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ahlulbaytnetworks · 1 year ago

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🍃🕊🍃 The Expansive Earth 🍃🕊🍃

وَالأَرْضَ فَرَشْنَاهَا فَنِعْمَ الْمَاهِدُونَ

And the earth, We have made it a wide extent; how well have We then spread (it) out.

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (51:47) 🍃

وَالأَرْضَ مَدَدْنَاهَا وَأَلْقَيْنَا فِيهَا رَوَاسِيَ وَأَنبَتْنَا فِيهَا مِن كُلِّ شَيْءٍ مَّوْزُونٍ {o} وَجَعَلْنَا لَكُمْ فِيهَا مَعَايِشَ وَمَن لَّسْتُمْ لَهُ بِرَازِقِينَ

And the earth - We have spread it forth and made in it firm mountains and caused to grow in it of every suitable thing. And We have made in it means of subsistence for you and for him whom you cannot sustain.

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (15:18-19) 🍃

أَلَمْ نَجْعَلِ الْأَرْضَ كِفَاتًا {o} أَحْيَاء وَأَ��ْوَاتًا

Have We not made the earth to draw together to itself; (prepared for) the living and the dead?

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (77:25-26) 🍃

One of the branches of the ever-increasing knowledge of mankind in contemporary times is the methodology of exploiting the earth’s natural resources and God-given treasures. Scientists have always been apprehensive that unplanned tapping of the existing resources would engender problems for future generations. For this reason, elaborate and extensive programs and projects have been designed by experts to optimally utilize the natural resources, which are an influential factor in the determination of the wellbeing of human societies.

Many conferences have been held to discuss the soundest way to exploit these natural resources, so that adequate attention is paid to the fundamental and vital needs of humanity as well as ensuring that these needs are met in a balanced and equitable manner. No scientist will endorse the principle that each individual is free to exploit nature in a manner that is to his sole and limitless advantage.

However, God, the All-wise – whose wisdom is barely reflected by the entirety of man’s knowledge – had also made arrangements for this important issue at the time of the creation of the earth; indeed this is a proof of the intelligent, knowledgeable and capable design that underpins existence. He made man aware of these blessings and invited him to make lawful use of them. Man has been required to take advantage of the Divine bounties in the earth in a thoughtful manner and not to give way to excess and overindulgence in an attempt to acquire as much as possible, which would ultimately cause a disparity between needs and consumption. If these resources are managed correctly through a system of organization and control, then neither scarcity will affect them nor will these plentiful resources be depleted.

In the days when the human population was not even one-third of the present number and many of the earth’s resources had yet to be discovered, poverty and famine arising from ruined crops was much more common than it is today. Indigence and hunger were constant afflictions and would cause widespread death amongst human societies.

Nowadays, although the earth’s population has increased manifold, those unfavourable circumstances no longer prevail (in the same abundance), even though contentment and moderation in consumption is not only less than in previous times, but has given way to wastage and shameful excesses. Furthermore, in order to balance their markets, many countries actually destroy a substantial amount of their agricultural produce annually, a fact that distresses the heart of every free-thinking individual.

Thus, poverty and scarcity arises due to the method of exploiting resources and its disproportionate distribution – and not because of a decrease in the earth’s natural resources themselves – and consequent to the clash between demand and profiteering and the corruption that arises as a result, the social fabric and harmony is torn apart; in reality this unfair utilization of resources is due the culture of excess on the one hand, and the absence of contentment and the insatiable appetites of today’s greedy and selfish individuals on the other.

🍃 Let us also cast a glance at the very distant past: 🍃

It is not known when the earth initially acquired the capacity to support life and when the first living creatures appeared, developed and multiplied on it. The exact date when man walked on earth is likewise shrouded in mystery and thus far no convincing answer to this riddle has been presented by researchers. Whatever has been postulated in this regard is based on a chain of theories and suppositions and not on any conclusive and well-accepted facts.

If we consider this earth, we find that we do not know how old it is, nor do we have any method to determine its age with any certainty, and every opinion on this matter is no more than a conjecture, which does not shed much light on its past and its true nature. When historians commonly disagree about events that are just a few centuries old, what kind of theory can reliably explain an episode that occurred in the system of creation several million, or rather billions of years ago?

We do not even know when life and subsequently, man, first appeared on earth; what we do know for certain, however, is that God has provided an abundant variety of materials for the benefit and needs of every living thing (humans, animals and vegetation) without the least parsimoniousness.

Every creature and plant can draw sustenance and nutrients for its survival and development from the earth. Since the earth is limited in size, it follows that the food it can produce is also limited. These limitations seem to indicate that the earth would be unable to provide for the needs of all its inhabitants over a prolonged period of time.

This however, through an astonishingly complex and regulated system that governs this small planet – which has so many diverse and different aspects and is intricately linked to its store of resources – every living creature and plant receives its sustenance. And this has been the case from the obscure beginning of creation, and will continue till the end of time, while the resources are not exhausted or even diminished. This amazing miracle of creation is a fact that is undeniable and in this regard, the Qur’an declares that the earth has the capacity to support the entirety of its inhabitants and satisfy their various and diverse needs:

وَجَعَلْنَا لَكُمْ فِيهَا مَعَايِشَ وَمَن لَّسْتُمْ لَهُ بِرَازِقِينَ

And We have made in it means of subsistence for you and for him whom you cannot sustain.

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (15:19) 🍃

And so we see a constant and continuous process in the earth which progresses in association with a special system of controls on a pre-planned and guided course.

When man desired to build houses and the supplies he needed were bricks, stone and lime, God placed these simple materials at his disposal so that he could take steps to alleviate his basic needs and make a shelter for himself.

However, nowadays, due to urban overpopulation, especially as people move into the main townships, and due to the problems associated with overcrowding and the increased communication of people with one another, man even needs buildings with more than one hundred storeys. In His infinite wisdom and knowledge that encompasses every particle in the universe of existence, God endowed within the earth – many millions of years ago - the raw materials that would one day be used for construction (stone and clay and iron) in the shape of quarries and mines. He then inspired man to create and invent and made these materials accessible to him so that he may advance in the world by extracting these pre-prepared stores from the depths of the earth and utilizing them in providing for his needs.

The foregoing discussion described the adequacy of the earth’s resources in catering for the needs of mankind and his fellow creatures throughout its history and for as long as life-forms exist on it and wish to make use of its provisions.

The Qur’an also emphasises this very same point, and adds that the earth not only sustains every living being, but accommodates the dead as well. 115

Although man’s development and transformation will never evolve away from his fundamental humanness and the essence of his existence and constitution, nevertheless, in his material trappings, man has come a long way in the course of time, and this is evident across the world.

Death is the inescapable end of every living being that inhabits the earth and the earth itself is ever ready to welcome the remains of the dead in its embrace. Sooner or later, the bodies of humans go back to the earth, as do the carcasses of animals. Every variety of vegetation – from leaves to the trunks of trees – is likewise gradually assimilated into the earth’s stores.

Therefore the earth is at once the main support for human life and the source from which mankind can gather bounties, as well as the burial place for all living things; thus, the Qur’an states:

أَلَمْ نَجْعَلِ الْأَرْضَ كِفَاتًا {o} أَحْيَاء وَأَمْوَاتًا

Have We not made the earth to draw together to itself; the living and the dead.

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (77:25-26) 🍃

That which resonates with the principles of nature is purpose and the pursuit of perfection; indeed these are the distinct and well known properties that permeate creation and are the immediate and consecutive fruits of Divine planning. Therefore, imperfection and diminution – which are the outcomes of chaos and unwise planning – have no place or meaning in the system of existence.

Thus, when we contemplate the foundations of existence, we come to realize that it abounds with splendour, grandeur and greatness. The Qur’an states in this regard:

مَّا تَرَى فِي خَلْقِ الرَّحْمَنِ مِن تَفَاوُتٍ فَارْجِعِ الْبَصَرَ هَلْ تَرَى مِن فُطُورٍ

You will not see any incongruity in the creation of the Beneficent Lord; then look again, can you see any disorder?

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (67:3) 🍃

Behind the system of creation of the all-Merciful God, one will not find inadequacy and disorderliness; carefully look again and again, do you see any flaw? No!

Therefore, indifference towards, and ignorance of the various phenomena that are manifested in the world and of what goes on around mankind, has consequences that will form obstacles to the ultimate felicity of humanity.

✧༺♥༻∞ 🍃🌺🍃 ∞༺♥༻✧

🍃🕊🍃 Source 🍃🕊🍃

1. Have We not made the earth to draw

together to itself; the living and the

dead (al-Mursalat (77:25-26)

🍃🕊🍃 al-Islam.org 🍃🕊🍃

✧༺♥༻∞ 🍃🌺🍃 ∞༺♥༻✧

0 notes

loverandservantoftheahlulbayt · 1 year ago

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🍃🕊🍃 The Expansive Earth 🍃🕊🍃

وَالأَرْضَ فَرَشْنَاهَا فَنِعْمَ الْمَاهِدُونَ

And the earth, We have made it a wide extent; how well have We then spread (it) out.

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (51:47) 🍃

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (15:18-19) 🍃

أَلَمْ نَجْعَلِ الْأَرْضَ كِفَاتًا {o} أَحْيَاء وَأَمْوَاتًا

Have We not made the earth to draw together to itself; (prepared for) the living and the dead?

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (77:25-26) 🍃

🍃 Let us also cast a glance at the very distant past: 🍃

وَجَعَلْنَا لَكُمْ فِيهَا مَعَايِشَ وَمَن لَّسْتُمْ لَهُ بِرَازِقِينَ

And We have made in it means of subsistence for you and for him whom you cannot sustain.

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (15:19) 🍃

And so we see a constant and continuous process in the earth which progresses in association with a special system of controls on a pre-planned and guided course.

The Qur’an also emphasises this very same point, and adds that the earth not only sustains every living being, but accommodates the dead as well. 115

Therefore the earth is at once the main support for human life and the source from which mankind can gather bounties, as well as the burial place for all living things; thus, the Qur’an states:

أَلَمْ نَجْعَلِ الْأَرْضَ كِفَاتًا {o} أَحْيَاء وَأَمْوَاتًا

Have We not made the earth to draw together to itself; the living and the dead.

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (77:25-26) 🍃

Thus, when we contemplate the foundations of existence, we come to realize that it abounds with splendour, grandeur and greatness. The Qur’an states in this regard:

مَّا تَرَى فِي خَلْقِ الرَّحْمَنِ مِن تَفَاوُتٍ فَارْجِعِ الْبَصَرَ هَلْ تَرَى مِن فُطُورٍ

You will not see any incongruity in the creation of the Beneficent Lord; then look again, can you see any disorder?

🍃🕊🍃 Holy Quran 🍃🕊🍃

🍃 (67:3) 🍃

Behind the system of creation of the all-Merciful God, one will not find inadequacy and disorderliness; carefully look again and again, do you see any flaw? No!

✧༺♥༻∞ 🍃🌺🍃 ∞༺♥༻✧

🍃🕊🍃 Source 🍃🕊🍃

1. Have We not made the earth to draw

together to itself; the living and the

dead (al-Mursalat (77:25-26)

🍃🕊🍃 al-Islam.org 🍃🕊🍃

✧༺♥༻∞ 🍃🌺🍃 ∞༺♥༻✧

#ahlulbayt #islam and shia #imam hussain #imam mahdi #fatima #imam ali #prophet muhammad #ahlulbait #fatima zahra #imam husayn

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daysofourlivesrecaps · 2 years ago

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Thursday, 8 June 2023

We’re sweeping away the last vestiges of that stressful Colin/Talia thing today, so let’s get that out of the way first.

Talia has a nightmare that Colin has returned to rough her up some more.

Then Jada comes home and the two of them have a tearful conversation about what went down. Jada talks Talia into going to therapy and we can all thank God (probably literally on this show) that Marlena isn’t dead because she really is the only therapist in this entire town full of traumatized people.

Back at Wendy and Tripp’s place, Johnny still hasn’t shown up or called or even texted since he ghosted Wendy last night. So Tripp subtly reminds Wendy what he looks like without a shirt.

Wendy is still giving Johnny the benefit of the doubt, because after all, it can’t be that he just ran off with his ex again, right?

Meanwhile, in the town square, Johnny’s holding hands with his ex.

Okay, so they were at the police station all night answering questions about the whole Colin incident. But that still doesn’t explain why he didn’t tell Wendy any of this.

Then he moseys on over to the apartment where he finds Tripp making another meal for Wendy. (Tripp may be the only dude who can “make your girl dinner and breakfast” and still have it be kind of wholesome.)

Then Johnny and Wendy chat. And once again, Johnny gives the absolute bare minimum and Wend issues him yet another Last Chance from her seemingly bottomless bag of Last Chances. Like, is this kid blackmailing her, or…?

At the police station, Paulina lets herself in to that conference room where they keep suspects and harasses Colin.

And look, he completely deserves all of this and more. But I continue to be baffled by the fact that any member of the public has free access to any suspected perpetrator with no police supervision of any kind. I used to think it was an occasional oversight but at this point, the only explanation here is that it’s actual department policy.

Sloan intervenes with talk of “due process,” which everyone rolls their eyes at.

Colin claims to know where Abe is, which gets everyone’s attention.

Sloan chases them out of That One Room and he admits that he has absolutely no idea where Abe is. He just wants another opportunity to escape.

And somehow, impossibly, Sloan talks Colin out of it! Even she thinks this bastard needs to answer for some of the awful shit he did. And she’s his sister!

Then she leaves That One Room and retracts Colin’s obvious lie about Abe.

Abe, for his part, is still giving us some outstanding reactions to Nurse Kim Coles and her loopy nonsense.

She also won’t let him watch live TV, claiming it’s because she forgot to pay the cable bill. And we get this shot, which I originally rolled my eyes at, because the RCA cables are obviously connected. Turns out I didn’t recognize a coaxial cable (you know, a cable TV cable) because I haven’t used one in so long. But NBC and Peacock are owned by Comcast, so obviously they know what they’re talking about here. (I mean, we’ve been fighting them for literally a month to get a misbilling corrected, so let’s not give the too much credit.)

Then Nurse Kim Coles makes a cute meta-reference to a soap she enjoys watching.

And makes THE GREATEST META JOKE I’VE EVER SEEN about it.

Yeah, what kind of idiotic corporation pushes a nearly 60 year old show — one of only four soaps left on the air — exclusively to a streaming platform?! Could it possibly be the same idiotic corporation that expects us to pay $100 because they sent some techs out to fix our modem, which was broken and outdated? It sure can!

So she goes off to work and Abe puts the soap on.

We don’t get to see any of what he’s watching. But I’m holding out hope that we’ll get to see it tomorrow. (Actually I Googled it and we will and I cannot fucking wait.)

Talia arrives at the hospital for her first session with Marlena. (Yes, the therapist has an office at the hospital. No, I have no idea why this is.) There, she runs into Chanel, who once again tears into Talia with no regard for what she’s been through.

She does back off when she hears that Talia’s going to therapy though, which is something. I guess.

And Rafe, realizing that his only lead regarding the whereabouts of Mayor Abraham Carver is that nurse who never called him back, goes to her house and knocks on the door.

But I forgot to mention that she told Abe that he was in danger from a guy disguised as a cop (partially true! Sort of!) and he shouldn’t open the door to anyone! I mean, I hope he does open it eventually. He deserves to be back with his family. But not before we get to see some footage from Body and Soul.

#Days of Our Lives #DOOL #soap opera #Peacock #fuck Comcast though seriously

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anika-ann · 2 years ago

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Love on the Brain - part 5

Ch5: Harmony

Type: MCU x Criminal Minds crossover series

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 8500

Summary: You cannot sleep, your past haunting you as well as the horror-like scenarios of what this case could turn into. You figure you might as well do something useful; little do you know you’re not the only one still awake.

Series masterlist

Warnings: series includes criminal behaviour such as stalking or kidnapping; graphic violence, gun violence; (mentions of) death; allusions to dub-con; possible PTSD and flashbacks; sexual innuendos and foul language. Loads of fluff and teasing. I’m covering my bases here to make sure - probably sounds worse than it is. If you’re interested in specific warnings for individual chapters, let me know.

A/N: divider by @firefly-graphics; This one is pretty LONG, but it has plenty of fluff before we dive back into the investigation, so… yay? If you want to split it, the best moment to do that is after Jones leaves the conference room.

“Two people in love, alone, isolated from the world, that's beautiful.” ― Milan Kundera

Your huff of exasperation was quiet, but in the silence of the night, it bounced off of the walls and sounded like a scream for help.

Which was exactly what you felt like doing.

