#file under “worrying patterns of behavior”

[bernie-jsyk]

posting all my devastatingly witty comments in the tags like an ingenue waiting to be discovered by a famous director

[hoe4hotchner]

False Security | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader CW: Angst, physical abuse, kidnapping, captivity, hospital, light use of Y/N, hotch is in love with you, r is only wearing underwear, chains, morphine. WC: 2.6k

           The bullpen was eerily quiet for a late evening. Papers were scattered across desks, half-empty coffee cups forgotten in the rush of trying to piece together the puzzle of the case they were working on.

           The tension in the conference room was palpable - each agent hunched over their work, mentally and emotionally drained from the brutal reality of the case. Every passing hour without a breakthrough weighed heavily on the team.

           Garcia had moved from her tech cave to stay near the rest of the team. Something about this case, the brutality of it, had shaken her, she wasn't her usual cheerful self. Her fingers tapped anxiously against her keyboard, eyes darting between monitors, scanning data, hoping for a clue - anything that would help them find the unsub before another victim was claimed.

           Hotch stood near the whiteboard, staring at the photos pinned up - the faces of victims staring back at him, haunting him. There was a pattern here; they all knew it. They could feel it. But none of them had been able to put the final piece together yet. Everyone was running on fumes.

           "Garcia," Hotch’s voice broke the silence, low but with the familiar edge of urgency. "Pull up the financials again. There’s something we’re missing."

           Garcia nodded, already typing, her colorful nails clicking rapidly against the keys. But even she seemed distracted, her brow furrowed in worry. She wasn’t just focused on the case anymore - she was thinking about you. About how you had been recently, about the relationship you had confided in her about a few weeks ago. A relationship that seemed to be bringing you joy, a brightness that Garcia had been happy to see. But now… something about this case was stirring up an unsettling feeling in her chest.

           Reid was standing across from her, his eyes darting across the case files, muttering half-thoughts under his breath. Morgan was pacing, unable to sit still, his frustration growing with each dead end.

           Then, it happened.

           Garcia’s fingers stopped, hovering above the keyboard. The silence in the room grew thicker as everyone waited for her to speak. She was staring at her screen, but the bright color had drained from her face. Slowly, almost as if she didn’t believe it herself, she turned in her chair, wide eyes meeting Hotch’s.

           "Sir," her voice was trembling. "You need to see this."

           Hotch’s stomach dropped at her tone, something was off. He crossed the room in quick strides, looking over her shoulder at the screen. The room held its collective breath, all eyes now on them. Garcia was scrolling through the financials, linking transactions, showing a pattern of behavior that had gone unnoticed until now. At first, it seemed like nothing out of the ordinary. Just a name, a routine list of purchases. But then it hit him. A familiar name.

           Hotch froze. His heart slammed against his ribs, dread flooding his veins.

           “No,” he breathed, disbelief clouding his thoughts.

           Garcia turned, biting her lip. Her fingers trembled as she pointed to the screen. “It’s him, Sir,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s… it’s (Y/N)'s boyfriend.”

           The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. Everyone stared, the weight of Garcia’s revelation hitting them like a freight train. Morgan stopped pacing, Reid’s muttering ceased, and Rossi’s eyes darkened as he stood from his desk.

           "Are you sure?" Hotch’s voice was low, but the tension in his tone was unmistakable.

           Garcia nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. “I cross-referenced his name with the locations. He fits every single one of the victim’s timelines, and… the patterns match. It’s him, Hotch.”

           For a moment, no one moved. It was as if the very air in the room had thickened, weighing them all down. Hotch felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under him. His chest tightened painfully, his mind racing with fear and anger. How could they have missed this? How could he have missed this?

           Morgan was the first to break the silence, his voice sharp and filled with disbelief. “Wait, (Y/N)’s dating this guy?” His eyes darted between Garcia and Hotch, trying to piece it together. “How long has this been going on?”

           “A couple of months,” Garcia whispered, guilt washing over her at the mere fact that she knew about your relationship. “She… she didn’t want anyone to know. But… I thought he was just a regular guy.”

           Rossi was already moving toward his phone. "Has anyone contacted her?"

           Hotch’s blood ran cold. He reached for his phone, his fingers fiddling slightly as he dialed your number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail.

           Panic settled in his chest like a stone.

           “Garcia, try to ping her phone,” he ordered his voice tight, betraying the rising anxiety within him.

           “I’m on it,” she replied, her fingers moving across the keyboard in a blur. The seconds dragged on like hours as she tried to locate your phone. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s off.”

           Morgan swore under his breath, his fists clenched. “We have to find her. Now.”

           Hotch felt a surge of terror, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. His thoughts were racing— Where were you? Were you okay? Did you even know what kind of danger you were in? The idea that the person you had trusted, had been intimate with, was the same monster they were hunting - it made his skin crawl. And now, they couldn’t reach you.

           Garcia's voice broke through the haze. “I’ve got his phone,” she said, her voice shaking with urgency. “It’s pinging at a location near the docks - an old warehouse district.”

           Hotch didn’t waste another second. He was out the door before anyone could speak, his mind focused on one thing - finding you. His heart pounded in his chest, each step toward the SUV filled with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you two. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

          The warehouse loomed ahead, its shadowy silhouette stark against the faint glow of the city. Inside, the darkness was suffocating, every echo, every creak of the metal beams overhead seeming to mock the haste coursing through Hotch's veins. He moved quickly, his heart pounding in his chest as he led the team deeper into the labyrinth of hallways and empty rooms, desperate to find you before it was too late.

           The dread that had been building since Garcia's revelation gnawed at him with every step. The idea that you, his agent, the person he trusted and admired, had been caught in the web of this monster - he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It felt personal in a way that made his throat tighten, made his focus even sharper. This wasn’t just a case anymore; it was about you, about saving you from someone who had fooled them into a false security.

           A soft, muffled whimper reached his ears, freezing him in place. It was faint but unmistakable. His breath hitched as he sprinted toward the sound, every part of him terrified of what he might find. He shoved open a rusted metal door, and the sight that greeted him ripped the air from his lungs.

           There you were, barely recognizable, hanging limply by your wrists, your arms shackled high above your head. The light flickered, casting shadows over your bruised and battered body. You were gagged, your face pale and streaked with tears, your eyes barely open, glazed with pain and fear. Your skin was marred with fresh bruises, and all you were left wearing was your underwear - vulnerable, exposed, and utterly broken.

           Hotch’s world tilted. He had faced horrors in his career, and seen things that haunted his dreams, but nothing compared to the sight of you, the person he had come to care for, reduced to this.

           For a split second, all he could do was stand there, frozen by the crushing wave of guilt and anger crashing over him. How could he have let this happen? How had he not seen it, not realized who the unsub was?

           “Morgan!” Hotch's voice was sharp. “Find him. Now.” He couldn't be far away Hotch thought to himself.

           Without waiting for a reply, Hotch crossed the room to you, his hands trembling as he reached up to unchain your wrists. You collapsed into his arms, your body weak and trembling from the strain. He held you close, his jacket already off and wrapping around your shivering form. His chest tightened painfully as he felt just how cold you were, how fragile you felt in his arms.

           “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re safe now.”

           You stirred, barely able to focus, but the sound of his voice - his voice - cut through the haze of terror that had clouded your mind. Your eyes fluttered open, a tear slipping down your cheek as you realized it was him. You tried to speak, but the gag choked you, the duct tape biting into your skin.

           Hotch's fingers were delicate as he reached up to remove the tape. Every inch he peeled back felt agonizingly slow, each movement careful, as if he were terrified of causing you more pain. His eyes never left yours, the guilt and worry etched deep into his features.

           When the gag finally came loose, you gasped, drawing in shaky breaths as your mouth was freed. Your voice came out in a weak rasp, “Aaron…”

           “Shh,” he murmured, brushing the hair from your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

           But you could see it in his eyes. The guilt. The anger. It radiated off him, a storm barely contained beneath the surface. He blamed himself, you knew that much. And though you wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t have known, your voice was too weak, your body too drained.

           Hotch wrapped his arms tighter around you, his face buried in your hair as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there sooner.”

           His words broke something inside you, a sob tearing from your throat despite your exhaustion. You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that you didn’t blame him, but all you could do was cling to him, your body shaking against his.

           You had been so close to losing everything - to never seeing him again. And now, in the safety of his arms, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind the raw emotion and terror that you had been holding back.

           “I’ve got you,” he whispered again, his voice barely a rasp. He held you tighter as if he could shield you from the world, from the pain, from everything you had just endured.

           He didn’t care about protocol, didn’t care that he was supposed to be in control, to remain objective. All he cared about was you, about getting you out of there and keeping you safe.

           When the paramedics arrived, Hotch didn’t let go. He carried you to the ambulance himself, refusing to leave your side for even a moment. The other agents worked around him, searching for your captor, but Hotch didn’t care about anything else right now. He stayed by your side as you were lifted into the ambulance, sitting beside you, his hand holding yours as if it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

           The soft, sterile lighting of the hospital room contrasted with the cold, harsh reality of what had just happened. The beeping machines were rhythmic and steady, peaceful, a constant reminder that you were alive, even though the events leading up to this moment had been anything but peaceful.

           Hotch sat beside your bed, his hand wrapped protectively around yours, his thumb brushing back and forth along your knuckles in a soothing motion. He hadn’t left your side since they’d arrived at the hospital. The team had stayed behind to deal with the crime scene and the unsub, but Hotch had only one priority: you. His suit jacket now hung loosely on the back of his chair, as your bruised body had been hidden away by the hospital gown.

           You shifted slightly in the bed, your eyes fluttering open but still hazy from the morphine coursing through your veins. The medication had dulled the pain but also left you in a dreamy, disoriented state. Everything felt far away, like you were underwater, and the world around you was muffled. But there was one constant, something anchoring you to reality - Hotch.

           “Hotch…” your voice was barely above a whisper, the name slipping from your lips without much strength behind it. You tried to sit up, but your body protested, still sore and weak. Hotch’s grip on your hand tightened gently, his other hand pressing softly against your shoulder to keep you from moving too much.

           “Shh, don’t try to move. The doctor said you need to rest,” he said, his voice low and calm, but underneath it was a storm of emotions - relief, fear, anger. He tried to keep it together for you, but seeing you like this - bruised, shaken, and vulnerable - it broke something inside him.

           You blinked up at him, trying to focus. His face came into view, a mixture of exhaustion and concern etched into his features. “You... you came for me,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred from the medication, but the gratitude in your tone was unmistakable.

           Hotch’s heart clenched at the sound of your voice, so small and fragile. He brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Of course I did,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll always come for you.”

           You smiled faintly, the corners of your lips tugging upwards despite the pain and exhaustion. There was something about his presence that made everything feel just a little bit better, a little safer.

           Your eyes flickered around the room before landing back on him, and with a sleepy giggle, you whispered, “You look so serious, Hotch.”

           A soft chuckle escaped him, the sound rare but welcome, especially given the circumstances. “Someone has to be,” he teased, though his voice was still gentle. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his touch feather-light. “You’ve been through a lot.”

           You hummed, your eyelids growing heavy again, but you fought to stay awake, to stay in this moment with him. “Feel so... floaty,” you mumbled, your words trailing off slightly. The medication was pulling you back under again.

           Hotch smiled softly, watching as you struggled to keep your eyes open. “That’s the morphine. It’s okay to rest, you’re safe now.”

           For a moment, you simply stared up at him, your eyes glazed but full of warmth. “You’re always so... good to me,” you slurred, your voice thick with drowsiness. “Don’t know what I’d do without you…”

           His heart ached at your words. He couldn’t imagine what you had gone through, only what he already knew the unsub usually would have done, but the thought of you feeling alone or scared crushed him. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

           You gave him a sleepy nod, your head lolling slightly to the side. “I know,” you mumbled, your voice fading as sleep finally began to pull you under.

           Hotch leaned forward, brushing a gentle kiss against your forehead. He didn’t care that the hospital staff had insisted he take a break or go home and get some rest. He wasn’t leaving your side, not tonight. Not until he was absolutely sure you were okay.

           As your breathing evened out and your body relaxed into the bed, he sat back, watching you with a mix of compassion and sadness. Seeing you like this, so vulnerable and hurt, made him feel more helpless than he ever had before.

[dont-tell-anyone-im-here]

Obsession

You may be attracted to your career counselor, but he was obsessed with you.

***TW: Power Imbalance; Stalking; Obsessive Behavior; Breaking and Entering; CNC; Choking; Dirty Talk; Rough Oral; Forced Penetration; Afton/Raglan are not good people so they're written as such***

Tags: Reader Has No Specific Genitalia; Oral M Receiving; Masturbation; Sex Toy; Pet Names (White Rabbit/Bunny); x Reader; Blowjob; Penetration; Cross-Posted AO3

It was hard looking for jobs on your own. Especially in this day and age with the classifieds drowning in ads that aren’t even job listings. You are known as a, “job-hopper”, and in the somewhat-small town that you lived in, it was starting to get difficult to find a position that you hadn’t already filled. Luckily, you were the ideal customer for Mr. Steve Raglan, “Career Counselor Extraordinaire”. (At least that’s what he introduced himself as when you had first met.) Other career counselors had given up on you, not seeing a reason to try to get someone employed if they’re just going to quit within a month. However, he saw dollar signs with you. Why would he push away someone who’s a repeat customer? He’d be more than happy to help you, as long as the checks cleared.

You sought help from this man to find work and it was unfortunate that things had to be professional. Steve Raglan wasn’t the usual type to be the object of your sexual desires. It was rare to find yourself fantasizing about older men that weren’t celebrities that littered magazines and the big screen. Silver foxes of the real world were few and far between, and most didn’t age as gracefully as your career counselor. You admit, you weren’t attracted to him when you had first met. He seemed to be like any other middle-aged man trying to get by with an office job that he hated. The second time you met, he was surprised to see you back, joking that he must be losing his touch if you were back so quick. You found that this dry sense of humor was something that you would look forward to hearing at your appointment by the fourth time you had met. It was during the fifth appointment that you noticed how intensely he looked at you from across the desk when you spoke. You noticed the veins in his forearms as he would hand you paperwork. He had strange, patterned scars burned into his skin that sparked curiosity within you, but you never dared to ask. You noticed how he studied every move you would make, like he was dissecting you in his mind, trying to figure out what exact muscles were used to make your body move like that. After you started to notice the little things, you couldn’t stop. Every time you’d come into his office, he’d shake your hand, and every time you’d try not to pay too much attention to how easily his hand enveloped yours. You’d try not to stare as he would look over his files, even though it gave you a moment to watch him when he wouldn’t notice. You’d try not to squirm in your seat when he’d stare you down from across his desk, tutting about only staying two weeks on the last job.

As much as you had a little crush on your counselor, you were also a little afraid. That intense stare sent shocks to your core but it always left a part of your stomach churning. Those scars made you worry about how strong he had to be to survive what caused them, strong enough to do something to you. Him studying your body as if for dissection could very possibly be the reality of what was going through his mind. His hands were a reminder of how much bigger he is than you. You weren’t sure if your infatuation gave you rose-tinted glasses to ignore those feelings of danger when with him, but it had seemed that way, because what you felt for your counselor was pure lust. It was becoming near impossible to be able to sit through those meetings, to be under his scrutiny and not beg for him to take you on his desk.

This was now the tenth time you’ve met with Steve Raglan. Or, it will be the moment he calls you back to his office. Your knee bounced as you waited, impatience starting to eat away at you as you looked around the waiting room, seeing that you were the only one in the lobby, the office secretary the only other body in the room. The secretary told you that your counselor would see you in ten minutes when you had arrived, and when you checked your wristwatch, you saw that a half hour had passed. You weren’t upset, moreso annoyed. Why have you show up at a certain time if he’s not even going to abide by it? You fidgeted in your seat, switching the bouncing knee to tapping your fingers on the armrest of your chair. The door to your crush’s office opened and the crush himself stood on the other side, extending an arm to hold the door open for you as you as he called your name. You tried not to look too eager as you jumped up from your chair. You quickly made your way into the office, trying to keep your eyes on your feet as you ducked under his arm to get past. You saw in your peripheral that he held out his free hand for a greeting and you expertly ignored it. There was a subtle frown when you passed him without a handshake, putting his hand into his pant’s pocket without a comment on how much he didn’t like that.

“Late for somethin’, white rabbit?” Mr. Raglan asked as he closed the door behind him, watching you take your seat in front of his desk. He went to his coffee maker, and began pouring himself a cup. He looked over his shoulder at you, raising the coffee pot with a quirked brow. You wave your hand, dismissing him as you got comfortable in your seat. Steve sniffed, putting the carafe back in its place then turning, a mug in hand. You shook your head, ‘tsk’ing as you pulled an exaggerated disappointed look.

“You’re the one that’s late. We were supposed to meet 20 minutes ago.” You chided, picking at your nails. A part of you liked being the one to tease him for once. He let out an, “Ah!” as he understood, taking a brief sip of his coffee before explaining himself.

“Last appointment was rough- desperate for a job and can’t even do nights? You’re makin’ me push a camel through a pinhole.”

Odd. You didn’t notice anyone walk out of the office when you were called back. Maybe you just hadn’t seen them- you were looking at the floor when walking in, they must’ve just slipped by. As rational as you found that explanation, something still seemed off. There was a slight unease in your stomach that you fended off with your rationalizations. You were so busy figuring out your thoughts that you didn’t notice your career counselor place himself between you and his desk, leaning back on it and sipping his coffee as he turned his torso to open your work file, angling it so he could read it better at the position he was in. You came back to reality when you felt his leg press against yours. You couldn’t help the wave of heat that rushed through you upon seeing how close he was. His desk was no longer an island keeping you away, he was right there, you could take him, right then. You wanted to, but kept your face to your lap, still picking at your nails. You didn’t want him to see the growing blush on your cheeks, feeling embarrassed at the thought of him seeing how much you worked yourself up over something so insignificant. He frowned. He didn’t like that you weren’t looking at him.

“So-“ He started, taking a quick glance back on his desk to read something on your file then turning back to you, “- serving drunks ‘til 3 am wasn’t the dream job?”

“More like a nightmare job.” You said as you inched your leg away from his. He didn’t like that either, but his quick flame of anger died out when your eyes finally met, able to look at him without a blush caused by his limited touch. He had raised a brow at your comments, waiting for you to elaborate as he took a sip from his mug.

“It would’ve been different if the drunks were at least cute.” You joked, when the counselor didn’t laugh, you sighed. “But the real answer is that I was tired of the bouncer walking me to my car- most nights he’d try to take me to his car instead.”

“Sounds like the perfect gentleman.” Mr. Raglan muttered, taking another sip of his coffee then setting it down on his desk. “So, cross ’bartender’ off future lists?”

You bobbed your head side to side, thinking, “… All the ones with creepy bouncers and customers.”

“That’s all bartending then.”

You slumped back in your seat, caught up in your own defeat as yet another job became unattainable to you. You slipped further in your chair as you thought of anything else you could possibly do as a career, your mind so preoccupied that you didn’t notice your legs interlock with his. But he did. You were advancing his touch, clearly you wanted him. Images and scenarios clipped through his brain of all the terrible things he wanted to do to you. Bend you in half over his desk, tie you to your chair with your legs spread, push your head into the coffee stained carpet and pound into you until your rug-burned cheeks bled. The things he wanted to do to you just in his office.

“Is there anything like stocking? I could put stuff on shelves.” You broke the quiet of the room. As Steve took a couple extra milliseconds to answer, blinking a few times to bring himself back to reality, you finally saw how your knees had pinned him to his spot.

“Sure- we’ll just trade in the pervy bouncer with a pervy grocer.” He said once he got the image of your crying, naked, marked body out of his imagination.

“I feel like a pervy grocer would be more mild-mannered.” You sat back up, freeing his legs from yours, trying to get rid of the sexual power you felt keeping him in his place. He really didn’t like that. You had somehow managed to piss him off for the third time and you’d only been in his office for five minutes. He was going to have to do something about that.

“Seriously though, do you have any stocking jobs? I can ignore whatever awful thing there is about the place- I just need a job.” You sounded desperate. Oh, that was what he was going to do about that, perfect.

“I don’t think I have anything like that.” Mr. Raglan said flatly, knowing damn well that he had about five different offers of exactly what you were asking for. He just wanted to see you beg, something that he could take home with him for the late hours when he can’t sleep.

“Could you check?” You asked, just as flat, annoyed that he seemed to not care. When he just brought his mug to his lips and drank the last few gulps of his coffee, you added a, “Please?”, as sweetly as you could. He sucked air through his teeth, holding a now empty mug, looking at the coffee remnants pool at the bottom, debating whether he wanted to get another cup or not.

“C’mon, for an old friend?” You joked, adding another “Please?” that dripped with melted sugar. He could listen to you say please like that for the rest of his life and not get enough. He hummed as he weighed the nonexistent options. You looked up at him with clasped hands and a slight pout. You were only being silly, you didn’t know that it was just what he wanted. He wanted to see you pout and beg, give him puppy-dog eyes and look up at him pathetically. It would’ve been picture perfect if you were on your knees. He hid his mischievous smile behind a hand as he pretended to rub his face in thought.

“Lemme take a look.” He ended his sentence by putting his mug behind him on his desk. As Mr. Raglan stepped away from his desk, he patted your knee as he passed. It was something subtle, but it was an action that you’d be thinking about for the rest of the week. The counselor went to one of his filing cabinets, flipping through the files until he found what he was looking for. He closed the cabinet then opened the file, glancing through to make sure it was the right one. It was full of blank applications for a grocery store in town, just what you had asked for, but he wouldn’t let you get them that easily.

“Looks like things are already full of hard-working employees.” He said, flipping the applications about in the file as if he was reading documents. You felt that the ‘hard-working’ bit was a jab at you.

“Is there anything you can do?” You asked, your hands still clasped, your pout a little more severe. He wished there was a way to get you on your knees without outting himself as the actual perv that you should be worried about.

“I may be able to pull a few strings.” He gave a small smile and he closed the file, moving to his desk and taking a seat behind it. He picked up his phone and he dialed the number on the applications.

“Let me make a call.” He winks at you as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs as he listened to the ringing line. No one would pick up though. The number he put in was nonsense, he just wanted you to think he was doing a huge favor for you.

