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corazondebeskar-reads · 1 year ago

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of rage and ruin - chapter one

of rage and ruin series

chapter one

series masterlist | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.1k

summary: Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He turns into a much different kind of monster than he expected, though.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, torture, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, gore, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), death, murder of innocent people, typical raider/hunter behavior, mention of cordyceps, angst, no y/n, reader is able-bodied and afab with no specific descriptions, viewer discretion is advised

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

This is a werewolf omegaverse fic that uses traditional and non-traditional elements of the genres. It largely ignores TLOU canon.

DISCLAIMER: A plotline of this story involves unethical medical care and human experimentation re: vaccines. It may give anti-vax vibes. This is NOT an anti-vax story and I do not want any related discourse please and thank you. This is about FEDRA being the absolute worst, not about the real world in any way.

In a rare moment of lucidity, he thinks he used to be human, once.

He’s partially transformed more often than not. Almost never fully, unless he’s under the sway of the moon. His real keeper.

These raiders may think they own him, but he knows the truth.

But lucidity is rare, and most of the time, Joel Miller is more beast than man.

Most of the time, he doesn’t even know he’s Joel Miller.

No matter what, though, he’s a nearly uncontrollable force of nature.

That’s why they keep a shock collar around his neck and tasers at their waists. That’s why they never turn their backs or leave him unrestrained. He fought like hell for a long time until he broke.

No shame in it, he knows. Everyone breaks eventually.

As the years have gone on, though, he’s been getting restless and snippy, less cooperative. And the pain doesn’t really matter anymore.

Nothin’ really does when you’ve given up.

On the last new moon, when the wolf was quiet and the man was loud, he’d tried to refuse. He sat, buck-ass naked, on the gritty wood floor of the house they were raiding.

He did not sniff out treasure like some fucking metal detector. He did not tear the humans limb from limb. He did not feast.

He paid for that night and had the receipts to prove it, laid into his back from the silver-tipped whip.

He should have tried harder to die at the start.

He hadn’t understood right away, when they took him. It, frankly, didn’t even cross his mind that they’d know. Laura, the woman in the woods, had been so sure it was secret.

He got it when they shot him in the leg with a BB gun, though, and the silver shrapnel burned. They were prepared. Silver-coated chains and cuffs, silver-tipped batons and whips and knives. Cattle prods and electric collars.

They’d been hunting him.

They tried to break him easy, first. They were looking for a wolf; didn’t know they’d find Joel Miller. They left him chained in an abandoned suburb, giving him just the minimum food and water to keep him alive.

It worked to weaken him, but they didn’t want him weak forever. Not a very good guard dog or weapon if he can’t lift his head. So when that didn’t work, when he didn’t beg and plead or bend the knee, they gave up and bulked him back up slowly.

So they tried pain next.

He came to know the healing as a curse. They avoided the silver, at least at first, since it’d leave damage. But when they found out they could break his bones over and over and over?

That’s when he started to wish he was dead. What was the point, anyway? He couldn’t go back to Boston. Couldn’t risk himself around Tommy and Tess.

Couldn’t kill himself if he tried, but they could, with their arsenal.

Didn’t matter what he wanted in the end; his brain wouldn’t give in. It overrode his silent pleas, and it fought and fought and fought.

So they took him on a raid. Starving, chained under the full moon, and they waited. He couldn’t go far, but he didn’t have to.

They brought the food to him.

“You’ve no control over it, huh?” Cheryl said after, leering into his “room.” They send her to play nice, but he knows she’s the worst of them all. They just think he’ll smell pussy and roll over. “We didn’t need you to kill them. You just need to scare them and help us find what we’re lookin’ for.”

They had him. He knows, he knows, he knows. He’d have done anything to stop it from happening again. From devouring tied-up families who dared to say “no” to Jim and his crew. From throwing up blood and bones and bows.

He can’t kill himself. They won’t kill him. He had no choice.

He broke.

This new moon, they don’t take him out to scavenge. No, instead, they drag him outside and spray him down with the hose. This, in itself, is not unusual. But when they force the muzzle over his snapping teeth to scrub at his skin with precious lye soap and a rag, he starts to get concerned.

His suspicions are confirmed when they take him back inside.

The only time he’s left unbound is here, in his room. Well. It meets the vague requirements for a room, but it’s also reinforced with silver-plated steel and concrete. Cheaply so, but enough to mute his senses and hopes.

Usually, they wait until the grate is shut to unclip the lead. They wait until he kneels and offers his hands to unlock the shackles. When he’s been good, of course.

But not today. Today, they chain him tight to the wall at the far end of the room.

They’ve had this theory that he hates to admit is not without merit. Looking for another way to control him, they’ve tried to find him an omega.

The first few times, they just forced him on them out wherever they’ve raided. Usually, he’s too out of control, and they don’t survive the encounter.

The most recent time, they dumped one in his cell. But the poor thing still smelled of his alpha, having only lost them hours earlier.

Joel didn’t react well.

They’re trying something new, now.

That he’s here while they clean his room is deliberate. He knows this. They’re purging all his scent from it, and they want him to watch, want him unsettled.

He growls when they remove his mattress completely. It’s a pathetically small, thin, hole-ridden thing, but it’s his.

Before they drag in a new one, a flat pack of grated metal is tossed in the corner. Two of his captors go to work on assembling the contraption, and another leaves for a while, only to return with a sawed-off portion of his mattress.

It fits neatly inside the cage. For that’s what they’ve constructed. It’s silver-coated, of course, but pathetically weak otherwise. If he truly desired, he could snap the bars as easily as bone.

He’s not keen on having burnt hands, though.

Just inside the front of the cage, they clip up a bit of cloth. He doesn’t need to be told what it is, knowing immediately after it’s extracted from the airtight glass Tupperware.

They tell him anyway. “Got a new toy for you to try, if you’re good. For now, this is all you get.”

The heady scent of omega soaked into the panties permeates his room.

He’s salivating a little by the time they finally release him, but he waits until the heavy footfalls echo from down the hall to give in.

They smell divine. He can’t resist tasting, lapping at the tiniest hint of musk and omega under his elongated tongue.

“Told ya he would have shredded her,” Jim says to Cheryl when they come in the morning with his breakfast. Joel’s in his mind enough to feel a little shame, back of his neck burning, when they see the tattered fabric.

It’s clear they anticipated it because, along with his tray, he’s given a new pair.

They’re not so appealing this time. The sweet scent is cut by acidic fear like vinegar through molasses. He ignores them in favor of his meal.

He eats better here than he ever did out there. He’s worth more rations to the raiders than to FEDRA. Robust meals full of meat and eggs and potatoes.

They need him strong, after all.

It’s not until a few hours later that he’s drawn back in by the underwear. It’s not so acrid anymore. Or maybe it is, and he’s just in the mood. Either way, he buries his face in them while he strokes his cock and uses them to catch his cum when he finishes.

There. That’s better. The mix of him with… whoever you are.

When they bring him lunch, they make him put the panties on his old tray before pushing it out to them. He doesn’t burn with shame this time; no, he almost feels proud. Like a peacock fluffing out its feathers. They know now. They must.

Whoever you are, you’re his.

The next day, they bring back the same pair. He wolfs out a little at the fresh layer of you over his cum. It’s all fear and tears and disgust, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all, not to him, not to the wolf.

All that matters is how his head fills with static when he licks across the gusset and howls.

Cheryl’s looking pretty smug on the other side of the door, but for all that she’s pleased with the results; they still threaten to turn on the collar if he doesn’t eat quickly.

He’s nearly fully wolf, gobbling down the food and returning to his treasure. He snarls as he strokes his cock, the head angry and purple as he tugs. He doesn’t spill onto the panties this time, not wanting to cover up the perfect combination of your scents. In the end, they’re shredded anyway, as his fingers stretch and break into claws.

In his full glory, his senses are even sharper. Sharp enough that he can hear a faint sobbing across the building and Cheryl’s sharp laughter.

“I don’t know,” she’s drawling when he tunes in. “He sounds pretty excited to meet you.”

The soft sobbing turns raw and cracked. He can smell the salt and phlegm, can practically taste it in the air. He’s aware of Cheryl, but nothing is louder than the way your heart is tripping over itself.

When Cheryl’s words sink in, when he realizes he might actually get to have whatever delicious creature they’ve gotten him, he howls again, a long, aching sound that creeps down your bones like frost.

Later, when he’s a little more present, he realizes they didn’t shock him either time he howled. It’s usually a guarantee.

Whatever game they’re playing, it doesn’t bode well for you.

Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He wasn’t even worried when it happened. They’d been heading back to the QZ, him and Tommy and Tess, when a wild dog attacked them.

Or, well. A wolf.

Tommy had gotten a bullet in its head, but it had Joel’s arm in its jaw at the time. Its teeth had rent through his jacket like a spoon in a banana split.

FEDRA would shoot him without a second thought, so they doubled back to the little cabin and hunkered down. Figured they’d lay low long enough for it to be hideable before sneaking back in.

Tommy went out at daybreak for the carcass—it’d be leagues better than what they had in their bags. When he came back, he was faint and empty-handed.

“...don’t make any sense,” he kept muttering, pacing the tiny kitchenette.

Joel and Tess exchanged a glance.

“Probably a bear took it,” she suggested.

Tommy ran his hand through his hair, shook his head, and did it again. When he looked up at them, it was through wild, unpredictable eyes. “Wasn’t a wolf. It was a man.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Joel said.

“C’mon.”

They followed him through the thicket, and sure as shit, in the same place the wolf’s corpse had lain was a man with a bullet through his skull. He was completely nude.

“Gotta be a coincidence,” Joel muttered.

Tommy turned to him, eyes wide and hands shaking. “What kind of fucking coincidence is this?”

There was a rustle, and they all turned, guns raised, as a woman peeked from behind a tree.

She put her hands up and waited. Tess jerked her head to one side, and they lowered but did not stow their weapons.

The woman was in a ratty cotton dress with no shoes; autumn leaves crunching underfoot.

“That’s, um. That’s my husband,” she said softly.

“Apologies, ma’am,” Tommy said, his face soft and sad. “But—I think he attacked us.”

Her green eyes grew wide, pupils dilating and breath catching in her chest. “Did you get bit?”

Tommy and Tess instinctually looked at Joel.

“What’s it to ya?” he said.

“Did you get bit?” she repeated.

“Was he Infected?”

“Not with cordyceps, no,” she says. She avoids looking at the body but flinches when she brushes a foot against a blood-soaked leaf.

“What does that mean?” Tommy said.

“I think it’s best we go someplace and talk.”

Against better judgment, they follow her through the words to her home. She claims to have two kids alone there, four years and six months.

It turns out to be true. She gets them both down for a nap and serves hot stew. They try to refuse, but she insists.

Tommy feels a little sick eating the food of a man he killed. They all listen, rapt, as she begins to speak.

“It happened a year ago. But it wasn’t an accident.”

When the full moon is two days away, Joel is nearing the furthest from himself. Same shit, different month, but his reactions to your scent are getting, well, feral.

They’re bringing him strips of cloth, now. He gets a new one with each meal. He doesn’t destroy them anymore. Oh, no. When he’s clearer, he wishes he did.

But no. He smells and licks and then jerks off with them. If only that were the worst of it. He’ll come to be mortified during the waning, but he starts to add them to the cage. It’s fairly saturated with the smell of him from his old mattress, but it pleases the beast within to line it with the sweet mixture soaked into the torn sheets.

You’ll understand, then, the wolf thinks. You’ll know it’s safe for you. Somewhere he’s made, a den all your own where he can keep you.

But you won’t know, because what you know is very little.

When FEDRA started asking for volunteers to test vaccines, you didn’t hesitate. You knew the risks. And the rewards—room and rations for the length of the observation period, anywhere up to a year in length. You knew there would be a catch—probably many, but given that you rarely had a room or rations, it wasn’t a hard choice.

But this was the end of the world, and “informed consent” was not something that survived the outbreak.

They worked in batches. A truckload of live bodies at a time. Sterilizing showers with the barest trace of privacy, dressed in stiff starchy scrubs, and led into little cubicles where nurses with needles sat in wait.

A quick jab to the upper arm, and then you were off. The hospital was an old correctional facility, but again, for someone who hadn’t had a bed on a reliable basis, you felt only relief.

Until the deaths started.

They didn’t even try to hide it. Within 24 hours of arrival, a fourth of your group was gone. Carted out in black bags marked with β and nothing more said. You watched through your window like everyone else.

Someone came around the next day and drew blood from every remaining subject, and the tagging began after that. You could see the symbols on other’s doors, but not your own. α or Ω. What they meant, you couldn’t begin to guess.

It started not long after.

The changes.

At first it was so subtle, you may not have noticed, but a nurse came by each day to ask you a series of increasingly embarrassing questions.

What do you smell? What do I smell like? What does your sweat smell like? How sensitive are your breasts? Describe your vaginal discharge. How aroused are you on a scale of 1-10?

They began weekly tests. Blood draws once a week and daily urine samples, of course, but also hearing and vision. They made you run on a treadmill hooked up to wires.

And then, one day, after six months of intensive observation, they moved you.

Or. They tried to.

You were exhibiting a specific set of side effects, they said. You were to be transferred to another facility for subjects with the same side effects for further observation.

Raiders took out the truck halfway through the ten-hour journey. It was… it was a bloodbath, actually. For the FEDRA officers, anyway.

When they had you all lined up, grippy socks soaking in the ankle-deep mud, well, that was when you all learned which symbol was on your door. They couldn’t keep the word out of their mouths. Omega.

Not that it fucking explained anything.

One by one, a short blonde with a bob went down the line of you and shoved something up to each omega’s face. That’s it. It seemed to have no greater purpose.

But for some reason, when she pressed the cloth against your nose and mouth, she smiled. And they separated you.

Whatever that was had a deep, oaky musk, like the illicit brewery operating out of the warehouse you often slept in before the trials.

They tell you nothing.

They make you sleep on strips of cloth, so you roll around in the pile as you toss and turn, rubbing your sweat and slick and pheromones all over.

They don’t bring you anything of his, but you catch faint whiffs of him (him, always him, they never call him by a name), of those aged, liquor-soaked barrels, but all it does is make you nauseous. You don’t understand how you know it’s him; you still don’t understand any of it.

You learn very quickly not to ask questions.

They take him out on the night the moon is full and bloated, hanging over him like a searchlight. See, it whispers, I can find you anywhere. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter. If it didn’t, the wolf would find it anyway.

He is not himself.

He is his truest self.

He is two or one; neither yet both. A monster movie mashup of fur and teeth and roughshod science experiments conducted by a doctor who wasn’t a doctor at all. He’s the monster’s victim. He’s the monsters’ monster.

He’s the wolf and the wolf is him.

He’s The Wolf and he’s swallowed Joel down.

He’s the man, the weak link, buried so deep he can’t see the light of his celestial mistress

He’s Joel Miller. Sometimes, sometimes.

Tonight, he is gone. There is only the Wolf.

And the Wolf knows. As soon as they cross the threshold, he knows.

Dawn is rising, the hunt is over, but he’ll be the wolf for a while longer. And he knows that fuckin’ smell.

It’s the saccharine sour mix of you. Heavy on your sweet apple undertones, and oh, he knows.

You’re in the cage.

next chapter

*title from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

😬 I've been working on this baby for a long, long time, so I will be drinking your likes and comments desperately. thank you for reading and i love you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #alpha!joel miller #werewolf joel miller #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #dark fic #dead dove fic #a/b/o verse #fic: of rage and ruin #a/b/o au

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eideticmemory · 1 year ago

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BETTER OFF AS LOVERS | SPENCER REID

Three years after ending your relationship with Spencer Reid, you find yourself representing him in court on federal murder charges.

Word Count: 12k.

Warning/Includes: MAJOR CW for Spencer’s dilaudid arc and graphic mentions of drug use. Prison!Spencer, Lawyer!Reader. Bounces between the past and present through bold italics. Mentions of murder, prison, and violence. A little bit of smut.

Because both you and Spencer are compulsive overachievers, it’s been hard to ignore each other. He saves a kids life every other week and your quick wit has taken you to the (very near) top of the DC law food chain. He picks up a newspaper, you’re smiling arm in arm with the district attorney. You turn on the TV, he’s up there declaring national manhunts. It’s hard to avoid each other, but you have both tried so, very hard.

So hard, in fact, that when Spencer is lying in a jail cell, waiting for any sign of life to shine through the bars, he is not even thinking about you. He’s thinking about his mom. His job. His future. His very recent past. But not you. And even though he doesn’t realize it in the moment, it’s a blessing. He should’ve taken the moment to be grateful.

When Emily comes up to his cell, he hops up and all the thoughts stuck in his head rush out in word vomit. Why isn’t she in the office? How is the office? How’s his mom? And once he learns that everything else is perfectly fine, he remembers that he, alone, is fucked.

And Emily’s very good at that soft voice, that everything will be okay voice, but she doesn’t know that. Not really. Spencer knows that she doesn’t and he swallows himself in self pity, saying, “I don’t even have a lawyer.”

“About that…” Emily says before a beat can pass. “I, um…I made a call…”

Spencer tilts his head at her.

“I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

You’re eating lunch when you get the call. You have a sandwich held in your mouth as you scribble notes on a legal pad which you promptly cross out.

“Miss [y/l/n]?” your receptionist announces herself at the door.

You drop your sandwich, “Hey,” you smile. “Yes?”

“You have an Emily Prentiss on the line for you. Do you want me to patch her through?”

