#if i am going to continue this we are jumping another half a decade

[merganalogy]

Part 5

Parts 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

This one takes place in the 60s (Part 2)

“I got what I deserved?” Morgana echoed, her voice trembling with disbelief. “I deserved to be lied to, betrayed, and killed by someone I once trusted with my deepest secret?”

Merlin remained silent, refusing to meet her gaze. Morgana pressed on, her resolve unwavering. “It wasn’t just my secret, Merlin. I trusted you with my life.” Her voice quivered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to,” His confession came softly. “From the moment I knew you had magic, it was all I wanted to do.”

“Why didn’t you?” Morgana’s voice rose. "We could have supported each other. Eased the burden of our secret together.” She hesitated, then added, “Perhaps I wouldn’t have turned to Morgause.”

If only that was easy.

A feeling, a mix of anxiety and relief washed over him as he prepared to unburden himself from the weight of his secrets.

Merlin’s nod was barely perceptible. "When I arrived in Camelot, like you, I knew nothing of magic. Not until I received Gaius' teaching and Kilgharrah's guidance." He paused, his next words caught in his throat. His gaze dropped to the floor, and he took a deep breath, clearly wrestling with the decision to speak. "I trusted them with my life. So when they warned against revealing my magic to you, I listened.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

The air between them crackled with unspoken emotions, the tension palpable.

"The worst part is, I didn't always listen." Merlin admitted. "I knew Mordred was destined to kill Arthur ever since we first met him, despite that knowledge, I still saved his life, and it cost Arthur his."

Her eyes widened, her mouth slightly agape as she stared at him in utter disbelief. The news was too shocking to comprehend, too surreal to accept. "You knew?"

“Kilgharrah foresaw much,” Merlin replied. “Including your path toward darkness. Camelot’s true enemy was never Uther—it was you. Lives could have been spared if I’d heeded his warnings.”

“But not mine.” A heavy sigh escaped her lips, carrying the weight of her disappointment. It was as if the air itself had grown heavy with unmet expectations.

"You, more than anyone, ought to grasp the ease with which your demise could have been accomplished." He instantly noticed how her brows furrowed, "If we are here today, it is because I disregard his counsel. I adamantly refused to acknowledge the potential for malevolence within you, as I held firm to the belief in your inherent goodness." He drew a deep breath, his voice heavy with resignation. "Yet, your actions have validated his warnings. You've obliterated entire lineages, laid waste to kingdoms, and snuffed out countless innocent lives. For what purpose?"

"You had those who cautioned you, whereas I had Morgause." A storm brewing behind her eyes as frustration began to simmer beneath the surface. "She exposed me to the true horrors of our world, the injustices inflicted upon our people by Uther and the likes of him. They needed to be halted."

"By seizing control of Camelot?"

"Uther's reign had to end, and though you may protest, Arthur was his father's son. What other recourse did I have, Merlin? To remain subservient and obedient, as you did? Clearly, that path led to naught but disappointment. You never trusted Arthur—"

"Because of you." How could she fail to see it? "Magic is merely a tool, neither inherently good nor evil. Its use determines its nature. Arthur needed to understand that. But how could he comprehend this, with you are embodying his father's teachings? Magic was evil, and you have only confirmed Uther's beliefs."

"I acted as I believed right at the time—"

“Don’t justify what you have done. You were no child Morgana, you should have known better. Done better.”

“You poisoned me.”

Ah, of course she would throw that back at him.

"Then direct your anger toward me alone," he bellowed. "But you cannot justify the slaughter of innocents—"

"You destroyed me that day, Merlin," her voice fractured. "I loved you, and you ruined me. Magic did not corrupt me, Merlin. You did."

Her revelation struck him like a physical blow, stealing the very breath from his lungs. She regarded him, awaiting. But there was nothing that he could offer her back.

She loved him?

Should he believe her?

His heart pounded deafeningly, drowning out his thoughts. All he managed was, "How unfortunate."

It felt as though they had been transported back to the throne room, the weight of their shared history hanging heavy in the air. The intensity of her gaze mirrored that fateful moment, as if the passage of time had dissolved, leaving only the raw emotion between them.

He had just poisoned her all over again.

In her eyes, he glimpsed a reflection of the betrayal and hurt that had marked their past, a silent acknowledgment of the wounds they had inflicted upon each other. It was a poignant reminder of how far they had come, and how much they had lost along the way.

"Indeed, it is," she sniffed. "Goodbye, Merlin."

From this list, send me a prompt if you’d like.

[pluckyredhead]

Can you please say more about the Lanterns' politics?

I am so glad you asked me about this because I've been thinking about it since I reblogged that post but also I'm definitely about to get yelled at lol. ANYWAY THIS IS GOING TO BE LONG.

Tl;dr: John is the only one with a coherent political position or an up-to-date voter registration.

Hal:

So something interesting about Hal is that his stories are often very political but his character is not. With one extremely obvious exception, he rarely talks about politics; rather, he serves as a means through which to tell political stories, usually unintentionally.

What do I mean by that? Well, for example, in the Silver Age, his love interest would occasionally be possessed by a misandrist space jewel that would force her to attack him, but always lose because women are inherently inferior to men and prefer to be subjugated by them anyway. That's the original Star Sapphire concept. It's wildly misogynistic, but it doesn't mean Hal the character is misogynistic. But it's also a very political story, even if I don't think the writer was deliberately trying to make a point so much as...being an average, thoughtlessly sexist guy living in the 60s. (Carol continues to be the subject of mindbogglingly sexist writing and art well into the 2000s. Fucking comics.)

And so you have Hal Jordan, whose love life was ruined by his girlfriend getting promoted above him and who called his best friend by a racist nickname for decades; Hal Jordan, poster boy for chest-thumping post-9/11 kneejerk patriotism; Hal Jordan, lightning rod for a certain kind of regressive bigoted fanboyism. Choosing Hal as the Lantern for a particular story over John or Kyle has come to signify something very specific, but none of that is necessarily reflective of what Hal himself believes.

So what about Hal himself? Well, when we first meet him, he's the epitome of privilege: a white, straight, cis, Christian (I know he's canonically half-Jewish now but that's only as of the past decade or so), ablebodied, upper middle class (Geoff Johns retconned him to have a working class background, but in the Silver Age, he had one uncle who was a millionaire, another who was a judge, and a successful politician brother) man with a flashy job. Privilege tends to lean Republican; even if he is from California, I suspect Hal voted for Eisenhower in 1956.

In GL/GA, the word "Republican" isn't used to my recollection, but Hal is definitely presented as...I'm going to say conservative by I mean lower-case C. He doesn't have deeply held political beliefs, but he's traditional. He doesn't question the system, because he's never had to. He resists things that challenge the way he's always understood the world works, and that's very relatable - most people do! And he will absolutely argue with Ollie, who certainly isn't always right about everything. But he's also willing to listen, and have his mind changed, and certainly reachable via appeals to compassion and fairness.

