for jojo's bizarre adventure (im Very fluent with jotaro and all part 3-4 characters) and for the argies in the room, i've even written stuff for los simuladores and el marginal. i have no issues writing in spanish (rioplatense).

im also comfortable writing for genshin impact. been playing for years and im familiar with the lore up until fontaine. i've been itching to write something for a while :)

im Very Very familiar with x reader fics and will do OC x Character or OC x OC gladly as long as you provide character art or detailed descriptions to help me capture them best.

im comfortable writing pretty much every ship for the fandoms i named and can do gen, teen, mature and explicit works. im open to all kinks and have a history of doing incest and age-gap pairings. im comfortable with most dark themes— will write dub-con, non-con, cnc, and want to hear your weirdly specific skinks. in general, it's easier to say what i will not do than what i will. no judgement, as long as you respect

what i will not do:

horror

gore

necrophilia

violent non-con or explicit non-con (mentioning it in the story is fine, but i will not write the actual scene)

scat

vore

race play (hateful imagery/racial slurs)

kidfic

for formula 1 im simply inept at doing maxiel and c2. in general, i struggle with max and carlos. won't write anything for lando, sorry. anything else from 2010 to 2024 is fine, and im open to AUs of any kind as well as gender bending :)

pricing

Tier 3 — USD$5 for 500 words. 5 slots open

Tier 2 — USD$10 for 1k to 3k words. 2 slots open

Tier 1 — USD$25 for 4k to 10k words. 2 slots open

if i exceed wordcount in any case, it's on me. i'm a yapper.

contact me here or ask for my gmail in tumblr dms ^^

i can only accept ppal for USD$. if you're in argentina and you're interested, dm me for mercadopago info :)

(if you just want to donate that's totally cool. i just felt weird asking for money without anything to offer. it's a me thing)

ppal link

if you read this whole thing, thank you. here is the boy himself. he's almost 11 years old, incredibly grumpy, manipulative, called ugly by almost all my friends, has already gone through eye surgery so that's why his eyes look Like That, and on the rare occasion he sits on my lap i literally cry.

please put sunscreen on your cats, especially if they have white hair like aki. we didn't know for the longest time that exposure to the sun could cause skin cancer on cats and by the time we knew and started doing it, it was too late.

#edited bc i accidentally posted prematurely oops #anyways pls reblog it means a lot to me #cw pet health

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dartagnantt · 9 days ago

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Circle of the Sands | What if circle of the land (desert) was more unique than a spell list

PDFs of this and more can be found over on at my Patreon here! I release everything for free, so your support makes this possible. I've also started making a new system based off of 5e, 6th Dawn! Become a patron and join the playtest.

My Kickstarter has only a week left! Become a weredragon before its too late! Get in on the tycanthropic awesome!

It's week 5 of our four week series on mayhaps, and so I do something different. This time, inspired by the new game I'm a player in, a desert themed druid.

Sand Veil

This ability was inspired by Gaara's shield of sand power. Originally I was to make it more expensive and use a pocket sand inspiration, letting you blind people who try and attack you in melee, but then I added spray of cards as a spell so it felt superfluous

Animated Sands

Sand monsters are cool. What if you could summon them?

Shifting Masses

Misty escape from the feylock is cool, what if you AND your sand monsters could do that, sandily?

Oh yes, and make all your summons sand, why not? Why not change the elementals? Because that wouldn't make sense. And the fire elementals would be shit out of luck in water

Animated Hordes

Not a lot of druid circles call for the spend two wild shapes cost on the level 10 feature. It'ls kind of neat. So here I give you the intended animated sands, but game balance is a thing

Quicksand Vortex

And here's what I did in lieu of making a quicksand spell, because I decided that would be awkward. Instead I have you tear a hole in space as a capstone. Very reasonable, I know.

Sandstorm

So we have Earthquakes, Tsunamis, Tornados, Full control over the weather, but no sandstorm spells? nah man.

Sand Tomb

What if we just dropped a heap of sand on top of people? Can I say that suffocation is a weird rule to work around? And why is this a sphere instead of a more typical conical shape as expected of a fallen heap of sand? As much as I wanted to troll the 5e shapes guide by making it a 20 ft cone pointed down, that probably would have caused needless confusion

And now to plug my stuff. I release homebrews weekly over on my Patreon. Anyone who pledges $1 or more per post don't have to wait a month to see them, and also help fund my being alive habit.

At the moment, they have exclusive access to the following:

To Shreds, You Say?

Chimeric Hunter Conclave

I Costs an Arm and a Leg

Skeletal Amagams

I also have four classes, and a splatbook over on DriveThrueRPG to check out:

The Rift Binder. A class specialising in summoning monsters and controlling the battlefield.

The Witch Knight. A class that combines swords and sorcery in the most literal way.

The Werebeast. A class that turns you into a half beast to destroy your foes.

The Beguiler. A spellcaster dedicated to illusions, enchantments, and general fuckery.

d'Artagnan's Adventurer Almanac. A compendium of races, subclasses, feats, spells, monsters and more!