Your smile drops, you can’t help it. Your heart sinks to the very bottom of your stomach and you have to clear your throat, remind yourself to breathe.

“No,” you shake your head. “No,” you stand to your feet. “No, thank you. I’ll answer her in here.”

You close your office door behind her. You close the blinds. You stare at the blinking light on the phone for what feels like hours. You take a seat at your desk, you stare some more. Then you pick up the phone.

“This is [y/n].”

“Hi, [y/n]. It’s Emily Prentiss.”

“Emily…” you breathe out. “Hey.”

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

You sigh, “Is…is this about Spencer?”

Emily pauses, just for a moment, but she knows it’s best to be honest, “It is.”

“Is he dead?” It seems blunt. But, to you, it sounds like a fair and natural question.

Emily clears her throat, “He’s in jail.”

Maybe she expected a gasp. A soft cry. But all you do is close your eyes and draw in a deep breath. You say, “Okay.”

“Now, I understand if you decline. I do. But I have to ask…are you available to come to Quantico for a legal consult with me? Just me?”

You stare at the ceiling, grinding your teeth so hard that you think your jaw may crack under the pressure. And in the span of just two hours, you tell her yes. You reschedule your afternoon meeting. You walk through a metal detector and pat down in Quantico. Yet, you’re not truly in your body until you step on the elevator. You feel yourself rising through the building and the familiarity of it hits you like lightening. You think, not now. You cannot break down now.

Later.

You stand and look over at Spencer’s empty desk, only for a moment and then you tear yourself away. You knock on Emily’s open door and she immediately stands when you sees you, “[y/n], hi,” she moves around her desk, “Hi, thanks for coming.”

You give her a hug, and she holds on for longer than she means to. She looks you in the eye and asks, “How are you?”

“I’m okay. How are you?”

She sighs, walking back to her desk as you close the door. “We’ve been better.”

You take a seat across from her, look around the office, and now you smile, “I like you in here, chief.”

She chuckles, “I assume you heard about Hotch?”

You nod, “I did…only courthouse rumblings.”

“Yeah, well, uh, team’s been good,” she rummages around her desk. “Pushing through. I see you’ve climbed the ladder in recent years.”

You shrug, smirking, “All bribes.”

She laughs, “Oh, c’mon, we both know that’s not true. You’re the best of the best. I wouldn’t have called you if you weren’t.”

And when she sees the light go out in your eyes, reminded by the reality of the situation, she does nothing but set the file in front of you. You exhale quickly out of your nose and you stare at Spencer’s name etched along the edge. You pick it up and place it in your lap, ducking your head to read it. His mugshots nearly make you gasp, but you stifle it. You put your finger to your lips and you try. You try so hard not react. Not in front of Emily, even though she can read you anyway.

You read the entire file. Front to back. Your eyes flick off of the last word and you slam the manilla folder closed. You look up at Emily, her looking at you, waiting for you, so patiently. You open your mouth, and she prepares herself for whatever you could say. Anything. Everything. She’s prepared.

You breath out, “He was high?”

She was not prepared for that.

She shakes her head, “He was drugged. The guy we’re after is notorious for using drugs to incapacitate his victims.”

You nod, “And let me guess. The bureau won’t help with his legal defense?”

She shakes her head, “He broke protocol.”

You roll your eyes, “Stupid…”

“[y/n],” she calls to you.

You look up at her, raising your eyebrows.

“I understand if you don’t wanna be involved. I know defense isn’t your normal side of the bench. But I meant it when I said you’re the best of the best. When I didn’t know who else to call, I called you. That doesn’t mean you have to agree to this.”

You look out the window and your eyes fall on Spencer’s desk once again. It is empty like he has not been there for weeks, lifeless. You turn back to Emily, “Where are they holding him?”

In the dead of night, you burst into the law library in town. It was pouring rain outside and when the receptionist saw you drenched and leaving muddy footprints behind you, she asked, “You need any help, hon?”

“No, thank you,” you called, but you did not stop moving. You marched over to the torts section, you knew it all by heart. You swiped your fingers over every author, noting the alphabet in your head and you were slightly enraged to find that the book you needed was missing. You groaned and checked again. Then again and again. You sighed. You looked around the dimly lit library and it was almost instant. You saw his table, you saw the book, and then you saw him.

And before you really knew what you were doing, you were walking up to him and he was so entranced in reading that he didn’t even look up at you.

“How much longer are you gonna be?” you asked him. And then he looked at you. You thought, oh wow he’s pretty, but you were on a mission here.

“I’m-I’m sorry?”

“With the book. How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

“Uh…I probably have…about a hundred pages left so…five, six minutes maybe?”

You furrowed your eyebrows at him, “Are you fucking with me?”

He couldn’t help but laugh, an awkward laugh, an uncomfortable laugh, but mainly an oh fuck a pretty girl is talking to me laugh. “No. No. You can…sit and watch, I swear. Time me if you want.”

You looked at him, arms crossed. You checked your watch and nodded, taking a seat, “Fine. Five minutes. Go.”

He gave you a small smile and then went back to it. You watched him trace his fingertip down the page, flick to the next one and down he traced again. You were curious. But irritated. But intrigued? You checked your watch with one minute to go and he went, “Okay, done,” and slid the book across the table.

You caught it in your palm, and looked up at him, “You are so full of shit.”

“What?”

“There’s no way you just read all of that in five minutes. There’s no way.”

“But there is a way because I did.”

“No you didn’t.”

He laughed, “I can recite it all to you right now. Front to back.”

“Where are you?” he seemed confused by this question so you continued, “Hm? George Washington? UDC?”

“Quantico.”

“Oh, you are so full of shit!” you went to grab the book and leave but he wasn’t ready for you to go.

“No, no, wait. Seriously. Look at my badge,” he pulled it right out of his bag. “I just got it today.”

You took a look, and when it wasn’t clear enough, you stepped closer, held it in your hands.

Spencer Reid. Behavioral Analysis Unit.

You handed it back to him, “Never met a twelve year old fed.”

“Twenty-three,” he corrected you. “And, uh…I get that a lot.”

“And what does a twenty-three year old fed need with a first year law book?”

He shrugged, “Just light reading.”

You rolled your eyes and he could just tell that you wanted to smile and so he smiled so big at you, hoping it would rub off.

“Book’s all yours,” he said. “I’ll find another.”

No smile.

“A-a-and if you’d like to…I-I don’t know…stay out of the rain, I’d…like it if you’d…maybe sit and read with me?”

You bit down on your lip and you hesitated, looked around as you weighed your options. Then, you took a seat. He grinned over at you as you flipped the book open and it was there.

Small, but a smile.

Back in holding, Spencer sits. He waits. He digs his nails into the bandage on his hand and his knee won’t stop bouncing. The same thoughts rush through his head, but every so often they are cut off by images of you. Every you. Every season. The last time he saw you. His breath catches so tightly in his chest that he actually hunches over in pain, squeezes his fist. His eyes keep darting towards the door, anxious, quick, hoping you’ll come. Hoping you won’t.

What gives it away is your heels. They’re fast and they’re loud, a rapid click-clack-click-clack on the floor. He sits up straight, holds his hands in his lap, forces his leg to stop shaking. Emily walks in first, and in behind her comes you. Picture perfect, dolled up, professional you. Your eyes connect and it should make him nauseous. Instead, his body relaxes. You’re the one that’s nauseous.

“Well,” Emily says to cut the tension. “I know this is an legal meeting so I’ll just give you two some privacy.” And she gets the hell out of there.

You step to the side as the door closes behind her. You set your brief case down on the table and have a seat. As the two of you sit in silence, Spencer feels that you’re judging him. Scolding him, staring him down. But all you’re thinking about is how much his hair has grown, from his head and from his face and underneath it all, he is still him.

You clear your throat, look away, “I’m obligated to remind you that everything you share here is kept confidential by attorney-client privilege.”

“I didnt use,” he spits out.

You pause, your eyes cutting up to him. He is staring into your soul. He wants you to hear him.

“I didn’t,” he shakes his head. “I wouldnt. I swear.”

You have to let that simmer in the air for a moment. You have to swallow it like a large pill, let it force its way down your throat and into your stomach. Through your bloodstream.

“I believe you,” you say. “Tell me what happened.”

“I-I…I did not kill her.”

You nod, “…okay. What else.”

“I-I…don’t remember anything else.”

“Well that…doesn’t help me here. It doesn’t matter if you say you didn’t kill her and you know that. What matters is evidence. The facts of the case.”

“I’m telling you I don’t remember anything, [y/n]. If I did, I would tell you but the entire thing is a-a blur.”

“And I’m telling you I can’t do anything with that.”

“Just… tell me what you really want to say.”

You consider it.

“I’m not here to judge you,” you tell him. “I’m here to build you a legal defense.”

“Whatever’s going through your head, I can take it,” he huffs. “Tell me.”

You purse your lips at him. You shake your head. But he insists. He peers into your eyes in waiting. Begging.

You inhale and with a hefty wave of breath, you shout, “Going to Mexico? Not telling anyone where you are? Smuggling experimental drugs across the border? Are you serious?”

He nods. He takes the blows as they land.

“Do you even comprehend the shit hole that you’ve dug for yourself? I mean, honestly, you-you should go to prison for at least,” you pinch your fingers. “A little bit because it should be a crime to be this stupid with an IQ that high,” and you punctuate it all with a sigh of relief.

Spencer sniffles, “Feel better?”

“No,” you say instantly. And you say this next part very clearly, “Because I can’t promise you that you won’t go to prison.”

The reason that you and Spencer worked so well together, you think - you thought - is that there was a certain amount of independence. After your meeting in the library, after all the pulling he did to sweep you off your feet, you decided that yes, you could do this. You could have a boyfriend who traveled for work. You could handle not seeing him for days or weeks on end. Just in your second year of law school, you thought: I will never have time to miss him. I will drown in school work and textbooks until he returns. It will not phase me. It will not change me.

Then you kind of fell in love with him. And suddenly you always, always had time to miss him.

“Hey,” you found yourself smiling when he called. On the other side of the country, it was only nine but you were in DC still studying at midnight.

“Hey, honey,” Spencer cooed. “I knew you’d be awake.”

“Like I could sleep at a time like this? No, thank you, this is all nighter territory.”

“Sorry I won’t be there the day of your exam.”

“Don’t worry about it. They need you out there more than I do.”

“I know, I know, I’d just slow you down,” he laughed.

“Oh yeah, definitely,” you nodded. “But…I miss you…wish you were here to slow me down.”

“Soon.”

“I know.”

“And, y’know, if we just moved into together, it could be even sooner.”

“Ooh, yeah, and we could get a plant too and watch it die a slow death because no one’s ever home.”

He cackled, quieted down as he whispered, “Just…try to actually get some sleep, okay? You can’t pass your exam if you’re exhausted. And make sure you have a good breakfast. A real breakfast, not coffee and some pop tarts. At least toaster strudels, okay? And afterwards, take yourself out for lunch or-or take someone with you. But don’t sit and think about it and drive yourself crazy. You’re gonna do great. You always do.”

You nodded, stifling a soft laugh, “Yes, doctor. Anything else?”

He shrugs to himself, “Just that I miss you. I can’t wait to see you.”

You grinned, “Soon.”

When your alarm went off at seven in the morning, you checked your phone to see that Spencer had woken himself up, three hours behind, to send you a message.

Two words: Toaster strudels!!!!

And over the next few days, you were truly too busy to miss him. You took your exam at ten o’clock on the dot and you took his advice, you went out to lunch. You thought about the exam only a little bit, to run through it with your friends before you started day drinking, and then there was nothing to do but wait. Keep yourself busy.

As soon as the jet lifted off, Spencer called you. Your phone was buried at the bottom of your bag, which was swinging against your hip as you walked across campus. You didn’t realize it was ringing until the very last second and by the time you pulled it out, he had already left you a voicemail.

As you waded through the crowd to see your posted exam score, you held the phone to your ear and listened.

“Hey! Hey, [y/n], we’re, uh, on the way back now. Safe and sound. I should be there by this afternoon. Uh, let me know if you get your exam results, okay? I’m so excited to see you. Call me when you can.”

Posted on the wall was the glare of your future, staring you in the face, chewing into your soul and you dropped the phone back in your bag.

When Spencer landed and still hadn’t heard from you, he slowly came to expect bad news. He bought you flowers on the way home, he called you, he texted multiple times to tell you he’d be coming over. He walked up to his apartment solely to drop off his things and before he could get to the door, he stopped in his tracks.

You stood up quickly, your face breaking out into a wide smile. Your hands shook and all you could say was, “I passed! I-I passed!”

And in an instant, he dropped everything except your flowers and ran to you, engulfing you in a big, tight hug. “Of course you did!” he shouted. “Oh, god [y/n], of course you did! Here…” he released you so he could rush to unlock the door.

“And I didn’t just pass, babe. I passed with flying fucking colors!” You let yourself into his apartment, still rambling while he dragged his things inside. He stood in awe as you paced around the living room, throwing your hands in the air. “Do you know what this means? I could be a real lawyer any day now!”

You looked at him, huffing and puffing with this toothless, wide smile that sat in your cheekbones. So happy and pretty that he forgot how to talk. “T-These are for you,” he stuttered, walking over to you with a bright bouquet of flowers.

Your eyes darted to the flowers, but only for a moment and then back to Spencer, and he was looking at you with so much love that you felt it in the pit of your stomach. You held eye contact with him as you took hold of the flowers, your fingers overlapping for a split second. And in one swift motion, you pulled him in by the back of his neck and dropped the flowers on the couch. It stunned him, sure, but it was instinct for him to grab onto your hips and kiss you. That is, after all, exactly what you wanted him to do.

You stood of the tip of your toes, took hold of his face and balled your fist in his hair. He grunted against your lips, held onto you tight as you dragged him into his bedroom.

“Okay, okay, okay, just-“ he stuttered as you tore off his shirt. His head got caught, the two of you burst into laughter, and you gave him a kiss as soon as the shirt hit the floor. You swiped his books off of his bed and laid yourself down, pulling him on top of you. When your pants got suffocating, you flipped him over so you could take them off. Your boobs hung in his face as you grabbed a condom from the nightstand and he ran his hands all over your body. Even when he could hardly breathe because you were rolling the condom onto him, he caressed your thighs and his nails rolled on your skin.

You giggled, going, “Stop, that tickles.”

He said, “Sorry,” and tickled you again, laughing as your body squirmed around and you chuckled into a kiss with him.

You were usually a lot softer with him. No rush. But the adrenaline in your body had you bouncing on his cock so quickly that you wondered if the whole bed might cave in. You kept looking at Spencer to make sure he was enjoying himself he was enjoying himself. His head was hanging off the bed, hanging loose from his neck and his mouth was wide open, releasing some of the loudest moans you’ve ever heard from him. When he realized he was getting close, he would grab your hips real tight, you’d stop and after a few breaths, he’d let you go. He’d let you get right back to it.

Afterwards, you collapsed beside him and tucked yourself in the crook of his arm, your hand on his heaving chest. You kissed him softly and he moaned, “Mm…” rubbing your back. “I love when you get a good grade.”

You cackled and threw your head back, tracing his bottom lip with your fingertip, “I love when you’re home.”

“Oh!” he suddenly shouted. “Speaking of, we have dinner reservations on our anniversary at seven. I’ll probably get called out before then but I will be back in time. I promise.”

“And if you’re not?”

“Then I’m a bad boy. A very bad boy,” he grinned, leaning into you as you laughed.

You held his face, gave him a kiss and nodded, “It’s a date.”

And he did eventually get called out again just over a week before your reservation. You have a very vivid memory of kissing him goodbye the day he left. He was himself. He was happy, and towards the end of the week, he called overly cocky saying that this case would be wrapped up soon. That he’d be home with a night to spare.

He lied.

People know you here. When you speak with the distric attorney on Spencer’s case, he knows you. He knows Spencer. And that should make it easy to negotiate here, but it unfortunately makes it that much harder. Luckily, you’re as stubborn as you are determined and with a bit of sparkle, you can get Spencer down to two to five years in federal prison.

That is, until new evidence arises. In that moment, all the oxygen and arguing and fight you’ve given goes out the window. Emily trails up beside you when you return, saying, “I just got the news. What now?”

“Now,” you sigh. “We tell Spencer.”

And as soon as you walk into the room, he is rising to his feet, staring at you. His eyes scan over your features and he goes, “That’s not a good face. What happened?”

“I…” you start. “Was able to talk Martinez down to involuntary manslaughter.”

“Manny Martinez?” he interrupts you.

“Yes,” you enunciate. “And he offered two to five years.”

Emily glances at Spencer, and asks you, “A deal? Well, that could mean they know they have a weak case?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “But they could also just be in a rush to close this with minimal publicity.”

Looking to Spencer, you owe him the truth, “But they found the murder weapon in the desert. About an hour ago. The blood and prints are yours.”

The words knock the air out of him like a strong punch to the chest. You can see his eyes zone out, stuck on the floor as he sits himself down and tries to breathe. Emily is spinning gears in her head but you cannot stop watching him.

“Okay, so, where do we go from here?” she asks you.

“Well, the two to five quickly came off the table. Now, it’s five to ten at minimum.” Still, you watch Spencer. He can’t stand to look at you.

“And this is the only way he can avoid trial?”

You purse your lips and nod, shrugging, “Plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter, write a statement to the bureau. That’d be the end of it. Any other course of action will require presenting evidence to a jury.”

When Spencer finally decides to lift his head and speak, he looks you dead in the eye and asks, “Do you think I should take it?”