For the hundredth time, you rolled over to your other side, fluffed your pillow and tried to get comfortable in the bed. Vain and slow effort. Every movement felt heavy, your limbs as if having to work through thick layer of honey instead of air; you were exhausted. Physically and mentally drained.

But the sleep still wasn’t coming.

You tried meditating. You tried breathing into every inch of your body, forcing yourself to relax, but there were particular muscles that just wouldn’t give in: your brain and your heart.

They were racing each other, trying to best the other at the speed they were working with; your heart was thundering against your ribcage, shaking it with each beat, rushing at least 100 per minute. And that was when you tried to slow your breathing.

Your mind was a whole different competitor; it offered you a mess of thoughts, cutting through your brain sharp and quick, a perfectly precise sensory hell where reality was hardly distinguishable from a nightmare. And in between all your field experience, all your failures, all horror stories your mind could possibly come up with, starring Steve’s or Meyers’ dead eyes, were the words of your teammates, presenting you with a profile just ten minutes before you retreated to bed.

Like the worst bedtime story ever.

“Alright. Based on what we already know, it seems reasonable to build a profile we can later add to,” Hotch sighed as he eyed the digital clock informing you it was almost eleven.

Both teams were scattered around the room in various state of doziness some still sharp, some nearly sleeping as they stood.

“Agreed. We can narrow the search further later, but I feel that what we’ve got is already pretty solid,” Emily said, exchanging a wordless nod with Spencer and Hotch.

“Good. The unsub is likely a white female in her late twenties or thirties. We do have an approximate height and body type due to Stark’s findings as well. Her experience with staying hidden tell us that it is highly probably she is working for the Avengers Initiative or she was until very recently. She’s is intelligent, highly organized and extremely capable. Her results in the field will speak for themselves, but she is usually not praised for her excellent performance and might feel underappreciated at the workplace. She is of average looks, likely attractive, but only to a second glance.”

“She may appear mentally stable,” Spencer added when Hotch paused, taking over, “but we are likely to find a sealed juvie record or a minor offence from the past you have overlooked when recruiting her, because she was without incident for certain period of time when no major stressor occurred. In the past months, she would have received news that shook her world and made her fixate on Captain Rogers as her saviour, her idol. She would have plenty of time on her hands to be able to stalk him, which should help us eliminate a significant number of suspects.”

Peripherally, you saw Clint and Natasha nod to themselves, knowing it was something they would pay special attention to.

You shuddered when you realized how many women Reid was still talking about.

Emily continued.

“The fixation is of narcistic nature. She finds the women Steve deals with not adequate and there is a strong possibility that the crucial factor to that is that there are not of law enforcement. Recently, a secondary trigger made her reach out for the first time – or at least reach out successfully for the first time. Assumption would be that she is not to be a threat to Captain Rogers as of now, however we do need to bear in mind that she has stolen bullets specifically meant to incapacitate him, even kill him. When this kind of a stalker snaps and kills the object of their affection, it is when they feel betrayed by them. So far, she seems to be blaming the women he meets. Unfortunately, there is no telling when she turns against him; which is why we advise for Steve not to leave the premises and to always be accompanied by an Avenger or another highly trustworthy agent.”

Her eyes flickered to you, the briefest of smiles on her lips. You felt Spencer’s and Steve’s eyes on you as well, as if telling you the circle of those agents was very small if not consisting of you only.

“We’re going to regroup in the morning. Now, I suggest we all sleep on this and come back tomorrow with clear eyes,” Hotch suggested, earning several hums of agreement. “Goodnight, everyone.”

You had lingered in the room, bidding the BAU team goodnight longer than you should have as you made sure they had been shown their bedrooms before. It lead to Natasha being the one to walk Steve back to his quarters with only a whispered goodnight as they left the room.

Now, you regretted not checking personally that he was still unharmed; a ridiculous notion given the fact the Black Widow herself had been with him, yet a very real nag on your thoughts as you laid in one of the guest rooms, staring blankly ahead.

The memory of the profile presented haunted you, having sent your mind into overdrive as you tried to figure out whether you had encountered a person who’d fit the description at the A.I. The faces of recruits and agents seemed hazy, one image melting into another before you could grasp it, let alone remember a name.

You should have checked on Steve; like you should have checked on Kyle Meyers.

You had failed to keep your stupid promise over two years ago; now, you had made a promise to yourself and no one else. Only you were already breaking it. You needed to truly give everything to this case and you weren’t doing that. You should be looking at the photos from the stalker, millimetre by millimetre again, looking for the smallest detail that would have clued you about the unsub.

The unsub… what if the statistics were wrong and you were actually dealing with a male offender with a female pawn? What if the patience of the unsub had to do with a technician rather than an agent? Or a laboratory worker? Hell, Nazi doctors were said to nothing but meticulous-- and wasn’t it ironic you thought of the second world war in relation to its best-known hero.

A hero who needed saving and whom you were no help if you tossed and turned all night, feeling hot and cold at once, doing nothing.

“Oh, for fucks sake,” you whined as you threw away the covers, sitting up and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed so fast your head spun for a moment.

Once your eyes focused again, you flicked the nightstand lamp on, your gaze finding the outlines of the universal kit of clothes Tony always had in stock in the Tower guestrooms; including the pyjama set you were wearing now, consisting of shorts and a t-shirt.

Every piece of clothing – minus underwear – had the Avengers Initiative logo on it. And yet, for some reason, your t-shirt had a huge image of Captain America’s shield on it, the pyjama shorts peppered with tiny copies of it.

You didn’t have to guess whose doing that was; but you didn’t want to waste time examining Tony’s sense of humour.

You grabbed after the hoodie on top, slipping it on. It was a little big for you, but you didn’t mind. When you happened to borrow Steve’s hoodie – steal, Sparkles, it’s called stealing if you conveniently keep forgetting to give it back, he’d say – it tended to serve almost as a dress. Compared to that, this thing was almost form-fitting.

You went to get a cup of coffee – more for your heavy limbs than your already frantic brain – and headed to the conference room, only to hesitate by the doorway.

Of course he was still there; and somehow, the heavy feeling in your stomached eased with the revelation.

Hunched over the paper files – because paper was so much better than all this electronics stuff and several researches showed that people are more likely to learn better from printed or written text – finger sliding down each page as not to miss a line with how quickly he was reading, Spencer was going through the stacks of paper piled up so high it almost hid him from view.

Now he was giving everything to this case; like he always did.

Smiling fondly, you walked through the automatic door, having him look up with a startle. You weren’t sure if it was the soft sound or the aroma of freshly brewed coffee that got his attention: Spencer was like a bloodhound when it came to caffeine.

“Hey,” he blurted out, straightening in his chair as he eased the cross-legged position.

“Hey Spence. You onto something?”

He only shook his head when you beckoned to the pile of files he had clearly already went through.

You felt a pang of a disappointment, but then again, that was Spencer; the fact that he hadn’t found anything was exactly what was bugging him, fuelling his determination to crack the mystery of it.

“Not really. I just want to go through it again, try different angles just to make sure. Want to check we didn’t miss anything so far.”

You nodded to yourself, planting the cup on the table as you sat down two seats from him.

“Okay. Then let me help,” you offered, raising one corner of your lips in a self-deprecating smile when he frowned at you. “I know I’m not as fast of a reader and that I don’t have an eidetic memory, but…”

“It’s not that,” he muttered in protest, eyes flickering between your tired face and your cup of a killer coffee. “You should be asleep.”

You slowly arched your left eyebrow, a wordless callout to the hypocrite he was being when saying that. Lips pressed together, he smiled, guilty.

“So should you.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I’m not the one under higher emotional distress,” he pointed out.

Despite his kind tone, the remark only pissed you off. You crossed your arms crossing on your chest defensively, chin lifting.

Yeah, you noticed you were under emotional distress; you were irritable, restless and the past mistakes you’d hate to repeat were screaming in your face. There was no need to remind you of that.

Your emotional distress was the sole reason you were here in the first place. Not that you would admit that out loud; not that you had to, because Spencer had probably read you the second you had entered. But you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him you knew that either.

“Whatever. Not like I can sleep.”

“So… you thought another cup of coffee would help your insomnia. Obviously,” he stated matter-of-factly, lips twitching in good-natured humour.

Bastard.

It was hard to be brisk with him when he was like this – or ever. You uncrossed your arms, relaxing into your seat.

“You wanna say that again, Spence? Call me out on the amount of caffeine I consume?” you challenged him back, eyeing the three empty cups of humanity’s most common drug he had no doubt downed earlier.

“Coffee helps me think faster,” he explained with a shrug.

A snort escaped you, making him frown in offence. “Yeah, that’s the point, genius.”

“I know! Did you know that caffeine blocks adenosine receptors in human brain?” he blurted out, eyes lighting up with excitement – the unmistakable signature excitement that appeared when he was about to- “Adenosine and caffeine have very similar chemical structure, so caffeine binds to the adenosine receptor. That prevents the normal effect of adenosine, which is to supress psychological activity, to occur. As a result, caffeine has a stimulating effect on the nerve cells activity.”

-babble. Spencer’s expression clearly hadn’t changed, still the same whenever he was about to go on about fascinating, yet not necessarily momentarily useful facts.

You bit your cheek, hiding the fond smile at his endearing habit – and sometimes a little annoying one, like now when you came here to get some work done –, his hands vaguely demonstrating his point.

“Of course, the brain is not the only organ affected, adenosine receptors are also present in-“

“Spencer! Spence-“ you interrupted him with a chuckle, causing him to stop mid-sentence and grimace as he realized his mind wandered off, “tell me what I can do to help.”

“…sorry.”

“It’s fine. Incidentally, I did know that. I remember you told me before,” you explained gently, bringing a pleased smile that warmed your heart on his face.

“Well, it’s nice to see someone is paying attention…” he hummed.

Your lips parted, heart fluttering in compassion; the whole team, including you, took Spencer’s amazing brain and his help for granted, not showing appreciation for his vast knowledge – and him –frequently enough. You had made it your mission before to tell him more often that he was well-loved and important, but you all forgot sometimes when you caught up in the web of your own problems.

He reminded you of Steve in that aspect; someone who carried the weight of the world, not asking much in return, wonderful in so many ways… but had only few of their personal or professional qualities recognized and openly appreciated.

And yet, each team would fight tooth and nail to protect the man in question; because just because one didn’t say so on daily basis, he could still love someone. You knew that both Spencer and Steve were very much loved – no one just told them as often as they should.

You willed your lips to curl up as you reached out and ruffled Spencer’s already messy hair, having him push your hand away half-heartedly.

“We’re always listening, Spence,” you assured him, your smile widening for a second before your gaze turned back to the files. “Now tell me what I can do.”

Instead of looking at the files, his eyes lingered on you, carefully examining your face. He tilted his head to side, brows furrowing; a sign of the wheels of his brain turning like mad.

“You’re not the not the only one who pays attention,” he said lowly. “I’m not saying this to anger you, but speaking strictly protocol, you are a person of interest with an undeniable bias, considerable one at that. You shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t be involved in the investigation.”

All traces of good humour left you at once, blood running cold. Your gut on the other hand, started to heat up dangerously.

He couldn’t be serious.

He couldn’t mean that bullshit.

Whenever anyone of the team was involved in a shitstorm, all of you were there, bias or no bias, working twice as hard.

No, Reid was just pulling your leg inappropriately; he didn’t mean that. Especially not when it came to you. Of all people in the bureau, he was the one closest to you and vice versa. Yes, you had left, but you would never think that changed things so much.

But somehow, Spencer’s face showed no hint of teasing; his features remained soft and worried.

“If you’re trying not to piss me off, Spence, you’re failing spectacularly. Just FYI,” you informed him, voice emotionless.

“I know. Sorry. I just… I know this isn’t the place where you want or need to be right now.”

The way your eyebrows jump nearly to your hairline was only outdone by how much your blood pressure skyrocketed.

What the fuck?

Oh no, this was--- this was not an elaborate joke. This was an attack. A baseless damn attack on your person and you did not expect it from Reid of all people.

It stung.

The arms crossing on your chest might as well be more effective than Steve’s vibranium shield with how impenetrable your offences grew.

Who the hell did Reid thought he was?

He knew, huh?

“Oh? Please, Doctor Reid, tell me about what I want or need,” you snarked, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. “You’re the genius, you clearly know it better than myself.”

Until today, you had thought no one could outdo Tony’s ignorance of other people’s feelings unless they were a psychopathic unsub. But here was Spencer, having the audacity to ignore your biting tone, responding to your ‘request’ in kind, perfectly relaxed.

“I’m confident that I do, actually-“

You scoffed, looking away.

Your blood was nearly reaching the boiling point. Okay, maybe if this was how Reid handled building the timeline with Steve earlier, there was no wonder Steve had needed to work off some steam.

Seemingly unbothered by your obvious ire, Reid’s voice firm and so annoyingly condescending and smart-ass.

“Right now, the most probable cause of your inability to sleep are the symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder, an unfortunate result of our line of work. Insomnia. Unreasonably elevated heartbeat, inability to hold onto one thought. Irritability, both mental and physical, a sensory overload even. Recurrent nagging memories concerning the case which ended badly and which you feel a misplaced yet overwhelming guilt about. Negative thoughts about self that are once again, not based on any actual faults, or at least blown to proportion. Haunting images, flashbacks, from both reality and worst dreams looking the same, creating new realities. Feel free to stop me whenever I get something wrong.”

You just kept staring to the side in silence, ignoring how fucking on point he was.

God-damn him!

And of course, he wasn’t done yet.

“What you need right now, is evidence that Steve is still okay, which I assume you lack because you decided to sleep separately. And it is not enough for you to ask the artificial intelligence, because the same security system that runs this Tower has been breached before, when the bullets were stolen. So yes…” Reid said softly, pausing as if to ask you to look him in the eye for his next words so he could get his point across.

Unwillingly, vision a little blurry with welled-up tears – because damnit it was scary to be so seen so thoroughly, to be cut open just so the wound could heal – you glanced at him.

All you found was an annoyingly kind and compassionate expression on his face. There was no hint of him being condescending – never had been and deep down, you knew that the moment he opened his mouth.

“…I do think I know better and I think that what you want and need is to go and be with him, Bean.”

You sniffled, pouting despite the minute tremble to your lips.

This was one of the downsides of working at the behavioural analysis unit; any of your friends could analyse your behaviour. It sucked.

All things Spencer said were true – and the itch to go see Steve could only be scratched if you actually went. Which wouldn’t help the case, but it sure as hell would help you to sleep better.

“God, I hate profilers,” you spitted out, glaring murderously at the box of tissues Spencer moved your direction – because you didn’t have the heart to glare at him.

“No, you don’t.”

“I guess. Whatever,” you mumbled, blowing your nose and blinking rapidly to get rid of the traitorous tears.

Taking a deep breath, you peered at your companion who was patiently waiting for you to get your shit together; sweet summer child had no idea it would take you much more than one outburst which he witnessed and was the victim of to do so.

“I’m sorry I sassed you.”

Reid chuckled, one eyebrow raised. “No, you aren’t. We both know sass is your life sustenance.”

“Oh, like you’re the one to talk right now, Dr. Sassbag,” you shot back, only making him grin.

God, why did he still have to be such loveable dork?

“I hear it takes one to know one,” he hummed with shrug.

And it did.

And perhaps you didn’t know each other as well as you used to, but you still knew enough. Bonds like this didn’t tear completely just because you tested their strength over two years of barely any contact. Memories made in the stressful situations you had faces everyday didn’t disappear overnight.

People who were on the same boat didn’t forget their comrades easily. And being among the youngest at the BAU, you, Reid and JJ had been exactly that, finding yourself in a similar position; even if not entirely.

JJ was the communication liaison and for a good reason; while young, she radiated confidence and could fool almost anyone with the naïve pretty blond act, only to reveal her expertise when it counted. Being the most gorgeous face around was the perfect touch to her skillset.

Reid was the rightful prodigy; brilliant beyond belief, always curious, making up for his lack of field experience by knowing just about everything that had ever happened in our universe, his eidetic memory retaining just about every fact known to man. With the aura of a nerd, he too could take many by surprise with how he could get stuff done under intense terror.

And then there was you. Where JJ used her confidence and motherly nature and Reid relied on his intelligence to make up for their age, you had compassion, empathy, determination and sass. It was less than your fellow your teammates, but it seemed to work well enough.

You had admired both Reid and JJ, but Reid’s initial awkwardness and the looks of a lost puppy at times had made it easier for you to befriend him – to have a crush on him even. He was cute, tall – your weakness –, highly intelligent and despite his awkwardness, he was incredibly compassionate and kind. Who wouldn’t dream of being by his side, right?