“The number you’re trying to reach is unavailable-” The automated message began, but Steve carried on conversation as if someone was on the other line. You squirmed a bit in your seat, his gaze not leaving you as he began to talk into the blaring receiver.

“Yes, this is Steve Raglan, the career counselor? Yeah, how’re you doing today?”

As your career counselor spoke on the phone, convincing this imaginary person to hire you, you tried to look around his office. Your eyes went from each object in the room. The coffee maker, the little table it sat on, the little trash can under it. But his eyes felt like they were burning into you. Your gaze was magnetically drawn back to him whenever you tried to focus on something else, you felt like you couldn’t look anywhere else but at him. When you finally gave in, making eye contact, he grinned. A chill ran down your spine.

“I know- I know you said that you’re full of stockers over there but I got a very hard worker here that is in a bind.” Mr. Raglan sat back in his chair, uncrossing his legs to push back a bit from under the desk to make room for his long legs. You immediately looked at how his legs spread apart to get comfortable. You could fit perfectly between his thighs, hide under his desk and quietly suck him off as he tried to keep a straight face as he met with his clients. You looked back to his face and he was still staring at you, his grin growing. You looked down to your lap, embarrassed, beginning to feel like it was too hot in this office.

“They’re very experienced with dealing with authority, they take orders well.”

You couldn’t help but think that he meant more than what he was saying. You took a glance back up to see that his eyes never left you. You felt like you were sweating buckets at this point. You started to pick at your nails again, needing something to focus on besides his searing gaze that somehow still felt so dark and cold. Mr. Raglan’s voice picked up, your ears perking to his tone, yet you kept your gaze to your hands.

“I’m willing to put my reputation on the line here- if you can’t hire them, you can take me off your call list.” 

There it was. He was putting his credentials on the line for you. He almost felt too prideful when he saw your eyes widen hearing him. You were convinced that he was willing to go so far for you. He watched you fiddle with your fingers, knowing you were trying not to look at him.

“Yeah, send a fax of the application and I’ll have them fill it out, and I’ll send it right back.”

Steve put the phone on “hold”, pushing a button and setting the phone back on the receiver. His elbows propped up on the arm rests of his chair and he raised hands up, giving the air of a humble brag for his technique of negotiation.

“Am I good, or what?” He said, flashing a smile before getting up, picking up the file of all the applications he had and leaving the room. He had to kill a few minutes to make it look like he was picking up the fax from the secretary. He walked back to the employee common area of the offices, going through the cupboards for the sake of doing something, saying a quick hello to the coworkers that passed him. He walked back out and went into the bathroom, the file still in hand. He felt too clever for this, feeling sinful for being so proud of himself for how smart he was. It was the little details that made the lie all the more believable. Taking out one of the applications, he tucked the file of remaining papers under his arm. He activated the hand drying machine, holding the paper underneath the fan that loudly roared hot air onto it. He ran each sheet of paper under the fan for the allotted time of the machine, getting off-looks from the other employees who had come in to use the restroom or were leaving, (who opted for drying their hands with the paper towels).

When your counselor handed you the application for your new job, it was still warm off the printer.

“Oh thank you, Mr. Raglan, thank you!” You said as you quickly filled the papers out, thanking the counselor over and over in a mantra of gratitude. He took in your thanks, wanting to remember you thanking him repeatedly for when he’s by himself with wandering hands. You have an excited grin when you hand back the papers, his smile felt so genuine as he took the application to fax back out to the employer. You still couldn’t believe that he had stuck his neck out like that for you. You watched as he got up and left the room once again. Your eyes wandered as you waited. You noticed the counselor’s desk phone, and that there wasn’t the usual blinking light of a call on hold. Odd. That unease in your stomach returned. It felt like a primal sense of dread. It disappeared when the door opened, Mr. Raglan smiling as he came in and sat back down at his chair, following your gaze when you glanced at the phone again.

“Ah, looks like they hung up on me.” He frowns, but his smile returns when he gives you his full attention.

“I’ll have to give him a call back.”He placed his hands on top of the files on his desk, folding them neatly as he looked you in the eyes. “I’ll let you know if you got the job or not when I can.”

“Thank you Mr. Raglan! You don’t realize how much this means to me.” You say, slightly bowing your head in gratitude. “Please, if there’s anything I could do for you to repay you- let me know.”

That chimed in his head like church bells. Oh, he could use that. You probably thought maybe a fruit basket or a cheap ticket to a game, but he had other ideas.

You got up from your seat, seeing that now was the right time to leave.

“I know you kinda put your reputation on the line for me, I’d really like to be able to show my gratitude somehow.” You add with a smile, making your way to his office door, him following you to it.

“Oh, I’ll be sure to let you know.” He smiles, opening the door and holding out a hand. You gladly took it, shaking it with a newfound giddiness that could only be from getting a chance that was undeserved. You didn’t know how much he would be thinking about this, going over every single second in his mind over and over, reading too deeply into how grateful you were. You were indebted to him now, and you were going to have to repay that debt, whether you wanted to or not. He watched you walk out of the office, and you could feel his hot gaze on your back as you did, you tried not to shiver.

When you had completely gone, Steve looked at the clock and pretended to debate in his mind, acting like he was trying to make a tough decision before telling the secretary that he’ll be in his office the rest of the day, so he’ll see them tomorrow. They bid their goodbye, giving a small smile and wave as he closed the door and locked it behind him. He reached to his neck and loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, and stood in front of his desk, leaning back on it as he had done when you had first walked in. He stared at the empty chair in front of him, imagining you sitting there, naked, legs spread, and mouth open. He shuddered a breath as he couldn’t help himself undoing his belt buckle and reaching into his pants. God, he was rock hard. He replayed in his mind you begging for him to help you, hearing your pleads echo in his ears, only now asking him for help to make you cum. He didn’t realize he was so close until it was too late, cumming on the empty seat and imagining he had done so on your face, once again, your voice echoing in his head your repeated gratitude of before, now thanking him for his seed decorating your body. His grip on his desk was hard as he panted, your figure fading away as he came down from his high. He rubbed his face with his clean hand, taking a deep breath before finally calming down and out of sheer curiosity, he checked his wrist watch. You had only left his office 7 minutes ago.

As he cleaned up, the inner cogs and mechanisms of his brain began to turn and devise a plan. A plan on how he was going to get that payment out of you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was a beautiful day outside, perfect for a nice walk in the neighborhood with a dog on a leash and nothing but the sun and the birds to tag along. Yet Steve Raglan sat in his car, parked at the side of the street in a suburban neighborhood. He looked down at the file in front of him. Its papers were unorganized but he easily found what he searched for, as if he’s been studying the pages for months.

That was because he had been, and it was your file.

Since you’ve become a repeat client of his, he’d become more intrigued by you with each meeting. The intrigue became a dark obsession, and it has now come to a head. He was parked about a block away from your home, feeling that overwhelming self-pride at figuring out when your neighbors were usually out, leaving a suspicious car to go unnoticed in your neighborhood. (At least for the amount of time he predicted he would have with you.) He really was too clever. 

As he glanced at the sidewalks around him, seeing how many people were around, he thought of how long it had been since he had last seen you, and how it was because of the absence of you that he was there. It’d been over five months. You’ve been excelling at your new job at the grocery store. The store manager had called him to say that “he had sent a great employee to him”, and that if “he had any others like you to send them right over!” He scoffed after he had hung up the phone. There wasn’t anyone else like you. That’s why he was obsessed with you.

He got out of his car, closing the door and locking it before pocketing the keys. He began a walk down the block, something he’s grown familiar with. This wasn’t the first time that he’s walked your streets. He preferred to do it at night, memorizing the walk to your house in the dark and taking peeks into your windows from the view of the sidewalk, not wanting to draw too much attention if anyone happened to be looking out the window. He wanted to stare into your windows desperately, to watch you, but he couldn’t hurt this good thing he had going. He could walk past your home at night and see you lounging in your living room, completely unaware he stared at you as he passed your home, it was bliss.

Today, however, was different. He was going to actually go into your home. He really was too smart, he knew everything about you and today he would finally get to execute on his plan. From the outside, it would look like he knocked on your door, and that you let him in. But he was actually going to pretend to knock on your door, and act out you letting him inside. He was going to overstay his welcome, whether you liked it or not, and he was going to get away with it. He knew that you would be home today, he had gotten your schedule from your employer, as an old favor for an old friend. He knew from small talk that you lived by yourself, and that you didn’t have a dog. He had even suggested that you should get a dog, you’re all alone, who knows what could happen.

Steve finally came to your street, holding back his urge to run the rest of the way to your house. As he approached your home he took a quick glance through the windows. You weren’t in the living room. Perfect. As he stood on your front porch, he took a deep breath, taking a final moment to prepare himself for what he was about to do. With the lightest touch, he knocked on the door, his knuckles barely registering on the wood. No response from inside the house. Perfect. He tried the door knob. He hadn’t expected for it to turn with a soft click- he had a screwdriver to jam into the doorframe if it wasn’t- yet the door was unlocked. Perfect. Swiftly he opened the door, peering inside carefully, no one in sight. Perfect. He stepped into your house, closing the door behind him, and locking it. He dropped to a crouch, untying his shoes and leaving them neatly by the entrance, carefully placing his keys in the shoe so as not to make any unnecessary noise. He crept further into your home, sticking to the walls to not creak your floorboards, taking every precaution to not let you know he was there. After checking the kitchen, which was empty, he made his way to the halls, starting to hear a sound he couldn’t quite place. It sounded sloppy, wet. A door in the hall was ajar, the sound coming from there. Another sound joined the wet slapping and he grinned. He realized he actually knew what that sound was. As gently as possible, he opened the door more, slinking inside and quietly closing the door, locking it before finally turning to what was in the room.

He could’ve fallen to his knees seeing the state you put yourself in. Your naked ass in the air, your face pressed into your mattress, unbeknownst to you, giving Steve Raglan full view of you masturbating. One of your hands clawed at the edge of the bed as the other worked between your legs, pumping a dildo in and out of you, desperately trying to get yourself off. Your muffled whimpers could still be heard through the blankets, pulling your head up only to breathe and plead to the open air to make yourself cum. Your arm ached, but your need to satisfy yourself overpowered what fatigue ailed your muscles. You found a compromise by slowly pulling the sex toy out, your moans drawn out like a song, before slamming it back into you with a guttural cry.

“Misterrr...” You drawled from deep in your throat. Steve’s ears perked. He was more than interested in knowing who you were imagining as you fucked yourself, jealous bile rising in his throat at the thought of you thinking of someone else. He could easily walk forward, spread your ass apart and have his way with you, teach you a lesson for thinking someone else could make you like this. His envy quickly changed to pure hunger when you continued your lustful ramblings.

“Mr. Raglan, please…” You begged into the bed, repeatedly pulling the dildo then bottoming out, each squelch punctuated with your helpless whimpers. His mouth went dry when his name left your lips, your words going straight to his cock. He was already erect seeing you in this position, but now knowing that you were in the throes of ecstasy because of the mere thought of him? He couldn’t take his dick out fast enough. His grip was hard on the metal of his belt, not wanting to alarm you of his presence. He didn’t want you to know he was here, not yet. This was a surprise for him, and he wanted to return the favor with a surprise of his own. He felt he could already burst watching you lose yourself over him. He wanted to make you never forget him, no matter how hard you tried to fuck yourself, it could never be him. He was more than happy to remind you. He carefully took off his belt and set it aside, rarely taking his eyes off you, especially when your pace began to quicken. His hand wrapped around his hard cock, swiftly pulling it over the waistband of his boxers and matching your pace, watching intently how tightly you wrapped around the sex toy. He bit back his own moans as he imagined it was his cock you were rocking back into, his teeth scraping his bottom lip to hold himself back.

Your hand became erratic, your rhythm lost to the coil in your stomach tightening to a point you felt sore. You planted your face into the blankets as you pushed your arm through the last bit of energy it had, you cried out. A warm liquid coats your legs as you finally came, your back arching as you rode out your euphoria, panting as if you haven’t breathed in hours. Your hand fell to the bed, leaving the dildo to slowly fall out of you and thump to the mattress. Steve could’ve screamed watching your relaxed muscles push the toy out of you, he couldn’t hold himself back any longer, and with a long stride, he was directly behind you. The hair on the back of your neck prickled, finally out of your stupor enough to feel like you were being watched.

But it was too late.

A cold hand slapped across your mouth and you felt a weight on your back as someone leaned onto you. You could feel something hard rubbing against your ass and you whimpered against the strong hand, feeling tears begin to prick your eyes as the situation settled in. Who is this? How’d they get in? What were they going to do to you? Were you going to die before or after they were done with you? Your nose stung as the tears pooled in your eyes, you felt so vulnerable, so scared, starting to feel sobs build in your chest as you found yourself begin to pray to whatever higher power existed to save you from this. You felt there was no other option. You were cornered and you were alone with someone who had intentions that you didn’t even want to fathom.

“Aww, what’s wrong, white rabbit? I thought this was what you were fantasizing about.” A voice cooed into your ear. Your eyes went wide, your tears sliding down your cheeks as you recognized the voice. You knew who was behind you, and you were sure you didn’t find  that comforting. You looked over your shoulder to see Mr. Steve Raglan. He was so close to you, your lips could’ve met if it wasn’t for his rough hand muzzling your lips. There was something in his eyes, something that made fear shoot down your spine to the bottoms of your feet. You felt disgusted with yourself as a tinge of excitement pooled in your groin as you saw he was naked from the waist down. Of course this would turn you on.

But, he wasn’t wrong. You were fantasizing about him, wanting him behind you in this exact position, fucking you. It could become a reality now and you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. As much as you wanted to fight against this, a part of you knew he didn’t have to take you by force. You wanted to say something, to tell him all he had to do was ask and you would’ve let him have his way with you, but his hand was firm on your lips, muffling what little noises you could make. You watched him as his other hand started trailing up your thigh to your ass, spreading one of your cheeks apart for his dick to slide right in between. 

“Perfect fit.” He grunts, leaning back for a brief moment so he could take in how neatly your ass wrapped around his cock. You couldn’t stop your hips from pushing back into him, an animalistic instinct wanting him to be pressed against you once more. A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he leaned back down, it felt degrading.

“So quick for your next fix.” His teeth ran along the side of your neck before placing a chaste kiss behind your ear, his breath hot on your skin. “But you want the real thing, don’t you?”

You nodded, whining against his hand as your ass ground his hips. He let out a breathy moan, desperate, wanton. He was as needy as you were, his free hand beginning to roam your naked body as if he couldn’t feel enough of your skin. It was as if he was starving, a crazed man who couldn’t be satisfied. Your fear, though still very present, ebbed away at the edges, feeling a wave of authority surge through you as you realized just how desperate Mr. Raglan was.

You could control this situation if you wanted to.

But right now, even though you knew how fucked this was, what you really wanted was for him to do whatever he wanted with you. His free hand came back up your hips, slowly reaching around, calloused fingertips tickling your skin as he teased you, only touching your pelvis, somehow scraping past without actually touching you. You felt his dick pulsing between your ass cheeks and you moaned against his hand. He let go of your mouth, moving down your jaw, down your neck, gripping your shoulder tightly as a new way to keep you in place underneath him.

“Mr. Raglan, please-” you breathed, pulling your hips away from him to allow his dick to slide right against your entrance, getting onto your elbows to ready yourself. You heard him laugh aloud at how ready you were to have him in you. “I want you to-”

You didn’t even finish your request. He grabbed himself and was pushing into you. You gasped. It was burning. It was burning inside of you and you loved it. Fuck, you wanted this burn to overtake you, to completely consume you. As you caught your breath, Steve groaned, blinking hard as he gathered himself. His plan was going perfectly. This was everything he wanted and more. (Well, he kind of wanted more of a fight, but beggars can’t be choosers.)

He was the perfect size for you, fuck, his dick felt exactly like you had imagined it would, if not more amazing. He filled you completely and you couldn’t ask for anything better. His fingers drummed once before gripping your hips, finally back in his own body after the thrilling experience of just entering you. You felt better than he had imagined, if not more amazing. He had been dreaming about this, obsessing about this for months on end, never leaving his train of thought, and he finally had it. He leaned forward against your arched back, one hand moving slowly up your body from your hips, and wrapping lightly around your throat, his lips by your ear, breathing lowly. You felt his fingers begin to squeeze your neck, your breathing hitched into a moan.

“This is what you get for teasing me with that body of yours.” He says into your ear, his hold on your hip growing tighter. “You come into my office, sat there with your legs spread- god, you wanted me to fuck you right then and there, didn’t you? You’re such a slut.”

Steve began to move his hips.

He wasn’t slow or gentle and it didn’t matter if you weren’t ready, he did as he pleased and you were meant to just go along for the ride. His grip was tight around your throat and you could feel your face growing hot with blood gathering in your head. You felt amazing. Your eyes rolled back as you wasted what little air you had on uncontrollably moaning. You choked out a whiny, “Please,” that he rewarded by releasing his vice, allowing you to take a few deep breaths before his grasp tightened once again, earning a moan that he found particularly delicious.

“Listen to you whine- it’s pathetic.” He grunts under his breath, slowing down for a moment so that you can actually hear him over the sound of your skin slapping together with each thrust.

“I knew you wanted me to destroy you the moment your skin touched mine- that first handshake was enough to tell me just how desperate you were for someone to show you how it’s done.”

You can’t respond with words, only able to whimper and groan the more he choked and fucked you. He released his grip around your throat and as you gasped for air, his fingers massaging the sides of your throat. It was almost a nice feeling, especially coupled with the quick pecks he left at the corner of your jaw. But then his hand moved up under your chin, his fingers digging into your cheeks to force your mouth open.

“I want to hear you. I want to fucking hear you tell me how desperate you are for me.” He demands, his pace picking up again, throwing you into moans. Your jaw hurt from being pried open, his nails stabbing into your skin, but you still couldn’t give an answer. Not getting what he wanted, you felt his hand on your hip let go, then his arm wrap around your waist. You felt yourself being lifted off your elbows to an upright position on your knees, his dick reaching a new spot inside of you. The moan that escaped you was almost unnecessarily loud. You felt a chuckle rumble against your back, he was laughing at you, though it was between his own quiet, breathless moans.

“That’s not what I told you to do.” He hisses, though he didn’t let up, knowing you’d struggle to get anything out other than sounds of ecstasy.

“Hng- I was- fuck- so des- ah!- ‘perate,” You’re finally able to spit out. He slowed, allowing you to speak more. “I wanted you- fucking christ, I want you so bad-“

Steve took a hefty bite into your neck, sucking and grinding his teeth with your skin between, your groan mixed with the sound of his pelvis hitting your ass over and over in an unrelenting fuck that made you feel as if your body would soon give out. When he pulled away, it was already beginning to bruise. He thought the hue of red looked wonderful on you.

“If you want my dick so bad-” Without warning he pulled completely out of you, making you cry out upon feeling an emptiness you’ve never experienced before. He let go of you, your body collapsing onto the bed, you hadn’t realized he was the only thing holding you upright. As you collect yourself, whining about how close you were to cumming, you looked up and found him standing at the edge of the bed, hovering over you. You licked your lips at the sight of his treasure trail to his erect cock, glistening from being inside you, now inches away from your mouth.

“Why don’t you choke on it.” He finishes, grabbing the back of your head and forcing your gasping mouth around him. For the first time you heard him moan. Really moan. It was intoxicating, you instantly wanted to make him do that again, you needed to hear him make that noise again. Maybe if you were good, you would. His dick tasted like you and you hated how much you loved it, living up to being a so-called “slut”. You opened the back of your throat, doing everything you could to take him in entirely. You let him hold your head in place as he fucked your mouth, more moans escaping him that you rewarded by taking him even deeper. Your teeth dragged along his shaft and you heard him hiss- the sharp sting of his hand slaps your cheek.

It wasn’t hard enough to leave a mark, but it was hard enough to tell you to, “Knock that shit off.” The sudden slap did, however, cause you to lose focus on keeping your airway open, and you were now choking on the dick that was halfway down your throat. Your chest seized, but he didn’t let you move, still deep in your mouth. It seemed your struggling only made him more excited, his grunts increasing the more you gagged. You were able to wiggle your arms out from under your body and reach for his legs, tapping one of his thighs twice as if asking for a tap out in a wrestling match.

Surprisingly, Steve listened, pulling out of your mouth, letting you cough and catch your breath. You could feel tears streak your face as you looked up at him with bleary eyes, and he grinned. The very same grin you saw when he had gotten you the job at the grocery store. That familiar feeling of unease churned in your stomach, if it was anymore intense you would be nauseous. It was then the fog of hormones cleared and the reality of what was currently happening came upon you.

Finally, it registered to you that he had been planning this.

What was happening right now, at this moment, was all part of a scheme he designed. Him getting you the job, him breaking into your home, him fucking you. You weren’t sure what the outcome of the plan would be. You hoped it wasn’t with your dead, naked body in bed.

But you’d be damned if he murdered you because you were a bad lay.

Not knowing if you were doing this out of your own will to survive, (or if you were just so horny you couldn’t help yourself,) you looked him in the eye, and took his cock into your mouth to the hilt. You saw his eyes roll back, and the moan that emitted from him was enough to tell you that you would not be dying tonight.

“Oooh, white rabbit,” He purred, his eyes returning to yours, watching as you drew back and pressed the flat of your tongue to the underside of his dick, allowing him to easily slip in and out of your throat.

“You’re everything I’ve dreamed,” He continues, holding the sides of your head as he gently rocked into your mouth.

“Keep doin’ that an’ I might just keep you with me forever.” He managed to wink at you. You weren’t sure if he meant that as a life partner or as a prisoner.

Your spit collected in his pubes, your chin now coated with a mix of your spit and his pre-cum, not breaking your eye contact with him. Your tongue wrapped around his dick, enjoying the sweet noises he was making. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him more, the grunt he made was almost primal. His grip on your head grew and his pace quickened, you knew he was going to cum, and this time he wouldn’t be able to hold back. Your lips pressed tightly around his cock, keeping it in your mouth when he finally came down your throat. You took it completely and compliantly, gratefully swallowing all of his cum. You licked your lips and upon realizing that some had dribbled out of the corner of your mouth, your tongue darted out to finish your meal. But Steve’s strong hand grabbed your jaw, stopping you. He leaned down, pulling you up to meet him and the flat of his tongue licked away the cum before you could, continuing its stripe onto your lips, and into your open maw. You moaned into his mouth as your tongues curled around each other and he sucked yours as he pulled away. He finished with a quick peck on your pouting lips, still keeping you a centimeter away, his words brushing you as he muttered, 

“You’re such a good bunny-” He kisses you again, this time leaving you dizzy- “Swallowing without even asking-“ He kisses you a third time- “Oh, you’re everything to me.”