#d&d 5e #d&d #d&d homebrew #d&d5e #subclasses #spells #druid #druidic circle

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wannaeatramyeon · 1 year ago

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Gun Park x Reader: this is our place (we make the rules)

Chapter 4 - Probably should read ch1 first

You pray to the heavens above.

You pray to hell below.

And everything in between. Because something needs to have mercy on your soul.

This sight. It cannot be real.

Your eyes are deceiving you.

Of course you considered eating Gun’s food. It’s the least of what he deserves. But you didn’t have the heart to cause trouble for the careless delivery person.

Besides, what asshole steals someone else’s food?

Now this is what you get? Is it supposed to be a reward or torture?

“Why is it always you?” Gun, face impassive, stands at the doorway with towel in both hands, scrubbing at his wet hair. Damp tendrils curling at his forehead and neck.

(What you wouldn't give to be the towel in those big, strong hands.)

Expecting just a quick visit, where he could grab his lunch and needing to exchange a grunt at most, he’s wearing very little.

To you, he is wearing far too much.

Steam rises from his shoulders. His bare naked shoulders. Broad. Powerful. With that particular delicious cut of muscle linking to his underarm.

Then all arms and bis and tris in the air, graceful and frankly. Obscene. Like a ridiculous cologne advert dreamt up by horny execs.

(Praise the gods for the horny execs and the creation of this before you, a tiny voice in your brain offers.)

Your eyes continue taking in the rest of his body. Scars that should be a screaming red flag litter his torso, a fitting match for the one between his eyes, but it just elevates this man. Adding to the mystery, the danger.

Droplets from Gun’s shower slides down over his skin, now starting to prickle in the cold air. It glides down in a delectable path that your eyes are all too eager to follow.

The linen shirt from the other week seems puritanical. Far far too much material.

Because if you looked like this, why on earth would you ever wear anything ever again.

Why would you ever cover those pecs, and that 6 (hold on a second - you count each muscle), 8 pack and those obliques.

All leading to jutting hipbones, a delicious faint trail of hair starting at the navel, and that tantalising line of muscles shaped in a V. Everything pointing straight down below. Teasing at what the towel around his waist covers.

(You change your mind. What you wouldn't give to be this towel instead.)

Completely mesmerised, your hand is half reaching out before his voice slaps you out of your daze.

“Are you done?”

And like the shameless moron you are, all you can do is nod, mute, as you retract your hand. Swiping at your nose and mouth to check for a nosebleed or any drool.

Thankfully, it comes back dry.

Leaning a forearm on the door, and other hand on his hip; Gun bends at the waist, bringing his face close to yours. Much closer than it’s ever been.

“Tell me,” A smirk, “Why are you on my doorstep again.”

You gulp, and his eyes drops to watch your throat swallow.

How is it so hot in here. How is your hand clammy. And how. Really. How does he smell so good. Like whatever expensive body wash he has used and an intoxicating mix of smoke and spice.

This is a reward. Definitely.

Then your eyes dart to his lips, moist and pulled up at one corner. Too far to reach, but close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath.

No. This is torture.

“Are you,” Gun inches closer and you can’t help leaning in too, “hungry for food,” somewhere far away, you hear a faint rumble. It could be your stomach or an earthquake, you would never know, “or for something else?”

After his last words, Gun reclines, giving you the space to breathe again.

Like the first rush of cool air after drinking in a stuffy bar and it fully hits you how drunk you are.

Another rumble and you realise it’s your stomach.

The smirk never shifts, instead Gun grabs the bag from your hand and retreats back into his home.

Leaving the door wide open.

Your body, as if pulled along by a wire, follows.

Gun, infuriatingly smug that you have walked of your own accord into a lion’s den, spreads out the food and hands you a pair of chopsticks.

No. No. You are not disappointed. Definitely not.

“Eat,” he commands and disappears.

Your other brain cells start whirring. Better late than never. You blink, dazed. Sobering. As if you have no idea how you got here. How it all led here.

An unexpected turn, though not unwelcome.

Gun pulls on some fresh clothes, thinking about his next move.

He’s done a basic check on you. Common sense, standard, to check there are no nefarious purposes for you living next door.

Turns out it was just a coincidence you turning up at the same places as him.

What’s more, the PI, one who he has entrusted with many cases to, returned very little.

Barely any living relatives, no training, no big accomplishments, no connection.

A student at Seoul National University, gaining entrance through merit rather than nepotism. Some part-time job to support yourself, which you parted with on good terms once you moved. You weren’t lying when you mentioned your grandmother passing her home on to you.

Someone that shouldn’t even be on Gun Park’s radar. That doesn’t warrant any searches conducted on them.

So the interesting part, the reason you have his attention is this:

How come a nobody like you, someone whose entire existence has barely filled a side of paper, look him in the eye unflinching?

To find the abyss staring, and to just stare back.

To have so little fear of a demon, who has ruined lives of much more powerful men and women.

Gun can count on no hands and no fingers the amount of people he has invited back that he does not intend to bed.

But here you are. In his home.