That wasn’t a rhetorical question. There was an answer to it: JJ.

JJ wouldn’t, despite Reid being so painfully and obviously into her.

There had been times when you had been jealous of her for it, foolishly pining after the certified genius. But as soon as you accepted that it simply wouldn’t happen and got over your ridiculous crush on him, things got simpler. Your bonds gained strength with every case and when Reid got drugged and kidnapped by an unsub, your priorities significantly changed. Helping him recover and stay clean of addiction to Dilaudid later on had brought you and JJ together, grudges forgotten – even if you never grew as close with her as with Spence.

But JJ wasn’t here now; Reid was. And you were eternally grateful to have your one of your best friends for support.

Yet, the irony of your former crush sending you to see a man you were crushing on these days, was not lost on you. The only difference was that you were well-aware of the fact that Steve was much more than an ordinary crush – because the feelings you had for Steve were not going anywhere and they apparently wouldn’t, not any time soon. If ever.

“You’re miles away, Bean,” Reid noted gently, lips still curled up teasingly. “I missed you, really. And I know you could help. But you should go.”

There was no malice in his words; he truly wasn’t trying to get rid of you. He simply knew you a little too well.

With a sigh, you eyed the untouched coffee.

“You can--- leave that here,” he added, scratching his throat awkwardly, face all innocent.

“Spence, that coffee is darker than my soul and more bitter than a gold-digger who got nothing from a divorce. Trust me, you don’t want to drink that.”

Ha grimaced, motioning for you to pour that abomination of a coffee down the drain. Usually, both of you liked your coffee with more sugar than caffeine; even if you had nothing on his diabetes-inducing preferences.

Reaching for the cup, you smiled at him once more.

“I missed you too, Spence. Thank you... and please, don’t stay too late. Goodnight.”

“Night, Bean,” he whispered back.

It did not escape your attention that he did not make any promises that he would do so; smart boy. And a workaholic. You had a type, apparently.

It was only when you reached the door when you remember something you wanted to tell him ever since he had arrived; besides the fact you missed him.

“Oh and Spence?” you called out lowly, causing him to look up from the file he was already on again.

“Yeah?”

“I really dig your new haircut.”

He ran his fingers through his hair self-consciously – resulting in his hair now being an utter and utterly adorable mess – a slight blush giving away his bashfulness.

“Thanks.”

You couldn’t but grin, heart much lighter than when you walked through the door only a few minutes ago.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Reaching Steve’s door, fist raised to knock, it only occurred to you that it was, in fact, past half past two in the morning.

Reid had made a valid point of you refusing to simply ask Jarvis whether Steve was okay – you did need to see it and preferably feel Steve was still in one piece. The problem was, it was past half past two in the morning.

Any normal person would be asleep. Just because your intrusive thoughts kept you awake and Reid was a chronic workaholic, it didn’t mean Steve hadn’t been taken into the blissful land of Zzzz the moment his head hit the pillow. And it definitely wasn’t your place to wake him just because your anxiety wouldn’t leave you alone.

You had a half-mind just to turn on your heel, but since you were already here… you guessed you might as well check.

“Jarvis?” you called out lowly, head tipped back to the ceiling. “Is Captain Rogers asleep?”

The artificial male voice responded in an instant.

“Captain Rogers’ biofeedback suggests that he is awake, Agent Jones.”

“Oh.”

Well, that was unexpected. It should be upsetting, making you worry; and perhaps somewhere in the back of your mind, it did. But your heart danced in your chest hopefully, fingers already twitching for a hug, for physical reassurance; and comfort.

“Uhm, J, and is he at his quar-“

The door swung open before your knuckles could as much as graze it, revealing a tall broad figure illuminated softly by a bedside lamp, giving it almost a celestial aura.

“-ters,” you finished quietly, smiling apologetically as you let your hand fall. “Hi.”

The corridor shed some light on his outfit, familiar and unfamiliar at once; a simple white t-shirt with the A.I. insignia which was a size too small for him and a pair of grey sweats, his feet bare. The most familiar thing about him was the gentle concerned expression on his face; and the way your heart sped up at the sight on him, even if hundred times calmer than before.

“Hey Sparkles. What’s wrong?”

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

Nothing was wrong. Everything was wrong.

As you saw him in the flesh, perfectly fine besides the fact he wasn’t sleeping at this hour, you felt like an idiot for disturbing his peace. You tended to spend a lot of time together, yes, but you imagined that after today, after you were so damn overbearing and emotionally on edge, he would welcome a refuge from you as well. From every reminder of the situation he was in.

But here you were, at almost three in the morning, knocking on his door, because you decided to make your fears his problem-

A warm hand enveloped yours, tugging lightly without a single word; your feet followed on autopilot as he took a few steps back and pulled you to his chest, kicking the door shut. Strong arms enveloped you as if it was the most natural thing in the world and in a blink of an eye, you got exactly what you came for.

The soothing thump-thump of his heart against your temple, tentative fingers caressing your back. You squeezed your eyes shut at the gentle caress, breathing in Steve’s natural scent mixed with the Tower’s detergent, selfishly letting it wash over you.

“GG, I’m sorry-“

“No.”

You swallowed against the lump of your throat, ignoring the flutter in your belly at the strangely kind authoritative tone in a single syllable.

Slightly pushing against him to have him release you – and you already missed his warmth, still feeling its echo since you stood barely a step from him – you looked up, noting one corner of his lips raised in a lopsided smile.

“Jarvis didn’t wake you when I arrived, or did he?”

Steve shook his head, nodding towards his nightstand where a copy of a thick book rested, open, pages down.

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought reading would help, but…” he licked his lips as he glanced above your head, shoulders rising and falling with his sigh. “My head is too loud tonight.”

You smiled faintly at his admission, even if your heart ached. You hadn’t been the first to tell Steve about anxiety or PTSD, but given that in his original century, it wasn’t exactly fashionable to talk about mental health, especially in men, and not many bothered to talk about it with him later on, you introduced him to so much more. You had made a deal with him, promising you’d be there for him if it hit him; and he had stolen your heart that day, already halfway his, when he vowed to do the same for you.

He invited you in despite – or maybe because of – the fact he was struggling too; it seemed both his and your head had the same problem.

“Must be going around,” you hummed empathetically. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “So am I…. the power of Pixar it is?”

A chuckle escaped you at his suggestion as you glanced around for the first time; you realized you had never been to ‘his’ room in the Tower.

It was bigger than your guest room, but not much more lived in, the fact he was wearing the A.I. clothes only proving it. A non-descript bed, a nightstand, a couch, a closet, a bookshelf with barely five books. A single framed photo from a movie night with the Avengers he had brought you to, all seven of you squeezed into the frame. A private bathroom, you guessed, a tiny kitchen area with a microwave, a kettle and a small pantry. And straight opposite to the bed, a TV on the wall.

The implication was that you’d have to settle on the bed, together, to watch the movie, but the space was large enough and it was just a small step forward from frequently sitting next to each other on the couch at his apartment.

Your heart raced minutely, but it wasn’t like you had a myriad of options.

“Pixar sounds great, actually. You just might be a genius, GG,” you said, meeting his gaze, something strange flashing in his irises.

“Good. You pick. Tea?”

“Please.”

You didn’t tell him you had just emptied your coffee down the drain; he didn’t need to know that your first thought was to get more awake for the sake of a case, for his sake, really. Or maybe it was just for yours and your conscience.

You watched him shuffle around as he pulled two cups, each with a different teabag and your heart soared when you spied the box with your favourite tea brand, its aroma now spreading through the room.

“Sit down and pick your movie, Sparkles. I’ve got this,” he threw over his shoulder, nodding towards the bed as if it wasn’t his bed you were about to climb at.

You didn’t argue and you tried not to show your hesitation either. There was no need to make the awkwardness more apparent; and really, there was nothing wrong with this.

Just two friends watching a movie.

On a bed of one of them whom the other was crushing on. Hopelessly in love with them more like. Nothing out of ordinary.

Except you could feel the sheets still warm where Steve had laid on them earlier as you settled against the headboard and your stomach made a small somersault.

Perfectly normal. Right.

You barely held back your snort as you reached for the remote, the system already offering you endless number of options. Absentmindedly, you browsed the animated films, hoping to find one that wouldn’t make you cry; or at least one that wouldn’t make you cry while triggering your issues further.

Two cups landed on the nightstand, earning Steve a barely audible thank you.

“Of course. What did you pick?”

You eyed the selection again, making a decision with a sigh.

“Well, it looks like tonight it’s gonna be… Ratatouille. Have you seen it yet?”

Steve frowned, adorably confused. “The food?”

“That too. It’s… about a rat. In Paris. He wants to be a chef.”

“…okay.”

You chuckled as he shook his head, diving into the pantry again.

“As absurd as it sounds, it’s about how no dream is too big if you believe in yourself and have friends who believe in you too. About how each of us has their own strengths and when we combine them and help each other, something amazing can come out.”

Steve smiled almost boyishly at that, seating himself at the edge of the bed and handing you a bowl.

“I can get behind that,” he hummed.

His words fell on deaf ears as you noticed the colourful contents of the bowl, lips parting with a breathless oh, mouth dry all of sudden.

Jelly beans.

Crap.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Steve stiffening – as if he did something wrong.

And he did.

You felt like crying.

Not only Steve had your favourite tea stocked, but he also made sure to have your favourite sweets. Whenever you’d decide to spend the night in the Tower for the first time, no matter the reason, he had both of these things in reach; in his room. And yes, he had a bit of a sweet tooth, but this was distinctively your comfort food and you were apparently very obvious in needing comfort now.

The lump in your throat made it difficult to swallow, brain stunned by the sheer kindness he was displaying after you knocked on his door at this hour. He appeared as if it was entirely natural to him to have his space accommodating to you as well as to him.

“Something wrong?” he questioned lowly, effectively making you want to burst into tears and bury your face in his chest.

Yes. There was something wrong.

You loved him so much it physically hurt you. The rush of affection towards your gentle giant was overwhelming and you were on the verge of spontaneous combustion, feeling so full of… everything.

It left you with two options of dealing with the assault of feelings: to snuggle him and kiss him senseless or to joke about it.

Like the grown-up you were, you decided to go with the latter.

“No, just… wow,” you feigned a scandalized expression. “My Captain is offering me sugar in the middle of a night. I must look really pathetic.”

For what felt at least like a minute, Steve stared, expression blank. You thought you might have broken him for whichever reason – and you already had an apology on the tip of your tongue when he finally unfroze, shaking his head at your antics.

“You do not look pathetic,” he said decisively, motioning for you to make space for him. You did, his arm brushing yours as you tried to get comfortable. “Keep sassing me, Sparkles, see what happens.”

A little tickle in your belly told you that you would very much like to see what would happen; but this was nor time nor the place.

“Just take your jelly beans and play the movie, you minx.”

“Why thank you...” you hummed, smirking minutely and earning a sigh as he observed you fondly despite your bratiness.

Despite your everything.

You grew serious as you laid your head on his bicep, sighing as well.

“Seriously, GG. Thank you,” you whispered, tentatively reaching out and squeezing his hand. “I—I feel stupid for bothering you, but I just… I guess I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That we’re okay.”

He interlaced you fingers and when he spoke, his voice was gentle as ever, intimate.

“We’re okay, Sparkles. And you’re never bothering me.”

Right. Right, right, right. Cool. It was only about 50 seconds since you last wanted to profess your love to him.

He was making it really difficult tonight; and yet, snuggled to his side, hand in his, favourite snack in your free hand, being with him seemed as easy as breathing. Nothing but an autonomic function of your body. Essential for life. And yet, the I love you laid heavy on your chest, suffocating you and begging you to just let it out.

“Careful, GG… I might take it as a challenge.”

Your improvised pillow shook a little as he laughed and tickled your palm, making you retreat your hand swiftly.

“I don’t doubt it.”

You finally clicked play, but as the opening credits rolled on the screen, Steve playfully nudged you side.

“I forgot to tell you. I like your pyjama shorts,” he hummed, clearly highly amused.

Without a single thought, you threw a jelly bean on him, resulting in his overly offended expression and protest.

“Hey! No food fights in my bed!”

Oh there were things you’d love to do on his bed other than food fights.

Starting with the man currently grinning so wide it was impossible not want to taste that smile. And as far as Steve’s brands went, you had no qualms about where you’d wear it, especially if he’d give you a very personal one that would have nothing to do with his superhero persona.

You cleared your throat, quickly chasing away the thought of his lips sucking a mark to the column of your neck.

You had it bad tonight; you blamed the emotional and physical fatigue and Steve being even more golden than usual. While you were both in his bed.

“Tony’s doing, I assume,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “At least he picked a superhero I’m a fan of. With his sense of humour, I guess I should be glad I don’t have Ironman helmets all over my ass.”

Steve sputtered an incomprehensible noise by your side, sending you into a fit of giggles.

One would think he got used to your sometimes unfiltered mouth – especially at this hour – but apparently not. Steve had no qualms about cursing when the situation called for it; still, when a curse or a word like ‘ass’ left your lips unexpectedly, his reactions could be hilarious.

And endearing.

You knew this night would burn into your brain, adding to the stack of memories fuelling your love for him, but at the moment, you didn’t care how much you’d long for this to happen every night.

You turned to the screen, holding out your snacks to share, settling against your best friend, consequences be damned. After all, he was so warm, a perfect mix of hard and soft, the periodical rises and falls of his chest so soothing…

You drifted off by the time Remy the rat had a heart-to-heart with Linguini on the bank of the river Seine; fingers slipping from the bowl, a ghost of a tender touch on the crown of your head being the last thing you felt.

Waking up in a pleasant warmth, you took a deep breath and snuggled into the covers further as they carried a faint scent of something familiar and soothing. In the back of your mind, you knew exactly where you were; because this wasn’t the first time you’d wake up as rested as this.

Most of the time you woke up well-rested, comfortable and with a feeling of profound safety, was when you were laid in Steve’s bed.

And as per usual – and regretfully – the covers were the only thing hugging you.

With a sigh, you rolled over, squinting against the faint morning light coming through the curtains, gaze skimming over the room to find the culprit who once again gave up his bed in order not to overstep any boundaries he thought you had; boundaries there were unsafe to cross if you wanted to keep your heart at bay.

Even if it was probably too late for it.

He was curled up on the couch, a massive body of a supersoldier barely fitting there, a thin comforter and a fluffed-up pillow in the crook of his arm. The sunlight illuminated a few strands of his hair, drawing a hallo; the last touch to the work of art he was.

Seeing Steve sleeping was a strange and beautiful privilege, one that practically equalled seeing him laugh heartily, or more so, witnessing him being vulnerable.

Captain America, technically a centenarian, a veteran of the second World War. On surface, when on top of chain of command, always confident and trustworthy, not only because of his instincts, but also because of his experience.

These were all true; but many forgot that Steve Rogers was, in fact, barely 30 years old. When relaxed, welcomed into inviting arms of a peaceful slumber, he appeared young as he was. He carried himself a unique blend of a young and old soul, spirit-crushing experience no man should have, let alone in their twenties, as many soldiers had – and then some. Yet, despite a fatigue that could wear him down to a bone even on a day when he wouldn’t move a single muscle, he stuck to ideals and principles, his moral compass showing almost exclusively true north.

People would make fun of it, calling him naïve; but if they bothered to truly look – and if Steve let them – they would see that Steve held onto ideals of what the world could be, ideals of what he wished it to be and was willing to fight for. He was too aware of what the world truly was.

And most ironically, the same people who would call him naïve, would call him an old man in the next sentence because of some of his old-fashioned ways; Tony Stark taking the leading position in this crowd. For what it was worth, you liked to think Steve was incredibly well-adapted; and what remained was a swoon-worthy old-school charm very few people stood a chance against. You would know.

The bottom line was, Steve was both – an idealist and a realist, a young soul and an old one. When you could see him laugh, it was easy to forget he still found himself at war; because at once, he could appear at peace, much like he did now.

And seeing the human side of him, the beauty and the hurt behind the golden image presented, tugged at your heartstrings at any given time of the day.

In your reverie, you almost missed how his eyelashes started fluttering, having you swiftly close your eyes as not to be caught staring like a creep. Taking a deep breath, you tried your best to relax, feigning sleep.

The weary chuckle told you Steve did not fall for your lame pretence for as much as a second.

“You’re a terrible actress, Sparkles. Good morning,” he wished you heartily, voice hoarse.

You were not inclined to agree – you were playing him just fine, pretending you weren’t in love with him and the cute freckles peppering his arm, conveniently having slipped from under the comforter earlier for you to admire.