You weren’t sure you were just playing along with his plan anymore. All the things he was doing, all the things he was saying to you were only making you hornier and hornier. Your core felt like it was on fire, begging to be touched by him, wanting to be fucked, wanting to finally cum because of him. You didn’t care that he had set all of this up, you didn’t care that he had broken into your home, you didn’t care that he was taking advantage of you. You just wanted him to make you cum. So you begged for it.

“Mr. Raglan…” You breathed against his lips, letting him kiss you between your statements, “Please- I need you to make me cum-“ Another kiss, lingering longer, his harsh lips making yours feel pillowed when he pulled away.

“Please make me cum.” You pleaded. The grin on his face looked maniacal.

“White rabbit, you only had to ask.” He drops you back down to the bed, pushing your shoulders down, your back flat against the mattress. The air hitched in your lungs when Steve harshly grabbed your legs and pushed your knees damn-near either side of your head, bending you in half as he leaned on top of you, pinning you in the position.

“I’ve been wanting to hear you beg for me to make you cum for so long.” He sighs. “Oh bunny, you look so good under me like that.”

You hissed as he bit into the backs of thighs as one of his hands left your knees, skimming down your body until it fell off, leaving your mind to race as to what it was doing. You were quickly distracted by his sharp teeth in your flesh again.

“It’s too bad that gorgeous mouth of yours sucked me dry.” He tutted. You felt his hand return, along with a familiar feeling of silicone.

“I’ve been dreamin’ of cummin’ in you,” The dildo you were masturbating with when he arrived was in his hand, the tip playing at your entrance, making you whimper.

“Ya know, I should punish you for taking away that pleasure.” He pulled the toy away completely, your whine choked back when his other hand grabbed your throat swiftly and squeezed. Fear pumped your blood, unfortunately only making you want him more. You lifted your chin as much as you could in the position you were in, giving him more access to your neck, your eyes half-lidded and watching him, waiting for him to do what he saw fit. He chuckled, knowing that he had you wrapped around his finger, that you would do anything for him now, just as he had planned.

“But I think makin’ you wait this long is punishment enough.”

The dildo was slammed into you and the noise you let out was garbled between a cry and some noise an animal would make. In the position you were currently in, the toy reached a new spot in you that you’ve never felt before, and each pump drew a whiny moan out of you, you windpipe still being squeezed by his strong hand.

“Those noises you make- I could get hard again just hearin’ ‘em.” His hand let go of your throat, his fingers now playing at your hairline at the nape of your neck, his thumb on your bottom lip, playing with how swollen it was. He bit into your thighs again, leaving behind dark marks that made you cry out in pain that sank down into groans of pleasure the more he fucked you with your toy.

“Oh, make those noises for me, white rabbit.” He says against your skin, his hand moving the dildo faster and harder into you. You had found the more you heard it, the more you loved the pet name he had given you. You didn’t know why he called you ‘white rabbit’ or ’bunny,’ but you didn’t want to bother asking. You loved that it was yours and it was something that you could always be for him. What you loved the most about it was how he always said it so adoringly, bordering on obsessively- and you realized what this was all about.

Obsession.

Steve Raglan was obsessed with you and he wouldn’t be able to rest until he had marked you, until he had claimed you, needing you to only be for himself. No one else will be able to fuck you again. Not only because you knew that he would never let it happen, but also because you knew that you would only be thinking about him. Considering everything, that wasn’t a shock. How could you ever be with someone else after this?

His thumb on your lip dared to enter your mouth, marveling how warm and wet it was and how soft your tongue was as it lapped the calloused pad of his thumb, the ridges of your teeth biting into it. He sighed dreamily as you sucked on his thumb, a whine in your throat when you felt like your body might give out.

“Are ya gonna cum for me? So soon?” His voice was in a mocking tone yet you still answered with a whimpered, “yes,” and screwed your eyes shut to focus on the knot in your stomach growing so tight it genuinely hurt.

He thought that your head might explode from how red it was getting. From the position he forced you in, the blood collecting in your head was enough to make your face glow and grow hot to the touch. The current image he was seeing of you was something he would take with him for the rest of life. He knew he would be thinking of this encounter on his deathbed, feeling nothing but bliss at the memory of taking advantage of you. (Though, with the way you were moaning, he didn’t really think this could be considered taking advantage.)

“Look at me, bunny. I wanna see you come undone.” He demands. You’re able to roll your eyes open and lock your gaze with his. His eyes bore into your very being and it felt like it was setting your very soul on fire, finally sending you over, the knot releasing. His grip was hard on your face, making sure you kept your eyes on him as your orgasm took over your whole body. Your groan was long and drawn out with a mumbled version of his name, your eyes struggling to keep open from how hard the waves of pleasure hit you.

As you struggled to catch your breath, he pulled you towards him and kissed your forehead tenderly, then allowed you to lay back on the bed, letting your eyes close. His body slowly got off yours, allowing your legs to drop unceremoniously onto the mattress with a slight bounce of the springs. The dildo was still inside you, and Steve watched with a hungry eye as your relaxed muscles pushed it out for the second time today. Fuck, he could never get used to that.

Your breathing finally slowed, your body sore from holding positions for him despite lack of flexibility. You felt him get off the bed and upon hearing the jangling of a belt you lazily opened your eyes. He rolled his shoulders and neck as he tucked his shirt into his pants. He looked back over his shoulder at you, and he broke into a grin seeing you still a sweaty mess on the bed. He came over to the bed, sitting on the edge and leaning back to capture your lips with his in a breathtaking, passionate kiss. He pulled away with a soft groan, feeling a raising anger that he couldn’t stay longer, but unfortunately he had business at a certain abandoned pizzeria to take care of, (the new security guard was getting too comfortable to his liking,) and he knew if he left his car any longer it would look more suspicious than it already does.

He looked at you and put a hand on your cheek, kissing you again, more softly this time, as if that was a sufficient enough goodbye for what you just endured. His hand taps your cheek before it slips off your face and he stands, heading for your bedroom door. You watched, dumbstruck that he was just going to leave without saying a word, without saying anything about what just happened.

“Will you come back?” Your voice is so soft you thought he wouldn’t hear it, but he does, stopping briefly to answer you before closing the door behind him.

“Oh, white rabbit,” Mr. Raglan smirks over his shoulder, “I always come back.”

[sirfrogsworth]

So, the new lens is great. It takes beautiful pictures. And I am still brought to tears when I think about what an amazing gift this is. From a complete stranger, no less.

But there was some unexpected lens drama that kind of tarnished the excitement of this wonderful gift.

When I opened the lens initially, I noticed it was not in a retail box. It was still wrapped in plastic and that made it seem like it was new, but then I noticed there was no warranty card. Two red flags. Things that would be easily missed by a lot of people.

I was worried it was "gray market" which is a lens meant for another country. These can be imported cheaper but they will not have any warranty and if you try to get them repaired outside the intended country, manufacturers will often refuse to work on them.

I hooked up the lens to my computer so I could update the firmware. I also copied the serial number and sent it to Sigma to see if they had any info about the lens and if it was under warranty.

It was not gray market... but it was used.

Sigma's records show it being sold in 2018. Used lenses are fine. And they can be repaired in-country. But my gift giver did not pay for a used lens. Also, I wanted to get the lens focus calibrated. Sigma will calibrate the lens to my camera for free under warranty. Out of warranty, it would cost $100.

Maybe it was a mistake. They sent a used lens by accident perhaps. But then I found this review of the seller.

A pattern of behavior.

So this 3rd party Amazon seller basically committed fraud.

And this really upset me.

Amazon wouldn't let me message them directly due to it being a gift order. So I spent days talking to Amazon customer service and trying to figure out what to do. They asked if I wanted to file a complaint, but I told them no. I wanted to keep that option as leverage.

After some google-fu, I found the store's customer service email and wrote them a sternly worded message. I told them I wanted them to exchange the used lens for a new copy. I wanted them to promise never to sell anything used as new again. And if they did not comply, I would file a complaint and leave a 1 star review warning people not to do business with them.

That finally got their attention and I was emailed back promptly. They asked for pictures proving my claims. I sent them photos of the generic packaging and also this screen capture of my email from Sigma.

The good news... they agreed to exchange the lens.

But they did not acknowledge any wrongdoing and did not say they would no longer sell used lenses as new.

In any case, the matter should be resolved as long as they keep their word. But this all really bummed me out. I just wanted this one bit of joy to tide me over until I started feeling better. And I will have that joy soon. But all of the effort required to reclaim that joy is frustrating.

[vioxis]

Consume 3/?

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Word count: 1,439

Pairing: Stalker!König x F!Reader

Summary: The story follows König and his obsession, You. The object of his desire, the constant temptation before him. Do you know what you do to him? You feign innocence, but worry not Shatz… He'll find that out on his own.

TW: NSFW! MDNI +18. Very obsessive and possessive behavior, Stalker!König, Breaking and entering,

Will update with more tags along the way! Part 1/? Let me know what TW I should use!

He slept soundly, cradled in the comforting embrace of your scented underwear. It felt like heaven, as though you were right there beside him. The fragrant notes of vanilla and jasmine intertwined, striking a perfect balance of innocence and allure. After the scent had gently dissipated, he carefully stowed the garment in his dresser. The counterpart, your bra, hung within the confines of his closet, gracing its own dedicated hanger, nestled snugly between the wall and his uniforms.

As the scent gradually faded from memory, an insatiable curiosity gnawed at him. He yearned to explore, to discover what else in his possession bore the mark of your ownership. Today marked yet another meeting with you for a physical examination—a ritual he had grown to relish. Your dynamic was always charged with playful banter, a dance of wits where you effortlessly adapted to the flow of the moment. 

Stepping into the room, his eyes fell upon you, positioned on your knees behind the desk. Your inviting silhouette, obscured by your coat, was tantalizing. He cleared his throat, causing you to startle in surprise, inadvertently bumping your head against the desk.

"König," you greeted him with a smile, a mere utterance of his name that never failed to ignite the desire within him. If only circumstances were different, more primal…more animalistic. You gracefully moved out from behind the desk, meticulously patting your knees to ensure they were free of dust, the embodiment of perfection as always.

"Hello, Doctor. Same spot?" he inquired, gesturing towards the examination table. You nodded, your gaze momentarily diverted as you retrieved his files. Curiosity burning within him, he couldn't resist probing further, "What were you doing under the desk?"

"I had a pit bull... or was it a bulldog? A small figurine," you mumbled, your voice tinged with confusion. "I swear I had it on the corner of my desk. Perhaps it fell and the cleaning staff removed it."

His back remained turned to you, but the revelation sent a thrill coursing through his body. A wicked smirk played upon his lips beneath the shadow of his hood. Your obliviousness to the disappearing items fueled his exhilaration. He struggled to contain his excitement, fearing that any more arousal would propel his pants across the room in a reckless rush to claim you.

His hands gripped the examination table, the supple leather within his grasp, as he imagined it to be your body. A gentle touch on his back elicited a groan as he turned his head to meet your concerned gaze.

"You good? Would you like to reschedule the examination?" you inquired, genuine concern in your voice. 

Oh Shatz, If only you knew...

"Doctor, I am fine to continue," he calmly asserted, catching even himself by surprise with his collected demeanor. Without hesitation, he sat on the table, watching intently as you procured a small stool to stand on. What struck him most was that this seemingly insignificant act was adorable. You had invested your own money to ensure his examination was as comfortable as possible, and the thought of it warmed him.

As you delved into the details of his BPM, his muscle-to-fat ratio, and various health metrics, he found himself utterly captivated by your gaze. Your words flowed like a gentle stream, each sentence an elaborate picture of his health. Yet, he knew that your thoroughness would be distilled into a summary later—a pattern he had come to remember about you.

Your proximity was a constant temptation, your hand gliding up his thigh, your touch exploring his chest with expertise, searching for any hidden knots or signs of discomfort. He fought to maintain his composure, his senses tantalized by the lingering scents of vanilla and jasmine that clung to you. His mind raced with fantasies of how he might savor your essence during more intimate moments, lapping you up, craving to consume every inch of you.

The tap of your pen on the clipboard sent a sudden electric jolt through his body, snapping him from his thoughts about your proximity. He met your gaze, a steady, unwavering gaze that held a playful edge as you spoke, "I'll give this to your superior; you aren't listening to me." There was a subtle teasing quality to your words that danced in the air.

König interjected smoothly, any opportunity to draw nearer to you, to prolong this intimate exchange. "Do you need help looking for your statue?" he inquired, his voice laced with a blend of genuine concern and seductive curiosity.

Your response was soft, a light chuckle resounds in you, a sound that had the power to entrap his senses that led directly to his groin. 

"Are you offering?" you teased, your laughter like a siren's call that tugged at the very core of his being.

His internal thoughts screamed, Anything. I'd give you anything, yet he responded with a nonchalant tone, masking the intensity of his longing with constant restraint. "If you need it," he assured, his words laden with unspoken promises.

"Yeah, okay, well... My office is always open, so you're free to take a look inside," you offered, your voice now infused with a hint of warmth as you turned your attention to organizing his paperwork. "You're free to go. See you in two days, König."

As was your custom, you wielded the power to swiftly dismiss him once your professional duties were fulfilled, leaving him yearning for more but painfully aware of the distance between your worlds. He obediently donned his shirt and helmet, holding the door knob, his own feet stopping his body from leaving. "I'll check it tonight," he declared, his voice carrying anticipation and frustration, his desires unspoken yet palpable in the air, as he left the room.

After his examination concluded, he wasted no time and swiftly departed for your house, armed with his tap wires and discreet cameras. A quick stop was made to tend to Luna, your loyal companion, granting her a small snack outside your room.

Inside your private sanctuary, he began his exploration once more. To his surprise, he was greeted by an unexpected sight; your laptop sat there, unattended and devoid of a password–a contrast to your usual meticulous habits. It seemed as though you had brought your work home, leaving your digital life wide open, as if inviting someone to explore.

The absence of a password was an open invitation, just for him. Everything seems too easy, a slight paranoia entering his thoughts of how this could be a trap.

Opening the laptop, he found himself stepping into your world, your virtual office. The idea of an "open laptop" was a metaphor for his unfulfilled desire for more openness from you. He longed to see beyond professionalism, to dig deeper, to uncover anything you kept hidden, even from him.

His exploration of your laptop revealed an unexpected treasure trove. It was seamless as it was synced to your phone, granting him access to every aspect of your digital life. Your photos, a personal and intimate window into your world, were now in his hands.

"Shiesse..." he muttered under his breath, a mix of amazement and desire coursing through him as he scrolled through the private moments captured in those images. Each photo unveiled a piece of you, moments and memories meant only for your eyes, now laid bare before him. Nothing was left to his imagination, and he found himself captivated by your intimate photos, most in lingerie and some in nude.

He glanced at the clock on your bedside table, calculating that he still had a couple of hours before your return home. The thrill of this intrusion mingled with a sense of urgency, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the countdown to your arrival.

He reclined on your plush bed, savoring the lingering scent in the air like a cherished memory, a reminder of your presence he had yearned for. He pulled out his cock once more, unable to contain his lust any longer. “This is crazy..” He chuckled to himself, delirious for doing this once more in the comfort of your home. 

He removed his glove and spat on his hand, fisting his shaft as his head tilted back from the contact. He groaned as he fucked his fist in a faster pace, imagining you on top of him in the lingerie you adorn in your photos. 

A sudden sound, a bell ringing from your laptop as he turned to it. A message unexpectedly materialized at the top of the screen, and he found himself frozen in place.

Addictive, isn’t it?

That message was from you.

[orbitingtheson]

31 October 2247

I think my new coworker is my old coworker.

I work in a café chain where about 3/4 of the workers are proxy dolls. There's a real person and personality behind the doll to give things the human touch, but it really helps with the work hours and opens up remote hiring.

It also means workers can choose to work as an avatar rather than in their own skin. And right now I think that's a problem.

Last year we had a drama nexus on the crew. Made and burned friendships weekly, brought in a whole new crowd of customers and drove most of them away, and I didn't particularly get along with them. I'm worried because one of our new hires has a very different face and body, but very familiar speech patterns and mannerisms.

Is there anything I can do or anyone I can warn, just in case?

- under the mask

I think you're on fairly good grounds warning any of your coworkers you want to about the behavior that caused problems before, particularly if you notice it happening again. I strongly recommend against warning people against this new coworker on the basis that they remind you of a previous coworker.

If you're mistaking their identity, you're essentially attacking them for no cause. If you're right about their identity, you're mostly just giving them ammunition for any future conflicts that might arise.

Whoever did the hiring knows whether or not this person is a rehire, and ought to have a file to reference if problems show up. I doubt they'd appreciate you weighing in publicly on their judgement now that the hiring decision has already been made.

[desktrack-time-tracking]

Maximizing Efficiency: How Time Tracking Solutions Enhance Project Management

Mastering project management now is a completely different thing as we are in a completely different scenario nowadays. Today, in the data-driven, technology-oriented, employee-centric, and fast-paced work world and environment, organizations can’t deny but accept multiple complex projects. This dawns on employees when it comes to simultaneously handling them. We need a solution, which can make project management simple again. How about using project management time-tracking software? This will help simplify things and make workflows more efficient and productive. How? Let’s get right into it. 

An Overview of Project Time Tracking Software

Software for project time-tracking or in short project time-tracking software, helps track the time and progress of various tasks for each project with a plethora of features. 

For Whom?

The employees working in your organization.

Why?

Simplify handling of multiple and complex projects simultaneously.

How?

We suggest configuring the project time-tracking software as per your needs for the best results.

Are there any Benefits?

We can see higher project completion rates as one of the advantages.

Read Our Blog : Project Management Software: A Complete Guide in 2024

Key Features of Project Time Tracking Software

With the above, we put the overview of project time-tracking software under wraps. Plus, we also mentioned that they have features. However, what are they? What do they do? How do they work? Let’s get right into it.

Project Time Tracking

It wouldn’t be called project time-tracking if it didn’t provide you with project time-tracking. Would it? This feature, which is the name of the game gives you a bird’s eye view of the time and progress of each task of your project individually. 

Task Management

Task management is a very useful feature of project time-tracking software, which we often use. Not only we can create as many tasks, subtasks, and checklists as required and individually track times but it also lets you know who is working on what.   

Alerts and Notifications

This is another useful feature of project time-tracking software, which we often use. What we do is create reminders for various essentialities including deadlines, timelines, visiting non-useful URLs, and suspicious user behavior.

Real-Time Activity Monitoring

Whether built-in or through integration with your desktop activity time-tracking software, this is another useful feature that gives you a bird’s eye view of the files, URLs, app usage, and work patterns of your employees. 

Behavior Analytics

Only tracking employee activity is not enough. You also need to identify unusual behaviors. Not to worry. For that, your software for project time-tracking provides you with real-time behavior analytics and reporting feature

How can Project Time Tracking Software Enhance Project Management?

With that, we put the features of project time-tracking software under wraps. However, are there any benefits of utilizing them? How can project time-tracking software enhance project management? Let’s get right into it.  

More Accountability

Utilizing the task management feature results in you ending up with employees who are more responsible and accountable. Since you have a clear idea of who is working on what, your employees can’t blame each other for incompetency.

Improved Efficiency

The time-tracking feature gives you employees who are more efficient at their work. Since they are not focusing on the clock ticking and concentrating more on the task at hand, they become more efficient at completing projects. 

Improved Time Management

The time-tracking feature also lets you have a clear idea of where your work-time is being utilized the most. This way, you can easily eliminate time-wasting activities. Overall, this also improves time management one way or the other.

Prevents Insider Threats

Thanks to real-time behavior analytics, reporting, and alerts, spotting insider threats is also simple. You can set up the software to send alerts on unusual user behavior, which will let you identify whether it’s an employee pain point or an insider threat. 

Higher Project Completion Rates

All of the above benefits lead to the ultimate advantage, which is higher project completion rates. Thanks to insider threats prevented, improved efficiency, better time management, and more accountability, your timely project completion rate with quality work increases. 

Conclusion 

Finally, we put our post for today’s topic under wraps. To summarize, project management these days is not as simple as it used to be before. Nowadays, the projects are more complex, plus there are simultaneously multiple projects to handle for your employees. So, we need a solution that can make it simple again. That solution is project time-tracking software. With its plethora of features including project time-tracking, task management, alerts and notifications, real-time activity monitoring, and behavior analytics, you get many benefits, all of which lead to better project management. Looking for the best URL-tracking software? We recommend DeskTrack.  