Your face visibly softens and you shrug, “Beats twenty-five to life. Which they will sentence if you’re found guilty, and with this evidence…it’s likely…”

He looks at Emily and when he cannot take the look of pity in her eyes for one more second, he asks you, specifically, “May I speak to you alone, [y/n]?”

You glance at Emily and nod, “Sure.”

The door closes and Spencer, comfortable enough to let his guard down, suddenly stands from the chair, hiding his face in his hands. He paces around the small room and pulls at the root of his hair. It’s very unlike him but in this moment, he says, “Fuck.”

“Yes,” is all you can add. “What do you want to do here, Spencer?”

“I-I-I don’t know. You’re my lawyer, can’t you just tell me what I should do? Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t do that. I’m not the one facing prison here. You have two options, okay? If you want to take your chances in court, I will be there. I will bring every weapon in my arsenal to defend you, but I can’t guarantee that the outcome will be better than five to ten.”

He shakes his head, “The team will crack the case. They will. They’ll catch Scratch and they’ll clear my name.”

“Oh, my…when?” you raise your voice. You don’t mean to. “This month? This year? This decade? Who knows? W-who knows how long you could be locked up before they catch a break?”

He sniffles, one single tear falling down his cheek as his head falls in defeat, “What…what do I do, [y/n]?” he cries. “Just tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

And against ever fiber of your being, you instinctively cross the room and engulf him in a hug. He sobs into your neck and holds your waist in tight in his arms, breaks down when you run your hand through his hair.

He’s hurting but this helps. This helps a lot.

“Hey!” you answered Spencer’s phone with a joyous greeting. “Hi, Diana. Hi! It’s [y/n], how are you?”

And while she was beyond excited to talk to you, she rambled about her son. How he hadn’t called her in close to a week. How she missed the sound of his voice. “It just isn’t like him,” she said. “It just isn’t like Spencer. He calls me. He calls me everyday. Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied as you stood over him in bed. “Yeah, he’s okay. He’s, uh, he’s…”

He waved you off, silently ordering you to hang up and leave him alone. He rolled over onto his side and hid his face under the blankets. He wanted to make sure he was as avoidant as possible.

“He’s just…tired. But I know he…he’d love to speak with you…”

He did not move. And he had not moved since returning home from Tobias Hankel. He just hadn’t. You weren’t sure if he ever would. But as you continued to talk on the phone, the sound of your voice going, “Yeah, yeah,” grating his nerves, he hopped out of bed and went straight for the bathroom. The door slammed, it locked and you just hoped Diana didn’t hear it.

“Yeah,” you told her. “Yeah, he’s busy right now. Y’know, case paperwork and such. I can have him call you back?”

Then there’s a thud. Loud. It shakes the floor of the entire apartment and your breath catches in your throat.

“Yes, of course. I will have him call you,” you stared at the bathroom door. “I promise. Okay. Alright, bye.”

You rushed to the bathroom, immediately trying to open the door but it was locked. You wiggled the knob, you pounded on it, calling, “Spencer? Spencer?”

You found the key on top of the sill, with your hands trembling as you shoved it into the lock. When the door swung open, it stopped against something. Something heavy, something big. So you pushed and shoved enough that you could poke your head in and when you did, you screamed. You shrieked at the top of your lungs. The thing blocking the door, the thing laid out on the floor.

It was Spencer.

Spencer is due to appear in court this morning. You’re going to vomit.

You arrive promptly with thirty minutes to spare and you spend that time trying to find your client. Though you do not see his face, you notice him standing at the phone, dressed to impress in a sharp suit. His hand bandaged in the least disgusting way possible.

“Mom,” he says into the reciever. “I want you know that I’m safe and I have a great lawyer.”

You cross your arms over your chest, stand firm behind him and proudly eavesdrop.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s actually, um…[y/n]. Yeah, no. No, we’re not back together, she just…she’s a great lawyer. The best.”

And he goes looking for you, at the mention of your name, he starts scanning the room, like he can feel you somewhere. Somewhere. He turns around to find you leaning against the wall. He smiles. He can’t help it. Neither can you. You throw up a small wave and he waves back.

He speaks into the phone, telling Diana, “She says hi.”

The judge comes into the courtroom and almost immediately, she looks ready to leave. You weren’t nervous before, you don’t think Spencer was all that much either. But now, shit is getting real. Shit is getting very real.

“Miss [y/l/n],” she says to you. “Your client is a federal agent?”

You rise to your feet, nodding, “That’s correct, your honor.” You both notice Spencer still sitting and you whisper through your teeth, “Stand the hell up,” and he stands the hell up.

“Some very serious offenses brought against you today,” she tells him.

“Yes, your honor,” he nods.

“Miss [y/l/n], does your client wish to enter a plea at this time?”

You nod, “He does.”

“And how do you plead, Agent Reid?”

Spencer looks her in the eye and proclaims, “Not guilty.” You hope nobody sees you roll your eyes.

“Mhm,” the judge nods. “And as to bail?”

“The people oppose bail and request remand, your honor,” the district attorney responds, now standing.

“Remand?” you repeat. “Your honor, my client does not present a flight risk.”

“He’ll be staying with you, I suppose?” he fires back and you can’t help but cut your eyes at him.

“Good one, Manny.”

“Your honor,” he continues. “The defendant fled the scene in Mexico…”

“Those were extenuating circumstances,” you interrupt. “He was drugged against his will.”

“And failed to inform the FBI of his international travel, effectively breaking protocol.”

“With the intent to return home and care for his mother, who struggles with schizophrenia and alzheimer’s and lives with him full time. He is her sole caretaker, in addition to his career as a highly decorated member of the BAU.”

“And as a member of the BAU, he has connections all over the world that could prove highly useful if he chose to flee.”

“Agent Reid is more than willing to surrend both his professional and personal passports if it pleases the court.”

“Again, he has the connections to both recieve a counterfeit passport and evade arrest.”

“Your honor, all Agent Reid wants to do is stay here and clear his good name.”

“He should’ve thought about his good name before sneaking across the border.”

You glare at Martinez and look back to the judge, “I can provide sincere and respected character witness to the court today. All highly decorated members of FBI, willing to speak on Agent Reid’s behalf.”

“Miss [y/l/n], I am not particularly inclined to hear character witnesses at the moment,” the judge tells you.

“Then we can abide by a curfew, court ordered restrictions…”

“Too little, too late for that, Miss [y/l/n],” she silences you. “If past behavior is the best indicator of future behavior, and I do believe that it is…then your client does present a flight risk…” and with one, dramatic pauses, she says, “Bail is denied. The defendant will be remanded to federal custody pending trial.”

The gavel lands and that’s it.

Spencer is put in handcuffs, in front of his entire team, in front of his family. In front of you. And all he can do is look at you. Eyes wide and terrified, looking at you.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell him. “I’m so sorry, I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”

He believes you. He has to believe you.

Standing there in shame, the feeling in your gut quickly turns to anger and you march out of the courtroom, pass the team and into the hallway. You see the district attorney walking towards his office and chase him down.

“A flight risk?” you catch his attention and he turns around. “Really, Manny?”

He shrugs, “Judge Frost agreed.”

“Yeah, judges tend to do that when things are taken out of context.”

“Hey, the facts were clear as day. Don’t be mad at me because your boyfriend might go to prison, okay? That’s on him.” And with that, he walks away. You want to throw something at the back of his head.

You want to burn the whole building down.

Instead, you run. You run off to an empty corridor, where you are well aware no one will find you. You pace up and down the floor, your chest heaving, your hands on your hips.

“[y/n]?” Emily calls from behind you. When you cannot get out of your own head, she repeats, “[y/n]?”

“Why did you call me?” You shout as you turn to her. “Why did you bring me into this? Why? Why?” you sob and you put your face in your hands, sliding down the wall in a dramatic breakdown.

Emily immediately rushes to you, bending down to hold you in her arms. “You did everything that you could,” she tells you. “You did your best.”

“I’m always doing my best!” you whine. “I’m always, always doing my best for him and it’s not enough! It’s never enough!”

There’s too much for Emily to unpack there, so she shuts her mouth and she holds you.

The day that you graduated law school, Spencer stayed by your side the entire time. And that was good. That was good because you could be sure that he wasn’t shooting up and you could relax. He looked good that day. Not perfect. Not clean. But good. He dressed up, he could walk in a straight line and he was so, unbelievably proud of you.

He handed you flowers the moment the commencement was over. He took all the pictures so you could have the memories forever. He hung on your arm like a trophy boyfriend because, that day, he was a trophy boyfriend and he could not have been happier.

“Surprise!” was shouted at you as soon as you stepped into your apartment. Adorned with balloons and family and friends, you were overwhelmed and nearly dropped your degree. You turned to Spencer and he dropped his shoulders bashfully, too shy to outright accept all the credit. And still, you took him in a firey kiss, you gave him all the credit.

As you walked around, having something to eat, thanking everyone for coming, talking about your plans for the future, Spencer came up to you and said, “I’m going to grab the cake, okay, honey? I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, okay, baby, thank you,” you smiled and gave him a kiss.

He didn’t come back for an hour.

And when he did come back, he overcompensated by putting the cake down in front of you and going, “Sorry! Sorry about that. Traffic was crazy,” and placing a big, sloppy kiss on your cheek.

Right then, you knew.

He was bouncing off the walls, extroverted, enthusiastic, eating cake that other people had cut into and not able to get enough of it. Grabbing onto your waist and kissing your neck in front of a crowd, dozing off when he actually sat, flicking himself in the neck to keep himself awake.

And you knew.

By the end of the night, when everyone had cleared out and Spencer was missing, you stepped around the quiet apartment and found him passed out in your bed. You put two fingers on his neck, made sure he was alive, and you slept on the couch.

You woke up early even though he slept like a rock until closer to noon. You sat on the couch until he decided to get out of bed and come looking for you.

“Hey,” he smiled, his voice hoarse. “Hey, what are you doing out here?”

You could hardly stand to look at him. You hands were bound in front of your lips, your eyes focused on the coffee table. It wasn’t until that second that he looked down and noticed the collection on the table. Needles. A little vial.

“How…” you cleared your throat. “How long have you been hiding this in my apartment?”

“I…” he spit out. “I…that’s old. It’s old. I forgot it was even here.”

You choked out a gust of air and couldn’t help but laugh, “You are so full of shit.”

“[y/n]…”

“No!” you shouted, rising to your feet. “Tell me what’s so fucking good about this shit that you needed to shoot up during my graduation party?”

“I…I didn’t…I was just excited. I was excited for you.”

“No, you were fucking loaded.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Stop.”

“I wasn’t.”

“No, stop! Stop treating me like I’m fucking stupid! I mean, fuck, Spencer! After all the therapy and meetings and outpatient rehabs, you do this? Really?”

“I didn’t.”

“And what’s worse is that you lie. You lie about everything. You’re lying right and you don’t care!”

“[y/n]…”

“You don’t care. You don’t care. I’m the one who shot narcan up your fucking nose so you wouldn’t OD on my bathroom floor. I’m the one who couldn’t have one fucking night to myself and you, dont, care!”

You let out a quick huff and he simmered in the silence of your anger.

“I…I can’t do this anymore…” you said softly.

He stared at you, shaking in his own skin, “W-what? You can’t do what?”

You released a slow sigh, “I can’t…be with a drug addict.”

“I…am not…”

“You are. You are, Spencer, and you need help. You need more than I can give you.” And before he can retaliate, you set a box of his things on the table. Some books, some clothes with blood on the sleeves, some records.

He started to cry. You knew these were real tears because when he merely wanted to get his way, they would start flowing instantly. Here, they came on slow, rolling down his pale face. “[y/n]…”

“No.” You said sternly, avoiding eye contact. “You need to leave. Leave.”

“B-b-but I-I’m better,” he tried to touch you and you flinched. “I-I can get better. I can do that.”

“Not here. Not with me. Please leave.”

“B-but…” he cried. “But I don’t wanna leave. I wanna be with you. I need to be with you. Please. P-please, [y/n].”

You shook your head, quickly wiped away your tears. “I don’t want you here. Please leave.” You held the door open for him and put his box on the porch. “Please.”

“[y/n], please don’t do this,” he tried to shut the door but you held your own. “Please, please, I’ll go to a meeting right now. You can come with me. I’ll get better. I can get better.”

“Spencer…please. Go.”

“No.”

“Please,” you begged. “Leave.”

“No. No, I’m not leaving you.”

And so, because you had to, you absolutely had to, you pushed him out. He fought, never to hurt you, but he dug his feet in the ground and tried to push your hands away. “N-no, [y/n], please. Please. Please don’t do this.”

Spencer was never that strong before the dilaudid. But when he was on it, he was weak. He was slow and even with all his strength, he could not stop you from throwing him out and slamming the door in his face. You locked it quickly, pressed your palms to the wood to keep it closed up tight as he knocked lightly.

You could hear him sobbing, “[y/n]…please…[y/n]…” and his voice cracked. You heard him slide down the door and sniffling, “[y/n]…”

There was a moment where you thought to open the door. To take it all back. To change your mind. Tears were running into your mouth and you ground your teeth together to stifle your cries. Instead, you stood up straight, you took a deep breath. You went into your room, closed the door and turned the TV up loud.

Spencer still lives in his same apartment. So as you go up the stairs, hundreds of memories come flooding back to you at a hundred miles per minute. It makes you so dizzy that you nearly trip, fall down the stairs. Run.

But you make it to his door and knock, greeted by a younger woman who gives you a bright smile, “Hi.”

“Hi,” you wave to her. “Cassie?”

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m [y/n]. I’m-I’m a friend of Spencer’s. Is Diana here?”

“She is.”

“Is she up for a visitor?”

You let yourself in, stepping in to find that the apartment has not changed much. Same couch, same chairs, same coffee pot in the kitchen. Diana is sat near the window reading a book, picking at her nails anxiously. When she looks up and sees you, she stops and her entire face lights up like you’ve come back from the dead.

“[y/n], hi!” she greets you. She stands from her chair and rushes towards you with open arms. You let her hug you tight, her hand in your hair, your head on her shoulder and you want to cry. “Hi, honey, how are you?”

“Oh, I’m okay…” you shrug. “Can we talk?”

Her eyes go wide. Scared. “This is about Spencer. About that awful mess he’s in.”

“Yes,” you nod.

“Well, please, come, sit. Do you want some tea? Cassie makes a great cup.”

“Sure. Yes, please,” you smile as you sit across from her.

“Y’know, when I heard what happened to Spencer. I-I couldn’t believe it…my baby boy, in a jail cell,” she shakes her head. “But then he tells me that you were his lawyer and I could,” she exhales. “Breathe. You, such a smart and fierce young woman. There’s no one I’d trust more.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek and you shake your head, breaking eye contact with her.

“Oh. Oh, no, no, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Sorry…” you whimper. You wipe your face and huff, “Ugh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“For what? For what, honey?” she takes hold of your hands.

“I-I couldn’t…I didn’t…” you sob. “I…Spencer pleaded not guilty, but the judge ruled him a flight risk. S-so, he’s…in federal prison. Pending trial.”

You can see the shock spread across her face and it makes you sick to your fucking stomach. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried.”

“Hey, you don’t apologize,” she squeezes your hands. Tight, tight, tight, tight. “You don’t apologize, you hear me? I know you did everything in your power. And if you couldn’t do it, then no one else could.”

You choke out another sob and she rubs your arm, cooing “Oh…oh…” and when Cassie sets a mug in front of you, Diana orders, “Here. Here, [y/n], please, have some tea. Calm down, sweetie.”

While you take sip, hiccuping against the glass, she changes the subject entirely. The rest of the visit spirals into a nice chat, mainly about you. What you’re up to these days. And as you fill her in, her eyes light up in pride, in almost disbelief. The last thing she says to you is, “Oh, I do wish you and Spencer could’ve worked things out. You are just…so special, [y/n]. Such a special, gifted girl. You made him so happy.”

She hugs you before you leave and you stroll beside Cassie to the front door. “Um…” you whisper to Cassie. “Is she normally this lucid?”

She purses her lips, “There are good days. There are bad ones.”

You nod.

“That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen her recognize anyone, though.”

For an extended amount of time after your first breakup, you thought Spencer was dead.

After you kicked him out of your apartment, there was radio silence. Scary radio silence. And you had visions in your head of him laid out with a needle in his arm and too much dilaudid in his veins and vomit in his mouth. Or, perhaps, he ran in front of a bullet in the field and no one thought anything of it. For months, you were so sure he was dead.

When you saw him on the news a year later, only then, you could breathe. You visibly and loudly sighed in relief just seeing his face, hearing his voice. More than grateful he was alive, you were grateful to see him healthy. Very clearly clean. Weight back in his face, light back in his eyes. You had almost forgotten what it looked like on him. It wasn’t until then that you knew you’d made the right decision.

You wouldn’t see him again for another two years. Save for a few local newpapers articles, the radio silence continued. You had moved to a larger apartment, close to the courthouse where you were still clawing your way to the top. Somehow, someway, Spencer found this new apartment. It was a conscious decision to do so.

He knocked on your door and you, not expecting company, catiously checked the peephole. You dropped from your tippy toes, sucked in a breath and opened the door. “Spencer? What…what are you doing here?”

“I’m…I’m sorry to drop by like this…” he stuttered, sucking back tears. “I am. I’m sorry. I…Emily…died.”

Your eyes went wide and you visibly stepped back. “What?”