You opened one eye and peeked at him, smiling when you found him watching you with amusement painting his sleepy face.

“Uh-huh. Morning, GG.”

His smile widened at the nickname. “You could have woken me up.”

With a sigh, you slowly sat up, rubbing sleep off your eyes.

“I just woke up myself…” you said simply, shrugging. “And I wanted to let you catch some more sleep. Especially since you were a gentleman and took the couch again. I didn’t mean to kick you out of your bed.”

A powerful yawn had him cover his mouth, instantly infecting you. You cracked your neck as he ran his hand through his hair and stretched his arms above his head, showing off the impressive muscles of his as if he knew you had just been thinking about how angels must have kissed him all over his biceps, leaving freckles in their wake. You did not blame them one bit for doing so.

“Well, you should know by now that if the chances are that it’s either you or me taking the bed, I’ll leave it to you,” he reminded you, as if you could ever forget the times he carried you to bed when you fell asleep on his couch watching movies.

As if.

“Could have just shared.”

The words were out before you could think twice, heat instantly rising to your face. Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, way to go, Sparkles-

“Would you prefer that?” he asked, voice raspy with sleep still, the light of his eyes unfamiliarly dim as his gaze skimmed over you, head to toe, still partly wrapped in the covers.

The covers on his bed.

It seemed as if he was as acutely aware of it as you were. The way he looked at you; inquiring and yet, yet, almost as if he wanted to hear one particular answer… it had your heart race, pulse thundering in your ears, heat pooling in your stomach.

He looked at you as if he wanted you to say yes; but even if you had barely woken up and the suggestion of sharing a bed with him slipped out, you had enough control not to cross the fine line that had been so blurred at this point it was almost non-existent.

At least you thought so.

“Maybe.”

Steve nearly lost his mind when the word fell from your lips, tempting as ever; more than ever.

Maybe, you said.

It was not a no, but a teasing yes almost; no mockery, but perhaps a challenge.

Oh Steve did not need to be challenged in such way; yesterday night was harder than others. It wasn’t the first time you had fallen asleep on him while watching a movie and it hadn’t been the first time it was hard not to throw caution to the wind a let himself drift off too; but something about last night made it nearly impossible to leave your side.

Perhaps it was that you fell asleep on him in his bed, unlike at his apartment in the city; maybe it was that damn pyjama Steve was sure Tony was having a good laugh over; maybe it was the fiery determination with which you had jumped into protecting Steve; maybe it was seeing you all business-like in a different field; perhaps it was the presence of another man who could take you away from him; perhaps it was because you hadn’t called him a captain, but your captain, the two simple words tickling his lower abdomen with such intensity he was taken aback by it.

Perhaps it was all of the above; but whatever the reason, Steve had never felt the urge to hold you all night so acutely.

Yes, he acted as a gentleman, leaving you to sleep on the bed; but it cost him long long minutes of staring at you, tossing and turning and unable to get comfortable as he lied on the couch, the longing to climb back to your side and pull you into his embrace, nose buried in your hair, unbearable.

Eventually, he fell asleep facing you and watching your form on his bed – and damn, did you look like you belonged exactly there – dreaming about your soft sighs and how your breaths would lightly tickle his collarbone if he was there with you.

And now… you said maybe. But your eyes, the way you opened yourself to him, the smallest of smile in one corner of your lips, it all whispered yes to him.

Why wasn’t he there with you? When your gaze was boring into his? When it flickered to his mouth?

You couldn’t tear your gaze from him; not from the intense blue of his eyes, not from the tempting pink lips surrounded by the faintest stubble, not from the perfect case of bed hair you wanted to run your fingers through.

Your words betrayed you; a maybe, which might as well scream yes. You were skimming a dangerous territory again – and this time, it was almost intentional. What was wrong with you?

Steve.

Steve was wrong with you. He was lethal to your common sense if not to your sanity; and something about the way he watched you, warmth and heat, told you he’d pride himself in taking every single piece of your wits, every last remnant of coherent thought in exchange of giving you so much-

“Captain Rogers?”

You nearly jumped of out your skin at the mechanical voice from the ceiling, black spots minutely clouding your vision with the speed your heart was suddenly sprinted, inhaling rapidly. Eyes closed, hand gripping at your chest as if to hold your poor heart inside, you released the air from your lungs slowly, head still spinning with the fright.

Jesus Christ. You hated the fucking artificial intelligence.

“Yes, Jarvis?” Steve called out, voice somewhat choked – probably on an edge of a cardiac arrest himself since he was snapped from an intense starring contest that you were sure screamed unresolved sexual tension.

It certainly did on your part.

What would happen if Jarvis didn’t spoke up, breaking the spell?

“Apologies. Both your vitals indicated you were awake, and not occupied. I merely wanted to point out that everyone else on the stalker case is on their way to the conference room or already in.”

It was like the coldest shower, all heat instantly gone. You threw away the covers, switching back into investigative mode, the change so sudden it left you feeling empty. But it didn’t matter now.

No matter how you felt about Steve, no matter how it almost, almost looked he just might feel about you, this was no time nor the place.

The reason you were in Steve’s room was because you had a case. You had come here, because were scared for him – for his life, even. Right now, both your and his emotions were all over the place: he was vulnerable, you were vulnerable. It was the worst possible timing to test boundaries of your friendship.

And you could not afford to be distracted.

You had a job to do; and maybe, maybe¸ when it was done, you could try to gather enough courage to explore whatever it was in Steve’s eyes when he asked whether you’d prefer to sharing his bed.

Speaking of which: if Jarvis, the little busybody he was, told anyone that you had spent the night in Steve’s bed, you were going to beat every last byte out of him.

→ Next part

Series masterlist // Steve Rogers masterlist // Misc masterlist

These two idiots and their romance really are the definition of two steps forward, three steps back, huh? Feel free to yell at me🤭

Thank you for reading and feedback, it’s the best fuel💗

In other news, it’s my second week of school and I’m already DONE, so sorry the updates might get slower 🥺

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers #captain america #criminal minds #mcu x criminal minds #criminal minds x mcu #spencer reid #bau agent reader #former bau agent reader #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #anika ann #love on the brain

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paradisetemporarilymisplaced · 4 years ago

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So I was being a basic bitch the other day and listening to my true crime podcasts when it occurred to me just how suspicious Nile’s “death” would look to everyone not in the Guard, leading me to a train of thought that, 2200 words later, absolutely got away from me but I can’t let go so I’m inflicting it on all of you!

To set the stage, we know the movie takes place over approximately a week. Here’s what happens to Nile from the military’s point of view:

She dies is very seriously injured

She heals without a scratch

Just before she’s supposed to be shipped out to Germany, she vanishes, leaving two men concussed (and presumably reporting being knocked out by a woman with short hair wearing civilian clothes)

She goes AWOL for several days

They get word from the CIA that she is to be reported killed in action (details unclear)

So, at the beginning of this very weird week, the USMC has to tell Nile’s family of her death critical injury. What her family was told depends on how long she was dead – a Google search tells me that family will be notified in person within 8 hours of a soldier’s death, but we don’t know how long her first death lasted. For an injury, however, they’d get a phone call to notify them and the unit would arrange for them to visit as soon as the soldier is transferred out of a combat zone. Like I remember when I was in high school, a guy from my church who was a Marine was really seriously injured in a helicopter crash in Iraq and from what I could tell, his parents were told immediately and were flown out to Germany to see him, so it stands to reason that Nile’s family would have been informed relatively quickly after her throat was slashed, one way or another.

And then, she goes AWOL. Her family would be notified while the USMC tried to figure out where she went, not least because the military would want to know if she’s contacted them. (And it’s possible that her family may have been on the way to Germany to see her since we know that’s where she was supposed to go!) So for several days:

Nile’s mom and brother have no idea where she is

They know she was seriously injured and most certainly should not have been moving around on her own

They can’t get a hold of her

The military can’t tell them anything

And the next thing they know for sure is that she was “killed in action.” After being injured and vanishing into thin air. And they presumably cannot produce her body or any concrete evidence of her death. In any case, something sketchy is going on, so they’re like. SMELLS LIKE A MILITARY COVERUP.

In a surprise to probably no one, there is a well-documented legacy of mysterious US military deaths, particularly of women of color (TW for sexual assault in these links). The cases of LaVena Johnson and Vanessa Guillenin particular have made national news because of their families’ persistence in seeking justice. Likewise, Nile is a Black woman, and her mom and brother are most certainly hypercognizant of (a) state violence against Black people and (b) these high-profile cases of suspicious military deaths. So her family are seriously side-eyeing the situation, knowing that (a) the military has a serious incentive (and a documented history) of covering up things that make them look bad and (b) nothing about Nile’s disappearance and supposed death are adding up.

And Andy’s right. Nile does come from warriors. And you know who else does? Her brother.

Don’t get me wrong. Nile’s mom would absolutely not back down. She’d know something was up and want to get to the bottom of it. But based on what I know about Gen X parents (mine), they’re not the most technologically savvy. Like they can use the internet, but they didn’t grow up with it the way we young millennials and Gen Z did. So Nile’s brother takes the lead. And what do zillennials do best?

Social media.

Nile’s brother starts going hard on any site he can, trying to get the word out to see if anyone knows what happened to his sister. He starts a Reddit thread. He starts a Facebook group. He reaches out to the media and true crime bloggers and podcasters à la Sarah Turney, getting loud and being a general nuisance in hopes of getting some answers. He gets his friends and Nile’s friends involved. Maybe eventually Dizzy, Jay, and others from Nile’s unit hear about it and reach out, telling him what they saw and how weird it all was. He’s drumming up interest, and soon “Nile Freeman” becomes a household name (at least among the true crime fans).

Copley is, of course, trying his best, but at this point there is just so much that it’s impossible for him to scrub everything. Sure, he can erase new footage of Nile and the Guard, but what can he do about Reddit threads and podcast episodes that are speculating something weird has happened? Maybe he could hack the sites and shut those things down, but honestly, that’s the last thing he’d want to do, because that only adds weight to the theory that Nile’s disappearance is a military coverup. So eventually he has to tell Andy what’s going on.

Andy, obviously, does not take the news well. However, she is also completely computer illiterate, because that’s Booker’s job and he’s the only one who ever bothered to learn what the internet is in any meaningful way. (She probably calls Booker for advice, and for the record, I think Booker would have no qualms about shutting down conspiracy threads, tinhats be damned, but Copley is too concerned about the consequences. He’s ex-CIA for crying out loud, he knows how it’ll look if they scrub every mention of Nile’s name from the internet.) Maybe she confers with Joe and Nicky but, let’s be honest, they’d be equally unhelpful. So at this point, she knows they have to bring in Nile.

But the thing about Nile is that she, too, knows how to use the internet (duh). Aside from her being a young millennial/digital native, we know from the cave scene where she’s giving Booker suggestions on how to track Copley that she clearly is even more computer savvy than the average person. And for that reason she almost definitely took over the day-to-day tech stuff after Booker’s exile. So I think it would be foolish to expect her to be unaware of what’s happening. She’s not contacting her family or posting on the message boards or anything, but she knows what’s up. So Copley and the team probably sit her down to “break the news,” but we know the girl does not have a poker face (see: literally shooting herself in the foot and not being able to play it cool whatsoever) and cracks immediately, telling them she’s seen everything about her case – she’s not interacting with any of it, she certainly didn’t instigate anything, but she knows. (And she is so goddamn proud of her brother.)

At this point, I’d like to pause and consider Nile’s role in the overall narrative of this movie. She’s set up as a foil to Andy, obviously, but she’s also a foil to Booker. Booker, who, like Andy, is a serious pessimist, but who, unlike Andy, still has very fresh memories and trauma associated with being the new kid, which have destroyed him. In his mind (and Andy’s), if Nile communicates with her family, she’ll become just like him in a century or two – bitter, alone, and stuck with her grief and memories of watching her family die and knowing they died resenting her. It’s a small sample size, but this is the only experience they have to go off of.

But it doesn’t have to be like that.

There’s been a lot of discussion of TOG being a fundamentally queer movie – a group of people brought together because of something inherent about themselves that is different, that must be hidden, that causes others to hate, fear, and reject them. Booker’s backstory is the archetypal traumatic “coming out” story – his family learns who he is, hate him for it, and attempt to cast him out of their lives. He’s stuck with his trauma, his pain, his loss, and it consumes him.

But what if Nile’s family would be the opposite? What if her “coming out” to them as immortal is met with acceptance, love, celebration? What if her family is just overjoyed to have her back, and they don’t care what the circumstances are? I'm reminded of this incredible post from @shitty-old-guard-deaths a while back, where Nile’s mother hits Booker with a frying pan because “my baby let me believe she was dead for FIVE YEARS based on your bad advice???” (which may or may not have inspired this whole tangent). Nile takes the advice of someone who did the same thing she wants to do because she doesn’t want to risk her family’s rejection. She wants the good memories with her family and is afraid that showing them her true self will bring her unbearable pain, forever replacing those memories. But, with high risk comes high reward.

Anyway. Nile and the team are trying to come up with a plan for how to handle this whole thing, but she’s not really participating because she’s too afraid to hope. Until finally, quickly, so she doesn’t lose her nerve, she suggests she reach out to them, knowing that, realistically, that’s the only solution before things snowball even further out of control. The team is shocked, but realize that she has a point. They decide that Copley should actually be the first point of contact, posing as a US government official to talk with them and test the waters.

So Copley goes to Nile’s family’s house to talk with her mom and brother. They’re probably distrustful and apprehensive, but nonetheless secretly ecstatic that their work has paid off. They talk and review all of the information that they’ve collected, including testimonials from the people on Nile’s base and recent sightings (along with photos) of Nile (with the same three people) over the last few years that people have sent them but they haven’t posted publicly. At this point, Copley’s like, yeah this is about to blow up, we gotta put our cards on the table. He convinces them to come with him to some safe house/black site/whatever he can get that is technologically impenetrable (I’m picturing them in like, an interrogation room at a police station kind of deal), takes their phones, locks the doors, and brings in Nile.

What follows is the most delightful reunion scene of all time, bringing Joe, Nicky, and even Andy to tears as they watch and listen from outside the room. With Copley’s help, Nile tells her mom and brother about her immortality and what’s been going on since she died (within reason, of course), and they are thrilled. They don’t understand why (because no one does) but they don’t question it and they see it as a gift from God – she’s been resurrected, she will live, and she has a purpose. Her mother and brother are so happy to see her again and are willing to agree with pretty much anything to stay in her life as long as they can.

So. They set up some complicated agreement (they bring in the other three for support/intimidation as needed) setting the terms of their relationship. They swear Nile’s family to secrecy, maybe bringing up the lab to show how high the stakes are, and they readily agree. They come up with some cover story for Nile’s brother to share on the message boards (maybe that the government has opened an investigation but because it’s an open case he has to shut it all down? Tells people to direct their tips somewhere else? Something to that effect). There’s still speculation, of course, but without Nile’s brother at the helm providing the energy, the hype dies down as news stories are wont to do without any movement. And Nile’s family goes to work for the team. The experience has taught them that Copley can’t possibly do everything himself, especially when it comes to social media, so Nile’s brother takes the lead on the day-to-day tracking/social media while Copley and her mom focus on finding jobs and scrubbing their traces afterward.

So there you have it: Nile gets to integrate her biological family into her found family and spend the rest of their lives with them as it should be, Copley gets some badly needed help managing the reality of social media, the team finally has a positive narrative surrounding outsiders Knowing About Them AND about interacting with people from their previous life, and the audience gets the happy ending to this very lovely and very queer story to counteract the pain associated with Booker’s family.

Plus, you know, I’m a sucker for both a good government conspiracy theory and for Nile getting every good thing she deserves.

#the old guard #tog #tog fanfiction #tog meta #immortal family #nile freeman #mine #damn look at me contributing to a fandom! that’s new #pls reblog if you like this my self esteem could really use it #I just love nile so much and I’m being the nile-centric content I want to see in the world #it is just genuinely nuts to think abt how this situation would be perceived by anyone outside the narrative #she just mysteriously heals from a fatal injury and then VANISHES!!! this should be national fuckin news #also I do think there’s a major hole in the story when you think abt social media #like the only time it’s even hinted at is right at the very beginning when Andy erases that girl’s selfie #and the concept of fuckin Reddit is not even brought up despite Copley’s stalker board being analog Reddit #there’s just a lot of places one could go with this which is very much what we got here #1k

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maleyanderecafe · 2 years ago

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i saw a manhwa on bakaupdates by the name of “4th grade”, i read about 3 chapters of the raws and i can kinda sense that the little guy on the cover might be yandere, but i cant find any translations of it online.

despite that, i wanna ask, do you think hes yandere based off of the raws?