Once the "relevance" trend of the late 60s-early 70s was over, Hal's stories default back to ostensibly politically neutral, although obviously nothing is actually politically neutral. In the late 80s and early 90s he's the most unpleasant version of himself, and that has political manifestations, like when he allows John to be imprisoned in apartheid South Africa for a ridiculous and unnecessary crime Hal himself committed. It's extremely fucked up, but again, it's less because of Hal's actual opinions and more because Christopher Priest wanted to write about apartheid, even if it does make Hal look incredibly, horrifically racist.

Then jump to the mid-2000s and Green Lantern: Rebirth, and you might imagine that losing his hometown, getting possessed by a giant space bug, becoming a supervillain, dying, and becoming the embodiment of God's vengeance might have some effect on Hal's politics, but that is not what Geoff Johns is here to write. Johns is writing a Hal who teleported in from, like, 1967 - no nuance allowed. He's a summer blockbuster that walks like a man. He's a Baja Blast. He's never had a coherent political thought in his life. In his defense, he has had more and goofier concussions than any superhero I can think of and his brain is smooth like an egg. Still.

Anyway, all of this is to say that I think Hal tends to default to center right positions but can be easily coaxed over to center left. That said, he has never not once in his life had his shit together enough to vote in a single election, not even for his own brother.

Guy:

So Guy's deal is a little bit complicated because his most vocally political era was also in part due to severe and personality-altering brain damage.

When Guy was originally introduced in the 1960s, he had the pleasantly bland personality of all superheroes. Many years later, he suffered a series of major injuries, torture, and a lengthy coma, and he emerged from the coma in 1985 with the aggressive, abrasive personality he's best known for today. Justice League International took that even further, using him to parody the jingoistic, red-blooded American action hero of the 80s.

This version of Guy is a vocal fan of Ronald Reagan and despises the USSR. He's pro-war, proudly xenophobic, and treats women badly enough that it crosses the line into repeated sexual harassment, both physical and verbal. (To be fair...ish, this last also applies to Wally West and arguably a number of other men, and was always played for laughs. It was gross all around.)

Again, this is partially a manifestation of his brain damage. There's also a running gag in JLI where if he gets hit on the head, his personality changes to this cloying, timid, gentle one, sort of halfway between a child and a flamboyant gay stereotype. Hit him again and he goes back to Asshole Guy. I'm not going to pretend I don't find some of the gags funny, but it's obviously all highly problematic, and not just from a medical standpoint.

That said, I don't think we can dismiss Guy's politics or his usual personality as simply a manifestation of brain damage. We see in later flashbacks that he developed the abrasiveness as a defense mechanism from growing up in an abusive home, and as he matures through the 90s, he doesn't actually become a significantly different person, even after his Vuldarian healing factor kicks in and heals his brain. (It's a thing.) I think it's more accurate to say that the brain damage probably affected his impulse control, his filter, and arguably even his paranoia levels.

All of which is to say that as much as I would love to go "Guy's better now, so he's not a Republican!"...that dog won't hunt. I think a really good canon writer could make the case that Guy is pro-union-style working class and also a former teacher so he's at least center left, but as of now canon evidence is pretty firmly on the red side. It doesn't help that the GLC has been written as fetishistically pro-cop and pro-military since Johns got his grubby hands all over it. I will happily ignore the New 52 retcon that Guy was a cop, and you could even try to argue that he dislikes cops because his brother was a corrupt cop who became a supervillain, but I think it's much more likely that he identifies with cops as a Corps member. Although I don't think he would have any patience for killer cops. ("You were afraid for your life even though you were the only one with a weapon? Then fucking quit, coward.")

All of that said, I think Guy is similar to Hal: defaults to center right, can be talked into center left on certain issues but he's more stubborn about it. (They would also both be enraged by Jan 6 and disgusted by the current Republican party - I can't quite argue that Guy Gardner is a Democrat but Green Lanterns don't have any patience for traitors or cowards.) It's also kind of a moot point because he never knows what is happening on Earth and hasn't voted since his pre-coma days.

John:

Oh John Stewart, thank god for you.

John was introduced as an explicitly political character in an explicitly political story. The first time we see him, he's stepping in to defend Black men from a white cop, citing his own knowledge of the law to do so. He shows a much more perceptive and informed perspective on the issue's main plot (a racist senator running for president) than Hal does. Even in the little moment above, we see that he's sensitive to exactly what it means for him, a Black man, to be taking on this role.

None of this is a surprise, since we'll later learn that John's parents were civil rights activists. Not only would he not have had the privilege Hal and Guy did to assume his existence was politically neutral, he was explicitly educated about political realities and progressive advocacy from childhood. He's well-informed, he's passionate, and he's going to tell you when you are being fucking stupid.

John isn't immune from the GL cop/military...thing, although I can't blame Johns for that - it was the cartoon that made him a Marine, and the comics followed suit. But that's never outweighed his origin or his upbringing. Like, he's friends with the DCU's fictional version of Nelson Mandela.

This one is straightforward: John is a staunch progressive. He is, however, in outer space 90% of the time, so he's always at least a little bit out of date. I imagine every time he comes back to Earth he spends the first 24 hours watching the news in abject horror.

Kyle:

Kyle doesn't talk about politics a lot, but when he does, he lands pretty much where you'd expect a young California-born artist living in New York City to land: to the left. My read on Kyle is that he hasn't really thought any of his politics through, which makes sense - he's a character who is led by emotion over reason every time. He doesn't have John's carefully thought-through arguments or knowledge of the law behind him. I feel like when something political upsets him, he's more likely to splutter angrily than make a coherent argument (which: same). When he's given the time to think things through and speak from the heart, though, he can be very eloquent, like in his speech to Terry after Terry accidentally comes out to him.

It's also worth pointing out that his solo appearances were mostly in the 90s, which were prone to avoiding politics or only addressing them in a halfhearted both sides-y way like the story above.

That said, I don't think he ever actually does anything about his political opinions. He never votes in midterm or primary elections, and probably only voted in a presidential one because Alex dragged him along one time. I feel like Donna tried to do the same when they were dating and that was when Kyle realized he'd forgotten to change his voter registration from California to New York. Jennie wasn't responsible enough to Mom him into doing his civic duty, and he's been in space pretty much nonstop ever since, so...

Simon:

In that other post, I said Simon's experiences should have radicalized him, but instead he was created by Geoff Johns. Simon is a Muslim, Lebanese-American man who came of age in the post-9/11 era, and was wrongfully convicted of terrorism and waterboarded at Guantanamo Bay. His reaction to this was...to put on a ski mask and wave a gun around. Like, it's been a while since I've read these issues, but aside from the "ripped from the headlines!!!" of it all, I feel like Simon's experiences largely don't inform his actions or perspective except that he's super angry (fair enough).

The thing about Simon (and Jessica) is that he hasn't been around very long, and most comics don't have characters directly expressing political opinions. It's not a coincidence that these characters are in chronological order and each write-up is shorter than the last. I can think of about three times where Kyle has ever said anything I can interpret as political, and he's been around for 30 years. Simon only has a third of that history. So while one could certainly extrapolate what Simon's opinions are likely to be, I can't think of any canon where he actually says them.