[influencermagazineuk]

Kim Kardashian Expresses Concerns Over Kanye West Shaping New Wife Bianca Censori's Image, Reports Claim

In recent reports, Kim Kardashian's concerns about Kanye West's influence on his new wife, Bianca Censori, have come to light. The media has been abuzz with the public appearances of Kanye West and Bianca Censori, who have been sporting unconventional outfits during their outings. Allegedly, Kim Kardashian, the rapper's ex-wife, is apprehensive about the changes she perceives in Bianca. According to sources, she believes that Kanye is molding Bianca into his ideal woman, prompting her worries. Here's a closer look at the situation. The divorce of Kanye West and Kim Kardashian garnered significant attention in Hollywood. Despite their years-long acquaintance, their romantic journey began in 2011 and culminated in a lavish wedding in 2014. However, in 2021, Kim Kardashian filed for divorce, and their legal separation was finalized a year later. The aftermath of their split saw Kanye West making several unconventional statements and sharing social media posts in an attempt to rekindle their relationship. As they both moved forward independently, Kanye reportedly entered a new chapter of his life by marrying Bianca Censori, an architectural designer associated with Yeezy, earlier this year. However, the public's observations regarding their public appearances have sparked discussions about the extent of Kanye's influence over Bianca Censori's image. Kim Kardashian's concerns reportedly stem from her perception of Bianca's evolving appearance and demeanor, which seem reminiscent of how Kanye used to shape his own image during their relationship. Sources close to the situation suggest that Kim finds it unsettling that Kanye might be repeating patterns of behavior. A report from Closer magazine quotes an insider as saying, "She says she can see Bianca being moulded into Kanye’s ideal of the perfect woman." The source adds that Kim is troubled by Kanye's alleged failure to learn from past mistakes and the implications of his actions on those around him. Furthermore, the public's speculation extends to Bianca Censori's fashion choices and styling, which many believe are under Kanye's influence. Her preference for sheer bodysuits, tops, and, at times, even appearing barefoot, has raised eyebrows. Notably, she underwent a drastic transformation by cutting her long hair into a buzz cut. These visible changes have led some to wonder about the extent of Kanye's impact on her personal choices. The reports surrounding Kim Kardashian's concerns about Bianca Censori's evolving image under Kanye West's influence shed light on the intricacies of their post-divorce dynamics. As public figures, their actions and choices continue to captivate the public's attention, raising questions about the boundaries of personal influence and the complexities of moving on from a high-profile relationship. (Picture Credit: Instagram) Read the full article

[pavo-ocxllus]

𝟐𝟑:𝟎𝟐

the highly-esteemed businessman (and occasionally part-time bartender) DILUC's persona highly contrasted from broad daylight in comparison to the narrow "night."

during the day, he was more than just the wealthiest tycoon of mondstadt—known to most of the civilians as the cold, brooding man that’s rather vocal about his negative opinions regarding the nation’s knights of favonius, though polite, modest: the definition of the ideal gentleman (and possible marriage candidate). 

albeit unknown, when darkness starts to loom over the city as lights start to illuminate the area and stars begin scattering every inch of the sky, he’s better known as the “darknight hero,” a vigilante who had gained the praise and awe from the average citizens and the rare few of them who saw him fight crime in person. 

however, to you, he was simply diluc, sometimes ‘luc in private. you didn’t use the seemingly sacred alias nearly as frequently than in your younger years, but the nickname-turned term of endearment wasn’t something that would make him flinch in surprise at the “intimate” gesture. 

then there was diluc during the previously stated “narrow ‘night.’” the rare times that he would come home, greeted by you and his staff, with neither loads of paperwork to file in his study, justice that needed to be brought, nor any excuse to further disorder (or “improvise” as he preferred to dub it as such) his sleeping schedule, you’ve physically pushed him upwards to your shared sleeping quarters, as if he would start dashing away at the slight chance you went easy on him. however, this wasn’t something that ever bothered the flaming redhead—in fact, diluc found it rather endearing. 

to say that most, if not all of his servants didn’t greatly care about his well-being would naturally be a flat-out ruse, yet it was somewhat pleasant to witness someone be concerned over the worrying inconsistency of his slumber’s hours that wasn’t under his payroll. 

so, without prior thinking, he willingly subjects to your adamant attitude, causing this whole “operation: get diluc to sleep like a normal person” (or gdtslanp for short) to become quite effortless than you made it out to be in your mind. 

from dinner to a bath to pulling him to the bed you’ve partly occupied, his empty side all ready for him, it seemed that “forcing” him to comply with this “pampering” gradually turned easier every second—not that it really required any work in the first place.

“really, love, you shouldn’t feel the need to concern yourself with something so trivial,” diluc’s face morphed into a small, soft smile, chuckling at your behavior. his crimson hair that was no longer in his usual low-ponytail, instead held down. though mostly dry since he bathed at least an hour ago, the tips were still wet.  “i can assure you that i can be responsible with my sleeping patterns.”

“well now, i thought you were the master diluc! i shouldn’t expect you to think i would fall for such empty words,” you retorted, in spite of well knowing that really, your significant other had nothing to do. perhaps it was so rare that you couldn’t help but feel defensive—maybe this was some sort of dream. “stay here, i wouldn’t want you running off to secretly go to the city again, would i?”

that was a scenario that happened one too many times, it was only once, but that doesn’t really matter. although your theatrics were a bit... excessive, in the end, this wasn’t really such an enormous deal to get all fussy about. with the amount of roles diluc took on relating to keep mondstadt both safe and its economy afloat, it was kind of reasonable that the man would pull a few hours from his sleep to work.

however, tonight wasn’t that night. he was going to sleep. just like what a normal person did. 

and sleep he did. 

surprisingly, it didn’t take him long to hit the hay the moment he was aware the lights vaulted on the ceiling went out (courtesy of you). he even let out a slightly inaudible snore! you didn’t even get the chance to say a soft, quiet “good night.” maybe he took a few more hours off his sleep schedule than you originally believed. 

“good night, ‘luc,” you whispered, smiling to yourself as his nose nuzzled into your neck, slowly growing tired yourself. closing your eyes, your last sight being diluc’s face.

that was until a few hours later. 

enter, the quote unquote “narrow night” persona. 

you awoke to a rather loud groan filling the room from none other than diluc himself. with yourself curled right next to him, it seemed almost impossible to sleep through that noise. however, despite your mind being a bit more than agitated at the moment, you still had at least an ounce of worry. 

“...’luc?” you question, morning voice kicking in even though it was the dead of night. his body warmth seemed to practically blaze throughout his body, even more than usual. 

diluc’s body slightly shuffled, his arms tightening around you as if he was trying to suffocate you, his temperature burning through his clothes and into your skin.

“mmhhrghh...” his incomprehensible words had distress subtly laced around them, though not to the point they would go under your radar. whatever he was dreaming of, it was enough to cause you to be more than wide awake now. 

“hey, c’mon... wake up.”

as if the red-haired man was actually fully conscious, a few moments later he replied, “...no.”

you didn’t have the time to roll your eyes, mostly attributable to the fact that it appeared that said time was gradually shrinking due to your significant other’s death grip on your torso.

“diluc... please...” you practically begged. the darknight hero is always on his guard after all, apparently even in his slumber, his most vulnerable state. probably something you should probably scold him for not placing enough trust in you—but for now, that wasn’t exactly on your mind.

in a split second, the archons themselves managed to take heed and indulge in your silent, countless of prayers to get this man off of you before he wakes up to a lifeless corpse beside him. 

a rather loud gasp escaping from his lips, his orange-red eyes stretched out and how he jolted upwards to sit up signaled his awaken status. the poor guy’s pants were more than audible, his chest rising and falling at a concerningly quick rate. all of a sudden, sweat beads became more discernible. his expression was in a state of panic.  

almost immediately, his eyes were directed towards you, as if you were the one that just woke up from the nightmare. 

“y/n, are you alright?” diluc inquired, concern flooding his widened eyes, disregarding his cold sweat. the rare expression that was other than his usual nonchalant display of emotions would’ve, under normal circumstances, cause you flamboyantly swoon in adoration and delight (much to his embarrassment, both in public and in private). however, you couldn’t help yet act differently in this scenario. 

“...love?” he asked for your attention once more, his worry slightly growing when you refused to respond. his calloused hands that were the result of many years of prolonged use of his claymore softly grasped on your cheek. at the intimate gesture, it felt impossible to feel not feel guilty on what you were about to do. “are you okay- ouch-!”

the flick to the forehead wasn’t at all anticipated, making it seemingly hurt more than it did. 

“you complete idiot,” you laughed, pecking his forehead in the area where you inflicted a slightly red and sore spot grow on diluc’s forehead. though already more than (read: not at all) accustomed to your various affections, it appeared as though one of the weaker displays of your endearment made him heat up, completely flustered. “worry about yourself more... have you seen yourself?”

you grabbed his arm and pulled it up to his view for emphasis. 

“you’re paler than usual! just a minute ago, you were practically burning up into a crisp!” you pointed out, albeit rather loudly. it was a miracle that none of diluc’s staff barged into his sleeping quarters out of pure concern in the next few minutes. “forget me—what about you?”

your previously aggressive tone faltered into a more soft one, but the concern you felt over your boyfriend didn’t leave you.

“they’re just nightmares... i’ve had them for as long as i can remember,” of course, diluc blatantly lied on that very sentence. he wasn’t about to spill his guts out on the source of his dreams—he couldn’t just tell you that his late father’s death still haunts him to this day. that isn’t the emotional baggage that is obligatory to unpack at the moment, especially when he’s supposed to “relax.”

fortunately for the redhead, you didn’t bother to attempt to pry into his vague explanation. instead, you opted to lay down on your shared bed once more, tugging on the collar of his shirt to bring him down with you.

“...i think it’s because you fell asleep before i did,” you came to your own conclusion, making diluc crack a smile. that didn’t make sense at all! no matter, he was quick to adapt to his new position, circling his arms around your torso like before, perching his chin above your head. 

not bothering to question how you decided this was the reason for his nightmares, diluc made himself comfortable while you pondered more on the possible causes, then stopped to nod to yourself, finally confident in your thoughts.

“yeah. that’s it.”

in reality, that wasn’t it, and you were well aware of the that. you weren’t stupid, even if you did a seemingly good job of acting like it. you may not know exactly the cause of your significant other’s horrible dreams, but that doesn’t mean you could just brush it off like nothing. the poor man’s strong actions were just too drastic to be ignored. 

however, you can’t demand answers out of diluc either. he has no obligation to indulge in your curiosities after all. 

so, little did you know, like him, you deceived him as well. this was a conversation for another time, no matter if it’s days, weeks, years, perhaps even the next morning. you were supposed to get diluc to sleep not in the usual ungodly hours he would’ve if you hadn’t “intervened.”

“well, what do you suppose we do?” diluc asked, his ruby-colored eyes peering down at you.

“well, we sleep, that’s for certain,” you chuckled, staring at him back. it would’ve been rather uncomfortable to look at had the bedroom have another light source other than the spilling moonlight from the window. “but we’ll do it together.”

not arguing against your stupid, maybe even childish solution, he changed his position from your head and settled near your neck, his vibrant hair now tickling your face a bit. 

“let’s get to it, then.”

𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝. <𝟑

[spoofymcgee]

you said close your eyes and just believe - a codykin fic

Day 6: Wings AU  fic name from Come With Me by Chxarlotte The first thing Cody thinks when he sees Anakin Skywalker is that he looks like a peacock. It’s an odd thought, as most of what Cody remembers from the few pictures he’s seen of the birds is their tails, and the enthusiasm Ponds had had about painting eye-like feathers on the inside of his vambraces, where they wouldn’t be seen and couldn’t be damaged. He’s never seen their wings before. It might be the glossy, elegant blue of the middle section, matching the color of their bodies that makes him think it, despite the tawny primaries and the white-and-black pattern of the secondaries. If he’s being honest, though, it’s his behavior. Skywalker walks like a man who thinks he’s never been wrong about anything. Arrogance drips from the tips of his boots to the soft curls of his blond hair, and it makes Cody want to punch him, just a little. By his side, he can hear the slight, worried creak of armor that means Rex shares his worries. Skywalker struts up to them, looking like not a word of the other Jedi’s lecture is making it into his empty little head. “–still can’t understand how you could possibly think that was a good idea, Anakin,” Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi is saying, hands tucked into his sleeves. “I mean, what would you have done if it had decided it wasn’t in the market for riders, actually, and wanted that meal it was promised?” “Obi-Wan, please,” Skywalker says, an out of place smugness coating the words. “Can we do this later?”

“I suppose,” Cody’s general huffs, stopping a little away from them. “You would be the Commander, then?” he asks, suddenly all charm. “It’s very nice to meet you.” “...nice to meet you too, general?” Cody tries, a little off balance. “Would you mind terribly if I asked for your name?” Kenobi asks, looking slightly worried. “I’m afraid they left it out of your file, for some reason.” “Cody,” he says slowly. “This is Captain Rex, of the 501st, which General Skywalker will be leading.” “Awesome,” Skywalker says, grinning at him. Cody’s heart thumps in his chest; he’s unfairly handsome, despite the swagger. He tells it to shut up, he doesn’t have time for crushes on stupid natborn officers. “We’re gonna crush it, guys.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Rex signs in the corner of Cody’s HUD display. The ‘orders unclear’ sign is messy, meant to be done from the chest rather than the hip, but he gets the gist.