He’s curious to find out more about you.

#lookism #lookism webtoon #lookism x reader #lookism manhwa #lookism fanfic #lookism fics #gun park #park jonggun #gun park x reader #park jonggun x reader #wannaeatramyeon #hello yes this is fanservice #no smut

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lightandheatao3 · 5 months ago

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The Bunker - Criminal Minds

Chapter 14: The Photograph

Summary: Spencer Reid wakes up in a locked bunker to find half the current BAU and two of its departed members unconscious on the floor. The old team is back together but the reunion is not what any of them would have wished for. An Unsub from their past has decided it's time they all stop keeping secrets, even if it means exposing them by force.

Hotch and Derek have been pulled back into a world they tried to escape. Emily, Rossi, and JJ are doing their best to keep it together. Spencer is falling apart.

AKA a found family is reunited and forced to go through the most nightmarish version of family therapy imaginable.

Set months after the end of Criminal Minds: Evolution. Evolution referenced, but not necessary to understand the story.

Chapter Summary: The team look at photos.

Read chapter 14 on AO3 or under the cut. Please check AO3 for content warnings. All comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated <3 I would love to know what you like about the story :)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

The photographs formed a storyboard of the past year of their lives.

They must have been at it for hours, meticulously sorting them into what they figured was as close as they could get to chronological order. They lined the photos up side by side on the floor, taking up the length of an entire 30 foot wall two rows deep, a colorful collage of their shared violation.

They process was clinical and procedural. This was as much hard data as they'd had since they got there and unassailable professional instinct made the next steps clear. It felt good to have something tangible to work with, even if the subject matter was unsettling.

There was a silent agreement not to press each other for context on any of the photographs beyond time, date, and location: All the details needed for a detailed timeline and geographical profile.

They didn’t comment on the photograph of JJ in a bar with a half empty pint of beer and tears in her eyes, still wearing her work clothes. They didn’t ask Hotch about the photo of him and Jack in a parking lot clearly in the middle of an argument.

Even a person with nothing in the world to hide would have moments they didn't want to share over the course of an entire year of their lives.

At one point Derek deviated just a moment from their agreement and chuckled at a photo of Spencer in an expensive apartment sitting on a leather sofa, very close to a rather pretty woman. The picture was taken through the wall to ceiling windows from somewhere in the high-rise across the road. "Friend of yours?" he asked.

“Sort of,” said Spencer, taking the photo and examining the details so he could date it. He looked at both of their outfits, at the length of his hair, at the drink in her hand. He closed his eyes and sifted through every interaction he’d had with that woman in that apartment until he landed on the one with the corresponding details. “3rd of August 2023, 1:30am, Washington D.C. I was there to buy narcotics,” he said, tight lipped. “She’s my dealer.”

With shaky hands, he passed the photo back to Derek, who stared at it again, dashed of any humor.

After a while, he set the picture in its place in the timeline and made no further comments on any of his photos. He noticed the others all stopping to take a look at it with varying degrees of subtlety.

Well, except for Emily, who bent down to look and said, “God damn,” and wolf whistled. “You two look pretty cozy."

“It's not like that," he said sheepishly. "For one, I think you're more her type than I am," he said with a shrug. "I wouldn't call her a friend, but I guess it was good having someone to talk to who already knew how screwed up I was. She's nice enough."

"For a drug dealer," muttered Derek, shuffling through a stack of photos.

Spencer quirked his lip. "I'm not exactly in a position to judge, am I?"

Derek tapped the photos in his hand, straightening them out. "I guess not."

A few minutes later, when Derek handed Spencer a photo taken in that same apartment, he did so wordlessly, extending his arm without even looking up from the photos in his other hand.

A shiver ran down his spine at the confronting image. It was a picture of him slumped back on that same nice leather couch, sleeve rolled up with a tourniquet loosened on his arm and a used needle on the coffee table next to him. His dealer was smoking a joint on the armchair across from him.

He almost forgot why he was looking at the photo, transfixed as he was by the completely sickening thought of the others seeing him like this.

It occurred to him that he had never seen himself like this, either. He looked so sick. That wasn't surprising. He usually waited until he got home to shoot up. The only exceptions to that were when he was particularly desperate for a fix. Or when he couldn't bear to be alone.

As he stared at the photo, a violent vision of digging his nails into his scar and tearing it open intruded into his mind.

He shook his head, clearing it of the disturbing thoughts.

“Um... September 13th 2023. 1pm,” he said, reminding himself of the task at hand.

He handed the photo back to Derek, not sure if the other man was avoiding looking at him out of respect or disgust, but grateful for it either way. As he passed it over, he fumbled, dropping the photograph, which floated dully to the floor and landed face down.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling his hand back and clenching his fist as best he could, trying to control the trembling and biting back a hiss at the pain that shot through his forearm. “Sorry.”

Derek ignored the dropped photo and finally looked Spencer in the face. “That’s like the fifth time you’ve dropped something since we started this,” he said seriously. “Let me look at your hand,” he said, reaching out for Spencer's left hand without waiting for an answer.