Jessica:

Jessica has even less to go on in terms of explicitly political comics. You'd think she wouldn't like guns because of what happened to her friends, but she has one of her own and doesn't seem bothered by Simon's. I'd imagine she has opinions on immigration as someone whose family is from Mexico and Honduras, but it never comes up. If I were writing for DC, I'd make both Simon and Jess leftists, but as for actual canon proof? I got nothing.

I will say that she probably avoids political discussions because anxiety, and I bet she got really good at voting by mail during her years not leaving the house. She probably votes by mail from space. Maybe John's not the only one with an up-to-date voter registration.

Kilowog:

[eccentrcks]

gone through time ; the prelude

Chapter Title: "The Prelude" Word Count: 4k Synopsis: Nearly tortured to death and just almost at death’s doorstep when she was recuperating. Marlene regained her determination and to continue on living just to ensure that her loved ones are safe, unable to bear if they were to die on her watch. Yet thrown back in time, five decades behind, and found herself in an undesirable situation that leaves Marlene unsure if she’s able to go back home while meeting unlikely allies and enemies in beginning of her new journey. Author's Note: I might cross-post this on Ao3 and Wattpad eventually in the future. I don't know, we'll see. This is a different take than I genuinely anticipated, but my brain had been scrambling for another approach to this series and I followed my gut. Glad I did a lot of improvisations for the first part of the series. Comment to be tagged on, or removed from the taglist if you want! Have a lovely day and night. Taglist: @revnah1406, @welldonekhushi, @alypink, @littlemissclandestine, @walder-138.

“We made it, kid! Just hold on!”

“Tell my mom that… I’m sorry and I never meant what I said.”

“Oh no, no, no! NO! Marlene! MARLENE! NO! Don’t die on me!”

“If you knew it all then? Would you do it again?”

“Where am I?”

“I promise… I didn’t do it.”

“They would’ve been disappointed in you right now.”

“... Just like them to you as well…”

“Hey. You’re a goddamn survivor, kid. Just like your mama. Four times and going. No one with guts like yours could’ve done what you did. Let alone endure the ridiculous shit you’ve been put through. Think about it. You’ve lost and learnt, but it’s all about perseverance in the end.”

“I wish you were my dad...”

“Don’t do it, Marl. You don’t want to end this way.”

…

…

…

The consideration of ending it all had always been in her thoughts ever since losing Anthony. She was just nineteen years old at the time. Her bestest friend, her better half, her soulmate. Her breathing had hitched when she looked down from the window, placed in one of the top floors after getting liberated, with the breezy winds hitting her face.

Until the base had been attacked by an unknown group of operators who definitely knew their shit due to the lack of casualties on their side while she was getting dragged off by Phillip and covered by David with the other Shadows after they jumped out of the floor to the bottom when a grenade was thrown at them.

Lucky or not, she’d survived the impact, sprawled on the floor with the inability to pull herself together. Her breathing was so weak despite having an adrenaline rush. Marlene couldn’t even comprehend her surroundings. The helplessness was there all over again, she couldn’t help herself, or the others, to get out of the danger zone.

It felt like Marlene was slowly dying in the midst of destruction- or so she’d hoped. They didn’t want her to give up so soon, but she held no resistance for the darkness that's consuming her blurred vision. Incoherently mumbling apologies and weakly leaning on Phillip’s shoulder before getting laid down somewhere. Leaving a large amount of blood trails behind them.

They needed to leave her and she desperately pleaded for them to go, which sounded like a wheezy whisper, before she eventually fell into the deep slumber with her heartbeat decreasing by each second. She felt one of them shaking her limp form, shouting her name, and felt their anguished grief. It pained her numbed soul so much, especially when her unmoving face was buried onto someone’s neck while they cradled her in their grasp.

Marlene can’t let anyone else die on her watch. At this moment, she’d die this time for good. Even if it meant without saying properly goodbye to everyone else, although the mere thought of seeing him again to wherever he was brought some little hope to her broken self.

She imagined seeing his stupid, goofy ass dimpled smile. The beautiful light in those vibrant brown eyes that held so much life. The curls at ends of his perfectly brushed short dark hair just bouncing whilst he happily greets her. Nostalgia painfully hits her hard. Remembering she would bury her tearstained face onto his shoulder when they were together, when he was alive, inhaling his soft fragrance, and tightly clinging onto her better half as if he were gonna vanish.

Anthony… I’m coming…

…

…

…

Then her heartbeat was beating once again. Instead of being embraced with death as expected, she was met with the feeling of a long syringe plunging deep into her thigh. Monotonous and disembodied voices were heard with machineries whirring.

Someone mumbled something about her vitals becoming more steady now and got off their knees to walk off after getting called over to assist the others. It sounded like they needed her alive more than dead, otherwise she wouldn’t be slowly waking back up right now.

Her breathing slowly went from shallow to normal, or at least close to what normal as it gets, as Marlene felt like she was laid onto the cold floor, her limbs sprawled, with the ability to move around slowly coming back to her. Regaining and stabilizing her senses too.

Groaning softly and her eyes fluttering open just to see herself in the garage of the overruned base. Largely spacious with crates scattered all over and a group of numerous operators moving around to activate some sort of device. Barely noticing her regaining consciousness and busied with whatever they were doing.

Marlene’s fingers twitched as she struggled to push herself off the floor with a soft grunt. Leaning against a nearby crate after managing to crawl on all fours, without making a single sound, so she can hide behind one of them.

What the hell happened? Why aren't I dead? Why am I still alive? These thoughts ran through her distorted mind as the young woman readjusted her brown jacket over her shaky form and peered over her shoulder to search for a way out.

Unable to understand why and how she is still alive, Marlene knew better than to sit around and wait before something bad happened to her, so her instincts were telling her to evade and think later when it's safe. Just like her mom always says.

Marlene quickly picked at the corner of the crate and yanked some of it, without getting any splinters, although she did chipped a couple nails and didn’t really care about it, to make a handmade weapon. It was the size of her hand, but it was more than alright. Using her nails to make a sharp end and inspected it in her hand after she was done.

Perfect.

Thankfully no one noticed her disappearance and she peeked over to see most of them were still busy. Marlene grunted under her breath when she quietly walked around the shadows while crouching, despite her injuries aching badly, before stopping behind a black bronco.

“Detonation will be ready in five and we have the target subdued,” She hears one of them announce to the radio. “Do you copy? Over.”

The radio cackled in response before another voice was heard. “Copy. We’ll be there in three. We lost visual contact on the other targets, but it doesn't matter, we got the girl. So we’ll be there with the commander. Over.” Someone monotonously answered.

“Copy that. Over.”

Then Marlene noticed one of the operators that was keeping guard, far away from the group, walking towards her area. They wandered closer to her range before pausing in mid-step after hearing a little rustling sound.

Stepping closer to the source of the sound, they cautiously peeked over the hood of the bronco and saw nobody there at all. Straightening up and just stood there for less than a minute before they shrugged it off.