Cody shrugs, as slight as he can. “We’ll be done with preparations and ready to ship out within four hours, sirs,” he says, deciding to just ignore Skywalker’s strange euphemisms. “Excellent,” Kenobi says. “Come, Anakin, we should notify the Council.” They’re odd, Cody thinks, watching them walk away. Still, maybe that’s just what Jedi are like. He doesn’t have any reason to hate them. “I’m doomed, aren’t I?” Rex asks dourly, double-tapping his vambrace to switch to intra-helmet comms. “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Cody says. It is absolutely that bad. Cody can feel his feathers trying to ruffle under his backplate. His skin is crawling as the list scrolls through the half of Shadow Squadron killed today. ‘Matchstick’, it reads next, bright yellow. He’d thought Skywalker was something of an idiot, but as a Jeid, had assumed he’d either be competent or at least have others keeping him in check. He thinks he should have known; what else do you get but a disaster when you put a moron in charge of hundreds of lives? And now people were dead because Skywalker couldn’t see farther than the nose of his own Y-wing when it came to command. Fuck. “Commander?” Kenobi asks from right behind him. Cody jumps, feathers flaring painfully beneath his armor. “Sir,” he says stiffly, turning. “Ah,” the Jedi says, catching sight of the screen he’s been staring at. “I’m sorry for your loss, Cody.” What does he say in response to that? Thank you? For what? “Yes, sir.” Kenobi nods, looking as vaguely awkward as Cody feels. “Do you know whether I could convince one of the chefs to lend me a plate to take up to Anakin? He’s refusing to eat.” “I’m not sure,” Cody tells him, though he’s sure if it was Kenobi asking then Sott would be delighted to scrounge up a boatload of them. Skywalker deserves to go hungry if he’s that pig-headed. “Oh. Thank you anyways, I suppose,” Kenobi says, looking a little disappointed. “I’ll find some ration bars, I think. Enjoy your meal, Cody.” It takes him far too long to notice it, in retrospect. The full situation doesn’t hit him until he’s on the wrong end of a comm conference, watching Pong Krell pontificate over a plan that’s going to get hundreds of troopers killed. Fear is chilling along Cody’s spine as no one does anything, not even Rex, standing there with his head bowed nearly to his chestplate. “Sir, with all due respect–” he interrupts finally, stepping forward. “Nobody asked for your input, clone,” Krell says nastily, turning to glare at him. Cody watches one of the Besalisk’s hands drift closer and closer to his lightsaber with the detached gaze of someone watching an avalanche crumble down over their head. “Don’t talk to Commander Cody that way,” Skywalker says. “What’s your problem, Krell? Even I can see that this is a stupid plan. We were hoping it was going to get better, but clearly it only goes downhill from here.” “You think you can do better, boy?” Krell sneers, fingers closing around the hilt. “No,” Skywalker says, with surprising honesty. “But I’m entirely certain that Rex could, so why don’t you fucking ask him?” Krell inhales sharply, flushing a bruised shade of purple. His four wings, vulture-black, flare up behind him. “Are you saying you believe this useless hunk of organic material aping at sentience is smarter than I am, child?” Anakin draws back like he’s been slapped. “Wow, what the fuck. You need to be out of this room eight minutes ago, Krell. I’m sorry, Commander Cody, but I have to go place a call to the Council.” “I knew they shouldn’t have put you in charge of anything, Skywalker. Going crying to your master at the first uncomfortable truth,” Krell says, lip curling up in a snarl. “You only think they’re real people because you need to in order to believe the same thing about yourself, little slave-boy.” Anakin freezes, fingers going rigid on the comm controls. “At least I’m not some gravel maggot with a glow stick far enough up my ass that I can’t recognize a person when I see one,” he says quietly, with a low, burning rage that makes Cody’s stomach curdle. Krell growls angrily, pulling his ‘sabers off his belt. Cody’s close enough to see Anakin’s feathers ruffle as he raises his wings defensively. Behind you, Cody signs as fast as he can. Anakin meets the first lightsaber with his own, ducking under the second and dancing farther away, mouth dragging downwards in a frown. He’s just blocking, backing himself up against the wall. Cody’s not sure what he’s doing until the bolt comes into frame, searing red against the constant dusk of Umbara. It catches Krell on the temple as he turns to intercept it, too slowly. He sways for a minute before falling, kicking up a ring of dust when he hits the ground. Anakin ducks forward to check his pulse, breathing hard. “Rex, was that a stun shot?” “It should have been,” Cody’s brother answers, standing solid. His wings betray his worry, blue primaries trembling. “He’s dead,” Skywalker tells him, rising from the corpse. “Besalisks have arteries at their temples, like humans,” Cody says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Even a mid-powered stun shot from that close is deadly.” “We can wipe the feed,” Anakin says, tossing his lightsaber to the side and moving close to harry Rex’s blaster out of his grip. “Say I did it, that he knocked the lightsaber out of my hand and I took your blaster. It was self-defense.” “They’ll say you provoked him,” Rex tells him, staring down at his hands. “No,” Cody says, loud enough that they both look up. “There’s two squads of droids coming over the field. Get a channel to your patrols, tell them that there’s an emergency on the other side of camp and they all need to get over there, stat. We’ll get rid of the call recording and say Krell got killed in the attack. Shoot him again with one of their blasters and they won’t be able to tell it was one of ours that killed him. This close, they can’t differentiate between pre- and post-mortem injuries.” Anakin looks at him with something that might be adoration. “Yes, sir,” he says, and warmth coils just under Cody’s lungs, sweet and extraordinarily out of place. “Go,” Cody tells him, fingers drifting for the controls. “Stay safe, both of you.” Rex hugs him painfully tight the next time they’re alone together, and Cody doesn’t comment on the tears soaking his shoulder, just rubs his back and lets his little brother cry. He notices it more, from then on. Most of the Jedi are good about it, which makes it a little easier to breathe. General Windu will always look to Ponds for input before making a statement on any topic involving troop movements or battle plans. Ponds is confident when he speaks on the subjects, which puts the waver of insecurity in nearly every Jedi’s voice in sharp contrast. Some hide it better than others, but it’s terrifying to notice all the same. They pair up with General Billaba’s battalion for a campaign in the Outer Rim, and Cody catches Grey quizzing her on military protocol and troop formations late at night. She’s doing fairly well, but– Not perfect. She doesn’t know regulations that Cody has engraved on his bones, misses a question on battle patterns that Cody had written on the inside of his skull by the time he was seven. She’s in charge of thousands of lives, and she’s got so much left to learn. There’s a scream bubbling up at the base of Cody’s throat, and he leaves before it can claw its way out of his mouth. Cody wakes up early one morning they’re with the 501st, preparing for an attack on Castell. He’d made plans to go to the small arms range with Rex, and they finish early enough that he has time to stop in the mess to grab firstmeal before he has to get to the Negotiator’s bridge and check their course. Rex splits off to go sit with his officers once they get their food, waving Cody goodbye with a half a roll of insta-bread stuffed in his mouth. He looks like a chipmunk, and Cody pearl-clutches at being abandoned for a moment before waving back. He makes his way over to an empty table in the corner of the room and only realizes that General Skywalker is sitting there when it’s too late to turn back. “Hey, Cody,” the Jedi greets, looking up from the pad he’s been staring at for far too long, by the way his eyes are puffy and bloodshot. “Did you want to sit here?” Cody nods, and drops his tray on the tabletop, careful to avoid the towering stack of datapads on Skywalker’s half of the table. “Are you getting off third shift too?” he asks, after a minute of silence. “Hm? Oh, no, I’m on second,” Skywalker answers distractedly, scrolling a little farther down on whatever he’s reading. “Rex said we should be on separate ones, in case of an emergency.” “Makes sense,” Cody says, but Anakin is already absorbed back into his ‘pad, mumbling under his breath, so he finishes his meal quietly and heads off to get a head start on his own work. Cody’s exhausted by the time he gets off shift, and seriously considering foregoing dinner and just heading back to his bunk to sleep. The 501st chefs are canny, though, and also apparently either getting much better supplies than the rest of them or just actual miracle workers because the food they’re putting out looks much more appetizing than this morning’s. He grabs a plateful and heads back to the table he’d sat at earlier. The food smells like it has real spices in it, and that alone is enough to keep the tips of Cody’s wings from dragging on the ground. Anakin is still there. He’s laid out on a bench, wings spilling over the sides and puddling across the floor like twin lakes of feathers, glinting gold and blue in the light. Another ‘pad, this one marked with the GAR symbol is suspended precariously above his face on the tips of his fingers, and he looks three minutes from falling asleep. There are four new empty cups lined up neatly on the table, along with an empty napkin blotched with grease. “You’re going to give yourself a nosebleed if that drops,” Cody says, setting down his tray and snatching the datapad out of the air before it can do just that when Anakin startles at the sound of his voice. “Cody! I didn’t see you come over!” “Shift just changes,” Cody tells him. “You’re on, I think. Have you slept at all?” “I took an accidental nap about an hour ago?” Anakin answers, looking sheepish, though not nearly as much as he should. “It’s okay, I’ll take a stim pack or something. Draw on the Force, if I really need it. Obi-Wan’ll lecture me again, but this is important enough that he won’t really mean it.” “What’s ‘this’?” Cody asks, turning the datapad over. It’s covered in numbers and names. He swipes down to see the title, the text of it not much larger than that of the body of the report. ‘Skills, Abilities and Specializations of Infantry Battalions’. “I’m still learning,” Anakin says after a moment, voice cracking a little. “And I mess up a lot. More than Rex can make up for, more than anyone can. And it’s not enough, I know, but I’m trying.” Cody nods, pretending that he isn’t choking up a little. “Okay. Okay. Come on, Charger’s on this shift and he makes the best caf. Can’t have a Jedi falling asleep on the bridge, bad for morale.” Anakin pulls his wings into some semblance of order, catching up to Cody on unsteady legs. “Thanks,” he says, and neither of them acknowledge the tears at the corners of their eyes. Obi-Wan is leaning on the balcony railing above the bridge when Cody finds him, watching the stars streaking past with unfocused eyes. Cody knows the protocol for this and waits quietly next to him, falling into parade rest. It’s not long before Obi-Wan blinks, shaking off whatever vision he’d been seeing and turns away from the depths of space. “My apologies,” he says, smiling a little wanly. “Something I can help you with, Cody?” “I have a question, sir, if you don’t mind,” Cody says slowly, leaning his forearms against the railing next to his general. “Of course,” Obi-Wan agrees immediately, rolling his shoulders and stretching out his wings, long and tawny. “You can always ask me anything, commander.” “Why,” Cody starts, pausing to figure out how to phrase it. “How do you know so much about war? More than any other general. You ask me, sure, and I didn’t realize at first because you’re still learning the protocol, same as all the rest, but you know how to command an army.” Obi-Wan is silent for a long moment, head dipping down towards his chest. Cody starts to think that he’s not going to answer, and then he speaks. “Have you ever heard of the planet Melida/Daan, commander?” Cody thinks back. “Maybe? It’s in the Outer Rim, right? There was a civil war that they taught us about, ended by a third faction made up of all the kids of the two warring populations.” “Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees. “When I was a padawan, my master and I were assigned a mission to the planet. I–ended up remaining to aid the Young in their efforts. My master came back for me, once he’d returned the injured Jedi we came to retrieve to the Temple on Coruscant.” Cody digests this. “You fought in a war. When you were Ahsoka’s age?” Obi-Wan winces. “Padawanship lasts for several years, often well into young adulthood. But yes, I was roughly that old. Perhaps a little younger.” Cody feels something break in his ribcage. Breathing suddenly feels like inhaling static, and he can feel his secondaries pricking painfully beneath his bodyglove. It suddenly seems less of a failure that none of the Jedi are prepared to lead this war. They weren’t expecting to; they’re peacekeepers. There was no reason for them to know anything about leading an army until a year ago. Cody has had his whole life to prepare for this. “Fuck,” he says quietly. “Quite,” Obi-Wan agrees. “We’re–Cody, we’re trying. But we need you, all of you. None of us were ready for this.” “Yeah, I’m starting to get that,” Cody says roughly. Cody has never quite understood why Rex is so devoted to his Jedi. Anakin is alright, he supposes, for all that he hasn’t quite grown out of his obnoxious arrogance. He’s settled into it more, turned it mostly into the rightfully earned confidence of someone who’s proven to everyone who matters that they can stand on their own two feet and take whatever the universe dishes out. But Cody’s never understood what could earn the undying loyalty that the 501st seems to have for their general. He got an inkling that day on Umbara, staring through the blue static at a staggering willingness to sacrifice and pride enough to build an empire, but nothing quite like this. Anakin leans against the door, cradling the crying toddler in his arms. Her mother’s body is cooling down the hall and there’s a bleeding graze on his side from the hail of blasterfire the rebels had turned on him when he’d dove back down the hallway at the little girl’s cry. He’s breathing heavily, pressing his chin to the top of the baby’s head. Her hair is plastered to her forehead by blood and sweat. He wipes it back with calloused fingers and starts soothing her. Cody takes inventory of the safe room while Anakin sings the girl to sleep with a low and raspy voice, the words foreign to his ears. “Are there any wet wipes in there?” he calls softly, a few minutes after she’s gone quiet. “Not here, no,” Cody tells him, keeping his voice low and reaching for his utility belt to pull out the little packet there and hand it to him. “Thank you,” Anakin says, starting to clean off the child’s forehead. “It’s a terrible thing, to wake up with blood on your skin and know that it belongs to your mother. I can spare her that, at least.” “You sound like you’re speaking from personal experience,” Cody says, before he can stop the words from coming out. Anakin’s hands still for a moment. “Maybe I am. I don’t like to think about it. A grieving Jedi can do terrible things, and I have a very close friend to thank for the fact that I didn’t. One body was heavy enough to bury.” Chills crawl up Cody’s spine, and he leans back against the wall, staying quiet as Anakin piles the shock blankets into a nest for the child. “Can I ask you something, commander?” Anakin says quietly, retrieving a ration bar and coming to sit beside him. “Okay,” Cody agrees cautiously. “Why do you. You get scared sometimes, of me. Why is that?” he asks. “Like just now. You go all brown and dull in the Force, so I can tell, even though you never look like it.” Cody feels a hysterical laugh bubble up in the back of his throat and he shoves it down, hard. “You’re a terrifying person, sometimes,” he says instead. “You didn’t know?” “Padmé said the same thing, once,” Anakin tells him, peeling open the wrapper. “I don’t. I don’t try to be. I’m sorry if I scared you. I’ll try to be better about that.” “It’s not always bad,” Cody says, fingers brushing against Anakin’s. “Just. You could kill someone with your mind in at least seven different ways. And when that’s directed at droids trying to kill us, that’s good. But, y’know. It’s still a little scary, even if it is also kind of hot.” Cody pauses, assessing what he’s just said. “Huh. I think I have a concussion.” “I got that impression,” Anakin says, but he’s smiling. “I’ll get you some meds, give me a second.” He’s not gone for long, but Cody’s side goes cold, and he leans his head on Anakin’s shoulder when he comes back, taking the pills with a swallow of water from the bottle that comes with them. “Could you put your wing around me?” he requests, the words odd in his mouth, like some stupider, braver Cody hidden in his brain and only released by head trauma is speaking them. “I’m cold.” “Sure,” Anakin says, after a moment’s hesitation. The feathers are exactly as soft as Cody had thought they would be. “...will you let me groom yours? They look kind of mussed.” That seems reasonable, so he stretches one out into Anakin’s lap and tries not to shiver at the feeling of fingers combing through his feathers “Can I ask you a question, Cody?” Anakin says, after a minute, frowning down at his wing. “Mhn? Yeah, I guess. M’sleepy, though.” “That’s okay. You can go to sleep, then,” Anakin tells him. “No, what do you want to know?” Cody insists, shifting further into his side. “Okay. Um, I guess I’m just wondering why your wing muscles are. They feel like you don’t fly? Rex wears his wings out most of the time, and I’ve seen him and some of the other troopers soaring around the training rooms every now and then,” Anakin says. “Can’t,” Cody tells him, eyelids slipping shut. “What?” Anakin asks. “Never learned,” Cody elaborates, doing his best not to slur the words. “Didn’t have any reason to. Only CTs. Can’t do aerial maneuvers, too risky. They’ve got. Smaller wings n’stuff. G’night.” He thinks there’s an outraged huff from Anakin at his answer but can’t bring himself to care, already falling asleep. They’re found not long after, and the 501st has shipped out to shore leave a couple of systems away by the time Cody is coherent again. The 212th is going off in a completely different direction, onto another mission because the majority of their troops weren’t needed for this one in the end. He tries not to think about what he said that night, and does his best not to be hurt when Anakin doesn’t look his way at all in strategy meetings. It doesn’t matter. The dust on Ando is thick and cloying, bad for Human lungs, so they’d had to stay on the ships rather than setting up base on the planet, which had made it much harder to attack. Goings were slow because of it, despite the Resolute and her troopers accompanying them in the assault, but they’d broken enemy lines yesterday and retrieved their mission objective, so they’re going back to Coruscant to patch up their ships once they muster up the power to break free of orbit from the uninhabited planet next to Ando. Cody is tired when he wakes, earlier than he’d have liked, body wired into four hours of sleep by the last three weeks. He stretches his wings as far as they’ll go, and gets out of bed. He makes it through getting dressed and is halfway done brushing his teeth before there’s a knock on his door. It opens onto Anakin standing there, shirtless. Cody chokes on his toothpaste. “What are you doing here?” he asks, once his airways are no longer clogged by minty foam. “And where is your clothing?” “Shirts aren’t good for flying!” Anakin tells him, far too bubbly for this early in the morning. “You’re going flying?” Cody asks, frowning. “Where? And why does it require you to stop here first?” “We’re going flying,” Anakin corrects, spreading his wings. “At least. I hope we are? That’s what I’m here to ask.” “I told you, I don’t know how to,” Cody says, trying to ignore the way his cheeks heat up at the statement. Shame tastes like disappointment and mint, he learns. “That’s why I’m going to teach you!” Anakin tells him, tucking his wings and sidling into the room. “It’s not that hard, I promise. I didn’t learn until I was ten.” “Why not?” Cody asks. Anakin’s smile flickers. “I wasn’t allowed to. But that’s not the point, come on! We need to stretch before.” Cody’s still hesitant, and it must show on his face, because Anakin goes serious. “Cody. I promise, it’ll be okay. The mess hall on deck four is closed for ‘maintenance’, so no one else will be there. Trust me?” “Okay,” Cody says, and reaches for the hem of his shirt. The mess hall is drafty, the portholes lining the walls letting in some of the cold of space. Usually it’s heated, but there’s no use warming rooms that aren’t being used. They stretch together, and Cody does his best not to notice the way Anakin’s shoulders ripple as he swings his arms back and forth. He fails, of course, because they’re very impressive shoulders, but he can always blame the flush in his cheeks on the cold. “Okay, so how do we do this?” he asks, once they’ve finished stretching. His wings are already a little sore, unused to being free for so long. “Do I have to stand on a table?” “One of the good things about skimping on ship construction,” Anakin tells him, a stunning smile flashing onto his face, “Is that you leave out purely decorative ceilings, which means the support beams are exposed.” “Fuck you,” Cody says, once he deciphers the words. “Absolutely not.” It is, Cody realizes, a very long drop. Farther than he’d thought, even, which is impressive. “I hate you,” he tells Anakin, balancing on the edge. “So much.” It’s warmer up here, the system turned on recently, not having had long enough to heat the entire space. They’ll stay closer to the top so they don’t have to work their wings quite as hard, but this will be more of a lesson in gliding than anything else. “Love you too, commander,” Anakin says, and then stiffens. The tips of his ears go highlighter pink. “Uh. So this is how you hold your wings.” He demonstrates, keeping up a steady flow of helpful chatter that conveniently doesn’t allow Cody to get a word in edgewise. His tertials are green, Cody notes absently. Emerald and aquamarine and every shade between them, fading easily into the muscles of his back. They’re beautiful, in a totally different way than the pattern of his secondaries or the gold of his primaries. They shimmer the same way that the royal blue feathers caught in the middle do, but Cody can’t seem to focus on just one long enough to decide which is prettiest. “Okay, ready?” Anakin asks, rolling his shoulders. “No,” Cody deadpans, stretching. Anakin laughs, sweet and burbling. “C’mon, Cody, you can do this!” he says. “I’ll catch you if you fall, I promise.” I already have, he thinks, but takes a deep breath, and then drops. Flying is– It’s everything. The air in his feathers feels like joy looks, embossed in a loving smile. The burn of his wings as they lift him higher feels like remembering something he didn’t know he’d forgotten. When he lands again, he thinks for a second he might cry. Anakin is across from him, wind-mussed and breathing just as hard as he is. Before he can think better of it, before the bravery can drain away, he walks forward and cups Anakin’s face in his hands. “Can I kiss you,” he asks, and rejoices when it’s answered with a nod. He presses flying into his lips against Anakin’s, all the feelings welling up inside of him and pumping through his heart fast enough that he worries it might burst. When he pulls back, Anakin’s eyes look like starlight in the darkness, and Cody wraps his wings around them both and pulls him back in. 

[twilightprince101]

So I made an SCP entry for Bugsnax...

I thought with the ending and all of the disturbing stuff that this game has, it would fit perfectly with SCP stuff. Not to mention, there has to be an SCP equivalent in the Grumpus world. GCP? SGP? SCG? I dunno man, have some horror writing about muppets.

SCP-3470: Sentient Sustenance

[Heavy spoilers for Bugsnax ending]

Item #: SCP-3470 aka “Snaktooth Island”

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures:  Due to its nature of being a landmass the most SCP teams can do is obscure its location to the populus. Efforts have been made to create rumors of numerous shipwrecks--akin to SCP-605 “Bermuda Triangle”--to deter the public from exploring the location. If unauthorized ships are witnessed crossing into the restricted zone, they are to be terminated immediately.           Addendum: Due to the recent insubordination of Dr. [REDACTED]. All authorized personnel that enter or exit SCP-3470 are to be subjected to a rigorous screening process to ensure that no instances of SCP-3470-A are brought out of the restricted area without B Class Permission or higher. Further precautions being considered are a 10 minute test in which personnel seeking access to SCP-3470 are to be placed into an empty room with an instance of SCP-3470-A. If SCP personnel show any signs of wishing to consume SCP-3470-A, they are to be removed from the team immediately. Permission from Professor [REDACTED].  Is awaiting approval.

Description: SCP-3470 is a large landmass off of the coast of [REDACTED].  Spanning 50 mi^2 and nearing 1.5 mi in height. Several sections of SCP-3470 are flux in weather patterns, ranging from lush forests to arid deserts in the span of 3 miles. Although similar in appearance to locations such as  [REDACTED].  And  [REDACTED]. , further research concludes that flora are substantially different in chemical composition, containing traces of [REDACTED].  Which was only recently discovered. Due to this, nearly all flora encompassing the island are inedible, as digestion induces hazardous effects ranging from intense stomach pains to spastic vomiting. 

The most significant aspect of SCP-3470 are various instances of sentient life, which are to be referred to as SCP-3470-A-[1-100]. SCP-3470-A take appearances of common food items, such as SCP-3470-A-1 [“Strabby”] taking the form of a ripe red strawberry with what appear to be dollar store googly-eyes [all instances of SCP-3470-A share the final trait]. All instances of SCP-3470-A vary in physique, behavioral patterns and similarities to their respective food item. Each instance also appears to have a “name” that it repeats ad nauseum despite not having observable mouths or vocal chords, making them easier to classify. Chemically however all are similar, containing faint traces of  [REDACTED]. . This can be witnessed upon any attempt to alter SCP-3470-A instances from their base form, dissolving into an unknown inedible fluid, losing sentience in the process. 

Due to SCP-3470’s flora being inedible, SCP-3470-A instances become the landmass’s only source of sustenance. Consumption of SCP-3470-A induces a drastic and instance side-effect of modifying the consumer’s limbs, thereby becoming SCP-3470-B. The limbs of SCP-3470-B instances vary depending on the instance of SCP-3470-A that has been consumed, alongside how many instances have been consumed prior to said event. Fundamentally however, all limbs modified take on the appearance of whatever the SCP-3470-A instance was impersonating. The more instances a subject consumes the more of their body transforms, beginning with the hands and feet and extending to the entire torso and face. The internal functions of the body remain intact along with full autonomous control, however the structure and physique of transformed limbs change drastically, such as an SCP-3470-B instance’s arm transforming into a banana after consuming an instance of SCP-3470-A-12 [“Banooper”]. These transformations subside in time [correlating to amount of SCP-3470-A instances consumed], with SCP-3470-B limbs reverting back to their original state, containing faint traces of [REDACTED]. 

Addendum 3470-B: Increased Exposure

Proceeding with experimentation with SCP-3470-A instances under Prof. [REDACTED]. , extended exposure and consumption of SCP-3470-A instances results in increasing addictive tendencies and side effects. File below contains audio files of experiments with Personnel D-125.

<Begin Log 01, skip to 00:02:17>

Dr. [REDACTED].: D-Class 125, approach SCP 3470-A-45.

D-125: What is…? Ok, seriously what the grump is this??? Like, I signed up for this expecting a lot of horrifying stuff, but-did someone slap googly-eyes on a piece of corn?!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : 125, please approach SCP-3470-A-45.

D-125: Yeah, yeah, alright. So… (to A-45 after approach), what are you supposed to be then? Did Dr. [REDACTED].  Have their kid put their arts and crafts project on display or-

A-45: Cobhopper!

D-125: GRUMPIN WHA- IT JUST TALKED?! IT MOVED IT’S LOOKING AT ME!!!

Dr. [REDACTED].: (whispering) so much for being the ‘toughest D-class around… ‘

<Skip to 00:08:24>

D-125: So you’re telling me I just… eat it? The eyes too?

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Correct. Do not worry, upon further testing the eyes seem to be made of a material akin to valentine’s candy hearts (lie).

D-125: Huh… alright then. Down the hatch, I guess?

Sounds of eating, cries of A-45

Dr. [REDACTED].  : D-125, describe the flavor.

D-125: It’s… good actually! I was honestly expecting the insides to be guts or poison or something, but it’s actually pretty good! Nice and buttered to, a bit of salt? Reminds me of my mom’s barbeque. 

Dr. [REDACTED].  : And the sensation of your leg transforming?

D-125: Huh? (125 looks down and notices their leg transformed into a head of corn). Oh… Well this is pretty cool I guess. 

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Any uncomfortable sensations?

D-125: Not really no. It’s weird… I can still feel my toes, but it’s like a peg leg. Actually, I think I can see a few kernels wiggling if I try. Neat!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Is… that it?

D-125: Yeah I think so, *chuckles,* this is actually pretty cool!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Hmm… (To recorder) Despite initial panic from witnessing A-45, subject D-125 has adjusted to transformation with record pace. Further research required.

<End Log-01>

<Begin Log-04>

D-125: Heya doc!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Greetings D-125. Have you adjusted to recent transformations?

D-125: Yeah it’s been going alright. The pineapple hair is a pretty nice dew all things considered, and the bacon tongue makes me look like a snake. I like it!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Pleased to hear it. Now, approach SCP-3470-A-52.

D-125: Alright, what’s on the menu today then? Who’re you little guy?

A-52: Sodi-D Sodi-D!

D-125: Huh, a drink this time. Change of pace I guess.

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Please consume A-52.

D-125: Right away ma’am. Sir. Whatever.

Sound of soda can opening and drinking, cries of A-52.

Dr. [REDACTED].  : (To recorder) Upon the first drop of A-52’s fluid, transformation has already occurred, transforming the subject's ears into what appear to be soda can tabs. No further transformations appear to occur on consecutive gulps-wha (To D-125) Sir?!

Sounds of crunching, further cries of A-52, then silence.

D-125: Not bad! I don’t usually drink soda, beer’s more my thing personally, but it was pretty sweet! Just the right amount of sugar. And hey, new accessory!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : ...D-125, why did you eat A-52’s shell?

D-125: Huh?

Dr. [REDACTED].  : The… the can. Nobody has attempted to consume the can.

D-125: Oh. Uh… 

Silence for 7 seconds 

D-125: I dunno, I guess since the eyes were edible on the other guys, I thought the can would be here? Wasn’t too hard to eat, kinda like biting into ice. Didn’t hurt.

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Very… interesting. This will be recorded for future experiments, thank you D-125.

D-125: No prob. And hey, call me Chuffee.

<End Log-04>

<Begin Log-09, skip to 00:09:54>

D-125: Hehey, candy corn teeth! Pretty sharp too, should make eating these things even easier!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : D-125, you’re nearing complete bodily transformation. Have you been experiencing any discomfort as of late? Any anomalies?

D-125: Nope, in fact I feel great! I used to have this crink in my back for the longest time, but now it’s gone! I’m more limber than I’ve been in ages!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Fascinating… very well then, thank you for your time.

D-125: ...wait, what? That’s it?

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Hm?

D-125: There isn’t any more left? I thought there would be a bit more.

Dr. [REDACTED].  : *sigh,* D-125, we’ve went over this last time. We cannot give you more than one instance a day due to 3470-A’s high caloric count. The instance you just ate was over twenty th-

D-125: You know you keep saying that. Didn’t you guys want to really figure out what’s with these things? When I ate that soda can you said yourself that nobody’s tried that before, so let’s go further! I’m still hungry anyways, I’m craving a burger if you got any like that.

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Sir, please exit the room. I cannot give you any more than what I am authorized.

D-125: ……..You know, it’s interesting how your window is so high up there. I can hardly see you.

Dr. [REDACTED].  : ...excuse me?

D-125: You heard me [REDACTED].  , I can barely see you from down here. You can see exactly how I change, the new stuff I get… but I can’t see yours.

Silence for 15 seconds.

<End Log-09>

<Begin Log-10, skip to 00:11:02>

D-125: I know you’re holding out on me up there [REDACTED].  .

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Sir, I’ve told you countless times already. I can’t give you any more than I’m authorized.

D-125: (Sarcasm) Oh yeah, suuure. For all I know you guys are feasting away on these things up there, while leaving me for dust! Like seriously, a single popcorn kernel?! That’s it?!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Sir, that is all I can give you today. Please exi-

Sound of a door opening

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Wh- Professor [REDACTED].  ?

Professor [REDACTED].  : Hello D-125. 

D-125: Oh great, another snob to tell me what to do. If you aren’t gonna feed me, then just shut up already! My stomach’s growling like crazy, and I’m not leaving until I get my meal!

Professor [REDACTED].  : Not to worry D-125, I’m fully prepared to grant your wish.

D-125: ...wait, really?

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Professor, what are you-

Professor [REDACTED].  : I listened to the log of your previous meal, and you raised a good point. If we at the SCP foundation wish to fully understand what these creatures are capable of, we must push the boundaries of what we believe are possible. So then…

(Sound of metal grinding, several overlapping cries of SCP-3470-A instances)

D-125: Oh, my…

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Professor, what are you doing?

Professor [REDACTED].  : Eat until you can’t eat anymore. Consider it my treat, to you.

D-125: Ooohohohohoooo yes!!! Now we’re talking!!! Come to papa little guys!!!

<Skip to 00:32:59>

Professor [REDACTED].  : Subject so far has consumed 34 instances of 3470-A. Since consuming number 21 he has shown increased signs of vigor, despite eating half of his body mass. 

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Professor, please, stop him. This is-

Professor [REDACTED].  : (continuing) Upon complete transformation of limbs to SCP 3470-B instances, any further consumption appears to override a prior one. His leg, previously resembling a head of corn has transformed now into a roll of sushi. His tongue, once a strip of bacon, now a wad of chips.

D-125: (While eating) Mmmph! Oh my god, what are you a jar of pickles! More the merrier!

Sound of sloppy gulping, glass crunching, cries of SCP-3470-A-35

D-125: Ooogh, some noodles too! Love japanese food!

Sounds of rapid slurping, rapid glass crunching and licking.

Professor [REDACTED].  : Subject appears to have increased vigor in consuming 3470-A instances, not leaving a single crumb or shard left uneaten. A query: what is the chemical makeup of instances contained in glass jars or bowls? The bowls themselves? Further research required.

<Skip to 01:42:47>

Dr. [REDACTED]. : Chuffee please, stop! You’re going to hurt yourself!

Rapid, feral sounds of crunching and slurping.

Professor [REDACTED].  : Subject has now eaten approximately eaten 1.5 times his body mass yet continues to feat, now with no regards for table manners whatsoever. I have already called for a janitor to wait outside.

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Chuffee stop!! You-

Laughter, slowly increasing in volume

D-125: This!! This is the best I’ve eaten in my entire life!!!

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Chuffee please-O-oh… oh my-

Professor [REDACTED].  : Subject’s left ear has disconnected itself from its host. There appear to be no signs of blood or even markings indicating he has had one at all-there goes a tooth!