He pulled it away. “It’s fine,” he said. “I'm just shaky. It's mild withdrawal symptoms. It’s not that bad.”

After two weeks on a high dose of fentanyl, some withdrawals were inescapable, but it was nothing compared to what he went through before. It still pretty much sucked, but at least he wasn’t feverish.

"It's not just withdrawal," interjected Hotch, stepping up behind Derek and folding his arms. "Every time you fumble, it's your left hand. This isn't going to go away just because you ignore it," he said firmly. "Let Morgan take a look."

Spencer knew he was right, even though he was trying very hard not to know it. The others had stopped what they were doing and were watching the interaction with interest.

He sighed, bracing himself. He held out his mangled left arm to Derek, who grasped his wrist and turned his hand palm-up. He studied it, prodding the muscles around the scar.

Spencer stared at the wall behind Derek's head, looking anywhere except the horrible, foreign flesh that he used to recognize as his arm.

“Any numbness or tingling?” asked Derek.

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “Some.”

Derek pursed his lips unconsciously. He put his fingers on Spencer’s and gave a probing scratch with his own fingernail. “Can you feel that?”

He shrugged halfheartedly. “A bit. The sensation is limited.”

Derek moved his fingers to Spencer’s palm and repeated the previous action. “Here?”

Spencer shook his head. “Barely.”

“Okay,” Derek said, sounding decidedly less than okay. “Tell me when you feel normal sensation again.”

He dragged his fingernail from Spencer’s palm, up to his wrist, and then to the forearm. He was halfway up Spencer’s forearm before he stopped him.

It wasn’t as if this was news to him, but having it validated in the furrow of Derek’s brow was an unexpected blow.

It would have been easier to keep telling himself it was just detox messing with his nervous system.

The others were all gathered in close now, unabashedly observing the impromptu examination.

Derek held out both of his own hands, three fingers raised to the roof on each side. “Try and squeeze both of my fingers as hard as you can,” he instructed.

Spencer did as he was asked, already knowing what the result would be, but somewhat morbidly curious to figure out just how fucked he was.

His right hand squeezed just fine, but the left struggled to form itself into a proper fist, let alone apply meaningful pressure. A burning pain shot through his forearm at the effort.

He dropped his hands pathetically to his sides, finally able to look at Derek now that he didn’t have to risk looking at his scar in the process. He felt the urge to shove his hands in his pockets and was irritated that the scrub pants didn’t have any.

“What’s your diagnosis?” he asked sardonically.

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “You tell me, genius. Numbness, weakness, loss of fine motor function, and I’m willing to bet you’ve got some pain you’re not talking about.”

“I must have severed the median nerve,” he said tiredly. “It’s unlikely that I’ll ever recover full function.”

“It’s still early days,” chimed in Emily. “You’ve barely healed and haven’t exactly had world class medical care. Don’t count yourself out just yet.”

He once again resisted the urge to shove his hands into his non-existent pockets and settled for crossing his arms instead. “It’s fine, guys,” he said flatly. “We have a job to do. This can wait.”

There was no arguing with that. The damage was already done and worrying about it wasn't going to fix it.

With a few lingering looks of concern, they all returned to the task at hand. Derek bent down and picked up the fallen photo, glancing at it one last time before putting it in its proper place.

When they were done, they had an imperfect but extensive timeline, including geographical information.

Spencer studied every photograph and sifted through every detail of date time and geography in his mind. He pictured a map, marking each location with pushpins, just like he had on the walls of so many police precincts around the country.

Eventually, he came to one inarguable conclusion.

“There was more than two of them.”

“Are you sure?” asked Emily.

He knelt down, picking up three photos that were placed next to each other on the floor. “Here I am near the West Virginia border on the same day Hotch is in Kentucky. Fine, we know that they work as a pair. It’s possible they had an equal division of labor with the stalking. It’s an unusual dynamic, but we knew that already. But this,” he said, holding up a picture of Emily having lunch with her mother in DC, “was taken at lunchtime on the same day. In ideal traffic, the earliest time they could have gotten from me to Emily is 5 hours, which would have been closer to 3.30pm. Now, theoretically, you could make it from Hotch’s house to Louisville airport in an around 90 minutes, with check in 40 minutes before hand, and be in DC just in time to get this picture. But why? Why go that effort and expense just to get a picture of you at lunch with your mom? Not to mention, they would have to locate you within the city first. How many time a year do you even see your mom? Twice? Three times?”

“Less if I can help it,” said Emily with a grimace.

“Exactly. This isn’t a routine part of your schedule. And you said it was a last-minute arrangement. She wasn’t even supposed to be in the city.”

“That’s right. They couldn’t have known where I was going to be. I didn’t even know where I was going be until the time where they would have been on the plane with no cell service,” she said, clicking her finger as she followed his train of thought.

“And the other one would have been in rural Virginia in a location that was intentionally without cell service-”

“So even in the absolute worst case scenario where they bugged our phones somehow, it wouldn’t have been possible for them to listen in on my mom’s call. They couldn’t have known where I would be.”