This one is kind of weird. It's not translated, so through the power of google translate I had to do a quick go through the three or so chapters I was able to read. It's really weird I can tell you that, and it's hard to tell, but it does seem to have some semblance of a yandere... though disturbing since it's more or less a 4th grade student to a teacher.

The story starts out with the teacher looking at a baby (presumably a family members) and cooing over it. The relatives around her ask if she will ever have children, to which she denies, stating she wants to be a rich auntie instead. She seems to have moved into a new apartment with her boyfriend, and her boyfriend seems to be ready to marry her whenever she sees comfortable. She has also stopped taking her pills lately. We see that she is a teacher to a 4th grade classroom filled with students. One of her classmates likes to tease the teacher while the other Woobin, seems to have a very cold dead stare to him. As they all leave, the teacher talks to one of the students who had wet themselves in class. She tells him that if they need to go to tell the teacher next time to go. She gets startled when Woobin walks in. She asks Woobin if he likes her, and he agrees, much to her surprise. The next day, Woobin wets himself in class with an unblinking expression. The teacher brings Woobin to the bathroom and encounters another teacher (I think it might be her boyfriend) while there. Woobin changes his pants and gets teased during class. The teacher tells them to cut it off and apologize, to which the student does. While the teacher is having class, Woobin asks the guy who teased him if he was alone with the teacher. He says yes and gets punched ruthlessly in the face by Woobin. The teacher is forced to take both of them outside as a punishment and even asks why Woobin did that, considering that he is such a smart boy. He states that he wants the teacher to like him with his undead eyes. The teacher starts to feel really uncomfortable, talking to others about how weird he is, but the others brush it off as just having a crush or going through puberty. Even during the teachers conference, she cannot get the image of him punching the other student out of her mind. There is a bit of a hint that these incidents were simply the beginning of something horrible and that it caused her to possibly take her medication.

Woobin is a really weird kid. The story mentions time and time again that he's really smart, but he has a very... unchanging expression. Even when he wets himself in the middle of class, it seems as if nothing is happening and when he punches the other student, he has a pretty intense look on his face. I'm not sure why Woobin is so obsessed with this teacher (or at least seemingly), though the teacher does mention that he started to slowly "learn" from the other students, which is he wets himself in the middle of class. My guess is that he really does like the teacher (for whatever reason) and is trying to do things that will more or less gain her attention, whether it be peeing his pants during class or punching a kid that was alone with the teacher at some point.

I'm not sure if or when this will be translated, but that's what I can glean from it at this time.

#male yandere #yandere #yandere boy #recommendations #asks #4th grade

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punemy-spotted · 4 years ago

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The Price You Pay Chapter 4: Breach

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader, Senator!Andy Barber x Reader

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements, Dub-Con, Dark!Fic, Abuse of Legal System, Murder, Character Death (minor, possibly major), Love Triangle, Political AU, Mafia AU, Workplace Sexual Harassment, Abuse Mentions, Possessive/Obsessive Characters, Other Chapter-Specific Warnings May Apply, Possible Dead Dove: Would Not Eat

Chapter Warnings: Angst; Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse; Betrayal; Lies; F!Reader’s Age Kind of Finalized; Specific Reference to Age; Blackmail; Crying; Slight Panic Attack; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Chapter Summary: Even the truth can’t set you free.

Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3

Notes: And we’re back to pain. My outline got derailed for this chapter so bear with me, sometimes revelations need to be hammered in. No smut here for now but I also needed to get this arc finished so I can start on the next.

Also I know I keep jumping forward — I swear I will write about their relationship growing.

Thank you all for reading and commenting! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, even if you’re yelling at me.

Not beta-read, these sins belong to me and me alone.

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

The air is…

Shifted.

Shifted enough that the whole office notices, avoids yours, avoids the glare Steve Rogers fires at them the moment they approach the door, avoids your eye. Shifted enough that you miss the before, the pressure of his presence demanding your attention, the smugness in his endless eyes you denied looking at.

Shifted.

Counsel.

What?

We need to talk.

Is that not what you’ve been avoiding doing all morning, Captain?

You swear you can hear his molar crack in the dead silence, but your eyes never flit upwards from the contract you’re poring through, red pen in hand.

Focus.

It’s a job, this life, and this is a part of it, the presence of him, the pressure of him. It’s a job, and he calls on you to do your duty and you do but no one has ever asked you to be kind and no one has ever asked you to smile as you bear it so you don’t.

It’s a job, this life, and this is a part of it.

You. Are a part of it.

Counsel.

It’s a bark, an order, an annoyance and you shouldn’t let his stubborn fury be the thing that derails you. This is your domain. Your palace of glass and steel, remember? New York buzzes behind you and you surge forward on the tightrope of his affections, teetering dangerously close to his temper and always, always daring him to pull you down.

Try it again.

Fine, with a sigh and a setting down of your papers, You’re closer to the door.

And in your defense, he is, seated on your couch as stiff as a board, scrolling through his phone on occasion and — previously, at least — deftly ignoring your inquiries about the status of his office and why he needs to spend his morning in yours.

He fixes you with a look you do not name and proceeds to stand anyways. The door clicks shut and stays that way — both of you have learned.

Do you still talk to him?

Excuse me?

The Senator. Are. You. Still. In. Contact.

He spreads out every word like an accusation and every word turns you a little colder. You’ve been avoiding this. Avoiding him, distracted by work, the both of you but now you are back in each other’s orbits and this…

This cannot be avoided.

I haven’t spoken to him beyond to tell him I returned home safe that night.

Not. For lack of wanting.

If he’s hurt you, just say the words.

There’s nothing you can say.

It’s been a week. Almost two.

He’s been kind, stayed away, kept his distance but that… that will not last. Only as long as whatever conference has his office busy and then you know what comes next and then you know what comes after.

The bruising may have faded but the memories remain, after all.

They always do.

Steve Rogers is not Andy Barber, is not warm-eyed concern or a soft-voiced invitation, is not trying to save you from the horrors you cannot name, is not to be trusted but Andy Barber is also not Steve Rogers, is not exactly the man you expect, is not the answer to your dilemma, is not the devil you know and you…

Are still testing your wings.

Get up.

Get up and walk away from the prison of your desk, see how far you can get before you shackle yourself to your own ambition. Get. Up.

Blue eyes watch you like he’s calculating the next angle of his attack and technically you know that’s exactly the case but let’s pretend a moment he doesn’t have his claws out and you aren’t trapped in a cage for him to batter.

Delude yourself into the power you think you have, and keep him there, across the room where he cannot show you how effortlessly he strips you of it and how deeply you enjoy it.

Don’t.

You may be in bed with the mob but you are not asleep to his crimes and this is just an interim, a plan, a moment.

You stood me up, Counsel. After we made our deal.

It was a week ago and you ever-so-kindly taught me my lesson — don’t wince as you speak, don’t let him know you remember, don’t let him think you actually learned from his hand, hard against your body.

He hasn’t since, after all.

He says your name.

He says your name and your blood runs cold and you freeze by the coffee machine you keep in your office and you turn. Senator Barber is a friend.

A dangerous friend. I won’t even ask if you know his stance on —

On the Syndicate? Oh I know. I know who he shakes hands with.

Then you know why I’m asking.

Are you loyal?

Are you?

Is it loyalty that keeps you here?

Don’t let your hands shake when you look at him. Don’t let him see the slide of your eyes, the glance outside, the wondering how long before your window would be a portal and that tightrope would snap.

You are not a fool.

This. Is not loyalty.

I keep to my ethical duties, Captain.

You’re sleeping with your boss.

Oh that one makes you laugh, sharp and cruel and you do look at him then, fix your eyes onto him and raise an eyebrow and watch. All that power, all that smugness, wrapped up in one body and how does he contain it, do you know?

I believe the actual term is serving at your pleasure.

It’s back to the game, the dance, the ruse, the steps you take around each other, the blades he digs into your chest the reminders he gives you you are a whore you are a whore you are a whore and you lift your chin up, dare him to look at the bruises his lips leave on your skin and ask him in the silence and what will you do about it.

You could hate him. You do, technically. You hate that you could love him in the early hours of the morning, when his eyes seek you out and soften at the reminder you’re still here. You hate that his invasive presence in your office is a shield as much as it is a virus, a comfort in the silence and you hate most of all that the way he looks at you with that open desire women might normally have just dreamed was possible makes you want to return it.

You hate that he is dangerous. That he has bound you to him like this, chained you to the idea of his warmth and that there is a sick sort of safety in the binding.

You hate that he looks at you now with something like hope, with something like obsession, with something like vulnerability and you hate that it strips you of that cold armor as effortlessly as his hands strip you of your resistance.

And he could hate you too, in the whispers he leaves on your shoulders when he thinks you’re asleep. He could hate that you are soft, that you are sweet on his tongue that you…

Are his.

Could hate that he has thought of nothing else but the very theory of your betrayal and you know none of these things but his eyes are not so inscrutable as he thinks and so—

He twists the knife.

I talked to your Judge, by the way.

You did what?

You heard me. Interesting conversation.

Excuse me?

You really sold yourself to me for a lover’s spat, Counsel? I thought you were better than that — woman of the law and all.

A lover’s spat? That’s what he told you?

Just what would you call it, if not that?

He’s daring you, back to somewhere between smug and angry, as if disappointed you made him waste his time and all you can do is feel your heart sinking, feel yourself back in that place again, the decade-long sting of control over your body, the painful reminder of the girl you once were.

Where is he?

Did you think I’d clean up your dirty laundry for you? I’m not a breakup counselor, and you nee—

You left him alive!? The panic in your voice is so palpable it stops him in his tracks all over again, suspicious and surprised and you step back to reach for something — steady yourself steady yourself steady yourself you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe.

I’m not killing your ex-boyfriend without a good reas—

I was nineteen!

The world tilts, shifts, your knees are buckling, that’s tears in your eyes and you.

Are that girl again.

Too small, too scared, too naive to know better, too easy to mold and break and manipulate and you promised you’d never be her again, you promised you’d get her justice and you promised it wouldn’t be like this over and over again, promised he wouldn’t sink his fangs into you a third time.

What? He sounds smaller. Or is it faraway? You are too busy trying to stand, trying to still the shaking of your hands, the cold chill in your veins, too busy feeling your knees surrendering, too busy sliding to the floor and staring blankly into your memory.

Counsel. What. Did. You. Say. He repeats himself, and then he’s crouching before you, holding your chin in his hand and when did you start having tears on your cheeks for him to wipe away?

I was nineteen, you repeat, blank and broken, not seeing his brow furrow, not seeing the regret flash over his expression, I didn’t want it. I never wanted it.

What are you saying, sweetness? How dare he sound so soft? How dare he sound like he actually cares, when he’s the reason you’re here, on this floor, barely resisting your breakdown yet again?

You know better.

I was nineteen, a third time, I needed a job, something to give me experience, and he — he used me. That was my experience.

He’s starting to understand, but it doesn’t matter to you, not when you’re staring too far into the past, into a sneering face and cruel hands.

(I can ruin you or I can help you, Intern, so you make your choice. You need me.)

It never stops. Not after the first time — but you know that.

But you know that. That’s your knife, the one you twist into his chest and the realization sinks in heavy as an anchor, the thing he’s done.

The thing he’s done to you.

So why wait until now?

I would have waited forever.

You hid the letter. Hid it well enough even he wouldn’t have found it rifling through your things. Hid the threat in those typewritten words and the casual signature swept across the stationary, unaffected.

Men like him never face consequences. Only you, only the women they make use of, the ones they turn into commodities for their enjoyment. Who would care if you’d made it public, if you showed the world the kind of man he was — he was appointed for life, he was friends with the Governor, he was powerful and you were never going to be strong enough.

(You wouldn’t want anyone in the District Attorney’s office knowing just the sorts of things you’re willing to do to get your way. I can still help you be an exceptional lawyer, Intern.)

What are you? Ambition and drive and skill but what does it all mean when it can be reduced to plaything and pet project and whore.

I helped him get appointed. He helped me get into law school. Introduced me to… To Andy Barber, who calls you Sunshine and watches out for you and comes to New York despite having no power in the state just to see you again because he worries, because he cares.

You pay.

And sometimes that payment bounces back.

You pay and you pay and you pay and you struggle but what is the culmination of your strife is it the sight of you finally broken on the floor, is it the moment he’s been waiting for, dragged off your pedestal why couldn’t he have left well enough alone didn’t he know the horse was for your protection and not his pride?

No.

They never do.

They never do, do they, always so wrapped up in themselves and even now he kneels in front of you and wipes your tears but he has no words to say to atone for what he’s done and you know he can never.

I need you to leave.

The words come out without your control.

You know what you are. You are fury made flesh and you will not be manipulated again, not by the pressure of his hands on your face, not by the way he almost hugs you, he lied he lied he lied he lied.

Sweetness…

No. You don’t get to call me that. Not anymore.

You could have tolerated it. You could have accepted it you could have let yourself become the prize he took, owned his defeat by defeating you, you might even have enjoyed it but no.

No.

I held up my end of the bargain.

#steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #andy barber x reader #mob!au #political!au #dark!fic #steve rogers smut #andy barber smut #dark!steve rogers #angst #series #mob!steve rogers x reader #i really am gonna die here