“Y-yeah, she, um, she was murdered. Bled out in the ambulance and I…” he descended into a fit of cries and you just stood in the doorway, watching him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-I don’t mean to be a stalker. I don’t mean to barge in on you. I-I-I-I was just scared of what I might do if I was alone and n-no one else understands why I’m so scared to be alone and-and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You stood there in shock for a long time. The only thing that cut the tension was a sound from the TV, a strange sound that caught Spencer off guard. He peeked inside your apartment, sniffling, “What are you doing in here?”

“Uh…um, I’m playing Wii Sports?” you told him, holding up the remote dangling from your wrist. “…I have two remotes if-if you wanna play. It always makes me feel better.”

He tilted his head at you, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Oh, c’mon!” you shouted in front of the TV, swinging your remote through the air. “Put your back into it!”

“I am!” Spencer yelled, taking another swing that just barely hit the digital tennis ball.

“No, you’re not!” you swung and scored a point, Spencer feeling especially defeated by the cheer of the crowd. “You’re losing, is what you’re doing.”

“I give up,” he takes off his remote. “This game is rigged.”

“Is it?” you smirk. “Or are you just a sore loser? Not used to it?”

“Uh, yeah. Duh.”

You laughed and it poured a blanket of warmth over him that he had not felt in a long time. “You hungry?” you asked him.

“Starving.”

So you ordered a pizza and you got so caught up in speaking with him that you barely heard the knock on the door. When you set a slice down in front of him, he instantly picked it up and shoves it in his mouth, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy. He noticed you watching him and chuckled, wiping his mouth, “What?”

“Nothing…”you smiled. “Nothing, it’s just you’re…eating so good, you…you look good.”

He smiled at you. Not a big smile, not a proud smile, but a soft smile. A thank-you-I-did-it-for-you smile. “Thank you. I feel good.”

“Good,” you nodded. “That’s good.”

And the two of you ate in silence with the TV on to keep the peace. By the end of the night, his head was resting in your lap and his knees were tucked against his chest. He rubbed his thumb on your knee lightly and said, “I can go. If you want me to, I can go.”

“Yeah…” you whispered, your fingertip tracing his ear, your hand running through his hair, “Yeah, it’s getting late.”

He breathed you in one last time and sat himself up. He looked at you and you looked at him and if he stared at you any longer, it would’ve torn him apart. Instead, he hopped up from the couch and escorted himself to the door, you following close behind him.

“Thank you,” he told you. “For letting me stay. For feeding me. For taking care of me.”

“For kicking your ass at Wii Sports?”

“Yes,” he laughed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you nodded.

“Okay,” he huffed. “So…”

“So…” you shrugged.

He reached out to give you a hug and before you knew what you were doing, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and kissed him. That is, after all, exactly what he wanted you to do.

His arms locked around your waist and you moaned softly under your breath, sticking your tongue down his throat, drowning in the familiar taste of him. He pushed his body into yours, boldly nudging you towards the couch until you fell back and he could fall on top of you. Right where he was meant to be.

You’re uncomfortable in the prison. Milburn isn’t exactly known for it’s favorable accommodations and the last thing you want to do is appear prissy, but fuck, it’s gross. It’s crowded. It smells. You think: this must be killing Spencer.

He sits down across from you and he looks tired. Tired, but relieved to see you.

“Oof,” you exclaim. “You’re so lucky you look good in blue or else this would be really shitty for you.”

He snickers, shakes his head, “That was actually my exact thought.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “JJ says you’ve been by to see my mom?”

“I have. She’s doing okay, she seemed okay. We spoke for a long time. It was good to see her.”

“I bet she was excited to see you.”

“She was, it was sweet. I…I don’t wanna sound insensitive here, but, if she has an alzheimer’s diagnosis why does the memory of us breaking up just… linger?”

He wants to cackle but he stifles it, “Tell me about it. Every so often, I get an earful about how I should’ve done more to keep you around.”

“Oh. You…you didn’t tell her that I…”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, I didn’t.”

And just like that, a moment that was lighthearted and comfortable becomes unbearable. You clear your throat, “Well, I didn’t just come by to visit, I have news. It’s not great.”

“Okay, what is it?”

You sigh, “Your trial is postponed. I can’t say how long, but I will be the first to know and you’ll be the second.”

“Postponed?” he mimicked. “W-why? Why?”

You shrug, “They didn’t say. But it could be anything, I mean, higher profile cases, judge schedules, anything.”

He ducks his head down, breathing hard through his nose to prevent himself from crying.

“Hey…” you coo. “Hey, I’m going to figure this out. Don’t worry.”

“I know,” he nods. He looks up at you, “I know you’re trying. Thank you for trying.”

You nod, break a toothless smile, “Always.”

When Spencer wasn’t on drugs, you two managed to stay together for a whole four years. This was twice as long as you made it the first time around and not once did you worry that he had relapsed. You spent a lot of time worried that he might. You spent a lot of time keeping an extra close eye on him, watching for any of the signs, overly cautious. For a reason.

And Spencer was patient with this. He worked so hard to regain your trust because he knew how badly he had fucked up before. How different he’d become, how much he’d hurt you. He could not bear to ever put you through that again. And he never did. He was consistent, he was loving and he was sober.

On your third anniversary, he flew back into town late but he came straight to you. You had not officially moved in with him, but you had a drawer and a toothbrush and you could walk to work from his apartment. He woke you up from your peaceful slumber in his bed just to present you with your gift.

“C’mon, c’mon, I’ve been waiting so long to give it to you,” he cut the lamp on and you groaned, rolling onto your stomach. “Noooo, noooo, c’mon, my love. Look.”

You rolled back over and he was holding up a gold charm bracelet that immediately caught your eye. It woke you up entirely.

“I know you’re not a big jewelry girl,” he whispered, placing the bracelet on your wrist. “But this, uh, has a little charm of your birthstone and one with your birth flower. And, I don’t know, I thought it’d be nice to have on while you’re arguing in court, y’know? Wave it around a bit. Persuade the judge and jury.”

He fixed the clasp and you admired the gold against your skin, tracing it with your finger softly. You grinned, your eyes flickering up to him. “Wave it around…” you teased. “Like this?” and you motioned for him to come closer with your finger. The charms rang lightly and Spencer smirked at you.

“See, it’s just so compulsive, I can’t help but obey you,” he crawled on top of you, his voice mixing in with your laughter. “You’ll never lose a case again.”

And ironically, you went an absurd amount of time without losing a case after that. The bracelet was, in every sense of the word, your good luck charm. Your wrist came to feel naked without it and the ring of the metal gave you a special kind of confidence that couldn’t be replaced or replicated.

The day that Spencer got shot and nearly died, you were due to argue what would’ve been your tenth successful case in a row. You were on such a roll. A streak that no one around you had seen before and they were all eager to see how it progressed.

But as you approached the courtroom doors, your phone buzzed in your hand and you answered without much thought. You kept your brisk pace, speaking with a normalcy that JJ tried her best to match. Your heels were fast, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, until the information ran through your ears and into your brain and then there was click-clack, click-clack, click…and you stood in the middle of the hallway. Stuck.

Your bottom lip trembled, at the thought of Spencer in critical condition. At the thought of him dying. Dying, dead, without you. You looked back at the courtroom and zoned back into JJ’s voice. You took one step towards the door, stopped and turned around.

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

Contrary to the belief of the BAU, Spencer is not your only client. You have to remind yourself of this as well. Despite a pile of work that you slowly chip away at, you find yourself running back to the details of Spencer’s file. Over and over, as if something new will stand out. It’s happened to you before. You think, it could happen again. It has to happen again. It doesn’t seem like it will.

“Hey, [y/n]?” you coworker calls, knocking on your office door.

“Hey!” you pip.

“Wanna grab lunch? My treat.”

“Lunch? It’s already lunch?” you check the clock and gasp, “Holy shit.”

She laughs, “You work too hard. What do ya’ say?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I, uh, thought you had to meet a client at Milburn this afternoon, though? The armed robbery guy.”

“Ah, no. Whole prison’s on lockdown. Something about a bad batch of heroin or meth or whatever they pass around in there, I don’t know. Attorneys are still allowed in but I’m not walking into that. I mean, can you imagine?”

It all pours out of her like a joke. Like a comedy of epic proportions that you are meant to laugh along with. But you can’t. You think about Spencer and you just can’t.

“[y/n]?” she calls, pulling you back into reality. “You alright?”

“Yeah!” you overcompensate. “Yes. Sorry. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

You grab your purse and swing it over your shoulder, following her out of your office and reminding yourself to breathe.

“You’re sure?” you questioned the doctor. “You’re positive?”

He released a hearty laugh and nodded, “Yes. He is fully recovered. No swelling, no tenderness, he’s cleared to work and resume any physical activity.”

“Any physical activity?” Spencer asked. You blushed and put your hand to your cheek.

“Yes, that’s right,” the doctor confirmed. “I must say, Spencer, this is quite impressive progress with such a severe injury.”

“I couldn’t have done it all without [y/n],” Spencer beamed, holding onto your hand. “She’s been amazing. She oversaw all my treatment and physical therapy. Slapped me aside my head when I was stubborn. It’s all thanks to her.”

You smiled, bashful and sweet, though you felt a weird, painful knot in your stomach. “Well, that’s quite a spectacular lady you’ve got there.”

“I think so, too,” Spencer grinned and kissed your cheek.

Immediately after Spencer was shot, followed by a long hospital stay, months of physical therapy and doctor’s visits, you lost your streak. You lost your glimmer. You lost that aura of shock and awe that you once so proudly carried. Though you kept it hidden from Spencer, you were one, giant ball of anxiety. All the time. It wrecked your brain, scrambled into a big pile of goo until you were having panic attacks in the courthouse bathroom.

Days later, you finally brought home a winning case. The adrenaline of a successful verdict rushed through your veins and you raced up the stairs to tell Spencer. You unlocked the door to his apartment and burst inside, stopping dead in your tracks when you saw him. He had cleaned, cooked and set up the dining room table with a meal for two.

“Hi, baby!” he exclaimed. “How was your closing statement?”

“Uhh, good. The judge ruled in our favor…” you spoke slowly, setting your things down.

“Really?” he smiled. “Of course! Of course they did. Baby, I’m so proud of you,” he held your face in his hands and gave you a kiss.

“Thank you,” you smiled. “What’s all this?”

“Oh, well,” he lead you into the dining room. “I made us a roasted chicken with mashed potatoes and corn on the cob. It should be good, I followed the recipe exactly. And, uh, some sparkling cider and I got you some lilies from the florist down the street and-and I even went to that store to get you a bath bomb even though all the smells give me a headache.” He was quite proud of himself.

“You went to Lush? No way.”

“Way! I thought we could take a bath together. Or you can take one by yourself, if you want. I got some candles, too.”

“Spencer, this is so sweet. What the fuck?” you wrapped your arms around him and the thought pinged in your head, “Ohhh. Oh, you wanna have sex with me.”

His face immediately turned bright red, “W-what? What? Sex? No. Ew…gross…”

You cackled and put your hands on his waist, “You got the go ahead from your doctor and it’s been driving you crazy. Admit it.”

“It has not been driving me crazy. I-I…have…been thinking about it quite a bit. But that’s not why I did this. I just wanted to thank you. Wanted to do something for you.”

“Mhm, keep talking,” you nuzzled your nose into his. “You’re almost there.”

He giggled and took hold of your hands, “C’mon, c’monnnn, I worked really hard on this dinner. Can you sit down and eat with me and then, maybe, after…”

You kissed the tip of his nose and took a seat at the table, “Definitely after,” you smirked at him.

He grinned and sat right next to you. And he watched you the entire time that you tried your food. It was delicious, you made sure to tell him that. You made sure to praise him, tell him that you loved him. He was already overrun with joy, but when you suggested a nice bath, he all but jumped out of his seat.

“The dishes!” you laughed.

He scurried back to the table, picked up your plates and dropped them in the sink. As he ran to the bathroom, he grabbed onto your wrist and dragged you along. He turned the water on, let it heat to just the right temperature and left it running. You undressed each other from head to toe and despite the sensuality of it all, you couldn’t stop giggling.

Sat in the tub, he cradled your back against his chest and he said, “Y’know…this bath bomb actually doesn’t freak me out as much as I thought it would.”

You laughed, “It smells really good, right?”

“Yeah! And the colors are cool.”

“I told you!”

Spencer got out of the bath first and he held out a towel for you to wrap yourself in. He wrapped his arms around your waist as you looked at yourselves in the mirror. He caressed your hair, whispering, “You’re so beautiful.”

You smiled, “Thank you. So are you.”

He kissed your shoulder, resting his chin in the crook of your neck, “I love you.”

“Eh,” you shrugged. “You’re alright, I guess.”

Your laughter overlapped with one another’s and you quickly corrected yourself, “I love you, honey,” with a kiss to his temple.

He turned his head and looked at you, his lips pressed against your ear, “Hey.”

You turned to him, “Hey.”

“We should get married.”

Your jaw dropped and you took a step back, “Are…are you just saying that because I’m naked and wet?”

He chuckled, “No,” he pulled you close, chest to chest, “No, no. I mean it. I mean, I don’t have a ring and I’m in no condition to get down on one knee but you deserve that, you deserve everything and I want to give that to you. I love you. So much. And I never, ever want to experience life without you again. I want you to be my wife, I want to be your husband. I want that. Don’t you want that?”

You let out a dry laugh, furrowing your eyebrows at him. You take his face in your hands, gripping tight on boths sides of his jaw and smush your lips into his. You undo the towel from around your chest and it falls to the floor, leaving every inch of your body open to Spencer’s touch.

“Mm…” he moans sharply when you break the kiss, giggling when you drag him to his bedroom by the hem of his towel.

The two of you landed on the bed with a thud, Spencer on top, tangling his body in yours, kissing your neck. Kissing your chest. Making his way to the apex of your thighs where he spread your legs and buried his face in between them.

Your breath caught in your throat but you released it all with a guttural moan, your arms limp around your head. The thing about Spencer, and that beautiful, talented mouth of his, is how gentle he was. His tongue was never rough, never hard flushed against you, but light and soft, hitting all the spots that made your body twitch. He could make you come so easily. And if you’d let him, he’d do it again and again and again.

But you took hold of his shoulders, you brought his face to yours and tangled your hands in his soaking wet hair and that is how you stayed the entire time that he fucked you. Close to him, bonded to him, staring into his eyes. You legs wrapped tight around his waist. Your body weakened underneath, became consumed by him and you swear, you have never come so hard in your life.

After his own orgasm, Spencer’s eyes focused in on you and you were crying. Not sobbing, just silent tears.

“Oh god, oh my god, [y/n]? What happened?” he panicked. “Are you okay? Did I-did I hurt you?”

“No,” you shook your head. “No, no. I…that was…it was just very good for me.”

“Oh…” he sighed. “Oh,” he gave you a kiss. “For me, too.”

He laid at your side and held you in his arms, rubbing your back, squeezing you tight.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, Spencer.”

You managed to fall asleep in his arms, but not for very long. All through the night, you shuddered awake like your skeleton was trying to crawl out of your skin. When your eyes popped open as the sun was starting to rise, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You emptied your drawer. You packed all your clothes. You put your toothbrush in a ziplock. And for the rest of the morning, you sat at the dining room table with a pen and paper. Every thought that rushed through your head sounded trite. Cliche. Dumb. So you kept it short and sweet and wrote:

I love you. I LOVE YOU. But I can’t. I’m sorry. Don’t hate me.

Aside from the shitty note, it was the perfect goodbye.

Spencer doesn’t want to see you right now. He doesn’t want to see anyone right now but especially not you. When the guard notifies him of his lawyers arrival, he’s confused. A bit irritated. But he has no choice but to let them haul him off.

They let him into the meeting room, where at first, you are sitting but when you see him, you stand to your feet. Your eyes scan all over his beaten and bruised face and you order the guards, “Cuffs. Off. Please.” And they’re off Spencer’s wrists just like that.

The guards leave the room and you are still staring at him. Now you are touching his face. Now you are whimpering, “What…what happened?”

You can see him soften a little bit, only a little bit, and then he is shrugging your hand off of him. He’s never done that before and it kind of hurts.

“You shouldn’t be here, [y/n].”

“What happened? Who did this to you?”

“[y/n.]…” he’s stern, but he quickly changes his tone. “You need to go. Please. I don’t feel like talking right now.”

You huff, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

He shakes his head, “I’m just not in the mood to talk. I don’t think anyone needs to be around me right now.”

“Well, too bad. I’m here, you look like someone took a walk on your face, and I want you to talk to me.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“What are you getting into in here? Huh?” you scold him, waving your hands around. “Didn’t everyone tell you to shut up and lay low? You didn’t listen, did you?”

Your charm bracelet catches his eye and he cannot stop tracking it, “…You don’t know anything anout anything.”

“I think-“

“No, you know what I think?” he snaps. “I think you ended our relationship in a fourteen word note and now you’re here for what? For what, [y/n]?”

“Okay, lower your voice.”

“Seriously? Your obligation is done. You fought the good fight. Let me rot. It what you would’ve done anyway.”

“Oh, fuck you. Do you know why I left you a note, Spencer? It’s because I really sucked at breaking up with you. You have one little meltdown and suddenly, it’s me. Suddenly, I’m the answer to all your problems. Well, I’m not. I never was. I’m just one of the many melodramatic problems that you have and I needed to be released before it just happened over and over and over again.”

“Melodrama- okay…” he turns around and bangs on the door, signaling the guards to get him the hell out of here.

“Spencer!”

“We’re done.”

“Will you just- talk to me,” you beg.