“And the most generous timeline would still require them knowing exactly where to go as soon as they landed in DC,” Spencer finished. “They must have had help.”

“You don’t think there could be a third Unsub, do you?” asked JJ worriedly.

“No,” said Spencer. “I doubt it. The way he talked about her, I don't think he would even be capable of forming any kind of meaningful trusting relationship with another person. I don't think their dynamic allows for a third party.”

“What if they didn’t have just one person helping them?” said Rossi. “Think about it. Not one of us noticed that we were being stalked for over a year? Reid, you have an eidetic memory. No matter how careful they are, the fact is if you see the same face enough times, eventually you’ll notice, right?” Spencer nodded. “Never mind that we’re all profilers, most of whom are more than a bit hypervigilant. But if it was four, five, a dozen people sharing the load? That’s a lot harder to spot.”

“You think they contracted their stalking out?” said Hotch, a touch incredulous. “That’s a pretty high risk approach.”

“I don’t think they contracted out all of it,” clarified Rossi. “They’re too obsessive and controlling for that. They would have done the more intimate digging into our lives themselves. But I think they may have hired on PIs for a lot of the day-to-day stuff, including actively following us, photographing us, and learning our routines. Unless anyone has a better theory.”

“Something like that would take a lot of money,” pointed out Derek. “Especially to have people following FBI agents. Buying discretion for a job like that isn’t cheap. Not to mention the associated costs of keeping their identities hidden from the people they hired. It kind of makes sense. I mean, look at this place. It would have taken them a lot of time and resources to set this up. It would be pretty difficult to do that while stalking six people full time.”

“If our profile is correct and we’re dealing with a former prisoner and prison nurse, then how would they have access to that kind of money?” asked Spencer.

They all traded looks before settling on Emily, their default leader. Funny, even Hotch was looking to her.

She sputtered, giving a half shrug. “I wish I had a theory, but I don’t think we have enough information. All of these conclusions are speculative at best, for now. We’ll keep working on it. But for the moment, let’s focus on the positive. If they really were hiring outside help, that’s great for us. Every person involved in this is a weak link in the chain. It doesn’t matter how careful they were or how well they concealed their identities. Things like this leave a trail.”

"I don't think they meant for us to figure this out," said Spencer. "These photos are carefully curated, and everything they presented us was within a plausible time frame. If this is information they didn't want us to know, then it's information we might be able to leverage somehow."

"That's great," said Emily with a smile. "Every new thing we learn is helpful. Good work, everyone."

The congratulatory moment was short lived when a clang at the door made them all jump

A moment later, one paper bag was deposited in the door chamber, followed by another, both by the same single gloved hand that had become so familiar.

Spencer sprung into action. He’d been waiting for this chance. He stepped quickly to the door, leaning down to speak through the hatch.

“I heard you,” he said. “You were in the room with me. I remember you.”

The hatch was halfway to being closed, but it halted before it could fully seal.

Adrenalin surged and his brain kicked into overdrive. She had never responded to their attempts to talk to her.

This was new.

“You saved my life,” he said, taking another step forward. “He wanted to let me die but you said no. Thank you."

He paused, leaving a space he hoped she would fill with a response.

Silence.

He pressed on. "He’s a sadist. He's not like you. He doesn't want what you want. He won’t indulge you forever.”

The hatch pulled shut and resealed itself.

Apparently, that was not what she wanted to hear.

He looked back at the others. Nobody said anything. What could they say? It was too soon to know what kind of affect his words might have had.

"That's more of a reaction than any of the rest of us have ever got," JJ pointed out. "That's progress."

"Yeah," he said simply.

Being closest to the door, Spencer opened the hatch. He grabbed one of the bags, feeling instantly from the weight that it contained their food. He tried to grab the second bag, but received a viscous reminder that his other hand didn’t work anymore when searing nerve pain shot up his entire arm. He pulled back, cringing.

Emily stepped in, grabbing the second bag for him.

They all watched as he and Emily opened their respective deliveries. His contained fruit and nutritional shakes, as expected. He sifted through in case there was a note inside, and when he found nothing, he placed the bag on the floor for everyone to help themselves to food.

“Huh,” said Emily next to him, staring into the bag.

“What?” asked Hotch.

Emily reached in and pulled out a deck of cards. She tossed it to Hotch, who caught it easily and turned it over curiously. She reached back in and pulled out a soft rubber ball next, just big enough to fit in her hand. She tossed that one to Derek.

“What the fuck?” said a bewildered Rossi.

“There’s a note, I think,” said Emily. “Hold on.”

She dug into the bag with a rattling that indicated at least another couple of items were in there, and she pulled out a folded piece of paper. She put the bag down and unfolded the note.

“When you put me in a cage I saw many who wanted to die but I knew better. Truth is the only freedom that matters. You will understand in time. Be good and it does not need to hurt. Dr Reid,” she stopped abruptly, eyes skimming the page.

“What?” he asked nervously.

It couldn't be another secret. That didn't fit the pattern. It would be JJ, Hotch, or Derek next.