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jaimebluesq · 2 years ago

Text

WIP Wednesday - 10/05

A little something from a longer fic I'm writing - the scene turned out really well so I thought I'd share it. Post-canon, NHS owning the Jianghu :D (This was SO satisfying to write, ngl) WWX's pov

~~~

“Why are we even arguing?” Sect Leader Huang shouted, quieting most of the noise. “We all know there are only two possible candidates.”

“You're wrong,” Sect Leader Yao countered. “There is absolutely no reason a minor sect leader cannot be Chief Cultivator!”

Sect Leader Huang glared at Sect Leader Yao, then looked to the rest of the men and women in the hall. “Is there even a single person in here who would vote for Yao-zongzhu?” Sect Leader Yao's bluster began to fade as not a single person spoke up in his defence – in fact, he looked rather offended when Sect Leader Ouyang avoided his gaze. “Only the larger sects have the history, the resources, and the connections to give legitimacy to the role, and among them, Jin-zongzhu is far too young and inexperienced, and Lan-zongzhu is in seclusion. That leaves us with Jiang-zongzhu and Nie-zongzhu, whether you like it or not.”

There was more murmuring throughout the room, though it was halted by a loud cough coming from the head of the Nie contingent. Nie Huaisang stood up and flicked his fan open, using it to cool himself as he faced Sect Leader Huang. “I believe I can make this even simpler for the leaders of the Jianghu,” he said in a serious tone that few in the room had likely ever heard from the 'Headshaker'. “Even should you decide to vote for me, I cannot possibly accept.”

“But why?” Sect Leader Yao looked confused that anyone would reject such a prestigious position, and he was not the only one.

Nie Huaisang's fan paused and he took in a deep breath before closing it once again. “The reason is actually something I had planned to announce at the end of the conference, though I suppose there is no better time than the present. I cannot be Chief Cultivator because in two months' time, I am abdicating my position as Nie-zongzhu and handing it down to my Head Disciple, Nie Zuilong.”

For a single moment, the room was so silent that Wei Wuxian could have heard the dropping of a pin – then it was suddenly filled with people voicing their shock. At first, it looked like the many comments were falling upon deaf ears as Nie Huaisang made no reaction, but then Wei Wuxian heard someone shouting out, What would Nie Mingjue think about this?

Wei Wuxian's eyes went straight to Nie Huaisang in time to watch his jaw clench, then suddenly his fan was thrown to the floor, the dark metal banging against the polished wood of Lotus Pier's main hall and drawing the attention of every pair of eyes in the room.

“What would my brother think?” Nie Huaisang echoed – and if looks could kill, the unknown disciple who had asked the question would be on his way to his next life. “My brother has no opinion because he isn't here. He's dead, locked in a tomb with the very man who murdered him. If you want to go to Yunping and open his coffin to ask his opinion, then by all means, do so.”

“Now be fair, Nie-zongzhu,” Sect Leader Ouyang said condescendingly. “The comment was perhaps a little out of line, but your answer doesn't become a proper sect leader.” Behind him, his son shrank away, looking like he would much rather be sitting with the Lan or Jin delegations.

Wei Wuxian thought back to the first time he'd met with Nie Huaisang after being returned and thinking how sad it was that his old friend had grown so weak and helpless, and he remembered the way the man had passed out in the treasure room beneath Koi Tower – he could see how the other sect leaders would feel themselves better than someone like the Headshaker. But he also remembered Jin Guangyao's final words and his own suspicions about just how much Nie Huaisang may have been involved in his downfall. At his side, Lan Wangji tensed as if getting ready to involve himself – Wei Wuxian placed a hand on his husband's arm and shook his head.

He wanted to see where this would go – he had a feeling it was going to be quite entertaining, and possibly cathartic. He couldn't help but notice at the head of the hall, Jiang Cheng was keeping out of it as well, also looking like he was curious about how this argument would go.

Nie Huaisang's lips curved into a smile and Sect Leader Ouyang relaxed – likely because, unlike Wei Wuxian, he hadn't noticed that the smile did not reach Nie Huaisang's eyes. “Why thank you, Ouyang-zongzhu, for telling me how I should and should not comport myself. I'll surely take advice from a man who is incapable of telling when he has bored the rest of the conference attendees to death.”

There were a few chuckles from around the room, but Nie Huaisang was not laughing.

Wei Wuxian suddenly wished he had some peanuts to eat while watching the show.

“Though if you would take some advice from this humble one,” Nie Huaisang continued, and to Wei Wuxian, his voiced sounded menacing. “I would do a better job locking the door when having those 'private' meetings with Yao-zongzhu - I fear your wife 'overheard' your last meeting, and may now have the wrong impression about your relationship with him – that is why she chose not to accompany you today, is it not?”

Whispers spread throughout the room. Sect Leader Yao let out a forced laugh. “Ah, how amusing Nie-zongzhu, really. Now perhaps we can ignore such ridiculous fabrications and get back to business.”

“Ridiculous,” Nie Huaisang echoed, his eyes narrowing and looking remarkably like his brother.

Something was placed on the table in front of Wei Wuxian; he looked down to see a small bag of peanuts. He looked up at Lan Wangji and grinned, blowing him a kiss in thanks, then began cracking open the first nut.

“Ridiculous.” Oh, Nie Huaisang now sounded just this side of unhinged, and Wei Wuxian was loving it. “Let me tell you what's ridiculous: the pile of trade offers that landed on my desk in the wake of Liangfang-zun's death. After ten years of thinking the only reason you couldn't take advantage of my unsuitability as sect leader was that I had his and Zewu-Jun's support and aid, you were all suddenly interested in sending the most insulting offers now that neither of them are here to act as my support. All of you! With certain notable exceptions,” he added with nods to Jiang Cheng, Jin Ling, and Lan Wangji.

The only other sound in the room was the cracking of Wei Wuxian's peanut shell.

“Not that none of you tried to get to me when they weren't around,” Nie Huaisang continued, beginning to walk down the room so he could look from one sect leader to another. “Oh, you did try, and every now and then I'd let you think you got one over on me and go cry to San-ge that I thought I'd messed something up, because every time I wanted to remind him about just what sort of position he had put me in!”

There was a small sound from behind Wei Wuxian; he glanced back and saw Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi watching raptly, with the former's hand clapped to the latter's mouth to keep him from making any noise. He grabbed a few peanuts and dropped them on their tables to share.

“What fucking irony that in ten years of being unable to sleep at night, of being constantly paranoid and terrified that he was going to find out I knew what he did to my brother,” there were gasps from the crowd, “ten years of hating him... and I still like and respect him more than almost every single one of you! How does it feel,” Nie Huaisang paused before Sect Leaders Yao and Ouyang, “to know the son of a whore you all derided and turned on the moment it was convenient, that he was better than the lot of you put together!”

The various sect leaders in the crowd looked insulted, but none of them dared speak. Wei Wuxian, quite frankly, thought they could use a good dressing down.

“I didn't want this, any of this,” Nie Huaisang continued with a wave of his hand, once again pacing along the hall. “And you dare to even suggest making me Chief Cultivator?! What would my brother think? He would think the same as I do, that the only reason you would want me in the position would be because you think I'm easily manipulated without anyone else to watch out for me.”

Wei Wuxian saw Jiang Cheng lift a hand to rub at his lower face and wondered if he was the only one who'd noticed the smirk being hidden behind that hand.

“And perhaps there might have been a time I would have allowed you to think that and gone along with it, and used your ignorance against you once I was elected... but I'm so fucking tired, and I want out.” Nie Huaisang's shoulders dropped as if he was running out of steam. “I've given up so much to try and make Da-ge proud, to not let our sect be destroyed or absorbed by another because I owed him that much. You have no idea what I've let go of or put on hold because I couldn't risk watching the things I love be destroyed. None of you have any right to ask more of me. I'm done, I've had enough, and in two months' time, there will be another Nie to deal with all of your bullshit.”

Nie Huaisang stopped his pacing next to the fan he had thrown, picking it up and cradling it between his hands. He turned and faced the head of the room, lowering into a formal bow to Jiang Cheng. “My deepest apologies, Jiang-zongzhu, for the disruption. No disrespect was intended to our host – you have always been one of the few to be just and honest in your dealings with Qinghe Nie.”

“No offence was taken,” Jiang Cheng replied simply. “I think the Jianghu can do with a little more blunt honesty.”

“Thank you.” Nie Huaisang set his shoulders back. “Now, I'm afraid I'm feeling a little under the weather and will leave the conference to decide as it will. I will leave all votes to my Head Disciple, who will act on my behalf.”

Nie Huaisang made a perfect, graceful turn and strode down the hall, leaving a room full of angry and embarrassed sect leaders in his wake.

#nie huaisang #the untamed #wip wednesday #wip excerpt

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scuttle-buttle · 3 years ago

Text

Chapter 11

WC: 2077

Rated: E

Chapter Tags: full on angst, discussions of emotional trauma, mild depictions of blood/gore, mentions of self h*rm & su*cide, mentions of child abuse, discussions of physical disabilities, institutionalization, some dialogue & plot canon to TV show, hurt/comfort

🧠

The rest of the conference went by much like the first day did. Both you and Laszlo bought a few books for your collections. An ease had settled over your conversations with the help of Sara and John's presence; you spoke more freely with each other. You tell yourself it is not because he's going soft on you or vice versa, but rather that you have found yourself in this imaginary bubble where you happen to get on well. It's inevitable that it will pop once you’re back at school and Laszlo will revert back to his usual callous state.

Laszlo. It still felt odd to think of him like that, rather than by his title. You couldn't lie, it gave you a sort of thrill. Even in your dreams you had only called him by his honorific. Thankfully you didn't have another dream after Friday. You couldn't escape the feeling that you'd said something incriminating in front of the man in question. So you chose to pretend it didn't happen.

Monday morning came and you headed to the train station. Once again he had secured a private cabin for the journey. This time you came prepared with a book since you had yet to replace your broken phone.

"Thank you again for inviting me to this, I really enjoyed myself. It was really nice of the department to foot my travel expenses, the hotel was really fancy. I may have helped myself to a mini-bottle or two," you joked.

"There is no need to worry about the department's finances; they were not involved."

You pause. He paid for you? Laszlo did say he would take care of the arrangements; but the four-star hotel, the private compartment train tickets, the admission to the conference, and every meal? Shit, that must have been a fortune, hundreds of dollars at least.

You don't know what to say, so you settle for an awkward "oh." A moment passes before you add "I appreciate that, um, I can pay you back. Might take some time but I can."

The professor is flippant in his reply. "There is no need, it was well spent for the research and knowledge acquired." He opens his book signaling the conversation is over.

You lick your lips. Fine then, I'll just consider it payment for emotional suffering and damages of the last eight weeks.

The first few hours of the journey were spent reading one of the new books you picked up at the convention. Occasionally you would peek over the pages at the professor. He was engrossed in his own selection; sometimes he would pause to write down a thought.

Around the seventh hour of your journey you had given up on reading anymore in favor of looking at the fields outside. The silence was comforting.

Laszlo had trouble concentrating on the book in his hand. He saw you as a conundrum. One minute you could be sociable and teasing with your comments, then next you were biting at his throat with your quick wit and fierce ideals. He decides that he wants to know what made you into who you are today. Now is as good a time as any.

His eyes on you cause a tingle up your spine but you ignore it. Laszlo breaks the silence; "may I ask a personal question?"

"You just did," you answer, still peering out of the large window. He huffed once, amused. At his following silence you face him. You raise your eyebrows to signal him to go on with his question. Curiosity grows at the thought of what he intends to ask.

"Twice now you have made implications of a traumatic past," he begins.

Bubble popped.

Interrupting, you snark "is this the part where you psychoanalyze me, doc? Because trust me, I've been through enough of that." You pick at the lint on your jeans.

Laszlo tries to choose his words more carefully the next time he speaks. "What I mean to say is, the first afternoon in the classroom where you defended that student you implied you had been witness to a trauma. You then displayed signs of anger and embarrassment before leaving prematurely. Yesterday you mentioned having entered a psychiatric facility. As an alienist I can't help but find myself curious about your experiences."

You slide your eyes to meet his from across the cabin. Your face is devoid of any emotion. "We all have our demons. Even you can't argue with that."

Your jaw clenches. Everyone had warned you. They all said he would try to worm his way into your head to figure you out. All the reviews, the gossip, everything. It was a big fat 'I told you so'. You give a pitiful laugh at the situation. "You know, everyone told me that you would pull this stunt."

He seems confused by your statement. "And what is that?"

"That you'd get inside my head and try to figure me all out or whatever. You already know I googled you beforehand, what everyone says about your methods. By now I assume you've done a little research yourself. I promise you there is nothing exciting here," you scoff and point to yourself.

"You would be correct in your assumption." You chew at your cheek as he starts. "I do know some of what happened in your past. Yet I also know that society likes to dilute the truth into something either more palatable, more entertaining, for people to consume greedily. What I want to know is what you have faced. How you have not allowed the experience to overcome you so much so that your humanity is erased like the characters I lecture on."

Eyes closing of their own volition you are thrown back in time to that night so many years ago. You didn't talk about it anymore. Bitsy knew of course, but that was the extent.

Laszlo waits. He knows this is likely to push you over the edge if your history with him means anything. Quite frankly, anyone would be tossed to their limit at his interrogation had they gone through what you had. John always told him that he needed to work on his bedside manner; that he had a habit of coming on too strong in his pursuit of learning the intricacies of the human mind. But your earlier comment about being sent to a so-called 'nuthouse' rubbed him the wrong way. It left a bad taste in his mouth. He needed to know. He needed to understand.

Laszlo can imagine the reprimand that he would receive from John and Sara for this. Just as he considers apologizing for his intrusion you open your eyes.

"She was fine. None of us suspected anything was wrong. I came home from having dinner with some… boy, and she had locked herself in the bathroom. She- she must have started over the sink and moved to sit on the side of the tub. She was hunched inside it when I got the door open. I pulled her out. Blood was… everywhere." Your voice is clinical as you explain.

"After, I shut down. So I checked myself into a psych ward a few days later when I couldn't get the feel of her blood off my hands. It's slippery, you know. And it smells. You wouldn't think so but it does." You clear your throat. "I did the therapy, took the meds they prescribed, all the standard treatments. Later I started watching true crime documentaries. I'd heard about exposure therapy so I figured the more I saw the gore, the less the image of my dead roommate would bother me. And it did help. The nightmares stopped after a while, I came back to school. I was better, just not the same.” You had watched the passing landscape as you explained. Turning to face him you speak again. “That's why those pictures didn't bother me. They weren't anything I hadn't seen before."

He contemplates you. The discovery and subsequent loss of your friend in this manner would no doubt cause lingering effects to your psyche. A stain that would forever remind you. "I offer my sincerest condolences. I do not presume to know what that would be like to experience, but I am glad you sought help afterwards. To make the choice to alleviate yourself of your own suffering where possible.”

As he says this he realizes that your anger towards the idea of being enslaved to unconscious impulse makes perfect sense. It explains why you focused so much energy on defending your belief in free will. That you have the power to choose how you carry your joy, your anger, your healing. It reminds him of how he held onto his own guilt and hurt, ignoring how it festered within him for so long. He feels as though he needs to share a piece of himself with you.

“I played piano as a child, quite well too. My mother hoped I would someday make a career of it. I vividly remember playing Mozart’s Concerto for Piano No. 20 in D Minor at a holiday party when I was seven years old. It was my favorite to play.... It requires two hands." You finally look at him. "My father...” He pauses to gather himself.

Now it is the doctor that cannot meet your eyes. As you listen you feel your confusion grow. How could he have been a talented pianist if he only had full use of his left hand? Unless..., the realization dawns on you just as he continues, his words slow.

“My father had two sides. One loving and the other brutal, the two often coexisting. It was something as trivial as putting me to bed, I recall... A game of tug of war. We were laughing…” He inhales a sharp breath. Already you can feel the tears begin to blur your vision. “I don't remember if he was drunk or if I said something that offended him. He must have pulled my arm behind my back.” Laszlo exhales shakily. “In small children, fractures can often affect…” he trails off, unable to finish. You can hear how he barely holds himself together.

Your heart aches for the broken man that sits in front of you. He never let on how much his arm bothered him, at least not within your presence. Suddenly you don’t see him as this rude, insufferable, obsessive man, but instead as someone that spends his life trying to protect himself. He projects his own anger and hurt so that he may, just for a minute, forget about his own demons. He wants to help others even when he feels he cannot bear to help himself.

But unlike you, he has to live with the physical reminder of his past every day of his life.

You stand and move to sit on his right side. Before allowing yourself to think too much of your actions, you place your hand atop his own, curling your fingers around his palm and squeezing delicately. You don’t bother wiping away the tears on your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Laszlo;” the whisper is barely heard above the sound of the train. A second passes where you fear you have overstepped and offended him by touching the affected limb. When his thumb tightens against the backs of your fingers you know he is not. He holds you in place.

“You asked me how I kept my humanity. How does anyone really? We learn to take what we get and we carry it in a bag. Sometimes you have to drag the damn thing behind you. But eventually the weight gets less and less if you allow yourself to move forward, even if it’s still there with you all the time. I dealt with what happened years ago and it does still haunt me. It’s easier now than it was, but… I- I suppose I’ve learned from you too. Sitting in those lectures and hearing you talk. We can either let it haunt us for the rest of our lives… or we can accept it… and use the memory of our pain to help ourselves and others.”