“Huh…” They shook their head, assuming they were just hearing things, or maybe it was a rat, and turned around just to have a wooden weapon shoved right in their jugular and slicing across the throat as they gagged and choked hard before Marlene quietly laid them on the floor so no sound was made.

Breathing heavily as she let them bleed to death before yanking their weapon off them. Heckler & Koch KH94A3. Checking the safety and ammunition. Safety on and magazine full, just what I actually need, thank fuck. She also unstrapped their knife, holstering it at the back of her jeans, before limping off in a crouching position still.

Whatever they injected in me with… I’m not completely immobile compared to before… She considered just leaving before her situation could get any worse, but then they’ll just come after her- or worse, after the ones who she cares about too. I don’t know if they made it out or not…

Marlene decided to take a stand and not yield to these assholes. Hurrying to the other side after hiding and disposing of the body, she mustered whatever strength induced into her, and regained through one's will, they weren’t gonna get away with this. Her morality bar got low a long time ago anyways, she isn’t opposed to taking down whoever is responsible for attacking them.

Mom would do the same thing… She thought grimly before cocking the weapon in her hands.

One of them went to check on her before realizing that she wasn’t laying there unconscious anymore as Marlene rushed up to the unfortunate soul and shoved the end of her weapon below their chin and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot startled the others as blood and clumps of brain splattered on her clothes down to the floor. She couldn’t care less and began creating carnage among them with whatever energy she had left.

Using the crates and unignited vehicles for cover, they didn’t last much due to their weapons and group of numbers, occasionally grabbing onto one of them to use as a meatshield before blowing their head off and dumping them aside, as Marlene didn’t waste a single bullet.

Taking the dead ones discarded guns with the magazines to replace her current empty one. Heckler & Koch MP7A2. Quietly crawling fast underneath an obstacle to sneak up behind another to stab the back of their right calf before using her submachine gun to take them down.

“She’s over there!” One of them shouted to their teammates- which ended with a few bullets through their visor of the helmet, dropping dead as she sprinted, her bad leg making her stumble a little, as Marlene tackled an unsuspecting operator from behind and plunged the knife through the back of their neck. Twisting it roughly before pulling it out. Snatching a flash grenade from the vest and tossing it over with a clicking sound towards a group of seven.

“Goddamnit!” One of them snapped in frustration while removing his helmet, carelessly dropping it aside on the ground, to rub his eyes so he could try to recover from the temporary blindness. “Don’t kill her! We need the target alive!” Squinting and looking around for her whereabouts. She wasn’t nowhere to be seen, much to his displeasure.

Until the sound of an engine being ignited, headlights getting flashed upon them, caught him off guard once most of them were rammed by a bronco. Dropping almost like dominoes and most of them succumbed from the impact.

“... I should’ve known why we were selected for this operation.” The incapacitated operator groaned in discomfort and slowly rolled to his side to try to stand back up on his feet. Just hearing the vehicle’s door opening and slammed shut with the sound of staggering footsteps coming towards him. He looked up at her, seeing the gun barrel aimed at his face, as his target just stared down at him apathetically. No remorse for her actions. He actually has a good amount of respect for that.

Her mother raised a killing machine for sure… He internally commented to himself.

“Before I blow your brains out from your skull. All I wanna know is… Why?” Marlene asked with her hand trembling a bit. Looking down at him, he is a caucasian male seemingly in his late-twenties, short messy dirty blonde hair, grayish blue eyes, and looked like shit from what she just did to him not too long ago.

He remained unresponsive just for a minute before giving her a serious look. “We’re just following orders here, kid. This was just bound to happen sooner or later.” The operator gave a cryptic response instead of a direct one.

This answer barely made her happy at all. This just irritated her and she wanted nothing more than to tear his throat apart with a bullet through his skull. Marlene bit the tip of her tongue in frustration and looked aside to see some sort of heavy looking device, but what caught her attention was that it had a timer on it.

Fifty-nine seconds left.

It looked like it could take the entire building down with that amount of explosives on it. Someone clearly wanted to get rid of any evidence of this attack on this base. Although she was quite unfamiliar with a blue glowy, bioluminescent-looking substance inside some glass tubes tied between wires and whatever you’d need for a bomb.

Shit… Marlene blinked owlishly and turned her head to look down at the man.

As if reading her mind, the nameless man just gave her a blank stare in return. “There’s no point. You won’t be able to disarm it – even if you tried.” He grunted when she kicked him right on the sternum before dropping back down onto his back on the floor when he tried getting up.

“I’d ask who the hell are you, or who are you working for, but I'm not gonna waste anymore of my precious time when you clearly aren’t gonna give me straight answers.” Marlene said coldly and just turned around right after shooting his left thigh and right ankle, he screamed and writhed in pain, as she pushed herself towards the exit. “You can just die here for all I care…” She mumbled under her breath.

I need to make sure they’re still alive… I can’t live with myself if something happens to them… not again… I can’t go through this again...

Just before Marlene can reach for the door handles, it suddenly bursts open, making her stagger backwards slightly, as she is met with an intimidating, masked and heavily armed individual who raises their gloved fist and swiftly pounded it against her face.

Her mouth opened in a silent shriek from the sudden punch as she fell on her backside onto the floor. Ignoring the pain coming from her face. Hastily pushing herself back up with a grunt, looking back up to see her attacker marching towards her, whipping out some sort of electric baton from their thigh holster.

Marlene shouted in pain when they managed to lunge forward to swing the weapon and hit right onto her gut. Almost stumbling on her feet like a newborn fawn, she turned and began running around the garage to avoid the hits while trying to steady her breath at the same time.

“I literally don’t have time for this bullshit!” She can already feel the adrenaline leaving her. This wasn’t good at all. Marlene needed to get the hell out before this place imploded in less than a minute. Unable to think properly while getting chased, she simply found a barrel filled with gasoline ahead of herself, raising her weapon to shoot at it just in time, running past it as being pursued at the same time.

Getting ungracefully flung forward onto the floor, with her attacker flailing to the side, roughly landing against the wall and crates. Their weight crushed them as they laid limp in the pile, meanwhile Marlene sighed in exhaustion against the cold floor, unbothered by the heat against her backside, and pushed herself off the floor to on her knees.

Barely able to fully stabilize herself in a short span of time. Marlene felt her wrist getting toughly tugged by the same operator she’d just incapacitated not too long ago. He yanked her closer and slapped some sort of device, or whatever weird looking watch it was, onto her wrist. She winced when the sharp feeling pierced into her flesh. Recoiling away as the young woman felt like writhing right there when the device triggered something within her.

A gasp slipped from her lips once the device imploded. Flashes of a blinding whitish, bluish hues filled her vision as it felt like gravity became nonexistent.

Then everything became black.

-

It was all bright and everything happened so fast. She could barely comprehend and wondered if she was actually dead this time, or somewhat survived, because this was getting ridiculous for her.