D-125: Hooooh I knew you all were holding back on me!!! This stuff is delicious, amazing, spectacular!!! I’ll never go hungry again, no more rotting on the streets!!! This is all mine, you hear me?! Mine, MINE, MINE!!! HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAH

Laughter continues for several seconds, sounds of objects falling to floor as volume slowly decreases, ending with a loud clatter.

Dr. [REDACTED].  : Ch-Chuffee, I- urp!

Sound of vomiting

Professor [REDACTED].  : Subject, after eating nearly twice his body mass, has had each limb separate from his core torso one by one, now fully resembling their respective food items, until his eyes transformed into SCP-3470-B instance, resembling the mixed nuts that made up his head. Soon after, his torso and head fell apart, scattering into mixed-nuts. I can not recognize Subject D-125 in the slurry.

More sounds of vomiting

Professor [REDACTED].  : These results are quite fascinating. Further research is required into these various side effects. End tape.

<End Log-10>

[ashayatreldai]

His Face - Fic

Find this on AO3 or read it here.

Among Su She’s effects is found a bundle of sketches of Hanguang Jun, which inspires a lifetime of exchanges between Wei Wuxian and his husband.

***

Wei Wuxian yawned, barely remembering to cover his mouth with the back of his hand. It wasn’t as though Lan Wangji minded; he still marveled at his husband’s calm acceptance of his less than perfect behavior. And it wasn’t as if he were really tired. They’d been back in Cloud Recesses only a handful of days and most of that time Wei Wuxian had been able to rest, to wander the back hill, to play with the rabbits, to tease Sizhui and Jingyi, to play Chenqing to the birds and the rainbows the sun cast in the light mists of Gusu’s waterfalls. No, he supposed. He yawned because he was warm, well-fed, secure and safe, and in the best company a person could desire, let alone have all to himself.

Lan Wangji sat on the other side of the desk, and in spite of the hour was still working through the backlog of mail which had accumulated in his absence.

“What’s this?” A bundle of papers caught Wei Wuxian’s eye, and on impulse he reached and drew them out of the stack.

Lan Wangji looked up. “After the events at Gyanyin Temple, members of the Lan Clan disposed of the bodies, sealed the coffin in which Red Blade Master and Jin Guangyao are buried, and otherwise put the site in order. Among these activities, Su She’s body was searched and his personal effects catalogued. A quiankun pouch was found, containing an assortment of items. This bundle of papers was also in the pouch. I assume it was forwarded to me because I am the subject.”

Wei Wuxian leafed through the pages. It was a collection of sketches in a variety of media, all of Hanguang Jun’s face, mostly sketches of his eyes. They weren’t half bad: the artist had captured the micro-expressions which concealed everything but hid nothing of Hanguang Jun’s thoughts. But as he examined the pile, he experienced an increasing sensation of wrongness.

“I wonder what he was trying to capture. I mean, here’s ice, here’s anger. I think this one is arrogance or being haughty; and this one has to be indifference. And this,” he huffed out with a half smile, “has got to be ‘you are the scum beneath my shoe’.” That was a micro-expression Wei Wuxian had seen often on Lan Wangji’s face when they were young, as he kept poking and prodding until the carefully cultivated mask his friend wore finally slipped. He spread out the pictures, his eyes searching for the clues he knew he’d find. “Why would he want to draw these things and exclude others? I know a lot of people are afraid of you, Lan Zhan, because you look cold and imperturbable. But anyone who knows you and watches closely can see that there’s so much more to you than that.”

“Su She was cast out of the Lan Clan because he betrayed our secrets to Wen Xu. He was known for being desirous of imitating me – poorly. We can only speculate as to his motivations otherwise,” Lan Wangji commented quietly.

“Mmmm,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “He hated you, but he also idolized you. Who’s to say what came first? Whatever,” he said, shaking his head. “The fact he captured your eyes with these strong antagonistic expressions suggests he hated himself, and perhaps wanted to make you the one who hated him in his own mind. It’s easier to hate someone than to live with the pain of feeling rejected or not even noticed.”

“I never hated Su She.”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever known you to hate anyone, Hanguang Jun.” Wei Wuxian felt a surge of protective affection for this dear man. “Not even those who deserve it. Su She unfairly judged you and didn’t know you at all. Still, when you think about what people say about me, the scary deranged Yiling Patriarch, anything’s possible in terms of what people do to themselves to justify hatred. Blargh!” He made claws with his hands and pulled a terrifying crazy Yiling Laozu face.

“Wei Ying.” There was amusement dancing in Lan Wangji’s eyes. “You do not scare me.”

Sometimes Lan Wangji could abruptly light a fuse in Wei Wuxian and leave him smoking. He laughed and crawled around to Lan Wangji’s side of the table, climbing into his lap to sit with one leg either side of Lan Wangji’s waist. His husband’s hands came up to support his lower back. He put both hands loosely around Lan Wangji’s neck.

Lan Wangi had removed his silver coronet and tendrils of hair that usually were wound up to hold the headpiece in place trailed either side of his face, making him look softer and younger and so much more vulnerable.

For some time they sat simply looking at each other. Wei Wuxian took in the flawless face, reaching one hand to trace Lan Wangi’s eyebrow, feeling the soft hairs brush beneath his fingerpads. He gently followed the line of an eyelash, delighting in the butterfly kiss as his husband blinked. Out over the swell of zygomatic bone, cupping around his perfectly shaped ear – he really was like exquisitely carved jade, warm, living, and here. He cupped Lan Wangji’s cheek, his thumb finding the hollow between nose and lip and the soft breath of life it held. And those lips, now quirked in a loving bow.

He pulled himself up to kiss the forehead ribbon, to plant gentle brushes of his lips over all the places he’d touched. When he came to Lan Wangji’s mouth, he finally let go, giving all his worship as they joined tongues, teeth, desire, losing themselves in each other.

They released the kiss, and held each other, Wei Wuxian’s head on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. Between them energy sizzled – it would be sated later, but it was sufficient for now to enjoy the beatitude of the moment, the closeness, words unnecessary to communicate the depth of heart each held for the other.

***

Wei Wuxian was traveling. His absence itched acutely just under Lan Wangji’s skin, a constant worry. He rued the duty which pinned him in his current dual roles: Chief Cultivator and Acting Sect Leader, keeping him grounded at Cloud Recesses instead of off night hunting with his husband.

It was necessary, he knew, for Wei Wuxian to move; the whole man was a study in movement, in ceaseless energy. He knew the staid and stable pattern of life at Cloud Recesses felt like a box to Wei Ying, and while he could endure for a season, he needed more than what life in Gusu offered, even with rabbits and a back hill to wander for hours.

But oh, he missed him. And he worried too: who would defend him when he had so little sense of self-preservation?

This journey, Wei Wuxian had set off to attempt to mend things with Jiang Cheng before making his way up to Lanling to see Jin Ling. One of the highest values for the Lan was family, and Lan Wangji understood the deep need his husband had for those connections – had encouraged it.

It was just as well Wei Wuxian had mastered the butterfly talisman (and enhanced it). Morning and night he would wait for the silvery wings to alight with Wei Wuxian’s messages of love and thought to whisper through his qi. Sometimes they were profound, poetry. Sometimes playful; sometimes just a kiss. Lan Wangji came to depend on those messages, and on being able to send some back himself: I love you, I miss you, come home soon.

He sighed. This morning had grown tedious. Today was the end of the accounting period for Clan matters, and while there was staff to manage the minutiae of bookkeeping, as Acting Clan Leader LanWangji was examining the records before tomorrow’s visit from the auditor. Not for the first time he lamented his brother’s seclusion, necessary though it was. Dealing with finances was the part of the role that least appealed to Lan Wangji; he felt a headache brewing and was contemplating taking a break when there was a knock on the door.

“Hanguang Jun, mail has arrived,” the disciple said, handing him a bundle.

“Thank you. Please ask the kitchen to send me some lunch,” he requested, taking the pile.

The disciple departed, and he began to sort the items: those about Clan matters, those for the Chief Cultivator. One letter stood out, a simple scroll tied with a red thread. Putting all the other mail aside he carefully opened the scroll and took a breath.

It was an ink painting of his eyes, creased ever so slightly in an expression of amusement. On his brow the forehead ribbon glinted silver, his hair loosely framing his cheeks. He instantly recognized the artist, tracing a finger over the brush strokes as if that touch could unite him with the hand that had made them.

“Wei Ying,” he said, infinite fondness filling him.

Throughout the rest of the day he kept the picture on his desk, glancing at it from time to time. And when it was time to turn his attention to other things, he gently placed the picture in his sleeve to take back to the jingshi.

Every couple of days another picture would arrive. This too became something Lan Wangji expected, an important and significant marker in his day, each picture a symbol that he was one day closer to seeing, holding, touching, tasting Wei Wuxian again.

***

300 years later

Clan Leader Lan Shuoxiao had come to the Forbidden Room in the Library Pavilion seeking a book she’d known had been here years earlier. Back then she’d been a mischievous girl seeking a way to prank Shufu, and she vividly remembered the green cover. Lan filing methods hadn’t changed in hundreds of years, so that wretched book had to be here somewhere.

She moved a pile of dusty scrolls, cursing under her breath when she knocked a stack of bamboo books which went tumbling over the floor. Patience, she told herself strictly. Breathe and control.

Feeling a little more composed, she bent to restore the mess to order. A red cover caught her eye on one of the lower shelves. She’d not seen that before, and she was sure she’d have recognized it if she had. It was quite distinct, a deep red, tied shut with of all things a Clan ribbon.

Intrigued, she opened the volume, carefully untying the ribbon and leafing through the pages. Page after page were pictures of a handsome man’s eyes: crinkled in delight, weeping with sorrow, dancing with affection, on and on they went. Sometimes the whole of the man’s lovely face was shown: in some he wore the elaborate silver coronet her ancestors had favored, in others his long tresses floated around his face, and the artist had clearly captured a treasured, private, and vulnerable moment.

Around half way through the volume the pictures changed: a spritely young man in black, his underrobe a vivid red (the same colour as the cover of the book, as it happened – and she wondered whether it was indeed cut from the same cloth), a red ribbon in his hair, holding a black dizi. This array of pictures had a different hand, a more understated eye which captured the young man’s energetic aura, as well as pensive moments – the youth had clearly been to hell and back, and Lan Shuoxiao could almost feel the immense love with which the person who’d drawn these pictures had made each stroke.

There were so many! Page sized varied: a compendium gathered together of odd scraps. The last page bore an inscription:

In loving memory of my parents, Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang Jun, and Wei Ying, Wei Wuxian, Yiling Laozu. The true faces of both, in their own hands. Love letters sent to dearest him who was, alas, away. Lan Yuan, Lan Sizhui, Chief Cultivator.

Clan Leader Lan Shuoxiao’s heart thumped wildly in her chest. Clan records declared Hanguang Jun’s partner’s name to have been Lan Ying, Lan Wuxian. How had they never made the connection before that “Lan Wuxian” was in fact the infamous Yiling Patriarch? Given that the two had Lan Yuan, Lan Sizhui’s name inscribed under theirs as offspring, Lan Shuoxiao and many others had assumed Lan Wuxian to be female.

She looked closely again at one of the pictures of the young man in black and red. He didn’t look like the evil dictator of legend. He looked mischievous and full of life, an impression caught in the laughing smile, and so… youthful.

Not that demonic cultivation was these days the issue it had been for her ancestors; these days cultivation was emphasized to be about harnessing the yin of negative energy and the yang of positive energy, holding them in balance and using each appropriately. She doubted the people who had so feared and hated the Yiling Patriarch would be able to recognize as righteous the way all cultivators now practiced as a matter of course.

As for Hanguang Jun… She flicked back to a picture in which his whole upper body had been captured as he played guqin, a study of someone completely caught up and focused on the music, almost in ecstasy. Another private moment revealing something about the essence of the man. He was so beautiful, captivating. And such a contrast from all the other images she’d ever seen of him. Hanguang Jun had a reputation even now, 150 years after he had Ascended, for being cold, somewhat forbidding, distant, just, merciful and benevolent, untouchable, unrivalled in almost all fields. That was how he appeared at the Gate of Gusu, carved of jade, opposite his brother, Zewu Jun, the famous Twin Jades of Gusu Lan now its guardians, their representations inscribed and infused with talismans and ward tethers. Rumor was that no evil could come to Cloud Recesses as long as the Twin Jades stood at the gates. How was anyone to reconcile that formidable image with this? This picture of a very human, vulnerable, gentle man, who was clearly so very much loved by the artist who drew him.

Lan Shuoxiao found herself on the edge of tears. It felt like an injustice, looking at these intimate sketches, that history had forgotten Wei Wuxian as little more than a footnote. And that the righteous Hanguang Jun had been immortalized as a stiff, cold and distant deity rather than someone’s beloved whose heart beat wildly in his chest in longing, and whose blood was warm and red and thrummed with reciprocated affection. She wondered how they had found one another, wondered about the history in which they must have been caught up: how did it affect them? What trials had they passed through before they finally found their way to each other’s arms?

She reverently closed the volume, her original mission in coming here put aside. Thoughtfully, she collected up the scrolls and bamboo books and reordered them, and then closed the Forbidden Room.

***

Several months later a new scene was depicted on the climbing path around the residences of Gusu: a beautiful, crowned Lan sat cross-legged in the back hill meadow, covered in a blanket of rabbits. His loving gaze was fixed on the figure opposite him under a peach tree in full bloom, who was standing and playing a dizi. The legend beneath read: Hanguang Jun and his cultivation partner Yiling Laozu, Lan Wuxian.

 FIN

[whump-town]

Cracks in the Ceiling

little hurt LOT comfort

my version of Route 66 bc how are you going to cut him open and give such minimal comfort?? like damn

Morgan’s tearing through the open case file in front of him, attention more or less on his teammates debating the case openly around him. His head is pounding, there’s this ache fixated on his right temple that no amount of Tylenol has managed to dull. If it weren’t for the pain he’d lean over and make Rossi aware of the fact that he’s 100% certain that Hotch slept in his office last night. He’s no snitch but this is the second time this week and it’s a pattern of behavior that has never been good in the past. It’s a behavior worth noting. For now, he decides to leave it. The others are gathering, filling into place, everyone’s mostly in their usual seats at the round table. He isn’t alerted or even too worried about Hotch standing rather than sitting, dark eyes darting over them. It’s probably nothing, Morgan shakes his head, not a big deal.

They jump into the work, Morgan keeps quiet. He’s got some things scratched into the margins of his file but he’ll bring them up now. Nothing worth stating just yet, not even proper observations but maybe Reid will have something to spitball. “--as you know, the amber alert is…” Morgan looks up, frowning at the sound of just how breathless Hotch is. As if he’s just run a marathon or taken down an Unsub by himself. Morgan looks the man up and down. The stark contrast of his boss’ pale face to the red of his tie. Morgan frowns, “Hotch?” He’s already on his feet, heart hammering, standing just as Hotch rasps an “excuse me”.

“Aaron!”

Rossi gets to him first. Kneeling right down on the ground, no reservations left for personal space. Anywhere else, anything else and it might have been funny. Rossi is so careful about himself. He won’t get his shoes dirty and he’s not putting creases in his pants let alone kneeling on the ground and risking wearing down the material around his knee and yet here he is. Placing a crease in his shoes at the toes and digging a knee in the, no doubt, filthy carpet. His clothes don’t matter, he’s paying them no mind as he calls Hotch’s name again. Begging-- “Look at me! Aaron? Aaron!”

It’s all snippets, no solidity.

Rossi’s rough palm, his skin radiating an intense uncomfortable heat against Hotch’s cheek. The rings on his fingers biting with their chilled metal, startlingly present in a haze of sensations he can’t name. All too much information for his brain, warmth and the chill, and how heavy his diaphragm feels as he draws in breathes.

Bright lights, rocking, and back and forth. White, bright white dancing from one eye over to the other.

“Mr. Hotchner?”

Drugs. He can feel them in his veins, thick as sludge crawling up his throat.

“Mr. Hotchner, can you hear me?”

Pulse is thready.

He’s not responding.

He can see Rossi-- it’s not worry pulling his face down, it’s hopelessness. A deep realization that he can do nothing, that he’s powerless and clueless. He can do nothing but sit there as the paramedics work, providing no commentary, having generally no idea what to do.

Starting lactated ringers.

Systolic is dropping.

BP is 90/60.

Systolic is his heart, which Rossi knows isn’t good. His blood pressure runs low, he takes medication for that. Maybe… Maybe he just didn’t take his meds this morning. That’s an easy enough explanation. No need to think the worst.

But the worst is what they get.

Foyet returned from the grave. Sometimes it’s like that man never really left. Hotch still looks over his shoulder, wakes up in the middle of the night thinking about him. Catches himself thinking like a trapped animal, reflexively isolating himself. It was only a few months but the paranoia is something he’s never been able to shake. He put his family at risk, lost Haley and Jack for months, and every time he was alone with a team member Foyet could be watching and if Foyet wanted to… he couldn’t even keep a serial killer from breaking into his home. He’s nearly lost all of them to serial killers, what’s he really going to be able to do to stop Foyet from killing them?

Back from the grave?

It’s like he never left.

Garcia approaches the bed slowly, put off by the stark contrast of the bags under Hotch’s eyes, and the intense pallor of his face. The only reassurance he’s even alive is the fog, the oxygen mask flushed with each of his shaky and choked breaths. “Sir?” She slowly reaches down and takes his right hand in both of her own. His hand is freezing, limp, and heavy in her hand. Lifeless. Even his veins look wrong, the colors aren’t right.

Settling herself with a deep breath, Garcia runs her thumb across his knuckles. Trying to draw some sort of stability, some consciousness to the madness buzzing around them. The hospital alight with all the wrong sorts of energy.

His head is turned slightly to her, lips parted as his breathing labors on. Leaving his lungs in harsh rasps. His left arm is curled limply around the light pink basin in his lap. It makes her stomach ache to imagine him alone back here, even if he wasn’t awake.

“Ma’am,” a nurse steps into the room, followed by two men on each of her sides. “They’re ready for him in OR 2. We’re going take him there now.”

Garcia nods, hands shaking a little harder than she’d like at the thought of him going somewhere she can’t watch over. This isn’t the same as the field. There she can hear what he hears. She’s right there with them but… “O--Okay,” she whispers, nodding tightly as she gently lays his hand back down on the bed. She looks him back over once more. Memorizing all that she can and biting back the emotion working up her throat. “Take care of him,” she says, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “He’s really important to me.”

The nurse stops, ignoring the other two men as they place all the machines they can around and in Hotch’s lap. She squeezes Garcia’s arm gently, “he’s in the best hands.” She nods, a small sympathetic smile in place. “We’ll take care of him, ma’am. I promise.”

Garcia nods, “okay.” She has to trust them and she can do that. She believes in medicine. She understands it. He’s going to be okay. Eventually. Not right now but soon and she’ll stay with him for as long as she can.

“Hello?” She answers her phone on the second ring, her hands shaking so badly she misses the answer button the first time. Her eyes stay on Hotch, watching and struggling to keep up with the fast pace of the staff pushing him down the hall. Distracted enough to not even care that it’s Morgan calling her and that she should greet him with their usual luster. She just can’t find it in herself to conjure it up right now.

Morgan greets her a second later, a mind centered on just getting this case over with. He can’t think about Hotch. Can’t get distracted. “Hey, Baby Girl,” he says, pulling the phone back and hitting the speakerphone so JJ can hear. “It’s Morgan. How’s Hotch?”

Garcia really wishes she hadn’t worn heels today. The heels along with her much shorter legs are making it really hard to keep pace with Hotch. “He’s still out,” she informs him. Which kind of sucks. She’d feel really good right now if she’d just seen him awake. To talk to him. He’s always really good at calming her down. “They’re taking him to surgery.”

Morgan sighs, shaking his head. Damn, he’d really been hoping whatever this was to pass over as the flu. “Okay,” is all he says, hoping his disappointment doesn’t write itself all over his body. He clears his throat and tries to shake this awful feeling in his gut. “Alright, well, we need you to look through Samantha Wilcox’s text and email correspondents.”

Garcia nods her head, hoping what he’s saying actually sticks in her brain. She’d hate to have to call back and tell them she didn’t catch a word being said. Not after promising Dave, she would be okay to stay behind with Hotch. “Okay.” She agrees, “what am I looking for? Anything in particular?”

JJ’s voice cuts through and that takes Garcia by pleasant surprise. “She’s been in touch with her dad.”

Oh. Garcia thinks. That’s probably not good.

“And check vicap,” Morgan adds.

Garcia had seen the doors coming and the nurses and doctor’s throwing on scrub caps from down the hall. She’d seen them but she hadn’t thought this was where they part. Nervously, her eyes flicker over to Hotch. Maybe it’s better he’s not awake to see her like this. The last thing he needs is worrying about trying to soothe her nerves. “W-Why,” she stops as a nurse sympathetically directs her to.

She doesn’t hear a thing from then on. Her ears are ringing, words coming from the line but she doesn’t hear it. She just stands there. “They just took him back,” she manages. He’s gone from her sight. The hall is empty. It’s just her standing here.

For the sake of appearances she finds a seat in the waiting room, tries to manage deep even breathes. Remain calm. But Morgan’s request doesn’t take that long, he doesn’t even try to stay on the line with her. The conversation dies the second she tells him Hotch is in surgery and no one’s told her anything.

Out of boredom, unable to sit still a moment longer while her mind replays the pain of the day that it happened. Being forced to stay at her desk while knowing, while having listened as Emily explained the mess in his apartment. The tumbler shattered on the ground. Clear, composed Emily Pretniss’ voice trembling, the shattered glass in her throat. Not enough blood to know he’s dead but not enough to survive.

She goes to the gift shop to distract herself with the signs and clothes for expecting parents, for balloons that wish parents and grandparents a speedy recovery. So that she can stand amongst the aisle of teddy bears and t-shirts and exist in space and time that feels mute, feels non-existent.

She buys herself a sucker shaped like a heart and Hotch a teddy bear with a t-shirt that says “I love you” because he’ll pretend to hate it. He’ll hate the attention maybe but it’ll keep him company. After what Foyet did to him she gave him a troll, it’s all she had on her when was finally able to get to the hospital to see him. He was asleep by the time she got there, the doctor gave him sedatives. He got agitated after Haley and Jack left, tore stitches in restlessness. They set up a schedule, made sure he wasn’t alone after that.