“I’m not sure the choice is entirely in our hands.” His tone is mournful.

You turn to smile at him through your tears. His own eyes are bloodshot. “I disagree. If it weren’t, if we didn’t have the freedom to choose that, we’d all be murderers.”

Tag list

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#the interpretation of dreams #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo x reader #laszlo kreizler #the alienist #the alienist angel of darkness #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #laszlo kreizler fanfic #laszlo kreizler daniel bruhl #scuttle-buttle #tw self harm #tw suicude #tw child abuse

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whosscruffylooking · 4 years ago

Text

The Purest Things- Repeating History

Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader Word Count: 2k Warnings: Mentions of murder and alcohol. Canon typical violence. A/N: this takes place during season 3 episode 11, birthright. i had a lot of fun studying this episode and making it my own. i have changed certain dialogue and who says what for the sake of the story. please enjoy! The Purest Things Masterlist

january 2008

Syd Moore said, “Disregard for the past will never do us any good. Without it we cannot know truly who we are.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The team gathers around the conference room table as JJ introduces the next case. Her usual composure is absent, and it’sclear this one weighs heavily on her.

“Last night in Fredericksburg, a 20-year-old woman, Molly McCarthy, was abducted. She’s the third to go missing in the last six weeks. All of them disappeared from public places. No one has seen them since,” she begins, her voice tight.

“Until now,” Rossi adds grimly.

JJ presses on, “Two days ago, body parts with cigarette burns were recovered from a national park—former site of the Battle of Chancellorsville.”

You glance up at Hotch across the table, sensing the wheels turning in his mind. Something about this case feels familiar to you too, but the connection eludes you. His eyes meet yours, reflecting a similar train of thought. You shrug slightly, and he gives a barely perceptible shake of his head—nothing definitive yet.

“Were they able to make an ID?” Hotch asks.

JJ nods. “It was the first victim, taken six weeks ago. Decomposition suggests she’d been dead just over a week.”

Hotch leans back slightly, his focus sharpening. “So he’s keeping them alive for a while.”

The idea jogs something in your memory. You sift through fragments of cases, searching for the connection. Hotch slides a photo across the table toward you, almost testing your instincts. Examining it closely, the pieces finally fall into place.

“I remember reading about a case like this in Spotsylvania County,” you say. “The markings, the location, even the time of year—it all lines up.”

Hotch nods, picking up the thread. “If he spends that much time with them, it’s possible the two most recent victims are still alive.”

He gives you a subtle nod, a gesture of acknowledgment for your insight. Your mouth a quiet “thank you,” feeling a small wave of validation.

“Wait,” Emily interjects. “Are we saying this could be the same killer? That’s a long cooling-off period.”

“It’s rare, but it happens,” you reply. “BTK resurfaced after 25 years. Some killers go dormant for reasons we may never fully understand.”

“And the details from the Spotsylvania case were never released,” Rossi adds. “This would be a tough one to copycat.”

As the briefing concludes, you notice JJ lingering near the evidence board, her gaze distant. You approach her gently.“Hey, you okay?”

She blinks, snapping out of her thoughts. “Yeah. Just… something about this one feels off.”

You study her, recognizing the haunted expression. “This one hits a bit too close to home.” You’re both young, ambitious women—frighteningly similar to the abductees. The parallels aren’t lost on either of you.

JJ nods, her discomfort palpable. You squeeze her arm lightly. “We’ll get them justice.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The ride to the crime scene is quiet. You watch the passing landscape, the trees blurring into shadows, but your attention keeps drifting to Hotch. His steady focus on the road contrasts with the tension radiating from his presence. There’s a gravity to him that draws you in, a depth you want to understand but can’t quite unravel.

When the car approaches the site, you snap out of your thoughts. Following Hotch, JJ, and Reid, you step through the field toward the taped-off area where the sheriff waits. As Spencer and Hotch begin discussing the unsub’s profile, you notice JJ turning away, her shoulders tense. The case is affecting her more than she’s letting on.

You glance at Hotch, subtly tilting your head toward JJ. He catches the gesture immediately and nods. “I’ll catch up. You and Reid go with the sheriff.”

Minutes later, Hotch and JJ rejoin the group. He lingers near the back and motions for you to step with him. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her,” he says quietly.

You offer a small smile. “Of course. I know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed. I’d want someone to notice if it were me.”

His tone softens slightly. “This job reminds us that we’re human. Cases like this tend to hit hardest when they reflect pieces of our own lives.”

You glance at him, hesitant but curious. “What cases make you feel most human?”

His expression darkens for a moment. “Any case involving kids,” he admits. “Since Jack was born, those are the ones I can’t shake.”

“It doesn’t show,” you say gently. “You seem… unshakable.”

He exhales quietly, almost a sigh. “Maybe I’ve just gotten too good at hiding it.”

You sense a deeper regret behind his words but decide not to push. You’ve heard whispers about his separation from Rossi, about how his work drove a wedge between him and Haley. It’s not your place to ask, but its weight lingers in the air.

“Let’s catch up with the others,” he says finally, steering the conversation back to the task at hand. But his earlier vulnerability stays with you, a rare glimpse into the man beneath the suit.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

Your team gathers to try and connect the dots, the tension in the room mounting as time slips away.

“We’ve got another abduction,” JJ announces, rushing into the room.

The sheriff and JJ quickly outline the details of the latest victim. You jot down notes, comparing them to the other cases, the pieces just out of reach.

“We know he kills after taking another victim,” JJ says, her voice tight with urgency. “We’re running out of time.”

You glance toward Hotch, and his steady gaze is already fixed on you. “What do we know?” he asks, putting you in the spotlight.

You take a breath, focusing. “It’s a copycat,” you begin. “Same MO, same dumpsite.”

“But those details were never released to the press,” Rossi interjects a pointed reminder.

“Then he had to learn it from someone close—family or a friend,” you say, sitting up straighter as the realization dawns.

Hotch nods subtly, an unspoken acknowledgment that you’re on the right track. A flicker of heat rises to your cheeks under his steady approval.

“Mary and Robert Wilkinson had a son,” JJ says, flipping through files.

“I remember Charlie Wilkinson,” John Caufield, the former sheriff on the original case, chimes in. “When he was 15, he killed a neighbor’s cat.”

“How old is Charlie now?” Emily asks, her tone sharp.

“Mary was pregnant with him when Robert died,” Caufield recalls.

The room collectively stills as the implication hits. You and Hotch exchange a glance, the pieces snapping into place between you.

“That was 27 years ago,” Emily continues urgently. “That would make him about the same age Robert was when he started killing.”

Hotch’s expression hardens. “With me,” he orders, motioning for you to follow.

Hotch’s pace is brisk as you follow him out to the SUVs. The sun is high, casting a harsh light over the unfolding day. As you climb into the passenger seat beside him, he pulls a map from the dashboard, scanning it briefly before starting the engine.

“We’ve got another site to check,” he says, his tone clipped but steady.

You nod, tightening your grip on your notebook as the car hums to life. The team’s urgency weighs heavily on you, but something is grounding about Hotch’s quiet determination.

The rhythmic motion of the road and the hum of the engine fill the silence, but it’s not awkward. You peek over at him, studying his keen focus as he navigates.

“You’re good at this,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness. His tone is calm but carries the faintest trace of encouragement.

“Thank you,” you answer, momentarily caught off guard. “I still feel like I have a lot to learn.”

His eyes flick toward you briefly before returning to the road. “You’re already asking the right questions, seeing the connections. That’s what matters.”

The words settle over you, a slight spark of pride lifting the edge of your fatigue. You tuck them away, a reminder of why you’re here.

Hotch speaks again, his voice lower but just as stable. “Trust your instincts. They’re what got you this far.”

You nod, feeling the weight of the compliment and the responsibility it carries. The car slows as you approach the site.

Hotch cuts the engine and glances your way, his expression unreadable but somehow reassuring. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

With a deep breath, you step out into the sunlight, squinting against the glare as the latest victim’s car looms in the parking lot like a grim omen. Your stomach tightens at the sight. JJ isn’t here, and for that, you’re grateful—she doesn’tneed to see this.

“How long has the car been here?” Hotch asks, his tone sharp and efficient.

“Owner said since last night,” the sheriff responds, clearly uneasy.

You scoff in disbelief, your anger bubbling to the surface. “How the hell did no one find that suspicious?”

The sheriff scratches the back of his neck, defensively. “He said he’s back and forth from the farm, didn’t pay much attention until he heard Tara was missing.”

Your jaw tightens as you glance at Hotch, whose stoic expression doesn’t mask the faint crease of concern between his brows. “Four girls are missing,” you say, your voice low but sharp, “and no one notices an abandoned car?”

Before Hotch can respond, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out and answer quickly. “This is Y/N.”

Reid’s voice filters through, calm but direct. “Do you think you and Hotch could check on Charlie Wilkinson? He didn’tshow up for work today.”

Your heart sinks. “He didn’t?”

“No,” Reid confirms. “I checked with his employer. They said it’s completely out of character.”

“Got it. Thanks, Reid,” you say, ending the call. Turning to Hotch, you relay the news. “Charlie Wilkinson never showed up for work today.”

Hotch nods, already moving toward the SUV. “Let’s see if he’s home.”

The drive to Charlie’s house is thick with unspoken tension. The weight of the case presses heavily on your shoulders, and your leg starts to bounce unconsciously. Hotch notices, his eyes flicking to you briefly before returning to the road.

“We’ll catch him,” he says, his voice low but firm as if willing the words into existence.

You let out a breath, shaky but steadying. “I know. It’s just…the idea of this man evolving into a carbon copy of his father—it’s terrifying. It’s like the instinct to kill was lying dormant in his DNA, waiting to surface.”

Hotch’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “We study and profile these unsubs every day. The truth of evil is rarely straightforward.”

“But you’d think,” you say, frustration creeping into your tone, “at some point, the cycle would end. If he knew all the terrible things his father did, wouldn’t he want to stop it? History shouldn’t have to repeat itself.”

Hotch glances at you, his expression softening just enough to be noticeable. “Don’t lose that perspective,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’ll ground you in this line of work. The second we stop believing people are capable of change is the moment we lose our humanity.”

You nod, his words settling over you like a protective layer. Still, the tension doesn’t fully leave your chest. You glance out the window, watching as the rural landscape rushes past. Each mile closer to Charlie Wilkinson’s house feels like another step into a storm you’re not sure you are ready to face.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

At Charlie Wilkinson’s house, you and Derek approach the door. It creaks open, revealing his wife, Chrissy Wilkinson, standing there with wide, nervous eyes. Your stomach drops when you notice her hand instinctively resting on her swollen belly—she’s pregnant. For a moment, you’re frozen, bile rising in your throat as the weight of this revelation sinks in. You swallow it down, steeling yourself. You’re here to do a job.

“Chrissy Wilkinson?” you begin, your voice steady despite the emotions churning inside. “I’m Agent Y/L/N, and this is Agent Morgan. We’re with the FBI. We’re looking for Charles Wilkinson.”

Chrissy’s expression shifts, confusion mingling with dread. “What’s this about?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

You exchange a glance with Derek before answering, your tone careful but firm. “We’re investigating the murders of some local women,” you say, watching as her face blanches.

“And you’re looking for Charlie?” she whispers, her free hand gripping the doorframe for support.

You nod, your heart aching as she steps aside, allowing you and the team to search the property.

Inside, Chrissy sits at the kitchen table, wringing her hands as you and Hotch stand across from her. His demeanor is firm, his posture straight, radiating authority.

“Charlie didn’t show up for work today,” Hotch says, his voice edged with an intimidating calm. “Do you have any idea where he might’ve gone?”

Chrissy shakes her head quickly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “No, I don’t know,” she stammers, her eyes darting around the room.

Hotch’s attention is drawn to JJ and Reid in the other room, and after a glance, he steps away to join them. Before leaving, he nods at you, signaling for you to continue the questioning.

You take a seat across from Chrissy, softening your tone. “Can I get you some water?” you ask, noticing how her hands tremble slightly.

She looks up at you, startled, but nods gratefully. “Yes, please.”

When you return with a glass, she manages a faint smile. “You’re a lot nicer than him,” she murmurs, taking a small sip.

You chuckle softly, tilting your head. “He’s been doing this job a lot longer than I have.”

Her smile fades, replaced by a shadow of worry. “Did the father of my child hurt those poor women?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper as her hand instinctively cradles her baby bump.

Your heart tightens. There’s no easy answer to that question, and you know she’s not looking for one. You choose silence, letting the unspoken truth settle in the room. Sometimes, silence says more than words ever could.

The sound of hurried footsteps breaks the moment. Hotch appears in the doorway, his expression unreadable but urgent.“The sheriff will stay here with Mrs. Wilkinson. We need you with us,” he says firmly.

Standing, you place your hand atop Chrissy’s trembling one, your voice low but steady. “History doesn’t have to repeat itself,” you tell her, meeting her eyes. You can see the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind, the whispers of inevitability that threaten to consume her. Your words are an anchor—a small reminder that there’s always another choice.

The forest feels endless as you race after Hotch, the cool air sharp against your skin. Leaves and twigs crackle underfoot with every hurried step.

“Hotch, this way!” you call, gesturing toward a narrow path leading deeper into the woods.

You push forward, branches whipping against your arms until a sudden gunshot pierces the air. The sound is deafening, freezing you in your tracks. Your gaze snaps to Hotch, who mirrors your shock for a split second before the two of you sprint toward the source of the shot.

Your heart pounds in sync with your frantic footsteps, each beat carrying you closer to the clearing. You have a sinking feeling, one born of your earlier conversation with Chrissy, and dread churns in your stomach.

Breaking through the trees, you skid to a stop at the top of a hill, the scene below confirming your worst fears.

Chrissy Wilkinson stands over her husband’s lifeless body, a gun clutched in her shaking hands. Her face is pale, streaked with tears, and her rounded belly heaves with each ragged breath.

Charlie’s body lies sprawled at her feet, a haunting echo of the violence he was raised with—a man trapped by the legacy of his father’s evil.

The team converges around you, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Chrissy. Her entire frame trembles as she stares down at her husband, her face etched with a mix of anguish and grim resolve. You take a cautious step forward, your voice calm and even.

“Chrissy put the gun down,” you say gently.

For a moment, she doesn’t move, her gaze fixed on Charlie. Then, with a shaky exhale, she lowers the weapon, her knees buckling as she sinks to the ground.

As you approach her, your earlier words echo in your mind: History doesn't have to repeat itself. But looking at her now, you realize how heavy the weight of breaking that cycle truly is. Just as Charlie's mother killed his father decades ago, so now Chrissy has killed Charlie. The brutal symmetry of it all tightens a knot in your chest, a grim reminder thatsometimes, the echoes of the past are impossible to silence.

The newly widowed woman claims self-defense, yet the cops handcuff her anyway. You watch as she’s guided into the back of the squad car, her face streaked with tears. Inside, you feel conflicted, the weight of the case pressing against your chest.

Hotch appears at your side, his presence steady but quiet. You bite your lip, trying to keep it from quivering, though the day’s events have taken their toll.

“What did you say to her as you were leaving the dining room?” Hotch asks, his voice low.

“I told her that history doesn’t have to repeat itself,” you admit softly. “That even when it feels like you’re backed into a corner, there’s always another way out. But… sometimes people don’t know where to look for that way out.”

Hotch studies you for a moment, then lightly touches your arm. It’s brief but enough to ground you.

“You did everything you could,” he says. “We’ll never do this job perfectly. Sometimes doing the right thing costs more than it pays.”

You shake your head slightly. “And what if that’s not enough?”

Hotch’s gaze sharpens. “If you can leave a case knowing you made the best choice you could with what you had, it’senough. Anything else will tear you apart over time.”

You glance back at the squad car as it disappears down the road. “What if the only way she saw out was this?”

Hotch exhales, his jaw tightening. “I wish I could make this easier for you. I wish I could tell you that this case won'thaunt you. Just know that if it becomes too heavy, you have people in your corner, ready to listen.”

The words are meant to reassure you, but the weight of the day lingers between you both. He turns slightly, his hand brushing yours as though he wants to say more, but he stops himself. Instead, he walks back toward the sheriff, leaving you to wrestle with the truth he’s laid out.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

After what feels like an endless day, you and the team finally arrive back at Quantico.

“I could go for a drink, guys. What do you say? Newbie’s buying,” you tease, waving your wallet around frivolously.

“I could go for five drinks!” Prentiss exclaims, eyes lighting up.

“Count me in,” Morgan grins, winking at you. His charm never fails to make you blush.

Reid hesitates, and you give him your best pleading look, sticking out your bottom lip. “Please, Reid! How could you not want a repeat of Dolly Parton night last month?”

Hotch, who’s just come down the stairs, raises an eyebrow. “Dolly Parton night? Do I want to know?”

You and Derek snicker, sharing a look as Reid squirms in place, trying to diffuse his embarrassment.

“‘9 to 5’ is an iconic anthem. It has a rather bewitching effect on a man when mixed with alcohol,” Reid says, adjusting his glasses.

“You only drank Diet Coke that night,” you roll your eyes, smirking.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Hotch forcing his way through the small group gathered near the desks. You take a breath and make your way over to him.

“Want a beer?” you ask, second-guessing yourself as soon as the words leave your mouth.

For a split second, Hotch’s stern expression softens, and he turns to look at you. “I would like that,” he replies quietly.

He turns back to his original path, heading toward the glass doors, and you follow, joined by Dave and Emily.

Just as you’re about to walk out the door with him, a man barges through the glass doors, holding a yellow package in his hands.

“Agent Hotchner?”

“Yes,” Hotch replies, his tone sharp but tired, as though bracing himself.

The man holds a yellow envelope, the sight of which churns your stomach into knots. You bite down hard on your lip, the metallic taste grounding you as dread washes over you.