Marlene felt the left side of her face just numbingly cold and wet. It’s snow, she’d know the feeling. Breezy winds hitting the exposed side of her face as she softly groans, slowly pushing herself up, and those brown eyes fluttering open just to see she was in the middle of nowhere.

She felt fine- which shouldn’t be fine. Marlene was painfully aware that she wasn’t born normal like other people, her mom had tended to constantly remind her that since she was young girl, but this hasn’t happened to her once before.

However her head was throbbing real bad with the nauseous feeling hitting her. She couldn’t barely recall the last time she’d felt this whiplashed. Now Marlene could barely recall the entire event that just happened before literally landing here. It’s like recalling bits of scenes of a broken film or something.

And Marlene wasn’t entirely sure if her attire would keep her warm long enough to seek refuge. Her brown jacket wouldn’t be enough against the snow just as her blue hoodie underneath it.

“Whatever, at least I’m not half naked.” She muttered to herself and dragged herself through the thick snow. “I can keep whatever is left of my dignity.” Snorting in disbelief to herself after saying that.

“I need to wait this weather out somewhere warm in the meantime. Something tells me that I’m definitely not in Alaska or Wisconsin.” Marlene sighed, slightly annoyed due to her circumstances, and trudged along into the blizzard. Her boots weren’t suited for winter as well. She can already feel the snow going into them.

The temperature was bringing back some bad foggy memories and she was just glad that nobody was pouring steaming hot water on her at the same time.

~

Marlene shivered and her teeth chattered, wrists twitching against the leather binds, as she was barely able to recover from the bucket of cold water with ice in them getting poured right on her before the bucket of hot water after that.

Dissociation was her friend in this moment as she zoned out while muting out their voices.

Biting onto her tongue and cheek from the inside of her mouth to prevent herself from screaming when the process was repeated. Soon pneumonia would catch up to her if they don’t use the blowtorch on her later.

“Bluebird, tree frog, ladybug… bluebird, tree frog, ladybug…” Marlene kept repeating those words under her hoarse breath and rocked herself at the same time. It helps her pass the time, soon she’ll be back in her claustrophobically small cell, and a few hours of peace will be granted to her before they bring her back out of there again.

~

How long can this go? It felt longer than ten minutes since she’d been walking in this cold hellhole. Huffing and almost wheezing as Marlene pushed her legs forward while rubbing her arms. On the bright side… At least this isn’t the desert where I could've passed out from a deadly heat stroke by now… She tried to be optimistic about this, really, she did.

The device on her wrist wasn’t helping either.

Something sharp that felt like needles was digging deep into her wrist whenever she tried to yank at it, or make an attempt to take it off, but her attempts were futile for now as it remained on her. Chopping her hand off wasn’t an option.

“Bluebird, tree frog, ladybug, bluebird, tree frog, ladybug, bluebird, tree frog, ladybug…” Marlene repeated and continued on as pausing in mid step once she heard sounds of a helicopter, or more than one, above her. “Oh, I don’t like that.” She muttered and shook her head before increasing the pace throughout the thick snow.

Something caught her eye from the right above as a figure moved through the trees with such speed. Barely able to react and just kept going faster so she could find some civilization with someplace warm to recuperate for the meantime.

Hearing someone yell from the distance with some gunfire as it lasted for about a minute before it abruptly stopped. Quite unsettling for her, but Marlene had to keep her cool, no pun intended, and decided to check it out by changing her direction.

Snow got lower and easier for her to move around. Hopping once Marlene got onto the solid ground and practically jogged towards the source of noise until she ungracefully slipped on the unnoticed ice beneath her, grunting in pain when she landed on her bad side, and went to get back up before stopping when droplets of blood dropped next her to hand.

“Huh?” Looking up and almost slipping again once Marlene immediately noticed a dangling corpse, what appears to be a soviet uniform, or what's left of the body, hanging from a tree with a black wire wrapped around their mangled neck. Her breathing stopped there for a moment.

“What in the- oh, what the actual fucking hell!” Cursing when realizing the blood was getting on her clothes and hastily got back on her feet. Messily wiping it off her sleeve and regulating her breathing pattern before a panic attack hits her.

Furrowing her eyebrows and inspecting the mess noticing the necessities, which is a pistol with ammunition, a few grenades, and a small medkit onto the body. Marlene thought about this for a minute and due to her condition being on the thread right now, her moral compass was completely gray at this very point.

… This is so wrong, but I’m gonna need those… Sighing to herself and reluctantly grabbed a long branch after looking around for a second and began climbing onto the nearby tree with ease. Then jumping onto the same branch that held onto the hanging body, her body ached, but ignored it, she began hitting the pistol off. It took some hits for the weapon to fall off as it landed on the ground.

Letting go of the branch and landing on her feet, well, onto her knees due to staggering slightly. She reached down for the weapon and checked if it was full, which it was, before looking back up to aim for the wire after turning the safety off.

It dropped once she shot it loose as Marlene looked around cautiously before kneeling down next to the corpse to take what she needed. “I’m sorry…” Mumbling under her breath and standing back up right after just looting a dead body.

Somebody would've done the same if they were in my position…

Grimacing when the blood continued flowing and the red liquid almost surrounded the body in the snow. Then Marlene made a move on and kept a wary eye over her shoulder just after that, knowing she likely wasn’t alone out here. It wasn’t safe for anyone like her to be roaming around in the snowy woods.

Jesus… How long will it take for me to get to a nearby town? Marlene was sure enough that she might have to take camp for the night sooner than later or else a wild animal will have her for dinner.

“It would be un-bear-able for me if I got wolf-ed down… heh…” She chuckled dryly to herself for making such a wildlife joke, it was good in her personal opinion, when nobody else was around to hear it.

“Bluebird, tree frog, ladybug, bluebird, tree frog, ladybug, bluebird, tree frog, ladybug…” Marlene continued with the mantra and climbed over a log, wincing with everything in her entire body and began to ache again, as she was mentally and physically overwhelmed.

It wasn’t long before she crumbled down onto the ground with a pained sound. One of the most painful headaches pounded at her head as well. The gun slipped from her shivering hands, she could barely move a limp without feeling like she was back in that dark hole again, getting tortured all over, and it only hurt more when she tried moving.

Tears swelled up in those brown eyes as she eventually stopped writhing with her breathing becoming shallow and black dots blocking her blurred vision.

The last thing that she heard was snow crunching nearby with branches moving as a pair of boots stood in front of her limp form.

[valerianonyx]

Chapter 2: Adaptability

The fragile blonde’s knees were now soaked. Why did he have to push everyone away? He’d been there the longest, he should be the one people look up to. Why didn’t anyone look up to him? Why did he even get summoned in the first place? People looked up to Aether. They looked up to Cumulus. To Rain.

[I am destined to be alone.]

[Sodo.]

[I miss being a water ghoul.]

[Sodo.]

[They looked at Dewdrop as another person. They look at Sodo as a failure.]

“Sodo,” he feels a grip on his shoulder. “Hey, hey,” Aether hands him a tissue. He squeezes it in his hand, then throws it across the room. He lets out an anguished cry as it glides gently in the air instead of whipping against the parallel wall.