Emily glanced down at the discarded bag, picking it up and digging through it, scrunching the note in her hand as she did so.

“Prentiss?” queried Hotch, approaching her.

She stopped what she was doing for a moment to wordlessly hand him the note, then went back to the bag. She tossed items on the floor as she went. A self-help book titled Radical Honesty: How to Transform Your Life by Telling the Truth, which was entirely too on the nose to the point where he almost rolled his eyes. A pack of crayons and an adult coloring in book.

“What in the actual hell is going on?” said JJ, looking at the strange assortment of objects. "Cheesy self-help books? A mindfulness coloring book? Does she have a 'live love laugh' throw pillow in there, too?"

Emily ignored her. She dropped the bag, apparently finding what she'd been looking for.

She held a triangular leather case, like the kind you’d put glasses in. Hotch, who had finished reading the note, stared at the case like it might come to life and bite Emily’s hand off. She peaked inside then closed it back up, shooting Hotch a significant look and gripping it tight in her hand.

Spurred on by the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and their infuriating silence, Spencer reached out and snatched the note from Hotch’s hand.

“Spencer…” said Emily helplessly, and the instant he glanced at the note he understood why.

Dr Reid, you are hurting. You can make it stop. It is your truth. Nobody else can chose for you. You cannot dispose of or destroy it. Break these rules and you will all be hurting.

He looked at the case in Emily’s hand.

He dropped the note on the floor, hands trembling more than ever. Someone behind him picked it up, but he wasn’t paying attention to who.

“What’s in the case?”

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” she said sadly. "It's not fair."

“You read the note, Emily. The last thing we need right now is to get gassed again or to lose our food supply or whatever the hell the next so called punishment is going to be. Let’s just get this over with,” he demanded.

After one last silent check in with Hotch, who could only shake his head helplessly, she extended the case to him. It was within an inch of his hand when Derek reached over from behind him and snatched it away.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he said, the note scrunched in his hand.

He tossed the ball of paper over to JJ, who read it alongside Rossi. A moment later, “What fresh fucking psychodrama are we in now?” from Rossi signaled that everyone in the room was up to date.

Derek opened the pouch and pulled out a single syringe filled with a clear liquid.

His heart skipped a beat as Derek’s thumb raised up to the capped needle, ready to snap it off.

“Morgan, wait!” yelled Hotch, hands raised to Derek in a halting gesture.

Derek froze, lip twitching with the heavy effort of self-restraint. “We're not doing this, Hotch, I swear to fucking god I don’t care what the consequences are.”

“I don’t…” Hotch struggled to string together a thought. His face was pallid and he looked like he might be sick. “None of us want to be here, but we’re here. We’re all going to do what we need to in order to survive. That’s what we agreed.”

“This is an escalation,” said JJ. “She’s moving beyond coercing us into revealing information. If we let her coerce us into physical action, where does this stop?”

The argument continued around him, but he wasn’t listening. His whole body itched. It was just him, alone in the room, staring at a syringe and weighing up the value of his life against the prick of a needle like he had a thousand times before.

“Everyone just shut up!” yelled Emily, snapping him back to reality. He locked eyes with her. They were all watching him. “What do you want to do?” she asked, paying no mind to the others.

What did he want to do?

He turned his back on all of them, raising his one functioning hand to rub at his forehead.

What did he want to do?

His words to Derek rang in his ears. I would shoot up right now, right here in this fucking room while you watched. He’d meant it. He’d really meant it at the time.

Then he decided to go and open a vein right here in this fucking room while they all watched.

He'd only just got back to them. Everything was different now and would be different forever and he hadn't even had time to understand how and the only thing he knew with absolute certainty was that every functional nerve remaining in his body was screaming for him to just take the needle and-

He swung around to face them all. “Give it to me,” he demanded, holding out his hand to Derek.

Derek looked him up and down. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What difference does it really make at this point?” he asked, sighing. “This wouldn't be the first needle I've stuck myself with. It wouldn't be the hundredth. You think this one is the difference between me being a junkie or not? This isn’t worth putting everyone at further risk for. Just give it to me.”

Derek’s nostrils flared. The fist that wasn’t threatening to snap the needle clenched and unclenched by his side. After a long, excruciating moment, he looked away from Spencer and loosened his grip on the syringe, holding it out to him.

He didn��t look at Spencer as he took it from his hand.

Spencer looked down at it, studying it. He twirled it in his fingers for a second, the way he would with a coin in a magic trick. For just a moment, he let himself feel, once again, like he was alone in the room with it.

Then, he took three strides to the door, opened the chamber, and dropped the syringe inside. He slammed the hatch shut with quite a bit more force than was necessary and made an exodus to far side of the room.

A ripple of relief spread through his companions. “Thank god,” he heard JJ sigh.

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. A hand came to rest on his shoulder and he opened his eyes to see Derek.

“Thank you,” he said.

Spencer nodded.