“What is it?” Emily asks cautiously.

But you already know. That package is far too familiar.

Hotch’s gaze lingers on the envelope for a long moment, tracing the corners with a disbelief that is almost painful to witness. When he finally speaks, his voice is hollow. “Haley’s filing for divorce. I’ve been served.”

His words hang in the air like a weight, heavy and inescapable. You swallow hard, glancing at the envelope, then back at Hotch. His eyes lift to meet yours, and the breath catches in your throat.

His eyes—usually so guarded, so composed—are now raw and exposed, filled with a vulnerability you’ve never seen before. Gone is the unshakeable Unit Chief. What’s left is a man barely holding himself together, drowning in quiet agony.

You want nothing more than to close the distance between you, to offer comfort in a way words never could. For a moment, you hope he can see, the depth of your care written in your expression. You don’t say a word, but sometimes silence carries a weight all its own.

Eventually, he breaks eye contact, releasing a shaky breath. Dave steps closer, his hand gently resting on your arm, sensing the weight of the moment. His touch offers quiet support, silently acknowledging the bond between you and Hotch.

“I’m sorry,” Hotch finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I can join you tonight.”

Without another word, he turns and wanders out through the glass doors, leaving the rest of you standing in stunned silence.

You watch him go, your chest aching with unspoken emotion.

Maybe history does have a way of repeating itself.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

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five-rivers · 3 years ago

Text

Danger First

Chapter 6

@pocketramblr another :)

Shouta trudged back to the staff break room. His counseling session with Midoriya had lasted a little over an hour, so while there were still teachers in the building, many of them had left. With the exception of semi-retired heroes like Recovery Girl, everyone working here had two full time jobs. Hizashi, despite his carefree air, had even more than that in the form of his radio show. Hizashi had probably left with the students.

But Hizashi wasn't either of the ones he wanted to talk to. Not today.

He opened the door. Three, no, four teachers were there, but Snipe didn't count, seeing as he was completely passed out on one of the couches with his gas mask half off. He must have had an early shift patrol today, poor sucker.

Nemuri was there, too, with most of her hero outfit on. She was applying her hero-grade makeup (water proof, resistant to three common contact poisons, and guaranteed not to react badly with mace).

More importantly, Kan and Yagi were both there, poring over papers on the same desk, no less. Shouta walked up to the table and looked down at sheets and sheets full of incomprehensible numbers.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"We-"

'Don't tell him!" said Kan, urgently. "This is going to be my class's leg up on Aizawa this time around."

"Haha! Good one!" Yagi slapped Kan's back, and apparently even in his skeletal form he could pack a punch, because Kan had the air knocked out of him. Before he could recover, Yagi continued, "I'm making personalized nutrition plans for his class!"

"What?"

"One of my undergraduate degrees was in nutritional and health sciences, after all!"

Wow, there was a lot to unpack there, but Shouta was more than happy to leave it in its box. He had other fish to fry and topics to interrogate. Small talk requirement fulfilled, he moved on.

"How well do you know Midoriya?"

Yagi blinked and put down his pencil. "Moderately so? We met about this time last year and have been meeting regularly since then."

So, so much to unpack.

"Why?"

"Ah, he... impressed me, I suppose? He was involved in the bodysnatcher incident last year."

That was an understatement.

"He had a lot of heroic spirit!" continued Yagi. "But... not so much in the, ah, body category. I thought it would be a shame, a waste, really, if he wasn't able to pursue his dream, and a hero school prep course wasn't really in the cards for him, considering his quirk status and the timing... And I did have this degree..." He waved his hands vaguely at the table. "I just gave him a little help."

"What brought all this on, anyway?" asked Nemuri. "Midoriya is the little green haired kid, right? One of Chibiida's new friends?"

"If you keep calling him that, I won't be held responsible for when he snaps and attempts murder. But, yes, that's Midoriya."

"So...?"

"He told me I was the best teacher he'd ever had."

Nemuri started laughing.

"Oh," said Yagi. "I'm glad the two of you are getting along so well."

"I think he's pulling your leg, Shouta," said Nemuri, coming over to pat him on his shoulder. "Man, I didn't think a friend of Chibiida's would have it in him. Such youth!"

"I cannot even begin to tell you how much he wasn't."

Nemuri's laughter died off.

"Judging from some comments he made today," said Shouta, "not to mention the discrepancies between his record and his observed behavior in the classroom, I'd say he's been the target of severe quirkism in the past, particularly from his teachers. Did he ever mention anything like that to you?"

Yagi's face darkened and the mood in the room grew much more somber. "Not in so many words, no. However... some of his comments about his teachers disturbed me enough to bring it to the attention of the Musutafu Educational Services District, but as an unrelated stranger without concrete proof..."

("You can use the acronym, you know," muttered Vlad.)

"You're telling me they ignored the number one hero."

Yagi made a face. "I didn't go to them as All Might. Can you imagine the media frenzy if I did that? I didn't want to paint that kind of target on young Midoriya's back."

That was fair, actually. If largely-anonymous Shouta had enemies, All Might had ten times as many. Not to mention supposed fans.

"Other avenues of inquiry were also fruitless," said All Might, countenance darkening. "I asked some of my police colleagues, but they don't have full discretion over the direction of their investigations, and, again, if I were to use my weight to move them... It would get out, and people would wonder why I was so concerned with an apparently normal middle school."

"Did you try talking to Nezu about it?"

"No? Why?"

Shouta reminded himself that although Yagi was an alumnus, he was also very new as a teacher, and was as of yet unfamiliar with Nezu's more interesting traits.

"I'm going to," said Shouta, "and you're going to come with me." He turned to Kan. "Have you heard anything from Bakugo about quirk discrimination?"

"All I've heard from him are explosions, threats, and some kind of complex I don't have nearly enough psychiatric training to- They're from the same school," he realized.

"Yeah."

Kan pinched his brow. "So, the sweet shy kid you keep gushing about-" Both Shouta and Yagi attempted to reassure Kan they weren't gushing, "-and the demon brat are from the same school."

"That is what their records say," agreed Shouta. "Did you know, Yagi?"

"Oh, that they knew each other? Yes. Actually, I was rather under the impression they were childhood friends, as Midoriya ran out to help him during the bodysnatcher incident."

Shouta grunted. It was possible. He hadn't seen the two of them interact, at any rate.

"I'm going to Nezu with you," said Kan, standing up. "No matter what else this hell school did, they deserve to suffer for inflicting Bakugo Katsuki on me with those recommendations full of lies."

"Why don't you just expell him if he's that bad?"

"Because he's talented, hardworking, and hasn't actually broken any rules except for the swearing. He's just a pain I wasn't prepared to deal with and will probably contribute more to my hearing loss than Yamada by the end of the year."

"Wait, wait," said Yagi. "What exactly are you expecting Nezu to do in this situation?"

"Well," said Nemuri, who still hadn't left yet, "let's just say there's a reason hid name is 'god' in the staff group chat."

Terrible did not even begin to describe how Izuku felt when he woke up. His skin was static. His mouth was dry in a way that hurt. It felt like a siren was going off in his brain, and also like it was too quiet. He wanted to both run all the way to the school and hide in his closet.

This, of course, left him paralyzed in bed.

He hadn't felt remotely like this since the first time someone had left spider lilies on his desk at school. What was wrong with him?

No, that was the wrong question. All signs pointed to him having Danger Sense. He was in danger. And also immobile in bed.

With a great deal of effort, he turned to his bedside table and grabbed his phone. The clock in the corner read 4:42. Far too early to call anyone. And yet...

With shaky fingers, he navigated to Mr. Yagi's contact information and pressed dial. To Izuku's surprise, it only rang once.

"Young Midoriya? Is something wrong?"

The sound of his voice loosened the terrible knot under Izuku's breastbone. "I- May-maybe? I don't- I don't know, I think so."

There were sounds of movement on the other side of the line. "What happened?"

"I just- just woke up, and I- I think it's Danger Sense. It- Something bad is going to happen."

"I'm on my way. Is your mother with you?"

"N-no. She's at a- at a tech conference in Tokyo. She won't be back until- until tomorrow. Mr. Yagi, I don't- I don't think it's something here. I think it's later... at the school."

There was a pause. "My boy, are you quite sure?"

Izuku's laugh was just a little hysterical. "I mean, I'm- I'm pretty new to this, but..." he'd like to think his flight or fight reflex would have a more constructive response to am immediate threat. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have woken you up, I should have waited-"

"Nonsense! Forewarned is forearmed, and time is one of the most valuable resources a hero can have! I'm still picking you up, I'll just-" Mr. Yagi coughed, "-take the car instead."

"The car? You mean Hercules!?" The excitement was enough to free Izuku from his paralysis and propel him into a sitting position.

"Well, yes, but, my boy, how did you know? I don't think I've ever mentioned the name in my interviews..."

"But you did! In one of your American interviews. It was for a local station and you and Mr. Shield were on together."

"But those were in English."

"I know! When I found out about them, it really motivated me to work on my English! I think I could probably pass the Level Two fluency test..."

"Young Midoriya, have I ever told you how glad I am that you aren't a villain?"

"Hikage, did Danger Sense ever make you feel this bad?" asked Nana as Yoichi fussed in the background.

"Super Anxiety made me feel this bad all the time. Sometimes, it made me feel worse. I got used to it."

Nana let out a sigh of relief. It sucked to Ninth right now, but if it was normal for the quirk...

"That's good, then," said En. "Not for Ninth, obviously, but if that's just how the quirk works, he'll be able to figure it out. What did it usually mean, when you felt like this?"

"Generally, that someone was planning on killing me in the next few hours."

Dead(er than usual) silence.

"Ah," said En.

"You know," said Nana, "sometimes the kinds of lives we led slips my mind, but then the universe is always real happy to turn around and slap it back into me."

Yoichi started screeching.

"Do you feel any worse now that we're here?" asked Mr. Yagi after shutting Hercules down.

"Not really," said Izuku. He slumped down in his seat and looked away. "I'm sorry, I dragged you out of bed and this is probably just a stupid pointless meaningless panic attack..." He felt tears begin to prick at the edges of his eyes. He was so stupid. And selfish. All Might could be out helping people right now. Or taking care of himself (which, according to Recovery Girl's comments during their training sessions, he didn't do nearly enough of).

"Hey, hey, there's no need to cry, it's alright."

"Because you're here?" asked Izuku with a sniffle.

"Well, yes, but also, even if it was 'just' a panic attack, I'd still want to be here for you." He reached across the central console to pat Izuku on the shoulder. Then his face twisted into something rather sheepish. "But on the subject of panic attacks, something did occur to me on the way here."

Izuku looked back down at his knees. "What is it?"

"This is the anniversary of the day we met."

Izuku... had known that, actually. Waking up as he had had driven it from his mind, but the date was marked on his calendar. He'd even gotten All Might a gift, although he hadn't yet talked himself into being brave enough to give it to him, and with what happened today, it would most likely languish in his desk drawer for an indefinite period of time as the idea of giving it became progressively more awkward.

"My boy? I can't quite make out what you're saying. You're mumbling."

Izuku clapped his hands over his mouth. "Sorry."

"It's quite alright. I'm just an old man with hearing problems."

"You're not old! It's... I just- I just don't see how- how that's connected to this." He gestured at himself in all his vaguely-trembling glory.

"Young Midoriya... you almost died three separate times that day. That's traumatic. And sometimes anniversaries are... reminders."

"I only almost died once?"

"The first time with the sludge villain, grabbing on to my leg- and I don't think I ever apologized for telling you to let go, I was just so surprised- and then the sludge villain again."

"But I only almost died the first time..." He trailed off as Mr. Yagi gave him a look. He'd thought his mother was the only one who could give looks like that... "Do you really think this is connected to that?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Yagi. "Do you feel like it might be?"

"I don't know," said Izuku. He bent over and knotted his fingers in his hair.

"Do you think it might help to stay home today?"

"No!" yelped Izuku. "No," he repeated, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Alright, alright. Never fear, my boy." Mr. Yagi gave him another steadying shoulder pat. "In that case, let's go into this with the assumption that this is danger sense, and it is attempting to warn you of a real threat."

"Okay," said Izuku. He rubbed at his eyes. "What do we do first?"

Mr. Yagi tensed and looked up at the top floors of UA. "Well..."

"Hm!" said Nezu. "That is something of a conundrum! The extent of your quirk is unclear, and it is not properly registered, so we cannot go through the official routes we normally would for a warning given through a precognitive or clairvoyant quirk, even given that we are aware of One for All and the probable nature of Danger Sense."

Nezu knowing about One for All had been a bit of a surprise. In retrospect, maybe it shouldn't have been. All Might would have had to tell Nezu something so that Izuku was allowed on campus before he was really a student, and seeing as how All Might was originally teaching here to find a successor... well, it made sense. Izuku just wished he'd been told.

How many other people knew was a question for later, however.

"Your inexperience with the quirk and other circumstances further complicates the matter."

"Sorry," said Izuku.

"Whatever for? It isn't your fault." Nezu did not wait for an answer. "Then there is yesterday's incident to consider... You say you felt something with the reporters?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Hm. Yes. Toshinori, I so believe you have a contact who could clear this up much more efficiently."

"I know," said Mr. Yagi. "He isn't picking up his phone."

"You don't think-?" started Izuku.

"No, no, he just hasn't been speaking to me lately."

"Oh? I was under the impression you had been communicating with him regularly since returning to Musutafu."

"He thought I would change my mind about something I didn't change my mind about, apparently. It doesn't matter. What else can we do?"

"A good number of things, luckily. Midoriya, I am going to make a series of phone calls. I would like you to tell me if the sensation you are experiencing changes at all while I make them."

"Yes, sir."

Nezu began methodically going through Izuku's list of teachers, warning them that something 'like yesterday' might happened and going over lesson plans and safety procedures. Nothing really changed. Until Nezu called Thirteen.

(Oh, gosh, they were going to go to the Unforeseen Simulation Joint on a field trip today? That was so cool!)

But after Nezu talked to Thirteen about checking safety systems, a little bit of the tension he'd been holding onto leaked away.

"Interesting," said Nezu. "Perhaps we should reschedule rescue training until-"

Izuku dove for Nezu's garbage bin.

"-or perhaps not," mused Nezu as Izuku expelled the meager contents of his stomach.

It was a good thing he hadn't eaten breakfast.

"Hikage," said Banjo. "I'm sorry for calling you a dead-eyed emotionally stunted bastard with a warped sense of humor if this is what you had to put up with all the time."

"You called me a dead-eyed emotionally stunted bastard?"

"Not to your face, but yes."

"Well. It isn't as if those things aren't all true..."

"I'm okay," said Izuku. "That just... felt bad."

"No cancelations in that case," said Nezu as Mr. Yagi hovered.

"Y-yeah. Oh gosh, now I know how Uraraka feels..."

"Perhaps you should stay home-"

"No! I can't! That would be..."

Nezu held up his hands- paws? "It was merely a suggestion. Can I offer you some tea?"

"Yes, please," said Izuku, voice catching uncomfortably on his raw throat.

"I do have a few more calls to make. Do you feel up to staying, or would you prefer to head down to Recovery Girl? Or perhaps even the cafeteria? I imagine you haven't eaten breakfast."

"I'd like to stay."

"Very well." Nezu picked up his phone again. Izuku could just make out the click on the other end when it was picked up. "Am I a mouse? A dog? A bear? One thing's for sure! I'm the principal!" There was laughter on the other end of the line. "No, not at all! I am in fact calling for you, Tensei. Or should I say, Ingenium? I'm aware this is last minute, and you were planning on taking the day off- How do I know? It was quite simple, really- but between the break-in yesterday and a tip I received this morning regarding a threat to the school, I would like a few more hands on deck than usual. Why, yes, you can stay with your brother's class. Do try not to tease Shouta too much. He has a reputation to maintain." After a few more pleasantries, Nezu hung up. "Midoriya?"

"I... think that's better? I'm sorry, it's hard to tell what could be the quirk and what's just me feeling bad."

Nezu nodded. "In that case, I do recommend that you head to Recovery Girl's office. My other calls will be similar, and the other heroes will not be with your class."

"Why not?" asked Mr. Yagi.

"Because Midoriya's reaction to the field trip being canceled suggests that the danger may not be limited to himself or his class. Oh! And one more thing. Midoriya, I noticed that you put in some costume alteration requests. Naturally, most of them will not be finished until some time next week, however, some of the support items you mentioned are fairly common. If you have time before the field trip, you should pay a visit to Power Loader."

Izuku hadn't expected it, but he did feel much better after eating, despite his continuing sense of impending doom. It was also about half an hour from the beginning of homeroom, so he had the time to go to the support department and check if they had anything he could take.

He hoped they had grappling hooks. Izuku had always wanted a grappling hook.

Mr. Yagi took him most of the way there, but students had started to arrive at this point, and Izuku convinced him to go prepare for classes (and hide in the staff area so that no one would wonder why he, a skeleton man not recognizable as a hero, was at the school). Before too long, Izuku stood in front of a rather sturdy-looking metal door. He hoped this was the right one.

He raised his hand to knock just as something crashed into him. Ah. This was it for sure. The way he would die. The danger he had foreseen.

No. Wait. Never mind. He was fine, just on the ground.

"Oh! There was a person there! You okay?"

"U-um," said Izuku, sitting up and rubbing his head. "I'm fine, just a little startled."

"What're you doing here, anyway?"

"I- I'm here for... support... gear?" He sort of trailed off as he looked up.

It was the intense pink haired girl from the other day. As he watched, her expression changed from one of mild concern to calculating interest.

"Support gear, you say?"

Shouta answered his phone as he walked down the hall. "Nezu, I've already done every security check I can think of that'll fit-"

"Not quite why I was calling, although I can see why you would think so. One of your students needs to be rescued from the support department."

Shouta changed direction without missing a beat. "It's Midoriya, isn't it?"

"Why, yes."

"Did you send him down there without warning him?"

"Yes, again. You know me so well!"

Shouta hung up.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #danger first au #danger first #fic #fanfic

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