She placed the troll in the palm of his hand, curled his fingers around it. He gave it back when he returned to work. She found it on her desk with a note, a simple “Thank you -H”. What a silly man, she’d meant for him just to keep it. She slipped it back into his go-bag the second he wasn’t watching. He got the message then.

It’s still in his go-bag.

The recovery room is filled with the sounds of heart monitors.

It’s good. Logically, Penelope Garcia knows it’s good but she’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Yet she’d fought rather bravely to get here, to be allowed someplace she should not be. Listening to the crowd of heart monitors softly ringing out the promise of ongoing survival, she feels hopeful. She’s not naive enough to feel safe.

She’d watched them extubate him. She’d stepped into the room a little prematurely, seen him attached to all those machines. Watched his chest rise and fall under the guide of the ventilator. Slivers of his eyes present as a doctor talked to him, guiding him through the process. He gags and chokes, still absent of mind as they move him. By the time anyone pays any attention to her he’s already back under the pull of the drugs. Asleep. They move him on the bed, settle his arms back to his sides and pull the blankets up to his chest. He’s no more than a body to manipulate.

“He’ll—He’ll be okay, right?” She’d seen the doctor extubate Hotch and her chest hurts at the sight of him. He’d been so limp as they pulled that tube out, coughing and curling into himself. Unaware of everything around him, he’d wrapped his arms around his chest. He’s as pale as the bedsheets he’s laying on and her protective streak wants nothing more than to gather all six feet of him up into a comfy blanket and cuddle his pain away. “Is he in any pain?”

The doctor clenches his teeth, taking a breath like he’s either uncertain or afraid to tell her the truth. He places his arms over his chest, “there was a lot of internal damage.” But he’s still chewing on what he’s really afraid to admit to, turning it over. Weighing the pros and cons— “We lost him on the table but—” panic strikes the happy blonde like a hand. “We got him right back, ma’am. He’s responding appropriately to the medication. Your friend is tough, his recovery is already coming along nicely.”

Garcia lets out a shaky breath. “Is there anything I can do? You know, until you move him?” They get hurt all the time and she tries really hard to stay objective, to keep coasting along because that’s always what the others do. Emily never loses her head and Hotch always stays in the field, takes care of more than his share of the work. So she can do that, she’s capable of that.

The doctor smiles, “yeah. When he wakes up, his throat’s going to be pretty agitated. Try to get him to drink some water. It’ll help later, make him stronger when the nurses come around wanting him back on his feet in a few hours.” He extends his hand for her to shake, “and I’m sure with you here, Agent Hotchner will make a speedy recovery.”

Garcia blushes and shakes his hand.

“So,” the doctor stuffs his hands in his lab coat. “Are the rumors true?”

Garcia frowns, tilting her head.

“Did he really…” the doctor’s eyes move to the man on the bed. He shakes his head, “was it really a serial killer that did all that to him?”

Garcia pulls in a heated breath, she’s an even-tempered woman. She’s not going to be hot-headed about any old thing but why would he even say something like that. With Hotch right there. Just as she’s about to lay into him Hotch mumbles something from the bed, turning his head and blinking heavily as he takes in the darkroom. She can’t make it out but he shakes his head and makes a clumsy pull at the nasal canal under his nose, trying to dislodge it. She throws the doctor a dirty look and moves to his side, calling his name. Garcia takes his hand, “what? What is it, sir?”

He frowns, tight. Grimacing as he swallows, adam’s apple bouncing as he shakes his head again. He looks at her, eyes drooping before his lips part, his mouth clumsily forming her name. He pushes at the nasal canal again, his discomfort obvious. “Is he here?” he rasps. “Foyet?”

Garcia curses that stupid doctor but she knows it’s not his fault. Old injuries and old scars. “No, honey,” she soothes, her thumb running over his knuckles. If he weren’t so high, so bogged down with the drugs he wouldn’t be so confused. He’d fuss over her endearment but instead, he leans closer. Turns his face towards her, trusts her. “Foyet’s long gone. He can’t hurt you. You’re safe.” The news seems to be surprising at first but she can see the moment he remembers. Foyet is dead. It puts him at some ease, helps but he’s still visibly uncomfortable.

She releases his hand, her heart breaking at the soft sound he makes. His panic swells as she steps to the side of the bed, going to the water pitcher. She pours a cup, holding it up so he can see what she’s doing. He shakes his head, making another clumsy tug at the oxygen canal and successfully moving it this time.

“Take a sip of this and I’ll bring you a strawberry milkshake later,” Garcia promises with a kind smile. “Come on, sir,” she urges. “One sip of water for your favorite milkshake?” She places the straw to his chapped lips and smiles when he takes a tentative sip.

He manages to raise his left hand, struggling to form a good hold on the cup. She lets him have it though, her palm just under it in case he drops it. “I don’t like strawberry milkshakes,” he rasps, sipping slowly at the water working numbers on his raw throat.

Garcia smiles, “I know sir.” She reaches up and lightly taps a finger against his temple, “I was just making sure they didn’t scramble your brains, that’s all.” She takes the cup back, noticing him slowly losing his grip, fighting the anesthesia still coursing through his veins.

He grins sleepily at her, eyes falling shut. “No more scrambled than usual,” he jokes softly.

She grins and takes his hand in her own, squeezing his limp fingers. “Oh, but that’s why we love you, sir.”

He nods, eyes shut as he slips back under the lingering anesthesia. “Garcia,” he mumbles, fingers curling around hers. “You don’t have to stay.”

She shakes her head, “I’m not gonna leave you back here all alone.” She looks around, he may be fighting sleep and will most likely spend his hour back here asleep but it’s creepy and she knows he wouldn’t leave her. “It’s kind of scary back here,” she admits and squeezes his hand. “And you wouldn’t leave me back here all by myself so don’t expect me to leave you.”

Hotch grumbles something under his breath she can’t quite hear but she takes it as his usual self-deprecating, overbearing nature sort of thing and lets it slip. “Get some sleep, sir.”

He doesn’t remember a word of their previous conversation.

A nurse comes in and they run through all the same old stuff. He’s given a pink bucket even though he doesn’t express he’s nauseous, still clutches it to his chest. Pink plastic rubbing against the surgical staples, he’s afraid breathing the wrong way will split him open. The morphine is making his head fuzzy, makes his dreams weird and his thoughts overwhelmingly rippled. But the world distorts a little and he sees Garica sitting there, all of the brightness in the world scribbling away on her notepad so that she can make sure he abides by every word they advise. He feels a little better with her here.

“Mmm,” he’s leaning into his side but he perks up a little when he hears the nurse say something about food. Tells them he can’t eat anything for the next forty-eight hours. His noise draws their attention, the first real reaction he’s had since this all began. “No milkshake then.”

Garcia frowns at him and then the nurse. She reaches over and squeezes his hand, “sorry, sir.”

He clears his throat, pressing the bucket harder into his stomach. “S’okay.” He really doesn’t care about that. The main concern right now is not throwing up. A battle that it feels like he won’t be winning.

“Mr. Hotchner?”

He cracks an eye open and knows that a good stretch of time has just passed. There are no markers for it within the room, the blinds are shut on the one window and there’s not a visible clock within his line of sight but intuitively he knows.

“I need to change your bandages.”

He nods, faintly able to recall this part of the healing from years ago. The constant monitoring, the bandage changes. Sucks. All of it. “Garcia?” they ask him if she can stay. He doesn’t want to do that to her but he also doesn’t want to force her away. “You don’t have to stay.” He finds her in the mix of people, around the sound of gauze being opened, and things shuffled around. “Take a break,” he manages a sliver of control. “Get some fresh air.”

She shakes her head.

“Garcia.” They’re waiting on his permission, to go on or kick her out. “Penelope,” he whispers, “you don’t have to look. You don’t want to.”

She frowns, standing to contest his nonsense head-on. “Sir, you’re one of the three most attractive men I know.” She stands there and dares him to say otherwise. He’s a good bit older than she is but she knows an attractive man when she sees one. She’s not blind.

He smirks, too loosely for it to be entirely of his volition and nothing to do with the drugs. “One of three, huh? That makes me the third?” She rolls her eyes and he waves her off, makes a motion for her to go. “Go eat, Penelope. Call Morgan. Get out of here.”

She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want him to ever leave her line of sight again but she nods and listens.

Morgan tells her everything with the Wilcox case went decently. They got the dad and the girl made it out alive. She tells him Hotch is awake, facing this new disaster with his usual stoic ways. They end the awkwardly, neither really in the headspace to play around.

He’s asleep again when she comes back. Gown askew across his shoulders, leaving his collarbones scandalously out in the open. Makes him look naked but she can’t look away. Under all those layers, suits that haven’t really changed in the decade she’s known him, he’s deceivingly pale. She can see muscle, the way it lays, and yet the soft corners of him. Years of fatherhood having worn him down in places softened him in others. He’s gained weight but this has set him back again and she realizes that if she’s looking at his too-thin body here then he’s lost weight before her eyes. How long has he been sick?

Visiting hours are over, she’s supposed to be making her goodbyes for the night. This sullen feeling in her stomach only doubles, makes her feel sick. She can’t leave him. Don’t they understand that? He’s in no state to be left by himself. “Sir?” she whispers. She touches his hand and he flinches.

His sleepy frown deepens but he hears her whisper for him again. He hums, eyelids too heavy to lift fully. “Mhmm?”

“I have to go,” she says. “Visiting hours are over.”

He hums again, nods.

She takes advantage of his current state leans down and kisses his forehead, hugs him while he lets her. “I love you, sir, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She takes a moment, his eyes still closed, to move his hair off of his forehead. “Are you okay? Will you be okay?”

He nods, swallowing thickly against the dryness in his throat. Facing the next few hours alone sounds miserable but he’s more than mastered the art of sleeping off stays in the hospital. It’s going to be a long night but not an impossible one.

“Oh,” she mumbles, “okay.” She moves to gather her stuff when she remembers the teddy bear. “Sir?”

He opens his eyes, just sliver but he’s there.

“I thought… maybe…” she places the bear in his lap. “To keep you company?”

He smirks, “thank you, Garcia.” There’s something about the way he rubs at the bear’s ear, softly and entirely content that gives her hope. He’ll be okay, she knows, but that doesn’t stop her from worrying. He looks up at her, that same lopsided grin she’s seen all afternoon. The drugs will wear off and she’ll be left without that smile again. Having to barter her way into sad grins instead.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she promises.

“Not until you’ve had breakfast,” he mumbles. “Eat first.”

She can’t help but smile even if she intends to listen. “Yes, sir.” So bossy. He’s lucky he’s cute or she’d have smacked him up the side of the head by now. She leaves, it hurts and she really, really doesn’t want to but she leaves.

He’ll be okay, she knows that.

And he is. There’s no good way to measure the day’s passing but a nurse comes in and tells it’s eight o’clock and that someone called the nurse’s desk asking for him, a name that came with a badge. Which confuses him but that really only leaves a small group of people, he assumes that means the team is back home.

It’s not them.

She gets there at nine o’clock and it’s only her badge and artfully mumbling something about Interpol that gets her back. They know he’s a federal agent and she’s betting on that. She’s always been good at poker.

He’s sleeping when she finds him, the only light in the room coming from the heart monitor. She wishes she knew how to read it, how to understand what the numbers mean so that she might be able to get a better grasp on the situation. All she knows is what Morgan told her over the phone but that seemed crazy. Hotch wasn’t even sick, Morgan said he was fine. Maybe a little off but he’s Hotch, he just simply is off.

“Emily?”

She steps into the room, following the sound of his sleep-disturbed voice.

“What’re you doing here?”

He’s obviously confused, frowning at her more than happy to see her. The morphine always gives him crazy dreams, he’s probably assuming that’s what this is. “I know I’m not your favorite,” she mumbles sarcastically, “but you don’t have to make it so abundantly clear.” With an eye roll, she sits herself down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, as his tired brain processes what she’s said, she fears what she fears every time she comes home-- that things between them have changed. That distance hasn’t made him fond but rather angry or has changed one of them so drastically that they no longer know one another.

He groans at her, shaking his head and grumbling her name in that bothered way he’s perfected over the years.

With a smile, she knows nothing has changed. He still manages to say her name like “leave me alone” meant to be taken as an endearment, an invitation to stay. “It’s okay,” she assures, tapping the back of her hand against his hip. “No hard feelings.”

He hums, not going to even bother with refuting any of her statements. That’s the beauty of their companionship, they never really have to say anything. That’s what she’s so afraid will change because she knows that if one day she comes home and he can’t read the “I love you” hidden in her sarcasm and the “please, don’t scare me like that again” in her playful proximity then that’s it. She can find the words for Reid and she’s always been able to suck up the physical comfort for Garcia or JJ but she just can’t with Hotch. She tried so hard after Foyet to be able to say something, to wrangle up comfort, but she just couldn’t.

But there was a moment, one night when the world seemed to be drowning in a rainstorm, that she woke up sick. His abdomen was still ablaze from Foyet’s attack, too fresh for him to be up and moving around. He’d followed the sound of her getting sick to the bathroom, making his slow way down the hall held upright by the wall. Moving forward only because stopping would cause him to fall. He didn’t leave her once he understood the noise just settled down on the ground beside her, back leaning on the bathtub. Neither said a word but she looked over at him and she saw all the comfort he couldn’t manage to bring to words. His worry etched across his face. She was supposed to be taking care of him and yet they’d ended up shoulder-to-shoulder waiting out a storm on the bathroom floor.

She has a fever-hazed memory of waking up with her head on his shoulder. A glass of water against her knee and the warmth of a heating pad against her stomach. No idea how he did it or when but they never spoke of it. Never had to. Somehow someone she can’t even manage to tell that she loves or that she even remotely feels concerned for turned out to be one of her closest friends. The asshole she once thought untrustworthy. He’s still an asshole but it’s one of those things that you just learn to look over.

Makes him interesting.

“So,” she says with a sigh, “you gonna scoot over or what?”

She gets another blanket out of a cabinet she sees in the corner of the room, distracts herself so that he’s certain she doesn’t see him moving. That’s what she’s talking about, there’s no communication needed. He can move himself over a little bit but it’s painful and he’s weak and he doesn’t want her to see that. She also knows he runs cold and won’t share his blankets with her. Loves her enough to share his bed but she’s yet to encounter someone he loves enough to share his blankets.

“What happened to your arm?” he can see it once she moves away again. A simple sling keeps it pinned to her chest, he assumes she’s either dislocated or been shot. Wonders why she didn’t call, why she didn’t tell anyone.

She sighs, he can’t see her roll her eyes but he knows that sigh and knows she’s done it even if he can’t see. “This prick,” she tosses the blanket on his legs as she climbs up beside him. “He kicked me, sent me down a flight of stairs.” He can tell she’s more embarrassed than hurt, which is good. She puffs out an agitated breath but despite this is very gentle as she gets closer to him. Hyperaware of the wounds she can’t see.

Her warmth is alluring, despite himself he leans closer, and she doesn’t say a word when his cheek comes to her shoulder.

“I’m okay, though,” she finally states. Moves some of her blanket over him, checks again that he’s comfortable. Which she assumes he is, or he wouldn’t be sleeping. “Clyde had given me three weeks off, told me to take a break. That’s why I came. I promise I didn’t take any unnecessary time off.”

He hums, appreciates this addition. She knew he would.

Her throat is sore where it catches the words she doesn’t know how to say. That she’s missed him terribly or that she loves him or that when Morgan told her what happened she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think or move. He takes her hand and she has to pinch her eyes shut so that she doesn’t cry and he squeezes her hand.

He’s missed her too.

He loves her.

He’s glad she came.

“Go to sleep,” she mumbles.

He hums.

--------------

The others come in at six, pilling into the room in dirty clothes from the day before and sore from the jet ride home. They’re too tired to speak, to do anything more than grumble and shove at one another to get through the door. As they pile in they take stock of the sight before them. Emily’s dark bruises, the black eye that the night had hidden from Hotch. Her hand still holding his. Hotch breathing, laying there entirely whole. Slowly returning to his normal colors.

They have questions, concerns to raise with both sleeping parties, but those can wait for a better hour.

They settle down in the room, squeezing together on chairs.

Morgan sees Hotch wake a little, a soft shift in his breathing.

“Back to sleep,” Morgan whispers, trying to keep the others from hearing. Hotch’s face pinches, mouth opening to ask the question Morgan already knows. “Everything went fine. Samantha is safe, no one got hurt.” He glances at Emily and shakes his head, “go back to sleep, Hotch. We’ll talk in the morning.”

And it settles once again.

Nothing but the soft sound of sleeping agents.

[softsan]

NCT MAFIA AU (taeil)

🖇Pay the devil’s price, baby you’re mine (pt.3)

MASTERLIST

PARTS: | 01 | 02 | 03 |

MAFIA PROFILES | Y/N’S NAMES

GENRE: Mafia AU, Homicide investigator AU, Angst

QUOTE: “His constant worry about what trouble you might get yourself into had plagued his mind. His troubles were only increasing since he made the connection that the West was somehow involved in all of this.”

WARNINGS: Graphic scenes of violence,, Blood, Mentions of serial killers, Death, Torture, Injury, 

Past.

"I'll catch you if you fall."  

You squealed excitedly, holding onto your bike's handlebars. The colored tassels blew in the air as your small feet rested on the pink peddles.  

"Remember just to the letterbox." Your father told you.  

You nodded eagerly, ready to ride without your training wheels.  

"On the count of three."  

You grinned, focused on the task at hand.  

"One, two, thre -"  

"John," Your mother slid the sliding door open, "You have a phone call," She took a step outside, covering the receiver of the brick-like cellphone.  

"Tell them I'm busy." Your father wavered his hand, about to restart his count down.  

"It's from the company," Your mother responded grimly.  

Your legs bounce on and off the concert, impatient. 

Your father's face hardened, "I'll there in a second."  

Your mother let out a sigh, returning inside the house.  

"Sweetheart," Your father spoke gently, "Daddy has to go back to work now." 

You shook your head, refusing to accept what your father was telling you. 

"I'm sorry,"  

"You just came home," You whined.

Your father has been away on business for the last week and a half. He had promised when he came back he'd teach you to ride without your training wheels.  

"I know," He responded somberly, ruffling your hair, "Come on back inside,"  

───

Present.

You had another sleepless night, your brain working on overdrive.   You couldn't get the videotape footage out of your head. He may have been the very last person to see the victim alive, and he might of be the very culprit you had been searching for since you had joined the force.

"Y/N," The medical examiner interrupted your thoughts.  

You were seated at your desk. It was covered with an array of files, all of which were the cases linked to the suspect 'Nait Sabes'.

The medical examiner Cindy handed you a cup of coffee, "You look like you could use one."  

"Thanks," You offered a grim smile.  

Cindy was one of the few competent people than worked with the homicide squad. She had a decade of experience under her belt. She also seemed to sympathize with the personal vendetta you had against Nait Sabes, offering to work overtime and go through old cases with you.  

"This is the final report for the girl that was murdered,"  

Cindy handed you the folder. You quickly pried apart the pages, scanning over the charts.

"The same M.O?" You confirmed.  

Cindy nodded, "His pattern of behavior hasn't altered much, besides this." She leaned over your shoulder, pointing out the fractures on the victim's phalanges. 

"Injuries to the hands and wrist seem to pretty consistent?" You queried.

"Yes, but this sort of abrasion is made from thumb cuffs."

Your eyebrows furrowed. It certainly was an oddity. You had never seen a criminal use thumb cuffs before.  

"The victim struggled badly, enough to rip her own thumbs apart."  

You shut your eyes, your anger only brewing greater.  

"What is that you've got there?" Willkins strayed, his mouth half stuffed with a bagel.

"The medical reports of our latest victim."  

Your partner frowned, "I thought we already determined the cause of death was by fire."  

You held back your tongue. It would be useless repeating what you had said earlier to your partner—most of which probably went in one ear and out the other.  

"I forgot just how clever you are," You snide, "How about you head home? I'm sure little old me can handle the paperwork for this case."

"Sounds good," Willkins agreed, "I'll see you tomorrow then."  

Cindy waited until Willkins had walked away before making her own remarks, "I swear half of this police force is inept,"  

"You're right about that,"

───

Taeil strode coolly into the pizzeria, his suit crisp, his leather shoes immaculate. His hair was gelled back while shades covered his eyes. His hands rested in his pockets as he tilted his head, inciting fear into the employee at the counter.  

"What can I do for you, sir?" She stuttered as her cheeks paled.

Jaemin picked up the money can for tips, purposely knocking over the pre-folded pizza box which were stacked behind.  

"Sorry about that," Jaemin taunted, emptying the tips, on top of the counter.  

"Is your boss in?"

"I'll get him for you," She quickly disappeared between the kitchen doors.

"What is it?" Her boss came out, visibly annoyed.  

His hands were covered with flour, wiping them on his filthy apron. He lifted his head, his sight falling upon Taeil and Jaemin.  

"Shit," He cursed, making a run for it. He raised the flap that separated the counter and kitchen from the dining area. He tried to skid pass, but Jaemin was too quick swinging the baseball bat he had brought along with him into the man's knees.  

The man buckled, groaning in agony.  

"Talk," Taeil commanded.

Jaemin made practice swings at the man's head, intimidating him into revealing the information they wanted.  

"The West." He cried, "They threatened me."

Taeil's jaw clenched. There were four mafia territories the North, South, East, and West. All were run by notable underworld figures.

Taeyong was the Northern leader and didn't appreciate scum dealing on his turf, especially not those who had aligned themselves with the West.

"Break one of his hands," Taeil directed Jaemin.  

Jaemin wasted no time crushing the man's forhead, the man's incoherent screams echoing through the pizzeria.

"Please," He sobbed, "I didn't have a choice."  

Taeil dismissed the man's pleas.  

You overheard howling from inside the building, pushing open the glass door. Taeil swiveled, his lips curving into the delighted smile.  

"You look good," He complimented, taking of his shades.

His gaze lingered on the bodycon dress you wore, accompanied by a pair of ridiculously high heels. 

"How did you even get my number?" You crossed your arms, "And why did you call me to meet you here?"

Your eyes adjusted to the indoor lighting, observing a man lying on the floor with a battered hand. Another man stood overhead, the end of his baseball bat pinning down the other man's chest.  