Mountain draws Sodo into his chest, hugging him tightly. “I know you’re mad at me for bringing him, I know. I don’t care if you like me right now or not, this is only personal if you want it to be. I’m just trying to get you to calm down, let the oxytocin circulate, okay? Pretend I’m not me if it makes you feel better.” He rocks him gently. The fire ghoul struggles to no avail, giving up with a pathetic sob.

“I hate you. I hate Aether. I hate it here,” he hisses. The quintessential ghoul wipes his nose for him, the shorter man lets him. He discards the used tissue next to him for now, “wanna talk?”

“This is humiliating,” he barks. Aether nods.

“I want Rain,” he pleads.

“I can go check if he’s back? I know he and Swiss were running errands for Sister.” He rubs his shoulder, then attempts to stand.

Sodo weakly reaches out, wanting and despising his comfort. It was so easy for him to be likeable. Rain too. He hated their faces, it reminded him how much he yearned to be like them. But some part of him was screaming for them to nurture him.

-----MAIN LOBBY-----

Cirrus returned to the front desk, taking a seat next to a curly haired blonde with sheep horns. “Are we almost at the end of the list?” She slumps onto her crossed arms on the counter.

“We’ve still got about a hundred-something applicants left.”

“Howwwwww?” She expires.

“We accepted the first 300 applicants for consideration, but Sister and I rejected about half because they didn’t meet the requirements. So that narrowed it down a lot. Now we’ve gotten through…” she checks the spreadsheet, “almost 30 of the 153 left. 117 or less incoming depending on who shows up. Sister only spends about 10 minutes if even that with them. She’s been weeding out potential Siblings for a few decades now. She trusts her intuition a lot. But obviously we won't get through all of them today.”

“This is torture” the dark haired ghoulette grumbles.

“You’re being dramatic. Wanna switch roles?”

“Absolutely”

The platinum blonde moves her hair out of her face, collects all of the papers and half-hazardly 'organizes' them on the counter.

“Have fun, Cir” she leaves to retrieve the next applicant, but is knocked back by the mosh pit of a vestibule that currently resides.

“Ow?” She begins to lose her patience.

The taller ghoulette sits up and fixes the papers properly. Upon seeing Cumulus suffer the shoving of the amalgamation, she reaches into the drawer. Emitting a sharp noise as her side twinges, she pulls out a megaphone. Suspiring as the animals in the lobby continue to talk over one another and scatter sporadically, she booms:

“ATTENTION MAIN LOBBY”

Some of the applicants flinch, jump, and yelp.

“If you cannot behave appropriately we will have to expel you from Ministry grounds. Form a LINE, and I will check you off, then you may sit and WAIT PATIENTLY for Cumulus to guide you to Sister Imperator. We cannot condone this ‘etiquette’ from you all. We understand you are excited. Contain yourselves, we’ve taken care of kits with better manners.”

The shorter ghoulette mouths a “thank you” as the room falls silent.

Silent, if not for the entrance of two ghouls with a dolly cart full of cardboard boxes through the towering double doors. The lankier of the two hesitantly chimes, “... are we interrupting?”

“No,” Cirrus bites. Then she huffs, “I’m sorry, I’m just really pissed off right now. If you could help with sign-ins that’d be great.”

“Yeah, yeah I can do that.” He scurries over.

-----HALLWAY-----

“Thank you for informing me, Sunshine” Sister hands the golden-eyed girl another stack to shred. “But let them know they will have to make up the lost hour somewhere else sometime this week.”

“Yes, Sister” she begins heading to the next room over to create paper ribbon of the denied CVs, along with other documents no longer needed over the past month when she hears the wailing of the lobby cease. She leaves the light off, not wanting to make her headache worse than it is. She lets out a sigh of relief, then begins discarding the first portion of the new stack.

The squeaking of wheels grow louder. The door, just a few seconds ago only ajar, is swung against the stopper, then slammed posthaste.

“Hey Sunny,” a lofty entity is now in the room. Not tall enough to be Mountain though, based on the shadow. He ogles her playfully.

“Oh, hey Swiss” she turns enough to somewhat face him. “You and Rain are back? How much stuff did she get?”

“Not much, just a bunch of office basics. Annoying drive.” He slumps against the wall next to her, sighing.

“Something happen with Rain?”

“Oh, no. No, he’s perfect, it was just unnecessarily far and icy.”

He puts a hand on the printer nearby. “Is she mad at us?”

“About?”

“Catacombs”

“You should probably deliver those supplies to her before she purges us both.” She gives him puppy eyes, then picks up some pieces that had missed the bin. “Only a little.”

“After I drop this cart off I’m hanging out here with you. I’ve been driving for 4 hours. I need to rest” he whines.

“Some delivery guys drive all day, amateur. Stop being a baby.”

He sparingly swats her arm, “you’re so mean to me.”

Right after Swiss exits, another man enters. “Sunshine?”

“Aether!” She jolts, her eyebrows somewhat furrow. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, he just wants Rain instead. I just saw Swiss, so I’m assuming he’s back too?”

“He should be. Cirrus was complaining about work to me this morning. Knowing her she’s probably whisking away everyone who’s free to do her tasks with her, so I’d try looking there. I think that’s why Swiss is hiding out too.”

“Sounds likely,” he gives a small, albeit defeated, laugh. “I’ll go check, thanks Sunny.”

“Bye Aeth,” she continues onto the next portion of papers.

-----MAIN LOBBY-----

Cumulus filtered in and out of the lobby without issue, nearly effortlessly shepherding the potential recruits.

“Everyone likes her. And you. What’s up with that?” The tallest of the girls reaches for a stick of spearmint gum from the container inside the drawer.

“I don’t know. Her and Aether have a natural motherly instinct. I don’t get why our bandmates like me though.” Rain was doing Cirrus’ check-ins solo.

“I think it’s cuz you’re both pretty. She’s prettier though.”

“And you’re bitter-er”

“Touché”

Rain scratches lines through the newest batch of names and fills their information into Cumulus’ spreadsheet.

“Wanna go get dinner with us later?”

“Only if you pay for mine. I’m doing your job after all.” His eyes never leave the screen.

“You’re so high maintenance. We’re leaving at 6.”

An antlered man slips behind the counter. “Cir, I need Rain.”

“$20 dollars.”

“Ask the one summoning him for your fee.”

Rain looks up, “what’s going on?”

The earth ghoul takes a few steps closer. “Sodo needs you for a minute. He needs help with this chord on the bass.”

“I mean I’ll help, but can’t it wait until after work? Why is he practicing right now?”

Mountain leans down over his shoulder, whispering the real reason into his ear. Rain's face drops more than he expected.

“Hey Mountain, did you leave-” the most pierced ghoul stops his sentence as he sees Cirrus.

Mountain stands up straight and nods. “Alone? Yes, only wants him.”

Rain leaves without as little as an exhale. He treads down the hall, careful not to cause any excess attention. He gently opens the music room door.