He faced the others. “Look, I’ve been back here less than a day. I’m literally sweating fentanyl right now and I can't think about any of this, so if we can agree to pretend it isn’t there and this isn’t happening until she removes the trash at the next food delivery, that would really help me out.” He looked up at the camera, meeting it’s blinking red light with a stony glare. “I won’t play this fucking game with you.”

He couldn't dispose of it, as per the note, but that didn't mean he had to engage. He could exhibit an iota of self-control, for once.

“Hey, it’s alright, Spence. You’re right, let’s not think about it,” said Emily. “Besides, we need to talk about what all this other shit is,” she said with a sweeping gesture at the odd assortment of objects that were strewn across the floor.

“I think what you did really scared them,” said Hotch. “They’re starting to realize you can’t just lock people up indefinitely with no stimuli and expect them to just endure.”

Emily picked up the self-help book and scrunched her nose at it. “If their goal is to stop us all from killing ourselves, the thought of this being the only book I’ll ever get to read again is having the opposite effect.”

Spencer was the only one who met her with a laugh instead of a chastising look.

“Why don’t we take a short break from profiling, put our respective breakdowns on hold, and just for one second pretend that this situation isn’t completely, irrevocably fucked up?” said Rossi, holding up the new deck of cards with a playful wave.

“Rossi’s right,” said Emily. “Sorting through those photographs was rough on all of us, and we've been at it for hours. We can discuss what all of this means for the profile after we’ve eaten and had a break.”

In agreement, they all helped themselves to a piece of food, though Spencer could hardly stomach the thought of eating and was doing so for their benefit more than his own, and arranged themselves in a circle.

He sat with his back to the door. He was not going to turn his head. He was not going to look at it. He was not going to look at it. He was not going to look at it.

Rossi shuffled up the deck. Derek had grabbed the small rubber ball for himself and was absently throwing and catching it where he sat while they settled in.

“So, should I let you all win a round of cards in order to boost morale?” smirked Spencer.

He had a tendency to clean up when they played together on longer trips on the BAU jet, much to both Rossi and Luke’s continuous annoyance, both of whom fancied themselves pretty good players.

There was a pang in his chest at the thought of his absent teammate. How were Luke and Penelope and Tara coping? They must be out of their minds. He missed them all deeply.

“Glad to see your piercing wit remains intact despite everything,” shot back Rossi. “Don’t do us any favors, kid, because I know you’re at less than peak performance and I fully intend to use it against you. Five card draw, aces high, no mercy,” he quipped, dealing out the hand.

With the game agreed on, they politely pretended not to notice as he struggled to rest his cards in his bad hand in order to free up his dominant hand for play. By pulling up his knee and resting his arm on it, he managed to finagle a position that allowed him to maintain a loose grip without much pain. Both his hands were shaking from withdrawal, but if he moved slow he could make it work.

A few hands in, and Spencer was surprised by how immersed he was. The only person who had managed to win a hand against him so far was JJ. She wasn't usually as into it as the rest of them, but the stress was bringing out a competitive streak that he'd rarely seen in her, including a fair bit more swearing than he'd heard from her since she had kids.

“The pattern is obvious,” said Hotch, unprompted, halfway through a hand. He had been putting in the bare minimum effort to participate, being the first to fold most rounds.

“The pattern where Reid keeps kicking our butts?” said Rossi, raising an eyebrow.

“Not my fault,” said Spencer. “You all know-”

“You’re from Vegas, yes, my god, we know,” said Emily, discarding her hand in exasperation. “You’ll feel right at home when we ban you from playing cards just like all the casinos did.”

“After this hand,” said Rossi, “we’re switching to Snap.”

Spencer huffed a laugh and looked at his trembling hands. “That, you might have an advantage in.”

He was almost having fun.

If he focused hard enough on the game and made the effort to joke around with them he could forget for a moment that he wanted to rip his own skin off. He could ignore the sickness, the flashes of vivid red that saturated his brain every time he caught sight of his scar, the loaded syringe sequestered in the hatch behind him.

Smile, laugh, joke, win another hand, joke, laugh, promise them, promise them he wants to keep living. If they wouldn’t believe his words, then he could show them. He’s laughing, he’s joking, he loves them. He wouldn’t hurt himself because he loves them. He’s not going to hurt himself. He promises. Different to the last time he promised because this time, he means it.

None of them were okay either but for his benefit, for all their benefits, they played the game. The least he could do is return the favor.

The least he could do is play the fucking game and stop thinking about where he’d stick the needle since his left arm was too freshly scarred to shoot up in right now and his dexterity was too fucked in his left hand to inject in his right arm, so he’d probably have to do it between his toes. That’s fine, he’s done it before, but it’s not the most hygienic-

“That’s not what I meant,” said Hotch, blessedly interrupting his train of thought. Hotch placed his cards down, face up, giving up any pretense of caring about the game. “The cycle of withholding and rewarding. It’s escalating. She trying to foster co-dependency, with her as some kind of maternal figure and us cast in the role of her children.”