The door swings open and you instantly clamp up, attempting to appear calm and collected. You watch Spencer leave the room and you want to scream. You want to shout at him from the top of your lungs but you don’t. You think, if I can just get outside. If I can just cross the parking lot. If I just get to my car, I can scream.

You never make it.

By the time Diana is able to visit Spencer, by the time Spencer gets in contact with Emily, rambling and screaming into the phone like he’s just witnessed a murder, nearly a full night has passed. Emily meets Spencer in the moonlit prison and it takes her an entire minute to get him calm enough to talk, to explain thoroughly. The memories of Mexico that come flooding back, the woman who drugged him.

“Has anyone checked on my mom?” he shouts. “Can someone please check on my mom?”

“Spencer,” Emily calls to him. “We did.”

“And?”

“And, she’s fine. Apparently, Cassie was unable to come in and they sent another nurse in her place. But, um…”

Spencer leans forward in his seat, “What? What?”

“Cassie said this was delivered to your apartment,” she digs through her bag. “No name, no address. Just a knock at the door.”

And she holds up your gold charm bracelet, sealed in an evidence bag, “Do you recognize it?”

Author’s note:

Inspired by me finishing Better Call Saul and being torn apart by Jimmy and Kim. Also added Saul Goodman to my list of Old Men I’m Obsessed With 😭 Anyways stream the Breaking Bad universe on Netflix! Thanks 4 reading!! <3

#mine #spencer reid imagine #spencer reidxreader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid angst #Spotify

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innominaterifter · 1 year ago

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The second part of the story "to get a telescopic baton past security." The previous part was ended at the metal detector went off moment, and then the guard asked me to open my backpack. This first part is here

https://www.tumblr.com/innominaterifter/736872534262349824/i-didnt-manage-to-finish-everything-in-my-costume

I began to put my plan into action.

Step one

I hecticly and hastily began to take off my backpack, showing with all my appearance that I was in a hurry and was afraid of being late for the performance. But at the same time, showing how uncomfortable I was that I had created more work for them.

In the process of all this, I dropped a couple of things, bending over to pick them up, and accidentally stepped on the security guard’s foot. While straightening up, I slightly hit my head on the desk, and yes, they already looked at me with a mixture of mockery and irritation, wanting to get rid of me as quickly as possible.

This was exactly the reaction I needed.

Step two

The metal detector kept going off. I cursed and apologized, muttering that it was probably a metal stand and a fabric mount (step two). One guard is already waving his hand for me to pass, but the second asks me to remove the metal elements from the backpack and go through again (it was the one whose foot I stepped on; perhaps this was unnecessary).

I take them off my backpack and try to go through again, but the detector, of course, continues to react.

The organizers announce the imminent start of cosplay performances into the microphone, and I show on my face the panic of a person lagging behind the train.

The first guard again waves his hand at me, saying, 'Come on in', but the second one detains me this time too. He asks me to show him what is inside the backpack.

I was unlucky to stumble upon a truly vigilant person. Or vengeful. Or maybe I literally stepped on his sore spot.

Well, step three

I unzip the compartment in which there is a tin box with food (and a baton at the very bottom).

And I exclaim as if I had just guessed: 'Ah, this is a box of food for cockroaches! This is what the detector is triggered by!'

I start to pull it out, but both guards exclaim in unison: 'Food for whom?!'

I show on my face the smile of a person who simply adores insects (as you understand, I practically didn't have to pretend):

'For cockroaches! They are in my backpack, and I will show them now!'

I bet that although insects may be interesting to people, it is unlikely that anyone would want unexpected tactile contact with hundreds of cockroaches (as subsequent events at the convention showed, even simple observation makes people nervous).

I turned the backpack towards them with the outer transparent wall, which was initially hidden by things hung on top of the backpack. After I took it off my shoulder, I wisely kept it transparent side towards me.

There is instant silence, and for a couple of endless seconds, two guards and two hundred cockroaches look at each other.

The face of one of the guards begins to shimmer with amazing shades of green, and for some reason, the other begins to giggle uncontrollably.

I feel this is the turning point and decide to press on:

'Do you want to take a closer look at them? I'm late, of course, but they are awesome!'

Both guards are unanimous this time. They simultaneously wave towards me towards the passage. I pick up things and with regret and hope in my voice, I say that maybe then after the performance I will find them here.

One of the guards blurts out: 'No way!', while the other more restrainedly tells me that their shift is ending soon.

I shrug my shoulders in frustration (two hundred cockroaches, swayed in unison, gave this gesture additional expressiveness), and waving goodbye to them, I walk into the event area. A muffled voice behind me exclaimed: 'Fkn cosplayers!'

Well, it was fun and quite simple.

I haven't even gone through all the steps of my plan.

#skitter #taylor hebert #worm #worm web serial #wormblr #wildbow #parahumans #cosplay #insects #cockroaches

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optimaweightech · 2 years ago

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The Essential Role Of Metal Detectors In A Modern Processed Food Factory

The packaged food industry has played a vital role in ensuring reliable access to food. Australia is a key player in the global processed food market accounting for a sizable chunk of the packaged dairy and meat industry. The scale of the food industry and the repercussions of a compromise in the quality of products can be fatal for any company looking to operate in this sector.

Ensuring food safety is not only a preference but a necessity in the packaged food industry. Contaminants like steel, aluminium, and other metals may make their way into the final product. Detecting the contamination in the finished goods is practically impossible for human eyes. To combat these quality control challenges, a factory must be equipped with state-of-the-art food processing metal detectors and scanners.

The processed meat market in Australia surpassed USD 5 billion in 2023 and is expected to grow annually at 3.29%. The global processed meat market stands at over USD 600 billion and is expected to grow further in the coming years. The use of metal detectors in the processed meat industry is essential to eliminate the chance of finding contaminating metals from blades, grinders, and packaging machinery.

The packaged food scene in Australia

When Australians are asked about their favourite foods from their childhood, you can often hear about vegemite spread and Tim tam chocolate biscuits. These fond memories prove the integral role of packaged and processed food in Australia. With the changing times, companies are now keeping the old traditions alive but adopting new production technologies. Automatic filling and packaging machines, scanners, and metal detectors are becoming a staple in every modern food factory floor.

Metal detectors: an absolute must for consistent quality

Customer satisfaction is the utmost priority for any company that wants to succeed in the long run. Complaints from customers regarding inconsistent quality or foreign particles in the food are a nightmare for the brand image of a food company. Food processing metal detectors are the first line of defense against such mishaps. Machinery wear & tear, packaging materials, and even raw materials may be the source of metallic impurities. These sources make it challenging for humans to detect the impurity and ultimately lead to an inferior final product.

Complying with food safety regulations

Governments around the world and in Australia have put in place stringent food safety standards for the safety of consumers. Food manufacturers need to comply with the laws to get safety clearances and food licenses. Apart from the regulations, any risk posed to the customer due to the consumption of the product makes the manufacturer liable for legal actions and remedial payments.

In conclusion

Metal detectors are an invaluable part of the food processing industry. Thanks to the best metal detector manufacturers in Australia, you can choose from world-class products right within the country. It is important to be clear and precise about your specific expectations and requirements before choosing the ideal machine. You can contact the manufacturers directly to help you pick the best match for your factory and get quotations online.

Source: https://packagingmachinesaustralia.blogspot.com/2023/08/the-essential-role-of-metal-detectors.html

#food processing metal detectors #food industry metal detectors #Metal Detector for Food industry

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jinjeriffic · 1 year ago

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DCxDP Prophecy Universe Part 7

Part 6

It took Damian the rest of the afternoon to prepare for his trip to Amity Park. Jon helpfully agreed to cover for him, on the promise of a copy of the upcoming Cheese Viking 2 and getting filled in on all the hot Bat gossip afterwards. Wasn’t friendship grand?

Pennyworth thankfully agreed that ‘bonding time’ between the Super Sons was a good use of fall break and even took the time to ‘Prepare some healthy snacks for the young Masters, lest you eat junk food the whole week’. The task also handily distracted the butler while Damian packed the Batwing with all the necessary surveillance equipment he would need and set up the program to spoof his flight data. Damian had no doubt that Father wouldn’t be fooled for long, but with the Bat it was always better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.

The flight to Illinois was mercifully uneventful. Damian rappelled off in the middle of the eponymous city Park, then instructed the autopilot to take the plane to a wooded area outside city limits and park there in camouflage mode. Once he was sure his arrival had gone undetected, he changed into civvies and with his backpack full of gear set off in the direction of Fenton Works on foot. In jeans, sneakers, a dark hoodie and a baseball cap he looked like any other kid his age, even if he was out after curfew. Damian made sure to stick to the shadows and ducked behind cover whenever a car passed him.

All in all it took him until the early morning hours to arrive at the correct address. Intellectually, he had known the Fentons operated their workshop out of the family home, but he was in no way prepared for the monstrosity of a building that greeted him. Damian couldn’t help but stop and stare in disbelief.

What had once started out as an ordinary brownstone building had a glaring neon sign out front, proudly proclaiming the company name. Perched precariously on the roof was a gigantic metal structure that looked like a cross between a cartoon UFO and an observatory. There was no way this was legal or sane. If something like this had popped up in Gotham it would have been flagged as a Rogue hideout and bugged to hell and back. Hell, Damian was half tempted to break in immediately to start planting cameras but was held back by the likely presence of a custom security system. Mad scientists were rude like that and Damian didn’t want to tip his hand too early. He would have to at least wait until he was sure the Fentons weren’t at home.

Damian tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and strolled past the building at a fake casual pace. The windows were dark and the building was silent, except for the faint hum of the neon sign. This early on a Saturday morning, the residents were likely fast asleep. He spotted an electric scooter chained up next to the stairs leading up to the entrance and made the deduction that it likely belonged to Daniel. Under the guise of retying his shoelaces, he dropped to one knee and surreptitiously attached a bug to the vehicle. Ideally he would get the opportunity to bug Daniel himself, but for now this would have to do. Hoping that no one had noticed him, Damian continued down the street.

He had researched the area ahead of time and had found an apartment a few buildings down and across the street that was advertised as available for rent and was unoccupied. Breaking in and disabling the home alarm was child’s play, and after making sure he was alone in the apartment, Damian settled in to begin his surveillance.

He pulled the handheld radiation detector out of his backpack and after making sure it was operational he slipped it into his pocket. With no way to boost its range he would have to get pretty close to Daniel with no major obstructions in the way in order to verify if he had been in contact with the marked bills he had slipped Phantom. But Damian was confident in his ability to stay undetected. After all, Daniel had no reason to suspect he was being stalked by a curious Bat.

Damian kept himself occupied by listening to the local radio broadcast over his comm. The hosts sounded like chipper twenty-somethings, excitedly shilling for various local events happening over fall break, in-between shilling for local businesses. Why anyone would want to eat at an establishment called the Nasty Burger was beyond Damian. Whenever they stopped nattering to play actual music it was a blessing even if the appeal of the songs was entirely lost on the young vigilante. Finally, at 8am they had an actual news segment. Most of it was covering major US and global events, nothing Damian hadn’t already heard. Elections, natural disasters, rising tensions in Bialya…

“...and in local news, the City Library has announced that clean-up after last week’s ghost attack is finished, and they will be open at their normal hours on Monday!” the female host said cheerily, as if she was talking about the weather. “As usual, we would like to remind our listeners to keep their third eyes peeled for any ghost sightings! In case of a ghost attack, follow standard protocol and head to your nearest ghost shelter. Thank you! And here’s Mark with sports!”

Damian was flabbergasted. Ghost attack? This city experienced supernatural incursions and treated it like it was a normal occurrence? He’d read that the Fentons were ghost hunters, but he hadn’t thought anyone was taking them seriously! If Amity Park was under attack on a regular basis, how come the Justice League didn’t have a file on the city? Surely the news should have leaked to the outside world by now!

It was rare that Damian was caught so utterly wrong footed. His cursory research into Amity Park had turned up nothing like this! He was itching to get back to the Batcomputer to do a deep dive on the city and its history. Unfortunately, all he had on him was his phone which was ill suited for serious data compilation. At best he could scour local news sites and social media for any hint as to what was going on.

After half an hour of fruitless searching, he gave up in disgust. There was no mention of ghosts anywhere, save for the Fentons’ own website. Yet the news report had been almost blasé about the subject! Something was rotten in the State of Illinois.

All he could do for now was stare out the window at the Fenton’s front porch and hope his quarry made an appearance soon.

At 9.13 AM there was finally movement at the Fenton house. A dark-haired teenager in jeans, a light T-shirt, a backpack and a bicycle helmet bounded down the front steps and unlocked the electric scooter. It was unmistakably Daniel.

Damian hurriedly packed away his things, grabbed his backpack and left the apartment. He made sure to rearm the security system and lock the door, leaving no trace of ever having been there. Of course Damian wasn’t about to pursue his target across the rooftops of an unknown city in broad daylight. He would just have to wait for Daniel to arrive at his destination and follow him there. He retrieved his phone and pulled up the tracking data. It looked like the teen was headed towards the city center.

Damian tuned his comm to the listening device he had planted and set off towards downtown Amity at a light jog. For a while, all he heard was background noise. After about ten minutes, Daniel came to a stop.

“Hey Tucker, ready to go?” That had to be Daniel.

“Hey Danny!” a second male voice answered, “I was just waiting for you. Sam says she’ll meet us at the main entrance of the mall.”

“Sweet. Hopefully we can grab something cool from Game’O’Rama if we beat the rush.”

“You said it, my dude. Come on!”

The tracker resumed its movement. Now that he had a destination, Damian used his phone to call a cab. There couldn’t be that many malls in a city this size.

Daniel and his friend ‘Tucker’ kept up a steady stream of idle chatter on their journey. Damian learned more than he ever wanted to know about the attractive qualities of the female students at their high school, the tediousness of the homework assignments they had received for the week and the reviews of recent horror movie releases. Inconsequential chit chat as far as Damian was concerned. Once the pair arrived at their destination they parked their scooters and were soon out of range of the listening device. Damian cut the transmission and spent the rest of the short cab ride trying to find information on Daniel’s companion. Since they were apparently classmates and he had a first name to go on, it didn’t take long to narrow it down to Tucker Foley. Damian made a mental note to investigate him in depth later.

The mall was moderately busy when he arrived but nowhere near as bad as Gotham. Luckily there was a floorplan displayed at the entrance and it didn’t take Damian long to find the Game’O’Rama store. Predictably, it was dedicated to video games, gaming accessories and memorabilia. A sign in the window announced a major weekend sale, likely what had drawn Daniel and his companions. Damian slipped on a pair of mirrored sunglasses to conceal his eyes and meandered into the store. Wandering between the aisles, pretending to examine the games on offer, it didn’t take him long to find his quarry and Damian got his first good look at the trio.

Daniel was almost a head taller than Damian, slightly paler and with his dark hair mussed up from the scooter ride earlier. His clothes were slightly threadbare, and not the kind that was intentional. His white T-shirt bore a faded NASA logo and his jeans were frayed at the cuffs. He had dark circles under his eyes, though not nearly as bad as Drake got when he was on a case. Nonetheless, for the moment he seemed cheerful and at ease. He was examining the back of a disk case.

“I don’t know Tuck, I’m not much for medieval fantasy,” he said amusedly, “and a lot of these monsters look like ghosts we’ve seen. I get enough of them on a day to day basis, I don’t need them in my video games too.”

Again, this talk of ghosts.

The African American male next to Daniel had to be Tucker Foley. He was just a few inches shorter than Daniel, with his hair in shoulder length dreadlocks partially covered by a red beret. A matching red T-shirt with white Atari logo and baggy camo pants screamed nerd even before you got close enough to notice the black rimmed glasses and the clunky looking device he was tapping away on. Where did he get it from, the middle-ages?

“Look, the reviews are pretty great, and if we avoid everything ghost related what’s even left?” the boy argued, “You can’t let ghosts ruin your fun, man.”

“Tucker’s right, Danny.” the third member of their group chimed in. She was dressed head to toe in black, with a sheer, lacy top, a knee-length skirt, fishnet gloves and stockings and a pair of combat boots. With the thick soles giving her added height, she was almost as tall as Daniel. She wore eerily pale foundation making her dark purple lipstick and eyeshadow pop out even more. She had a small nose stud with a matching purple stone. Her earrings were shaped like spiders dangling from a web and she wore a pentagram necklace. Damian knew some of his schoolmates belonged to the goth subculture, but Gotham Academy’s dress code heavily limited such self-expression on campus. He guessed this girl was either really dedicated to the style or really dedicated to pissing off her parents. Maybe both.This had to be ‘Sam’.

“Besides, if Technus couldn’t ruin gaming for us no one else should either!” she continued.

“Fiiiiine,” Daniel sighed, clearly playing up his reluctance. “but if Amity gets attacked by an army of goblins next I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’!” He double checked the price tag. “Splitsies?”

The girl scoffed and plucked the case from his hand. “I’ll take this one, you can pay for lunch later. Why don’t you two go ahead to Pineapple Republic for those jeans you wanted? I’ll catch up to you.”

“If you’re sure. Thanks Sam!” Daniel leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I guess we’ll see you there.”

“Yeah, thanks Sam.”

“Go on, shoo!” she laughed and headed over to the cash register as the boys left the store. Making a split second decision, Damian grabbed a random game from the shelf and got in line behind Sam. He leaned slightly towards her, pretending to examine the figurines behind the counter and stealthily stuck a bug to her skirt. Now he could listen in on their conversation without having to risk being noticed.