[ailelie]

from the email draft archives

A girl at the awkward age where people start to think of her as grown up is dashing down a street as rain soaks her streaming hair. Puddles splash up her legs, but the incessant rain covers the sound. The street is dark, lit only by lights in the windows she is darting past. 

She reaches a heavy wooden door and pounds her fist against it. Some dark strands are plastered to her face; the wind plays havoc with the rest. Lightning flashes with a strange violet tint; this is the first hint that this storm is anything other than natural.

"Crandle!" the girl shouts. She hops back from the door and cups her hands around her mouth. "Crandle. It's time!" When no one answers, she looks around, spots a rock and grabs it. She hurls the rock at the window and finally the room lights up.

An older woman with gray-blonde hair opens the window. "Ruya! Get inside, girl."

Ruya shakes her head. "The governor's got birth pangs. Real ones. It's time."

"Mercy help us," Crandle says. Lightning flashes again and she shakes her head. "Not in this storm."

"Yes in this storm," Ruya replies, angry. She stomps a foot. "Now."

The window slams shut. Ruya shifts from foot to foot and finds another rock. She is ready to throw it when the door opens. Crandle is there with a large umbrella and larger bag. 

"Come on, then," Crandle says.

Ruya nods and the two start walking. In the distance is a large house with massive windows all lit. Lightning flashes again and the profile of a serpentine dragon is ​lit up in the clouds.

--

At the house, a heavily pregnant woman with dark brown hair streaked with gray paces, one hand bracing her back. A young man at a collapsible desk watches her nervously. A lantern burns at the edge of the table. He is holding a pen and has several papers piled in front of him.

"Are you sure you--"

"You are not here to fuss over my health, Kedric. Now at what point did you stop doing your job?" She winces and braces herself against a wall. 

"Can I--"

"At what point?" the woman grounds out.

Kedric jumps, splattering some ink. "Er, The one shipment you saw fit to send does not fulfill your contract and, frankly, I find your cowardice absolutely appalling. If you are too much a worm to sail across that narrow belt of water you dare to call a sea, then perhaps our association and all related contracts should come to an unceremonious end."

"Faith, Kedric, I finished that letter. We're midway through the nego-oh, ow." She bends, bracing herself on her knees. Kedric jumps up. "That one hurt."

Kedric appears at her side. "Please let me put you in bed. Ruya should be back soon with the midwife."

"You worthless boy." The governor lets him help her stand, but then brushes him off. "I am perfectly capable of entering my own bed." 

Kedric continues to hover. "My mother says--"

"Your mother is not a midwife and is at least two decades from her birthing bed, so forgive me if I've no interest in her prattle. Clean up your desk and get out of here. I can see we are not going to get anything accomplished tonight." The governor arranges herself on the bed.

"You're in labor. That's something."

"Yes, and our harbour has been half-empty for the past four months with every ship captain of merit off playing at war like little boys and the rest too terrified to cross the sea for dragons. This baby does nothing to fix that." Every word is a struggle and paced oddly around her heavy breaths.

A loud noise of a door slamming open comes from downstairs. Then they hear Ruya yell, "I got Crandle!"

"Oh, thank Mercy," Kedric says.

The governor rolls her eyes. "Your desk, Kedric."

"Right, of course." He hurries over to his desk and starts packing it away. He is still at it when Ruya bursts into the room. Rain water flicks from her face and hair. She leaves wet footprints.

"You're in bed?" she asks, surprise and fear in her voice.

The governor gestures toward Kedric. "The boy was fretting."

"You're in pain," Kedric says, drawing himself up. He clutches his desk and papers to his chest with both arms.

Crandle enters the room. "Get up, please." Ruya is at the governor's bedside and helping her up again. Crandle looks at Kedric. "Some towels perhaps? And a wash basin or two, please."

Kedric looks between her and the governor. The governor looks up and sighs. "Try to be useful, Kedric."

"Right. Towels. Basins. I'll be right back." He darts out the door, nearly slipping on Ruya's footsteps.

"My husband's cousin," the governor says. "Utterly useless, but he has a clear hand when he bothers to take dictation."

"He's not that useless," Ruya protests.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 140: I Need You

"Alright, Potter," Robards said, "I need you to finish filling out these papers, then I need you to finish that proposal we're sending to the minister about increasing the DMLE's budget for next year."

"Right," Harry said, taking a fortifying breath.

"Don't forget how important it is that we get that extra funding," he continued. "It could be the difference between life or death for some of our aurors."

"Yes," Harry affirmed. "I'll have it ready. I'll take it to Kingsley myself this afternoon."

Robards looked at him curiously, "This afternoon?"

"We've got a meeting about the upcoming charity season," he added. "trying to decide which events I'm needed to speak at."

"Right. Good," Robards said, and Harry could see the wheels in his mind turning already as he thought about the leverage this could conceivably give Harry.

Before he could say anything more or ask Harry to do something else that he wasn't entirely comfortable with, Harry fled, waving to Robards as he made a beeline to his office. He closed the door as quickly as he could, separating himself from the pressure waiting just outside his door.

"Rough start to the day?" Draco queried lightly.

Harry turned and glared at him, "I hate budgeting time! I hate charity season! I hate that I can't even make it to my desk in the morning before I'm accosted by these-" he broke off, searching for the right word, "these vultures!"

"Well, if it helps I brought you a pumpkin latte," Draco offered, pointing to the to-go cup on Harry's desk.

"That does help a little," he confessed as he made his way over to his desk and dropped his bag on the floor.

(Read more below the cut)

"So I'm guessing that we'll not be heading out on an active duty assignment today," Draco said with a sigh.

Harry winced and rubbed the back of his neck, "Probably not."

"Well. Which part should I help with first?" Draco asked.

He shook his head, "You don't have to-"

"What else should I do? Just sit at my desk all day and watch you?"

Huffing a defeated sigh, Harry held out the beginnings of the budget proposal he'd been writing, "Could you work on the budget, then?"

Draco took it from him, "Good choice," he said. "You know, our partnership really did end up working out well," he mused. "All of my father's political expertise has come in handy after all."

And Harry didn't say anything, but that was probably one of the most disheartening things he'd heard all day. Draco had joined the aurors to avoid becoming like he father and here he was, doing exactly what his father would have done, thanks to Harry.

If he hadn't felt like crap about himself before, he certainly did now.

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

It was a long day (most days were, if Harry was being honest) and after leaving a board meeting with Kingsley and a handful of other Ministry officials Harry trudged back to his office because he wasn't sure he'd be able to make it any further.

He collapsed into his chair and put his head down on his desk and tried to not think of all of the things he'd been asked to do, of all of ways he was needed.

"Hey," Draco said, entering the office behind him and Harry startled.

"What are you still doing here?" Harry asked, sitting up to look at the other man.

Draco shrugged, "I just had a few things to finish up," he said. It was a lie and they both knew it. "Wondered if you wanted to come to mine for dinner?"

Without letting himself think about whether it was an imposition or not, Harry nodded.

The other man smiled at him, "Let's go then. Everything else can wait until tomorrow."