Rossi rubbed at his forehead, tossing his own cards down. “Yeah,” he agreed sombrely. “We don’t clean our room, we don’t get dinner. We follow the rules, she ‘rewards’ us with the means of survival and demands gratitude. She’s likely recreating the same dynamic from her own childhood. If I had to guess, I’d say that imprisonment wasn’t her first experience with confinement. Her arrest and incarceration acted as a trigger, forcing her to relive that original trauma.”

"That's why she's so fixated on us. She perceives us as being responsible for her reliving her abuse and she wants to force us to live through it too, only this time, with her in the position of power," said Emily.

They all leaned in, thoughtful and considered, just as he’d seen them on hundreds of cases before.

“And what happens when abusive parents finally realize that their children can leave them?” asked JJ pointedly.

“Love bombing,” said Derek. “They do a 180 on the withholding behavior and do everything in their power to convince their victims that they’re safe, and to foster dependence in the process.”

Emily picked up the thread. “The gifts, the photographs and their tacit implication that they could be involving our families in this, but choose not to, the additional privileges and luxuries are all ways to make us stay. You know, this place is so secure, if there was a way out, we would have found it a long time ago. Whatever abuse she may have experienced, my bet is she compensated by developing an exaggerated self-preservation instinct. She’s someone who would do anything to survive, no matter the circumstances. She twists her trauma in her mind, re-contextualizing it as something that made her stronger and better. If she sees us as extensions of herself, she may not have anticipated that we could respond in ways she wouldn’t have.”

Spencer rubbed at his arm uncomfortably. “She leaned on deprivation and punishment as primary means of control because it never occurred to her that we might need to be persuaded to endure it.”

Hotch’s eyes flicked to somewhere behind Spencer’s head. To the spot on the door that he was diligently refusing to look. “That’s why she’s doing this to you,” he said. “What you did has thrown her plans off balance. She wants you to be dependent, but she’ll take it away as soon as you aren’t playing into her fantasy effectively enough.”

“I know,” he said tersely.

Of course she was trying to control him. She was trying to control all of them. He just had the misfortune of having a convenient dependence ready to go before they were even kidnapped.

Hotch’s face softened. “But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier,” he said sympathetically.

Spencer wrapped his arms around his knees. “Not particularly,” he admitted.

The crinkles around Hotch's eyes were deeper than they used to be, but there was more than that. He had laughter lines. Even as he frowned, the lines were visible. They hadn’t been there when he was with the BAU.

His jawline was softer when they had first woken up in the bunker, and while the weight had dropped off all of them during their detour into starvation, the skin hadn’t quite tightened up. The affects of age were showing in more than just the salt and pepper hair.

Everything that was different about Aaron Hotchner, yet the look he gave Spencer that made him feel like he could see right through him was exactly the same as it ever was.

He knew there was a question coming before the other man even opened his mouth to speak.

“Is there any part of you that’s doing this for yourself or is it all for our benefit?” There was no reprisal in his tone. Just sincere, morbid curiosity. “I know the only reason you're not using that needle is guilt. Do you care at all about what happens to you next?”

He sighed. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

Not for the first time, Hotch needed something from him. All these questions and there was something he needed Spencer to say. He wanted to give it to him, but try as he might, he couldn’t figure out what it was.

Spencer rubbed at his eyes, allowing himself a split second fantasy that he would look up and be alone, with nobody there to hurt when he opened that hatch and claimed the only ‘next’ that had mattered to him for a long time: His next fix.

“I’m glad I didn’t die, I don't plan to hurt myself, and I don’t intend to get high,” he said carefully. “Those statements are true. Does it really matter why they’re true?”

Hotch mused, pursing his lips. “I suppose it doesn’t right now,” he said eventually.

Spencer looked at him. Really looked at him. He caught the looks on the others faces in his peripheral vision, an array of fascination and worry. Something clicked.

"What about you, Hotch?" asked Spencer.

Hotch blinked, straightening up minutely. He looked as if he'd just remembered that they weren't the only two people in the room.

"What about me?"

"Are you going to be okay?"

Hotch looked taken aback. He reached down and picked up his discarded hand of cards, shuffling them absently. He glanced around the circle at the others, all of whom were awaiting his response.

Eventually, with the utmost composure, he said, "We're all alive, which means it's still possible we'll all make it out of here and get back to our families. As long as that's true, I'm fine." He picked up the rest of the deck that was sat in front of Rossi and started shuffling that too. "I'm sick of poker. Let's play something else."

They all accepted the diversion, chiming in with suggestions for different games. Now wasn't the time to push. There was only so much they could all take at once.

Was this what Hotch felt like with him? Why he was so intent on trying to figure him out?

It was such a lonely feeling, to be a stranger to someone who used to be family. There were times where he felt like they were all a team again, but then these little moments would come along and remind him that they didn't know each other anymore.

He turned away, chancing a glance at the door that contained the hatch that contained the one solution to his problems. The room felt smaller than it ever had.

"Spencer," whispered Emily. "Ignore it," she reminded him.

Right. Ignore it. There was nothing there. There was nothing in the world except the people in front of him.

He picked up the hand of cards that had just been dealt in front of him, ready to play.

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