After paying for his purchase he wandered off in the direction the other teens had taken. He would just have to leave the game somewhere ‘accidentally’ at the earliest opportunity. Pretending to check his phone he tuned his comm to the frequency of the new bug.

“...I think those are still a little short on you.” Sam said amusedly.

“Man, I’m glad I finally got my growth spurt, but having to replace most of my wardrobe is gonna be a pain in the ass!” Daniel complained.

“Look at it this way Danny, this could be your chance to branch out. A whole new style, a whole new you!” Sam countered enthusiastically.

Damian walked towards the source of the signal. He didn’t follow the trio directly into Pineapple Republic, instead heading into the shoe store across from the clothing store. Browsing there would let him keep an eye on the entrance.

“Let me guess, would this style include black, black and more black?” came Foley’s snarky voice.

“Black is timeless, I’ll have you know,” Sam sniffed in mock offense, “and Danny does look good in it. Just try it?”

“I don’t know Sam, I don’t wanna blow my allowance on clothes that don’t feel like me.”

“Oh! We could always try the thrift store, they have plenty of cool stuff! And upcycling is great for the environment.”

“Uh, hard pass,” came the flat reply, “I would like to survive the year with some of my dignity intact, please.”

“Yeah dude, if Dash and his cronies caught wind of Danny going to Goodwill or something they’d never let him live it down.”

“There is nothing wrong with buying second-hand!”

“Says the girl in $500 guaranteed cruelty free designer boots.” Foley shot back.

“That’s different!” Sam sputtered, “And besides, I don’t see why you still chase the approval of those jerks.”

“Easy guys, settle down,” Daniel said placatingly, “Sam, you know it’s different for us. You might be able to brush off Paulina’s snarky comments, but I can’t just brush off Dash trying to rearrange my face. I’d rather not paint an even bigger target on my back.”

Sam gave a loud sigh. “Ugh, stupid high school politics. I can’t wait to graduate.”

“I dunno, if things go according to plan you’ll have to deal with real politics, Ms Future Administrator of the EPA Manson.” Daniel teased.

“You mean Senator Manson.” Foley chimed in.

“Madam President Manson!”

“Stop it guys!” the girl laughed, “I’ll leave the political ass kissing to someone else. I just want to save the planet! But I gotta get my doctorate first.”

“Well if you do end up having to take over the country to do it, there’s one thing to keep in mind,” Foley said sagely, “You can’t be much worse than President Luthor.”

The two replied with fake gagging noises while Foley just snickered.

“But seriously, since you brought up mixing up my style… I was thinking of getting my ears pierced.” Daniel said hesitantly.

“Really? Ooh, do you want studs? Danglers? An industrial?” Sam gushed excitedly.

“Well… aw nuts.” Daniel’s voice was suddenly tense.

“You know what?” Sam rushed out, equally tense, “I think you should go and try these pants on. In the changing room. Right now.”

Damian frowned. What the hell had happened? He glanced out the shop window but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly, he heard distant screams and the sound of glass breaking. It’s almost like being back in Gotham.

Part 8

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #batman #batfamily #damian wayne #robin #prophecy universe #the one where clockwork uses prophecies to mess things up (and set things right)#no beta we die like danny #tucker foley #sam manson #help the length of this fic has run away from me #team phantom is 16 btw #damian is 12

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ellephlox · 2 years ago

Text

Lie Detector

Pairing: Matt x f!reader

Summary: Matt thinks that you can't successfully lie to him. The only way to settle the dispute is to challenge one another to a bet, but trying to deceive a human lie detector isn't quite as easy as you'd expect.

A/N: Finally on summer break and I've had time to do some writing. I'm really drawn to a reader/matt dynamic that's super competitive, so... here we are, with yet another "game". Hope it's alright!

Sometimes, having a lie detector as a boyfriend sucked.

You realized this early on, when all of the sudden the white lies that you told habitually in order to protect others' feelings crumbled into a big dust cloud of useless whenever Matt heard them.

Last week at supper, for instance. Matt had cooked a beautiful meal — homemade rolls, oven-roasted vegetables, and your favorite pasta — and it was all delicious. Except for one experimental vegetable thrown in that you were... less fond of, to say the least.

But of course he asked you if you liked it, of course he did.

"It's incredible," you told him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "The pasta is cooked perfectly. Also, homemade rolls? I mean, these can't even compare to the local bakeries. It's all really good, Matt."

"And the... new vegetable?" he asked, taking a bite.

Shit.

You sat stock still for half a second, your mind whirring. Fortunately, you'd gotten better at dodging situations where typically you would just save yourself with a white lie, but with Matt, there was rarely a safe way out of a question.

"It's got such a unique flavor!" you said warmly. Truth. "I don't think I've ever had it before. Where'd you get the recipe?"

"Foggy's sister. It is unique," he agreed. "You like the taste?"

Damn it. Something told you that Matt suspected you didn't like it; why else would he be so persistent about asking? "It's so unexpected," you hedged. "You cooked it really well."

Which was also a truth. The texture was good, at least; Matt had roasted it perfectly. It was the flavor you were less keen on, and you had to fight the urge to drink water after every bite.

Matt's lips turned upwards. "Sweetheart, you don't have to choke it down for me."

From there, everything unraveled. "I love it," you tried to say, but Matt's eyebrows were raising and you yourself could feel that your heart was speeding up. "Really! I love it, it's fantastic—"

You loaded your fork with it, preparing to take a large bite out of a manic desire to ensure Matt didn't find out the truth, but he deftly reached forward and grabbed your wrist. "Lost cause, Y/N." His thumb grazed your wrist, as though to match the sensation of your pulse to what he could hear.

You reluctantly put the fork down. "Come on, Matt, stop reading me for once! You cooked a beautiful supper and I want you to know how much I appreciate it—"

"You can appreciate it while letting me know you don't like a certain type of food. I promise my ego isn't dependent on a single vegetable."

"But I feel bad!" you protested. "And with anyone else, I would have just lied and said it's amazing, but with you, I have to be a schmuck about it!"

"You're not a schmuck."

"Matt, I'm a schmuck." You pointed at yourself. "Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad schmuck. Plus, it's unfair. I'm sure you lie to me all the time, and I probably just don't even notice it. Like last week, when I asked you if I have a nice voice to listen to and you told me that me that it's music to your ears, or some crap like that."

"It is music to my ears."

"I call bullshit. Unless by 'music' you meant death metal or country."

"So start lying to me," Matt said, his fingers absently moving up your forearm. "If you're able to control your nervousness when you do it."

"Is that a challenge? I'm sensing a challenge."

Matt was smiling now, and it wasn't his charming smile, it was what you thought of as his shit-eating grin. "Aw, let's not call it a challenge. I know how upset you get when you lose."

"That's it." You slapped his hand away from your arm. "Prepare to be lied to. Constantly. And if I succeed, and you don't notice that I've lied to you, then you have to..." You thought for a moment. "You'll have to wear your Daredevil suit to Foggy's when we have dinner with him and Karen on Sunday night."

Matt's smile dropped instantly. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Um, obviously because it would be hilarious seeing you uncomfortable, and Foggy and Karen would take some awesome pictures of you?"

He grit his teeth as though contemplating. "Fine. And if I win, and I notice every lie, you can go through all of the old archives sitting in Karen's filing cabinet at Nelson and Murdock and make copies so that they can all be organized by legal topic as well as by date."

"What? How is that fair? That's hours of my time!"

"I thought you said you were confident that you'd win?"

"Well. Yeah." You leaned over to playfully shove at him. "Okay, then. I'm in."

"But if you actually are apprehensive about this bet, then we don't have to do the challenge. I won't hold it against you."

Bold way to throw down the gauntlet, Matt. There was no backing out now. "Nope. Deal accepted," you said, and stood up to clear the plates. "Oh, and by the way, I don't get 'upset' when I lose. I'm a fantastic loser."

"Lie," Matt said, almost lazily.

Damn.

That was how it began. Of course, together you enumerated more rules, both printed and in braille, and posted them on the fridge.

Rule Number One: A lie had to be the subject of whatever you were talking about. It couldn't be a throw-away comment unrelated to the conversation itself, nor could it be anything so minor that it didn't even matter. It was forbidden to, for example, tell Matt about your day and say green shirt when you were actually referring to a blue shirt and count that as a lie. It had to stand on its own, loud and proud.

Rule Number Two: You had forty-eight hours to complete the challenge. Which, admittedly, didn't give you a lot of time. Matt was on his guard every time you opened your mouth, which meant you'd have to be strategic about this, if you wanted to win.

Rule Number Three: The lie had to be delivered in heartbeat earshot. That meant you couldn't lie to him through text messages or a long distance phone call.

Rule Number Four: If Matt falsely accused you of lying more than twice, then you won. You argued this rule in as a safeguard; otherwise, he could call out your lies on whims without any consequences.

And, finally, Rule Number Five: A lie had an expiration on it of ten seconds. If Matt didn't name the lie within ten seconds of you delivering it, then you won. You had even argued for more time, but it was Matt who had told you, with a particularly cocky wave of his hand, that he'd sense it within that time.

Several times you had tried lying to him since the start of the challenge. Each time, he'd sniffed it out immediately — almost instinctively, even — so that it was almost embarrassing at how readable you were.

"You heading out tonight for patrol?" you asked him when you emerged from the shower that night, wearing only a tee of Matt's and a towel around your head.

"Only for a bit. I've got to catch up on some paperwork this evening."

"Anything I can help with?"

"No, it's just prep for my opening next Wednesday." Matt tilted back in his chair, stretching with a restlessness that told you he'd much prefer to be out on the rooftops than reading through paperwork.

"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do," you said, and then added the lie: "I'll go do some reading, then."

Matt didn't hesitate. "What're you really going to be doing?"

You scrunched your nose at him, irritated. "And I thought I was so nonchalant. My heart is a traitor. Slow down, you." You slapped at your upper chest and lied again. "I actually wanted to do some online shopping. I need a new pair of sunglasses."

"No, you don't."

You released a dramatic exhale. "Fine! I'm going to journal a bit."

Matt listened for a moment, and then nodded, clearly placated. "I'll come say bye before I head out."

And then you even thought that you might get him when he came back, because it was past two in the morning and he'd taken a faster shower than usual — an indication he was anxious to get to bed —but when he crawled under the covers, apparently he was still on guard.

"Come in closer," you whispered, half-asleep yourself despite your hope of lying to him. "I meant to stay up for you, but I fell asleep."

Which wasn't true, even though you did often stay up for him. Tonight you had slipped into bed and fell asleep almost as soon as your head hit the pillow.

But Matt caught it; his hand nudged at your arm to acknowledge the lie. "Even this late, you're still trying to win the bet?"

Loopholes in the rules were hard to find, you realized. Matt seemed to appreciate your attempts to bypass them the next day — in fact, the closest you came to successfully lying was that morning, when you had about thirty-two hours left in the challenge. You had left to pick up bread for breakfast, and had just stepped out onto the street when you put your plan into action and dialed Matt's number.

Because technically, here on the street, right below the apartment, Matt could still hear your heartbeat, if he sought it out. But you hoped that if you were talking with him over the phone, then he wouldn't pay attention, and that he'd be distracted by the background fuzz of the call.

"Hey," you said, walking slowly down the sidewalk; you didn't want to be accused of leaving the earshot radius. "I just got a text from Foggy. He asked if I could bring that book I was telling him about the other day to dinner tomorrow night. Is it still on my dresser or did I return it to the library? I can't remember."

It was a clever lie, you thought. You had told Foggy about the book, and he did text you about bringing it to dinner. You did, however, specifically remember leaving the book on the dresser and not bringing it to the library the other day. It wasn't violating Rule Number One, either, because the question you asked Matt pertained directly to the lie.

There was a brief noise on the other end of the line as Matt presumably cocked his head, sweeping his senses out for a book on your dresser. In your head, you counted down the time. Ten... nine... eight... seven... six...

"The thick one?"

"Yeah."

Four... three... two...

"Lie," he said suddenly, and you could hear the smile on his face. "Nice try. Almost got me on that one."

"Crap," you said, sighing and adjusting your jacket as you picked up the pace, crossing the street after taking a quick glance left and right.

"If the lie hadn't been about a book, I wouldn't have thought to listen to your heart," he continued. "You care too much about your books to not know whether you've returned one to the library or not."

"Crap," you said again, but this time it was because the convenience store was closed; you'd have to go a couple blocks further to the larger supermarket. "Matt, I'm going to take a few minutes longer. The store's not open until nine."

Matt was quiet for a moment. "If that was a lie, that doesn't count. I can't hear your heartbeat from here."

"Nope. It's the truth. Anything else you want me to pick up while I'm at the grocery store? Ibuprofen, Advil, ice packs?"

Matt answered, but you didn't hear; an idea was formulating in your mind. "Sorry?" you said after a moment, picking up your pace as rain began to fall.

"Just more tea, I think."

"On it. See you in a bit," you said, and hung up.

Rule Number Four, you realized, was your ticket to winning. If you could get Matt to call you out on a lie when you weren't lying — and if you could get him to do it three times — you'd win.

So, the trick was to get your heart rate going at precisely the right moment. You left the grocery store with bread, tea, and a large espresso from the café next door.

And, miraculously, it worked. You walked in, your heart already feeling a bit more spry since you downed much, much more caffeine in the span of five minutes than you typically had over the course of an entire day, announced to Matt that the grocery store had been strangely busy today, and—

"Lie," he said, almost without even paying attention.

"Ha!" you said triumphantly, setting the bread down on the counter. "Wrong, Murdock!"

His brow furrowed. "What?" You could see him reaching out with his senses now, seeking what his mistake was, and...

"Espresso," he said, so quietly and forlornly that you laughed. "Damn. Your heart is racing."

"Brilliant, right? The grocery store really was packed." You waved the bread at him. "I'm starving. Can we make French toast with this?"

"Yeah. And don't get too happy yet, sweetheart. You haven't won yet."

"And there's the key word: yet," you reminded him.

Matt was on guard after that, so you waited the rest of the day before trying again; too often, and each effort would be futile. You could tell he was listening with far more diligence every time you spoke, and while it was slightly unnerving knowing that your heart rate was under constant scrutiny, it was worth it. Matt felt threatened that you would win. Even if you didn't end up winning the bet, that gave you enough pleasure to make the entire game worthwhile no matter what happened.

Step Two was getting Matt to watch a horror movie. You were a bit limited in your options, since Netflix didn't have many scary movies with audio descriptions available, but you agreed on one eventually and started it only once the sun had set.

And you waited. Waited, with Matt's arm wrapped around you, watching the movie and letting yourself get absorbed in it, because you were relying on your own natural adrenal responses to secure you the next false lie through Rule Number Four.

Fortunately, it was actually terrifying, so it didn't take much effort for you to feel a chill genuinely running up your spine.

"A door slowly creaks open," the audio description narrated. "The bathroom mirror suddenly swivels open. Standing in the reflection is a dark figure."

You physically jumped — thank you, jump scare — and seized the opportunity as your heart beat doubtlessly spiked. "Matt, I found some fan fiction that people posted online about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. And I read it. Every last bit."

Matt's confusion was so palpable that you had to bite back a laugh. He reached over for the remote and paused the movie, his head tilted. "This feels against the rules."

"And yet, it's not," you said, rubbing his arm. "So, was that a lie? Or not? I'll give you a solid ten seconds starting now to answer."

"You can't just say something insane at the very moment your heart rate jumps from a movie!"

"Tick, tock."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again — you'd make a good lawyer."

"Aw. Thank you. Five. Four. Three."

"Come on!"

"Two. One."

"Lie," he decided, his jaw tight. "And for your sake, I truly hope it's a lie, because there better not be people writing fan fiction about me—"

"Sadly, it's the truth, Matt. Both that people have written it and that... I've..." You trailed off at the look on Matt's face. "Uh, that I might've possibly glanced over some of it."

"Please tell me there's not much of it."

"Um... well, there's a fair amount. People are fascinated by real life vigilantes, I guess. If you wanted you could always sue them for defamation."

"Sue? Sue as Daredevil? Show up to court wearing the suit?"

"Better yet, hire Nelson and Murdock as your lawyers, and you can switch back and forth during the trial between your lawyer suit and Daredevil suit, playing both roles. It'd be hilarious, like a real-life Mrs. Doubtfire moment."

"You find all this so amusing, don't you?" Matt tipped you back, his hands against the back of the sofa and caging you in. Goosebumps pricked up your arms as you glanced at his forearms; he'd rolled up his sleeves, and you could see the toned muscle in the dim lighting.

"Not at all," you said, your voice a bit higher.

"Lie," he breathed out, and leaned in to kiss you.

The next day passed, with every hour sliding by and bringing you nearer to the end of the bet. Once again you didn't dare press your luck, and chose to instead act naturally. The following morning and midday passed without only one or two halfhearted attempts to lie. ("Matt, did you hear that Captain America is starting up his own jazz band and he's going to be doing a world tour?" "Yeah, I did, right after the news segment announcing Black Panther's new clothing line of lingerie that he's founded.")

The loophole of Rule Number Four, however, was proving to be no longer viable as your winning method. Matt caught on to every truth that was meant to make him accidentally call you out on lying. In desperation you even did fifty jumping jacks to raise your heart rate, to Matt's amusement, but he had somehow latched onto the subtle difference between a heart rate raised by the adrenaline of exertion as opposed to the adrenaline of a lie.

So — you'd have to brainstorm instead.

With only about an hour to go until the bet ended, you set your alarm on your phone to go off just three minutes shy of the actual forty-eight hour mark.

The only challenge now was making sure Matt didn't check his own watch between now and the alarm.