Taeil had asked their computer specialist Haechan to send him your number. It took Haechan a mere five seconds for him to text Taeil your digits.  

"This man has been illegally distributing heroin,"  

"Can you prove that?"  

"Jaemin," Taeil order the man with the baseball bat.  

Jaemin dropped his bat. It bounced a couple of times across the tiles before coming to a halt. Jaemin moved behind the counter, digging through one of the cabinets. Jaemin found the safe with ease. He spun the dial using the numbers Jiwoo, (their resident theif) provided him.  

The safe clicked, Jaemin tugged on the iron handle opening the safe. There were two briefcases. One would have carried the money from the sales, the other would have had the product.  

You raised a brow as Jaemin place one of the briefcases down. He unbuckled the hinges, opening the case to reveal bags upon bags of the illicit drug.

"That's great that you want to turn him in and all," You acknowledge, "But that still doesn't answer why you called me? I'm a homicide detective, not a narcotics officer."  

"Do you remember the mystery man we saw on that video footage?" 

Your mouth dried. Of course, you did.  

"They share the same tattoo." Taeil explained, "I had Haechan, a friend of mine, blow up the image as much as he could before it became distorted."  

"Same tattoo?" 

"A black crow, a sigil of for the Western Mafia."  

Taeil reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded photograph. Your finger smoothed out the crease, having a look at it. You grimaced it wasn't much of a clear image of a crow, more so a blurry outline of sorts.

"It's still pretty hard to read." You looked up to Taeil.

Your eyes enlarged as the man previously on the ground had picked up the bat.

Jaemin came jumping over the counter, but it was too late. The man had swung.

You grabbed Taeil's arms, the bat clipping Taeil’s cheekbone instead of the entirety of his face. Taeil grasped the left side of his head. His cheek and around his eyes are starting to swell. Jaemin put the man in a chokehold, smothering his face into the carpet.  

"Don't kill him," Taeil ordered, blood covering his teeth and tongue, "We still need to interrogate him further."  

Taeil blinked back the water in his eyes.  Was that concern he saw written across your face?

You had lowered to your knees, your hands hovering just above his own. 

───

Past.  

The school day had been extremely slow. Your foot tapped relentlessly underneath your desk as you bit down on the end of your pencil. You were barely listening to your mathematics' teacher, the equations on the board not making a lick of sense. 

Someone threw a scrunched-up ball of paper your way. Your eyes flickered to your left. The girl beside you held up her textbook, showing you the devil's ears she had drawn on one of the textbook's images. You broke a smile, nudging your head back to the chalkboard, pointing out she should be listening to the teacher that stood in the front of the class. She rolled her eyes, returning to scribbling in her textbook.  

"Excuse me," The vice-principal rapped on the door of the classroom.  

The teacher placed down his stick of chalk, "How can I help you?"  

"I'm looking for Y/N," The vice-principal kept her face neutral.  

Jeers and taunts erupted in the class.  

"What have you done now?" One of your classmates teased.  

You were just as curious. You hadn't gotten yourself in trouble for a while now.  

You pushed back your chair, standing to your feet. You were about to start walking when the vice-principal added it would be best if you gathered your things first.

Confused, you slowly packed your textbooks back into the backpack that hung on your chair. You threaded your arms through the straps, following the vice-principal out into the corridor.  

"What's up, miss?" You asked.  

The vice-principal adjusted her watch, avoiding eye contact, "It's best if you talk to his man," 

A man who you hadn't noticed earlier approached.  

"I'm sorry, Y/N," She said regrettably before excusing herself.  

You watched the vice-principal disappear down the corridor, your confusion intensifying.  

"Y/N?" The man inquired.  

"The one and only," You mumbled, "Who are you?" 

The man awkwardly scratched the back of his head, "I'm a friend of you, fathers."  

Your shoulders stiffened, a thin line coming across your lips.  

"Are you now?"  

"We work together," He explained.  

After your mother's passing, your father had been a wreck. The years hadn't softened his sense of his loss. Instead, he spiraled. He worked sporadically, and when he didn't, he spent his time with the bottle. You could no longer count the number of times you had a search around the neighborhood for your father, only to find him passed out in the park or next to some trash cans.  

"Cool," You responded sarcastically, "What are you do here then?"  

"Y/N, Your father. He-," The man revealed a wedding band hooked around a necklace from his pocket.  

You recognize it immediately. After your mother's death, your father wore his wedding ring around his neck instead. 

"There was an accident."  

You blinked, your hands going numb, "What do you mean?"  

"Your father had been drinking, and he must have fallen off the boat."  

"No," You shook your head, "You're lying to me." Your chest began to pound, your breathing uneven.  

"I'm sorry."  

"Where is he? Let me see him." You demanded, your eyes starting to prickle.  

"I can't," The man told you, "I’m afraid the boat propeller tore him up into pieces. He’s barely recognizable."  

Your knees gave out. You collapse to the ground.  

───

Present.

"Come in," Your face softened, noticing the yellowish and purple bruising which had surfaced on Taeil's face.  

Taeil had gone back for the tape, meeting up at your apartment. You had insisted you wanted to watch it over again.  

"Here it is," He handed it over for you to place in your VCR.  

He took a seat whilst you set everything up. It had been a while since he had gotten in some sleep. His constant worry about what trouble you might get yourself into had plagued his mind. His troubles were only increasing since he made the connection that the West was somehow involved in all of this.  

You turned to speak, noticing Taeil's eyelids beginning to droop. Despite, Taeil's own criminal ties, he had gone out his way to try to help you out. A lot more than you could say about most of the people in your life.

You walked to the kitchen, taking an icepack from a freezer. You wrapped it in a hand towel and returned to  living room, taking a seat beside Taeil.  

Taeil tried to peel his eyes back open.  

"It's okay, get some sleep." You let him fall into your lap, tilting his head to the side so you could apply the cold compress.  

You watched the slow rise and fall of Taeil's chest, your own eyes beginning to tire. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep also. 

MONI’S NOTE: Mafia Taeil’s third installment. I hope you all enjoy it. If you do, please consider reading the other member’s parts. They are all a part of the same universe, and you may even notice some cross-over between them.

TAGLIST: @dawnfeather | @chckencarlyn | @liendoesja | @peachescherryheart , @milkteajuseyo | @wykynct | @moonylvi | @mythologikun | @youseeititslegend​| @fruityutas | @myonlyaurora | @hoshitaro | @jjong-dae97 | @4-sun | @edgy-harrie |@2-cute-4-school | @lovestrucked-again |

TAGLIST: If you’d like to be tagged in this fic please send me a message.

[pinkhairedlily]

Chapter 4 - Student Council President Sakura

SCPS AO3 | PREVIOUS CHAPTER

“By any chance, are you two available after class?” Sakura asked her seatmates.

“No.” The reply, while simultaneous, delivered contrasting connotations with Sasuke being gruff, adamant, eager to be uninvolved while Naruto’s was dripping with disappointment and missed timing.

“I have practice.” The blonde sank further into his seat. “But whatever is it for, Pres?”

Sakura grimaced at the monicker. “What’s up with that?”

“It’s what everyone calls you now,” Naruto replied. “You’re the youngest president too so that’s like a really big deal, you know. So anyway, if our schedules free up and coincide, maybe you can join us in this cute café.”

Sasuke discreetly flashed him a glare which obviously just flew past across the blonde airhead, but it was caught by Sakura who knew where this opening was headed.

“They served the best sweets but grumpy here ordered a tomato dish. Like what’s up with that? They also gave us free food before we left!” Naruto grinned widely, unperturbed by his next statement. “Moreover, there’s a cute barista who looks just like you.”

And Sakura decided to deliver the curve ball. With her chin on her open palm, she looked at Naruto directly. “So you’re saying I’m cute?”

Sasuke swore that was the reddest he saw Naruto turned. He tried to hide the bubbling laughter with his head down and his hand on his mouth, reveling in the blonde’s embarrassed stuttering, but he slowly registered her amused glance at him, and he wondered briefly why his face was also turning hot.

------------------------------

He shouldn’t be doing this. He should have come home after classes ended and not be entranced with Naruto’s rare offer of free dinner. Obviously, by free dinner, that meant their coach paying for the entire team’s meal as well as the roster of honorary members, which unsurprisingly included him.

So he was just napping the time away in the classroom, away from their go-to hideout because of the noisy dragonboat power yells, when he heard a scream and an ensuing crash of what seemed to be books and stacks of papers. His feet was already at the door before he could think this through, his body moving on its own accord like an innate response to a familiar voice.

Loose pink strands were splayed on the floor, surrounded with likewise loose pages from the confines of the folders.

“Did you hit your head?” he asked as he crouched beside her. “You seem to enjoy injuring yourself.”

“I didn’t hit my head. I landed on my butt which hurts a lot right now but thank God I’m wearing sweatpants because you would have seen such outrageous grandma panties.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose at the TMI. “Try filtering.” He proceeded to pick up the scattered papers and files on the floor and gestured for her to stand up already.

“I need a hand though.”

“My hands are full with your documents.”

“Then let me get your back.”

He muttered an annoyed protest under his breath, but he squatted low enough for her to reach the back of his uniform and pull herself up with accompanying ow-ow-ow-ow. They walked like that until they reached the student council office, her box of files safely tucked in both of his arms, her one hand on the edge of his shirt and the other on her lower back.

“Thanks, Sasuke! And with this, I pronounce you and Naruto my official runners!”

“He’s not even here.”

“He’ll agree. After all, I look like his cute barista.” Sakura winked, riding on the comedic atmosphere.

“But I didn’t even agree?” Sasuke protested, falling into deaf ears as she quickly took the folders from his arms and exited the office with a wave. He was sure warning signs kept flashing inside his brain.

------------------------------

He was set on keeping his distance, thus despite her informal announcement, it was mostly Naruto who accompanied her in most errands except in instances when he had to stay behind after class to wait for the blonde.

His latest task was to help write support banners for the preliminary matches of the baseball team. Personally, he found the game season a nuisance, but of course, he wouldn’t admit it to himself that the trainings were eating up most of his time with Naruto. If they weren’t practicing pitches during lunch, the blonde would discuss game strategies, a topic he actually exceled in. Sasuke theorized his brain cells operated most efficiently when used for kinetics. He wouldn’t admit it, but he felt sidelined – with his companion successfully finding something to keep the loneliness at bay – while he remained in the frontlines, waging an internal war between the thundering silence of his apartment, and the raucous chaos of his thoughts.

He stood there awkwardly on the side of the student council office as the rest of the council members hunched on the floor, painting the words haphazardly out of the outline patterns, the worst among them being Sakura.

Frustrated and driven by a compulsion, he grabbed a spare brush and blank canvas and started the lettering. Thank god for his childhood calligraphy classes. This feat earned him interested looks from the members.

“Wow Pres, you really reeled in a talented runner,” one member chided. “He’s still as grumpy as ever though.”

Sakura wasn’t entirely happy as she looked over his shoulder. “Oh come on. Our banners weren’t that bad.”

“If I were on the baseball team, I’d think you would want us to lose.” He finished one cheering banner and gave it to the nervous member beside him. Apparently, his presence intimidated them even though he was but a mere runner. “Can you give me the next one?”

“Why are we bothering though?” asked the vice-president. “Our school team never makes it past the preliminaries.” From the get go, Sasuke felt her slight annoyance of having been bypassed in the selection, and while this was valid, he also thought she shouldn’t project this to Sakura who was caught in the middle of the decision of the advisory board.

He needn’t worry however, as she carried the subtle dig effortlessly, her usual positivity dripping through. “Isn’t it better to put it your all and see everything through than to give up when the clock hasn’t even started running yet? I find regrets more troublesome.”

Flustered with her response, the vice-president shifted her gaze back to the canvas in front of her and started to paint again. Everyone didn’t see it, but he caught Sakura sticking her tongue out to her.

Such a child. He found himself smirking.

Naruto started skipping classes as the day of the preliminaries crept closer. A week of this behavior prompted Sakura to pry his address out of Sasuke. He found out days later that she started coming to his apartment and incessantly ring the doorbell until his neighbors in the complex complained of the early morning noise.

Sasuke’s part in this scheme was the notes he compiled and one-word reminders through texts when there were deadlines or assignments. Somehow, it evolved into a convoluted arrangement among the three of them to keep the baseball rookie MVP afloat in his academics. As compensation for their efforts, Naruto started to buy them convenience store rice balls for morning snacks.

“You idiot. You should save your allowance,” Sasuke said smugly to the blonde.

“And yet you’re swallowing it in full.” Naruto grinned. “You should chew, grumpy! Chew!”

Sakura took a sip of her cranberry juice and smiled fondly at them. “Are you ready for Friday?”

“We’re facing off a top ten school, and Captain Haru said we don’t have that much chance. I don’t believe it though. I think we’ll win,” Naruto replied.

“You have a strategy ready?” Sakura asked.

He shook his head and pointed to himself rather proudly. “No but the team has me.” Sasuke choked on the last bit of his rice ball at the latter’s pronouncement.

“I told you to chew!”

Sakura, in panic, gave her half-drunk juice carton to him, and Sasuke, also internally panicking, grabbed it and downed the rest of it.

“You okay?” Sakura patted his back and snuffled a laughter which Naruto joined with his loud, uncontrollable dry heaves. Sasuke glared at the two, but this only served to amuse them further. “Oh wow, that was the first time I ever saw you uncomposed.” She swiped the tears in her eyes with the back of her hand.

“But really, they have me so we’ll win,” Naruto insisted.

“I’ll wear a cheering uniform for you,” she chirped back.

“Gods, dumb and dumber,” Sasuke sighed, defeated.

------------------------------

On the afternoon of the game, Sasuke found himself surrounded with a large female following after Sakura got all the members and the runners cheering outfits, and by outfits, that meant olive green jersey tops and maroon sweatpants representative of the school colors. She also took advantage of his obligated presence by giving him the task to distribute the banners and flaglets to the benches. The genius orphan and the couldn’t-care-less Uchiha roaming the rows? That pulled the student crowd needed for the game.

“Go Naruto!” Sakura yelled beside him. A black bandana was tied around her forehead, and her ponytail was replaced with a high bun.

Sasuke inadvertently covered his eardrums. The noise was even louder when the student council started a yell routine in the bleachers. The side of the opponent was half-full, and surprise was transparent in the other team’s faces. Probably the first time that support with this magnitude was given to the baseball team. Also, it was his first time attending a ball game in person, not that he didn’t try asking his brother before.

He felt a light tap on his shoulders. He turned around to see a raven-haired girl behind him, dressed in a lilac midi dress and sporting the black bandana on her wrist. “Is this seat taken?” She motioned to the space beside him. Her face was familiar – he knew he saw her somewhere but also certain he never interacted directly with her.

“Ah Hinata?” Sakura’s voice squeaked in recognition. She gestured to him to exchange seats with her, and she immediately patted her to sit down. “Cheering for Haru?”

Ah, the Hyuuga, the captain’s girlfriend. They’re actually friends.

“I was actually planning to buy the whole team dinner regardless of the results,” she said to Sakura. He was not good at reading people, but this Hinata was soft-spoken and gentle with her mannerisms that he found it fitting for her to be with Haru. He was, after all, so steadfast and assertive with his members, and he could even get Naruto in line with a look. So much so like Sakura that this exact dynamic was playing beside him.

It was a weird thing though when he glanced at the two and saw that her eyes were not trained on Haru but on certain blonde bloke on the field.

“President Sakura.”

Great, another distraction. He knew that voice even when the entire field was already screaming.

Sakura whipped her head too fast he was afraid she was gonna break her neck. Even when she was already glowing, her face lit up brighter when Kakashi handed her two bottles of water. “Nice job rounding an audience. Here, Give one to your runner.”

It was evident she wanted him to stay as she started to look around and tried to find a space near her. Noticing this, Sasuke tried stand up and offer him his seat, but she placed a firm hand on his knee, followed by a slight shake of her head, and a soft disappointed sigh when Kakashi disappeared from the crowd.

------------------------------

He was walking out of the bathroom when the announcer declared the winner of the two-hour game. Of course, they would win. Naruto never backed down from his pronouncements, no matter how silly or unattainable they may be. He should buy him a stack of his favorite ramen as prize.

“Yo, Uchiha.”

Naruto’s bullies blocked the path leading to the bleachers – there were four of them, the same people who made fun of him in the hallway last time.

“Your people skills shot up after spending time with that orphan MVP and the chirpy pinky huh?”

“Birds of the same feather flock together.”

Normally, Sasuke would let these insults slide, if one could call them that. They were bigger and taller than him with faces that reflected experienced jabs in their scars and band-aids. To take them on alone, considering also the fact that he skipped gym for almost a year now, would be suicide. Nonetheless, he didn’t feel riled up as they expected him to be.

“Or should we say, they shot up in their society ranks because of you? After all, your dad was a member of the board.”

“Oooh my bad, dead dad.”

His hands started to clench into fists – an involuntary action out of their own volition. This slight shift in his body language gave them the go signal to surround him.

“Heard through the grapevine that it was actually your fault they’re dead. Imagine sleeping next to your dying parents and not looking for help?”

“Pathetic being.”

“Now he parades himself like an entitled son of a chairman.”

A kick to his shin. “Can’t really do anything to us, huh? Afraid to tarnish your dead daddy’s reputation?”

A punch to his side, and Sasuke clutched at the contact. Another right at the center of his stomach, and he doubled over, the water he drank threatening to hurl itself on the ground.

“You’re a better target than Orphan No. 1. You don’t really fight back.” The bully placed his foot on his hand, pushing him down further and making him bow. “You need to show you’re a model student. After all, your brother’s one of the shareholders of the school, and he has no need for trouble from his shunned sibling.”

Simultaneous kicks to Sasuke’s side. They were right, to an extent, but it was the whole process of explaining that would tire him out. Conversing with Itachi was a drag all on its own, like talking to the void, and hearing the senseless blame games all over again. This was all right, he assured himself throughout the whole encounter, since he was already numb. The other pain inside his head was stronger and sharper.

“Then again, you probably pulled some strings to get pinky that coveted position, didn’t you? Imagine a second year being president all of a sudden without going through the motions.”

The bile rose to his throat, and there was an entirely different metallic taste in his mouth. His fists were itching to fight back.

“Let’s destroy your pretty face this time, and we’ll come for the pinky next.”

Sasuke gained momentum to land a kick on the person’s crotch, the force and shock sending him reeling to the side. That was reckless, he knew that, because then he was exposed to the punches of the three others. And so he waited for contact but there was a flurry of bodies and that pink bright contrast in his line of sight.

One fist landed on Sakura’s face.

AO3 LINK | NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER 5

[desktrack-time-tracking]

Achieving Project Excellence: Mastering Management with Time Tracking Solutions

Mastering project management now is a completely different thing as we are in a completely different scenario nowadays. Today, in the data-driven, technology-oriented, employee-centric, and fast-paced work world and environment, organizations can’t deny but accept multiple complex projects. This dawns on employees when it comes to simultaneously handling them. We need a solution, which can make project management simple again. How about using project time-tracking software? This will help simplify things and make workflows more efficient and productive. How? Let’s get right into it. 

An Overview of Project Time Tracking Software

Software for project time-tracking or in short project time-tracking software, helps track the time and progress of various tasks for each project with a plethora of features. 

For Whom?

The employees working in your organization.

Why?

Simplify handling of multiple and complex projects simultaneously.

How?

We suggest configuring the project time-tracking software as per your needs for the best results.

Are there any Benefits?

We can see higher project completion rates as one of the advantages.

Key Features of Project Time Tracking Software

With the above, we put the overview of project time-tracking software under wraps. Plus, we also mentioned that they have features. However, what are they? What do they do? How do they work? Let’s get right into it.

Project Time Tracking

It wouldn’t be called project time-tracking if it didn’t provide you with project time-tracking. Would it? This feature, which is the name of the game gives you a bird’s eye view of the time and progress of each task of your project individually. 

Task Management

Task management is a very useful feature of project time-tracking software, which we often use. Not only we can create as many tasks, subtasks, and checklists as required and individually track times but it also lets you know who is working on what.   

Alerts and Notifications

This is another useful feature of project time-tracking software, which we often use. What we do is create reminders for various essentialities including deadlines, timelines, visiting non-useful URLs, and suspicious user behavior.

Real-Time Activity Monitoring

Whether built-in or through integration with your desktop activity time-tracking software, this is another useful feature that gives you a bird’s eye view of the files, URLs, app usage, and work patterns of your employees. 

Behavior Analytics

Only tracking employee activity is not enough. You also need to identify unusual behaviors. Not to worry. For that, your software for project time-tracking provides you with real-time behavior analytics and reporting feature

How can Project Time Tracking Software Enhance Project Management?

With that, we put the features of project time-tracking software under wraps. However, are there any benefits of utilizing them? How can project time-tracking software enhance project management? Let’s get right into it.  

More Accountability

Utilizing the task management feature results in you ending up with employees who are more responsible and accountable. Since you have a clear idea of who is working on what, your employees can’t blame each other for incompetency.

Improved Efficiency

The time-tracking feature gives you employees who are more efficient at their work. Since they are not focusing on the clock ticking and concentrating more on the task at hand, they become more efficient at completing projects. 

Improved Time Management

The time-tracking feature also lets you have a clear idea of where your work-time is being utilized the most. This way, you can easily eliminate time-wasting activities. Overall, this also improves time management one way or the other.

Prevents Insider Threats

Thanks to real-time behavior analytics, reporting, and alerts, spotting insider threats is also simple. You can set up the software to send alerts on unusual user behavior, which will let you identify whether it’s an employee pain point or an insider threat. 

Higher Project Completion Rates

All of the above benefits lead to the ultimate advantage, which is higher project completion rates. Thanks to insider threats prevented, improved efficiency, better time management, and more accountability, your timely project completion rate with quality work increases. 

Conclusion 

Finally, we put our post for today’s topic under wraps. To summarize, project management these days is not as simple as it used to be before. Nowadays, the projects are more complex, plus there are simultaneously multiple projects to handle for your employees. So, we need a solution that can make it simple again. That solution is project time-tracking software. With its plethora of features including project time-tracking, task management, alerts and notifications, real-time activity monitoring, and behavior analytics, you get many benefits, all of which lead to better project management. Looking for the best URL-tracking software? We recommend DeskTrack.