"Time's almost up," he said, with the audacity to smirk at you, catching your arm as you went by him towards the bedroom. "Where are you headed?"

"To get something presentable on for supper," you said, gesturing down at your outfit.

"Karen and Foggy wouldn't mind if you showed up wearing that."

"I love you, Matt, but I look like a clown right now. I wish you could see the color combinations I've got going on. Think blue raspberry slushie dumped on top of black raspberry ice cream."

"Well, if you're changing, then what should I wear?" he said, mockery edging his voice. "That plaid shirt you got me? A white top? Or a sweatshirt? Y'know, since I won't be wearing the Daredevil suit, of course."

"Don't speak too soon. We still have a few minutes left." The bet still had five minutes, in fact; but the alarm would go off on your phone in two minutes. On a sudden whim you wrapped your arms around him, loosely holding your hands together around his neck as though you were about to slow dance together. Matt's hands naturally went to your waist, fingers grazing your hip bones. "If, in the extremely unlikely case that I do lose, you should wear your loose-fitted button-down from your birthday last year."

"Is that too fancy?"

"I don't think so. I'll be wearing a sundress. It's casual enough."

Matt spun you around, backing you into the wall. His eyes were intense, unblinking. "I know you're trying to keep my attention off of you. It's not going to work. I know you too well."

"Maybe you know less about me than you think," you challenged him.

"I doubt it."

"You'd be surprised, Matt. I've got secrets and ways of keeping them."

"Want to play that game, love? Because I can play that game." He tilted up your chin with his left hand. "That mosquito bite on your neck is still itching you, even if you've resisted scratching at it. You've still got the taste of mint in the back of your throat from when you brushed your teeth a few hours ago." His hand left your chin and brushed at your temple. "You got dehydrated this morning and had a headache, but it's gone away now. And your blush is practically a heat lamp right now, getting hotter with every second."

"Point taken," you muttered, but Matt wasn't finished.

"Down here," he continued, his hand now trailing down to your lower arm, "there's a bit of residue from the jam you got on your forearm during breakfast."

"I washed it off!"

"And I can still smell it." Matt lightly let go of you. "I could continue, if you'd like."

And then — your phone buzzed out a loud jingle, jolting both of you simultaneously. You fumbled in your pocket for your phone, shutting off the alarm. "Shit."

"Time's up," Matt said, with far too much pleasure in his voice. "I'm looking forward to spending a day at the office with you. Maybe we go in on the weekend?"

"Saturday I'm free," you said, as casually as you could possibly muster. "On Sunday I'm visiting a friend."

Which was a complete lie.

And Matt...

Didn't notice.

"We'll go in early," he said. "I had to go in this weekend anyway to get work done."

"Mm," you said, counting down the ten seconds in your head. "And I'm assuming you wanted me to help organize the files so that you wouldn't have to go into the office alone this weekend? This was all a ploy to get some company?"

"Of course. What kind of weekend would it be if I didn't get to spend it with my favorite person?"

"Foggy will take offense to that."

"Well, maybe I'll invite him too. And Karen. We can have a whole work-weekend at Nelson and—"

"Yes!" you shouted, so loudly that Matt tensed, as though scanning the room for a threat. "Get your suit on, Matt!" Without waiting for his answer you strode to the closet and pulled out the familiar red suit and mask. "A certain swindled devil now needs to make his appearance at a certain dinner party tonight."

Matt's expression was baffled. "But I won."

"Check your watch."

His fingers immediately felt for his watch, and then his face dropped. "You set the alarm early."

"And then proceeded to successfully lie about visiting a friend on Sunday. Oh, I can't wait to see Karen and Foggy's reaction when you arrive on the fire escape, dressed to the vigilante nines—"

"I can't believe you."

"Me either," you admitted. "I was getting nervous towards the end."

"I can't believe you," Matt repeated. "You're going to pay, sweetheart. That was playing dirty."

"Enjoy your retribution sometime else," you told him, tossing the mask over. He caught it, plucking it from the air without turning his head in the slightest. "We've got a dinner party to go to."

And maybe you'd still go into the office that weekend to help him out, you decided, a bit of guilt still stirring inside you, because he did just want you to be there with him, keeping him company.

After all, having a lie detector for a boyfriend really wasn't so bad.

#daredevil #marvel #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #reader #reader insert #x reader #mcu #matt murdock x fem!reader

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justlookfrightened · 6 months ago

Text

Old dogs and new tricks

Prompt fill from @goddess47: MooMaw comes to visit Jack and Bitty

Lorraine Phelps settled back into her seat and sighed.

She was on the plane. The first part of her journey was done.

It hadn’t been so bad, really. Suzanne had driven her to the airport in Atlanta, parked and walked her into the airport, made sure her new suitcase got checked, escorted her all the way to the security line.

“I wish you’d let me get a gate pass so I could stay with you,” Suzanne fussed. “Or arranged a wheelchair.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lorraine had rejoined. “I’m not a child, and I’m not decrepit.”

Not yet, anyway.

This trip to Providence was an adventure for Lorraine, her first time in years on an airplane, her first time ever flying by herself.

When Dicky had traveled to Madison for her “surprise” 75th birthday party, the gift had been a huge box, a box that turned out to contain a new suitcase, one of the ones with wheels on the bottom and a smaller bag inside, and a picture of an airplane.

“Well, this is lovely,” Lorraine had said to her favorite grandson. Yes, he was her favorite, not that she’d ever admit it to anyone. But all those hours they’d spent in the kitchen together … it was like their own flavors melded and complemented one another. “But I don’t know —”

And Dicky had cut her off, because of course he knew what she was going to say.

“The suitcase isn’t the present, Moomaw,” he’d said. “The present is … me ’n’ Jack want you to come to Providence to visit. We didn’t get flights yet, because we have to decide when is the best time and all, but we want you to come stay with us. And this way you can’t say that you don’t have a bag to pack.”

“As if I would!” Lorraine had said.

But truth be told, she might have.

She knew plenty of people traveled all the time, flew all over the country, all over the world even. Jack with his team — he must be flying two, three, even four times a week. Even Dicky had flown back and forth from college after the first year, for breaks too, and Suzanne and Rick flew to visit him even now.

They all knew how to do it, though, with their tickets on their phones and showing identification in the security lines, and understanding what to leave in their bags and take out before they went through the machine.

She shouldn’t have worried.

Dicky had sent videos showing what the screening area was like at Hartsfield, and all kinds of explanations.

“If you’re 75, you don’t have to take your shoes off, and you can leave your sweater on to go through the metal detector,” he’d said in an email. “You don’t have to worry about a laptop or tablet, so just make sure you don’t have anything liquid in your carryon. We can get any toiletries you need here, and you can put your makeup in your checked bag. Otherwise, liquids need to be in small containers and fit in one small plastic bag, which you might or might not have to take out of your carryon.”

As it turned out, Lorraine didn’t even need a carryon. Her purse was large enough for her wallet and phone, a magazine, a paperback book, lipstick and some chewing gum (recommended by Dicky for takeoff and landing).

And it turned out that being a 5-foot-nothing grandmother type with a cloud of white hair meant that the security people wanted nothing more than to help her on her way, with one even coming over to her after she collected her bag to point her towards the correct gate.

Then the first-class (first class!) ticket Dicky and Jack sent meant that she was escorted aboard the flight early, and all she had to do was sit and look out the window and sip the water they gave her.

She texted Dicky: On the plane! Everything is lovely! See you when I get there!

Coach passengers, most of them laden down with roller bags or backpacks and food and pillows and whatnot, were still shuffling past her seat when Dicky replied, “Great! I’ll be at baggage claim when you get here!”

Lorraine carefully put her phone into airplane mode — she’d never had to do that before — before tucking it into her purse and pulling out the magazine. She was too excited to focus on her book.

She spent the flight alternating between reading and looking out the window, enjoying a quite tasty smoked chicken salad. They didn’t have sweet tea; Lorraine toyed with the idea of having a glass of wine, but decided it wouldn’t be a good idea. There was too much she had to pay attention to today. But she did indulge in a Coke.

When the plane landed, she waited while most of the people behind her on the plane bumped and jostled their way out. Once she got her phone reconnected, she found a text from Dicky telling her what baggage carousel to look for.

On my way! she texted back, then stood to wait for a break in the traffic in the aisle.

“Can I help you?” the nice flight attendant asked. “Is there someone meeting you at the gate?”

“No, my grandson is at baggage claim,” Lorraine said. “I’ll be fine. Just follow the signs, right?”

It turned out to be as simple as following the people. Dicky was standing at the bottom of the escalator, all but vibrating as he craned his neck to look for her. As soon as he caught sight of her, Dicky gave her a broad smile and a little wave.

“How was your flight?” he asked as soon as the escalator deposited her on the ground floor. “No trouble? You don’t have anything besides your purse?”

“My suitcase should be coming,” she said.

“I mean, besides that? Do you want to sit down while I wait for it? I know what it looks like.”

“I can wait with you,” Lorraine said. “It feels good to stand after sitting on the plane.”

When the purple case came, Dicky picked it up and rolled it towards the exit.

“I’m not parked too far away,” he said.

The ride in Dicky’s little red car started with a long time in a tunnel, then a long time on an interstate through suburban subdivisions and then finally some woodland and fields. It could have been driving out of Atlanta, except the dirt was a different color, and the leaves were different.

Before she would have thought it possible, they were back in suburbs, then getting off the interstate onto city streets.

The whole time, Bitty prattled about everything they could do in the week Lorraine was spending in Providence. He was full of museums and restaurants and farmer’s markets and parks in a way that sounded, frankly, exhausting.

“So,” Dicky finally said, turning the car into a driveway that led to a garage under a high-rise, “any of that sound good to you?”

“It all sounds wonderful,” Lorraine said. “But I didn’t come to see Providence. I came to see you. And, of course, Jack.”

“He’s home by now,” Dicky said. “He had a meeting this morning about some sponsorship things.”

Dicky pulled into a numbered spot and once again took Lorraine’s suitcase, leading her towards an elevator where he pressed the button for the top floor.

“Wait until you see the view,” he said.

Lorraine smiled, because she already had the view she wanted.

Jack, as promised, was in the condo, all solicitousness.

“Bits made some sweet tea this morning,” he said as soon as she was fairly in the door. “Can I pour you a glass? Are you hungry?”

“I ate just fine on the plane,” Lorraine said. “But yes, some sweet tea would be lovely. Let me go freshen up, then some tea, And then maybe a rest?”

“Of course,” Dicky said. “I’m sorry — I should have thought. The bathroom is here —” he opened the first door in the hallway off the kitchen “ — and your room is right next door. I’ll put your suitcase in there.”

Once the door closed on her in the bathroom, Lorraine let out a deep sigh. This was the first time since Suzanne picked her up that she’d been alone, truly alone, and it was a relief. But she knew she only had a couple of minutes before Dicky would get worried about her in here.

That was one of the things no one ever warned you about when you got old. She’d lived alone for years now, and quite liked her own company. Suzanne called most days, of course, and Judy came around, and Lorraine had an active social life, what with church and her book group, but most of the time she saw other people on her own terms.

But then when she did spend time with family, they worried if she spent too long in the bathroom or wanted to go off on her own for a while.

She couldn’t blame them, really. She’d lost Walker years ago now, and no one had expected him to pass when he did. They worried over her. And she did have more aches and pains, not that she complained.

Lorraine washed her hands and refreshed her lipstick before going back to the main living area, able to appreciate the wide windows with a view over the city. Dicky and Jack were in the kitchen, a large tiled area that was separated from the dining room by a counter with high chairs. The dining room wasn’t really separated at all from the living room, except by the furniture that made the use of each area obvious.

Dicky and Jack were speaking in low voices, and Dicky stopped as soon as he saw her. Jack offered her the glass of tea he’d poured while Dicky picked up a plate of cookies and gestured towards the sofa.

“How’s everyone in Madison?” he asked as they settled in.

Lorraine passed along news and greetings — Judy’s oldest boy’s wife was pregnant, and the younger one had dropped out of Georgia Tech and started working as a mechanic, and gotten engaged to his high school sweetheart.

“Your Aunt Judy isn’t thrilled, I can tell you that,” she said. “But she is going on about what a lovely wedding it will be, especially in front of your mother.”

“MooMaw, you know Jack and I are getting married up here,” Dicky said. “I know Mama wants a wedding in Georgia, but that would be a huge mess. Everyone is nice to my face when I’m there, but I know they’re still talking behind my back about me marrying Jack, and why would I want to do that to myself? Never mind that Jack’s folks are in Montreal, and most of our friends are here.”

“Oh, I don’t disagree,” MooMaw said. “I think you made the right decision. I just wanted to let you know.”

“So I wouldn’t be surprised when Mama brings it up again?” Dicky asked. “I do think that this way the only relatives who’ll come will be the ones who really want to. You’re coming, right?”

“You couldn’t keep me away,” MooMaw said. “Especially now that I know how easy the flight is. I suppose I’ll have to travel with your mother and father.”

“I was thinking you would,” Bitty said. “You don’t want to?”

“To tell you the truth, I kind of like first class,” MooMaw said. “Even though you shouldn’t have.”

“Of course we should have,” Jack said. “We can fly you all up first-class for the wedding.”

“Jack —” Dicky said.

“What?” Jack said. “It’s not that much. We could charter a private plane for your relatives if you want —”

“Jack. We are not chartering a private plane.”

Lorraine hid her smile behind a cookie. Her Dicky had found a good one. What was it her mother had told her when she brought Walker home? It would be just as easy to fall in love with a rich man?

Walker had never been rich, but they’d done all right. They’d both taught school, Lorraine in the primary grades and Walker at the high school, until the girls came along, and then Lorraine stayed home. Walker had worked a series of second jobs in the summer and side jobs all year, and they’d never wanted for anything.

Now Suzanne’s Rick made near as much as the high school principal as the football coach, so they were fine. But it wasn’t “we’ll just charter a plane” money. Or “top-floor condo with a view of the city money” either.

Still, Jack didn’t strike her as spoiled. He had a good head on his shoulders, and he loved Dicky. That was obvious from the first time she saw the two of them together.

“So,” Dicky said, obviously changing the subject. “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight? Or go do anything this afternoon?”

“I think I’d like to have a lie-down,” Lorraine said. “For at least a while. If y’all don’t want to cook, we could go out — but maybe just for a bite? And then tomorrow, if you’re not busy, Dicky, you could show me around the neighborhood?”

“We don’t mind cooking,” Jack answered. “We have some steaks and some chicken we can grill, if that sounds all right to you?”

“And tomorrow we’ll hit up the market,” Dicky said. “You don’t mind being a special guest on my vlog? But maybe after we go to the farmer’s market Saturday. Jack has meetings tomorrow, but he’s free Friday — we thought we’d go to Newport and maybe take the ferry to Jamestown or Block Island?”

“That all sounds fine,” Lorraine said.

Jack stood as she got to her feet, and she smiled at the manners his parents had clearly instilled in him.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little worn out.”

The visit proceeded more or less as Lorraine expected, with Dicky planning daily outings and events, which Lorraine enjoyed immensely — especially ones like the ferry, where she could sit down — and Jack joining them when he was able.

She and Dicky also baked and cooked together, both on camera and off; she sampled foods including stuffed clams and lobster rolls; and she and Jack started an ongoing penny-a-point series of gin rummy games, mostly out on the terrace while Dicky was busy on the computer.

Jack turned out to be a worthy competitor.

The surprise of the visit, and a pleasant one, was the way Jack warmed up to her. She’d obviously liked the boy from the beginning for his devotion to Dicky if nothing else. Now that they had more time together, she came to like his sly sense of humor, the way he observed the world and even the way he helped Dicky moderate his impulses to try to do everything all at once.

Dicky had told her that Jack suffered from anxiety and sometimes had panic attacks, although she didn’t see anything like that during her week in Rhode Island. She hoped that meant he was comfortable with her. He was comfortable enough, at any rate, to mention going to therapy, which she supposed was a good thing.

Would probably be a good thing for Dicky too, if she was honest. God knew the boy had a rough enough time growing up, and he always had been a bit of a whirlwind. Maybe those two things weren’t related, but you never knew.

“So,” Dicky said, when he drove her to the airport for her flight home. “When do you want to come back? If you come during the season I can bring you to one of Jack’s games — I can send you the schedule and maybe you want to pick out a weekend with a day game?”

“I couldn’t ask for —”

“You’re not asking, I’m inviting,” Dicky said. “Actually, it was Jack’s idea. If you want Mama and Coach to come with you, I can try —”

“No, that’s fine,” Lorraine said. “I’d like very much to come.”

After all, she thought, as she got in the line for security, this was something she knew how to do now.

#zimbits #omg check please #omgcp #my fic #prompt fill

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rottenpumpkin13 · 11 months ago

Note

Whats happens when the boys™️ go camping on the beach?

Things That Happen At The Beach, A List

• The seagulls see Cloud as an easy target and attack him for his food. Zack rushes in to defend his buddy and ends up fist fighting a seagull. Zack loses.

• Sephiroth tries to relax in the sand and read a book, but Angeal's continuous use of a metal detector to "hunt for goods" nearby is giving him anxiety.

• Genesis is going on a drink run and is offering to get everyone else something too.

Genesis: Would you like a sex on the beach?

Sephiroth, not knowing it's a drink: I thought you'd never ask.

• Zack has gripped a seagull by the neck and is refusing to let go. The other seagulls are getting increasingly more agitated. Cloud pleads with Zack to let it go. Zack claims that the only way to deal with the seagulls is to "assert dominance"

• Genesis ia trying to take aesthetic pictures of himself for social media and doesn't notice that in half of them, Sephiroth is in the background losing a battle with a melting ice cream cone.

• Angeal is looking for the guitar he brought to sing campfire songs. Genesis burned it to build a fire. Angeal retaliates by burning Genesis' books in that very bonfire. The last anyone saw Angeal and Genesis they were trying to drown each other in the ocean.

• Sephiroth brings a book that aids in identifying crab species and a camera to catalogue them. Sephiroth finds a crab. He takes a photo of the crab with the flash on. This bothers the crab. The crab attacks him. Sephiroth flings the crab into the ocean. Sephiroth feels guilty and goes into the ocean to retrieve the crab.

• Sephiroth and Genesis try playing with a frisbee for fun. Sephiroth underestimated his own strength and ended up knocking Genesis out with the frisbee. When Angeal finds them, Genesis is still knocked out and Sephiroth is digging a Genesis-sized hole in the sand.

Angeal: ......

Sephiroth: I panicked.

Angeal: Oh my god.

• The seagulls are encircling Zack and Cloud. Cloud lights a beach towel on fire to try to ward them off.

• AGS go on a banana boat for fun. The boat driver warns them that if they don't hang on, they'll fall off. Genesis is the first to claim "Ha! We're SOLDIER. As if we can be bested by an inflatable water sled." On the first wave all three of them are violently thrown into the ocean. Genesis was the first to go and knocked Angeal and Sephiroth like bowling pins.

• Angeal finally intervenes and chases the seagulls away. He gives Genesis, Sephiroth and Cloud the task of fishing for their cookout while Zack helps him prepare.

Angeal: You guys know how to fish, right?

Sephiroth: Definitely. (Liar)

Cloud: Absolutely. (Liar)

Genesis: Of course (embellisher of the truth)

• 1 hour later they come back with Cloud tangled in a fishing line, Genesis with a small fish, and Sephiroth with a big fish. Genesis is fuming because he claims Sephiroth "invaded his fishing space and caught the fish that Genesis was meant to catch."

• Genesis and Sephiroth go paddle boarding for fun but end up having a makeshift sword duels with their paddles in the middle of the ocean. Genesis hits Sephiroth in the knees. This Angers Sephiroth. Genesis now has a total of 2 minutes to make it to shore before Sephiroth catches up to him and drowns him.

• Angeal wants to take some nice group photos to remember this day forever. They're in the middle of a nice group pose when the horde of seagulls come back for revenge.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #ffvii crisis core #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 crisis core #angeal hewley #zack fair #cloud strife #storytime

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loveharlow · 1 year ago

Text

PAIRING ‧₊˚ JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚[2.9k] based on 1x04.

WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, mild violence, detainment

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

NOW PLAYING‧₊˚

AND WITHIN MINUTES ALL THAT HOPE DIED. There was no gold. Just a shipwreck. The drone passed over the entire thing three times and nothing. The metal detector didn’t make a single sound.

“Just pull the damn thing up.” John B said, frustrated. “Somebody beat us to it.”

“Or it was never there.” JJ muttered, steering the boat back in the direction you’d come.

WAKING UP TO MARLEY LICKING YOUR FACE WASN’T AN UNCOMMON OCCURRENCE, you assumed it’d just felt so unfamiliar because of the fact that you hadn’t slept in your own bed the last few days since this whole gold rush started. You groaned, lightly pushing the dog away from you with your palm.

“I’m awake, Marls…” You groaned out sleepily, rolling off of your bed with a grunt as you hit the floor, your side still sore from the events of yesterday. The pain was mostly gone, all that remained being a tenderness and slight redness surrounding the area.

Rolling onto your back and sitting up, you pet the chipper animal as she snuggled up under you. “Jesus, your morning breath is worse than mine.” You said, face twisting. Reaching for your phone as you scratched the top of her head, you saw that it was close to noon, you sighed, getting up and walking downstairs to get your day started.

You were surprised to find your mother shifting through documents on the kitchen island when you got there, slowing in your steps. “Hey, mom…” You said, eyeing the woman as you opened the fridge to pull out the milk. She merely glanced up at you, before averting her eyes back down to the documents in front of her.

“Morning.” She muttered. You faced away from her, hearing the pen she was writing with hit the counter as you walked to the side and grabbed the cereal from the pantry. “Did you hear about Topper’s boat?”

You bit your lip, completely forgetting about that. Realizing you hadn't responded and stood frozen in place, you cleared your throat and continued making your breakfast. “No, what happened?” You asked, faking obliviousness and pouring the cereal into a bowl, now facing her again. She had the papers in her hands, reading glasses sitting low atop her nose as her eyes scanned the pages as she spoke.

“He and Mrs.Thornton found it sunken this morning. What a waste of money. I hear it was brand-new.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Topper.” You remembered, pouring the milk over the colorful pellets of food. “Him and his friends aren’t exactly known for being careful.” You muttered with disdain.

“Speaking of caution,” The woman began, clasping her hands in front of her. “I had an interesting meeting with Sheriff Peterkin and Shoupe. They said John B was being chased through town by some dangerous men earlier in the week and he apparently ran from his social worker when she went to pick him up this morning. Do you know what’s going on with him?”

“I don’t know, Mom, maybe the fact that his dad went missing and DCS has been trying to drop him into the system ever since?”

All she could do was sigh. “John B’s father is gone. It’s been almost a year. He needs to accept that and move on.”

“...He needs to just accept the fact that his dad is gone? Do you hear yourself, right now?”

“Listen, I don’t have the energy to argue with you, right now. If you see him or know where he is, it’d be very much appreciated if you could tell Shoupe or Peterkin so they can alert his social worker-”

You scoffed, looking your mother in her eyes. “I'm not doing that. You're crazy if you think I'm going to help you and your cop friends put one of my best friends into foster care-”

“Excuse me?” Your mother was baffled at your tone. But it seemed like everytime you came home recently, on the rare occasion that you did, she always had questions. Scratch questions, accusations. And in your mind, either she knew something or she just wanted reasons to be on your ass. “I don't know what's gotten into you recently. If your father could see you now-”

“No, mom,” You cut her off shortly. “If only he could see you.” You spat, making your way back up the stairs, bowl of cereal in hand, slamming the door behind you.

“AREN’T YOU GLAD I MADE YOU COME?” Kie asked cheerfully, carrying a cooler full of snacks and drinks while you laid out a blanket on top of the grass, JJ and Pope unfolding lawn chairs to sit in. Kie had rounded you all up to see a movie in the park with her. You’d already informed them of the reason for John B’s absence, seeing as this isn’t his first marathon from DCS. If he got away successfully, per usual, you all would be seeing him by tomorrow.

“My couch was pretty comfy, I’ll be honest.” JJ replied. While Kiara was preoccupied, Pope whispered to JJ, but you could still hear them.

“We are in enemy territory. Way out of the green zone, man.” He was visibly anxious, eyes fleeting all across the crowd of people that littered the lawn.

“Dude, tranquilo, okay?” JJ tried to calm him.

“We are in the middle of Kooklandia.” He hissed. “This is the last place I wanted to be.” He ranted, the two boys not even noticing when Kiara got up to go get drinks.

“Shut up. Both of you.” You reprimanded, sternly. “God, you have the worst poker faces I’ve ever seen.”

“They could be lurking in the bushes right now, we don’t know.” Pope tried to make you understand.

“Dude, just chill out.” JJ said. Just then, Kie had come back, four cans of soda in her arms that she distributed evenly amongst the group of you.

“Just saw Rafe,” The name alone sends a small wave of chills down your spine. “He said to ‘tell your girl that we know what she and your boy did’. What does that mean?” Her eyes fleeted towards you for the most part.

“Where is he?” You questioned without hesitation.

“Right there,” She motioned behind her, prompting you to whip your head around to where Topper, Rafe, and Kelce stood menacingly by a tree, sipping on beers. Even from that distance, you could tell he was staring dead at you. It brought back so many unwanted feelings and memories, so badly it made your head hurt.

“Great, the whole death squad.” Pope’s voice cracked.

“Hey,” Kiara’s voice called from beside you, just loud enough for only you to hear. You turned back to face her. “What’s going on? Is he still bothering you? Is it about what happened-”

“No, it’s not.” You were quick to cut her off in case the guys were listening. “It’s not about that.” You said sternly, tuning back into JJ and Pope’s conversation.

“If they corner me, I’m comin’ out swingin. I’m on edge right now.” JJ spoke seriously. “If that doesn’t work, I got this right here.” He assured, holding up his backpack that looked mostly empty but oddly heavy.

“JJ, please tell me you did not bring a gun here. JJ, there are kids!” Kie started, being oddly loud for not wanting people to know that JJ may or may not have brought a gun.

“I didn’t bring the gun, Kiara. Everything’s fine.” He tried to calm her.

“That’s really convincing.” She said, voice full of sarcasm. “...What happened? What did you guys do?” She asked, eyes going back and forth between the three of you that remained quiet. “Founding principle, no secrets among pogues. What is Rafe talking about?”

“Kie,” Pope started, voice low. “It might go down tonight.”

YOU ALL WERE A GOOD WAY INTO THE MOVIE AT THIS POINT, the sun had gone down and the air had cooled. The only sounds filling your ears were the movie playing and crickets in the trees. You were sitting in between JJ’s legs, using the base of his lawn chair as a backrest to ease the pain on your side from trying to keep yourself up. You’d heard him and Pope whispering but paid no mind until the blonde was tapping your shoulder, signaling that he was getting up.

“Where are you guys going?” You questioned, looking up at him and adjusting the chair from where it had slipped behind you once he got up.

“We gotta wring it out.”

“Together?” Kie asked.

“It’s bro code. Bro’s who piss together…” He struggled to find a rhyme with the made-up honor code. “...stick together. We’ll be right back.” You watched as the pair of boys crouched, creeping through the crowd and over to a tree next to the projector screen. You questioned why they didn’t head to the actual bathrooms but quickly got your answer with a quick glance back, seeing Rafe and his goons blocking it.

“Now, do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Kie whispered.

You sighed, curling in on yourself slightly. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t know.” The girl scoffed and shook her head.

“Do the guys know? About what happened?”

“No. Why would they?”

“Do you ever plan on telling them?” You rolled your eyes, starting to get frustrated.

“No, Kie, I don’t. I’d like to forget it ever happened, if that’s okay with you.” You snapped, silence falling over the two of you as the movie continued to play.

You assumed maybe a handful of minutes had gone by before you noticed the guys hadn’t come back yet and one weary glance behind you told you all you needed to know — Rafe, Kelce, and Topper were gone, too.

You immediately shook Kie’s arm, startling the poor girl.

“What? What is it?”

“We need to go. Now.” Was all you said before you got up, taking JJ’s bag with you as you and Kie swiftly walked in the direction the guys had gone earlier so as to not alarm any movie viewers. Coming around the back of the projector screen, you were met with a brutal scene in front of you — Kelce held JJ by his arms as Rafe delivered blow after blow to his face while Topper beat up Pope.

“Let go of him! Fascist asshole!” Kie yelled as she whacked Topper in the back over and over. You made a b-line for Rafe, throwing JJ’s bag down and jumping onto the boy’s back, wounding your arms around his neck, allowing JJ an open opportunity to push Kelce off of him.

“Leave him alone, Rafe!” You screeched.

“You don’t wanna do this, sunshine!” He yelled back, throwing you off of his back and onto the grass. Just like yesterday, you were on your back as he stared down at you, breathing heavily. “I’m being nice. Only ‘cause you’re my favorite.” He smirked, huffing with blood in the corner of his lip before turning back to JJ.

You rolled on your side in the grass to see Topper choking out Pope only after having seen him throw Kiara to the ground. JJ had Rafe handled. You reached for JJ’s bag that had been abandoned, flipping it open to reveal the gun and a lighter. Your eyes went back and forth between the gun and Topper, who had Pope in a deadly chokehold at this point.

You wanted to do it, so bad.

But a gun to a Kook's head was what caused all of this in the first place, so you dismissed the thought, kicking the lighter over to Kie, the object hitting the sole of her shoe.

The girl looked down at the lighter and then at you, you motioned towards the projector screen and she caught on quickly. It wasn’t long before the projector screen was going up in flames, scaring the movie guests and breaking up the fight, spooking the guys. Topper released Pope as JJ pushed Kelce back once more, Rafe stood off in the middle of the four guys, staring directly at you as you got up.

When he snapped out of whatever trance he was in, he gathered up Topper and Kelce and fled the scene. Kie helped Pope up as you turned your attention to JJ. He was fixing his clothes but you didn’t miss the scars on his cheek and bottom lip.

“Are you okay?” You asked frantically, eyes roaming his entire face for any more cuts.

“Fine, I’m fine.” He calmed you as you laid a hand on his shoulder before trailing it up to the back of his neck, but he looked like he wanted to say something. Like he was thinking extremely hard.

“C’mon, let’s go.” You urged the rest of your group, leaving before the fire department and cops inevitably made their appearance.

“I JUST ACTED OFF INSTINCT, MAN. I WAS A CORNERED ANIMAL.” Pope told JJ as he restocked some items on the shelves inside of Heyward’s. It was the next morning but you were all still on edge about the fight last night. It was clear now that Topper knew Pope and yourself were the ones who sank his boat and you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Don’t feel bad, dude. It was three of them and two of us.” JJ tried to remedy it. “That’s some typical Kook shit right there.”

“Hell yeah.” Kie agreed.

“Hey Pope,” Heyward’s voice rang out in the small crab-shack, towel slung over the older man’s shoulder. “There’s someone here to see you.” He motioned behind him, Deputy Shoupe making his appearance.

Pope’s posture immediately straightened, his eyes going wide as the shop went silent with Shoupe’s arrival. “Evening, officer.” He barely got out. Shoupe’s eyes went between you and Pope before replying.

“You’re both here. Great.” He said, reaching into his holster. “I have an arrest warrant for felony destruction of property. For both of you.”

“Woah, woah, woah…” Heyward was stunned as he stood back and watched the scene play out in front of him.

“Keep your hands on the counter where I can see ‘em.” Shoupe handcuffed Pope first, the boy putting up no fight in his daze. He looked like he’d faint any moment.

“Shoupe, what’d they do?!” Heyward tried again.

“Look at the warrant.” Was all the deputy offered in response, remaining stoic. Once Pope was secure, he moved onto you, looking you in the eyes somewhat pitifully before beckoning for you to turn around and put your hands behind your back. Heyward, Kiara, and JJ were causing commotion, talking over one another as he secured you in handcuffs.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney…” He continued but you could barely hear him as he single-handedly guided both you and Pope out of Heyward’s Seafood. Pope’s father, JJ, and Kie follow close behind.

“Shoupe, it was just me.” You tried, craning your neck to look at the officer. “Pope didn’t do anything.”

“Nice try, kiddo. But there were two people on that boat, caught it on camera. And your face is as clear as day.” He dismissed you.

“It was me!” JJ yelled, causing Shoupe to stop in his tracks. The three of you turned around to look at the blonde. “...Pope tried to talk us out of it. But Y/N and I were just too mad because they’d just been beaten up. I was so sick of those Figure Eight assholes." He spoke convincingly, eyes landing on Pope's ashamed figure. "I can’t let you take the blame for something I did.” JJ was now right in front of Pope, looking the boy dead in his eyes. “You’ve got too much to lose.”

“JJ, what’re you doing?” Pope said hushed but still aggressive.

“I’m telling the truth, for once in my damn life.” He said without much hesitation at all. “I took his old man’s boat, too.”

“What the hell…” Heyward looked crazily at the blonde boy.

“He’s a good kid.” JJ told Shoupe. “...You know where I’m from.” Shoupe nodded lightly, agreeing with the statement before his attention was on you and Pope.

“That the whole truth, Pope?” Shoupe inquired, cocking an unbelievable eyebrow.

He seemed to ponder on it before gulping heavily and nodding his head shakily, looking at JJ one last time. “Yeah…that," He huffed. "That covers it.”

YOU’D NEVER SEEN THE INSIDE OF A JAIL CELL, not that you ever planned on it. It was suffocating. The walls, the color of the walls, the dingy bars, the stale air. You felt like a caged animal, an unwelcome chill making the experience that much more unbearable.

You and JJ sat across from one another — on the floor, legs bent underneath with your heads thrown back.

“Why’d you do it?” You questioned, your voice echoing out within the cell. "Take the fall, I mean..."

“I couldn’t let Pope go down for it.” His raspy voice replied. “I would’ve taken the fall for you both. But I heard Shoupe, they had footage of two people and your face was ‘as clear as day’.” He mocked the older man’s southern twang.

The action made you chuckle, craning your head down to look at him, not aware that he was already looking at you.

You sighed, shaking your head and running fingers through the base of your hair. “I should’ve never suggested it in the first place. I knew it was a stupid idea, I just wasn’t in the right headspace…”

“Because of Rafe?” The question made your heart stop, eyes jumping up to his before fleeting to the ground. “It’s not hard to notice. He clearly knows you, knows you. But I just…can’t put the pieces together. What happened between you two?”

You looked down at your hands that were now wound around your knees, your fingers fiddling with each other. “A lot of things happened, when I first moved to Figure Eight and fell in with Kiara and I’s old friend group. Let’s just... leave it at that.”

The blonde was looking at you like he wanted to press for more information and you knew one day he would, and with the way recent events have played out? That day might come sooner than you were comfortable with. But for right now, you just couldn’t wait until you got out of this cell. Somehow.

next chapter >

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