"Oh," Harry said, frowning at the papers on his desk and thinking that he really ought to make himself a list of the things he'd agreed to at the very least, "I should just-"

"It can wait until tomorrow," Draco repeated, somehow firm but gentle all at once, grounding him in the way that no one else seemed able to these days.

He nodded once and they made their way toward the floo. It was late enough that the lights had all been dimmed and only the enchanted brooms and dusters were out, tidying from the day.

Harry followed Draco through the fireplace into his kitchen and collapsed into the chair at the kitchen table.

"I hate charity season," Harry groaned as Draco passed him a beer, the kind that Harry knew he didn't even like but got because Harry was at his house so often.

"Let's not talk about work," Draco said, as he headed toward his door just as the door bell rang, "Our Indian food is here, anyway," he added with a smirk since he knew that Harry could never work out how Draco always knew when the food was going to arrive.

When he got back to the kitchen, carrying bags that had Harry's mouth watering, Harry asked, "What would you like to talk about, if not work?"

"Literally anything," Draco said, handing him a container of rice and the chicken vindaloo.

He frowned as he dipped his food, trying to think of anything that he could talk about that wasn't related to work.

"You work too much," Draco informed him.

"You work as much as I do," Harry protested.

The other man snorted, "Only because if I didn't, you'd never leave."

"Great," Harry said, throwing his hands up in the air. "Let's just add one more thing that I am responsible for that I can proceed to fail at living up to," he snapped.

Draco's eyebrows rose in surprise as he froze with his fork midway to his mouth.

"Sorry," Harry said, shaking his head and trying to clear it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Harry," Draco said softly, laying a hand on Harry's arm to draw his attention outward.

"What?"

"Relax," he said. "I don't need you."

Harry nodded, tears stinging the back of his eyes, "No, I know-"

"I do want you," he continued. "I want to be your partner, I want to be your friend. I'd want to be more if that was something you were interested in. But I don't need you."

Harry swallowed, a bit at a loss. He'd wondered (hoped) that Draco might feel the same way he did but he wasn't sure what to say.

"The pressure you're under," Draco said with a little shake of the head, "It's a lot, Harry. And I need you to know that no matter what, I'm here for you. I will always support you, I will always do my best to help you, and I will always tell you to take a break and take care of yourself," he said. "Or I'll insist that you let me take care of you."

"You shouldn't have to take care of me," he protested.

"I don't have to, I want to," he replied. "It's a small, but important distinction," he added with a little smile.

Harry looked down at his food.

Draco let him think, let him mull it over while they ate and listened to the quiet music drifting through the wireless.

Eventually, Harry said, "I think I want that, too," he swallowed. "The more than just friendship part."

The other man stayed silent, letting Harry speak and process.

"But I can't just jump into another commitment right now," he said. "Being a boyfriend seems like a lot of work, and I don't think-"

Draco's hand covered his and Harry looked up to see that Draco's eyes were on him, soft and understanding. "It's okay," he repeated. "If you just want to keep things the same as they are now, that's okay. If you want to spend Fridays cuddling on the sofa in front of the telly, that's okay. If you want to have someone to take to events with you, or if you want to take a step back," he shrugged. "It's all fine, Harry. I've loved you for a decade at this point, nothing's going to change."

A pleasant tingle of surprise drifted up his spine. "If I wanted to kiss you?" Harry asked before he could think better of it.

The corner of Draco's mouth curled at the corner, "I'd let you."

He leaned across the edge of the table and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Draco's mouth where his smile had blossomed.

"Can we take this slow?" Harry asked, still only inches from Draco.

Draco nodded, "Slow as you like. All you have to do is tell me what you want."

"Can we cuddle after dinner?"

He smiled, "I'd like that very much."

"Would you-" Harry started before breaking off and pulling back slightly so he could search Draco's face.

"Tell me," Draco encouraged.

"Would you stroke my hair?" he asked quickly before his courage could desert him. Draco had done that once, when they were very drunk and Harry still let himself go back to that place in his mind when he was feeling tired or upset.

Draco smiled at him, "Yes," he replied immediately. "Yeah, I would like that very much, too."

"And if that's all I'm ready for?" Harry asked.

"Then that's what we'll do," Draco replied with a little shrug like he really didn't mind. "Let me," he whispered, thumb brushing over the back of Harry's hand. "Let me love you in any way you feel ready right now."

He took a deep breath. It was surprisingly terrifying, even letting down his guard that much, allowing even that tiny amount of vulnerability. "Okay," he finally said.

"Yeah?" Draco asked, eyes skimming over Harry's face, searching for any sign of unease.

"Yeah," Harry repeated, smiling at him.

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

After dinner the moved into the living room and Draco put on a movie. They just sat next to each other for a while, Harry's shoulder pressed against Draco's, his right thigh pushed up against Draco's left.

After about half an hour, Harry finally broke the silence. "Can you-?" Harry started before trailing off.

Draco looked over at him and gave him a little nod, putting a cushion on his lap so Harry could lay his head down. And then he started playing with Harry's hair, gently rubbing his scalp, combing his fingers through Harry's curls.

"Thank you," Harry murmured after a little while, feeling calm and a bit sleepy for the first time in ages.

"Anytime," Draco replied as he continued to toy with Harry's hair.

"I think I'm going to fall asleep," Harry mumbled.

Draco just kept stroking his hair. "Good," he murmured. "Sweet dreams."

And as Harry drifted off, he found that his dreams were in fact very sweet.

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

Day 139: Expectations | Day 141: What? Why? How? When?

[a-mended-pact]

Let the Right One In

A/N: So this is for @boldlyvoid 's challenge. I had so much fun writing this. Even though I'm still super anxious about posting my stories. It's been a pleasure and an honor getting to know you Em. Congratulations on reaching 2k! 🖤

Warning: Mentions of insecurities. Maeve Donovan. Faking a death.

Word count: 2,082

It was midday when I heard knocking on the front door. I was half tempted not to answer. Spencer was away on a case and neither him nor I were expecting anyone. Anyone that would come over at all was away on the case with him or states over. So who could be coming over unannounced? I clumsily headed towards the door. My fuzzy socks are making it difficult to stay balanced on the hardwood floor. A knock came again. It was gentler this time. 

I looked through the peephole and saw a small woman looking around nervously leaning from foot to foot. “Who is it?” I wondered if I could at least get a name. 

“I’m here to see Doctor Spencer Reid. I got his address from Aaron Hotchner.”

  My face blanched at the sound of Hotch’s name. It had been quite some time since anyone had mentioned him. After he went into protective custody with Jack even though the reaper was dead he still chose to stay away. Contact with him was rare and slim. I quickly opened the door and watched her jump back slightly. 

“Who are you?” she asked. She looked around the same age as him. She is actually quite beautiful. I wonder how Spencer knows her? 

“ I’m Y/n Reid.” She tilted her head to the side as she studied me.

 “I didn’t realize Spencer had a sister.” She finally met my gaze and smiled.

 “Is he here or do I need to come back at another time?” A small laugh escaped me 

“No, I am not his sister. I am his wife.” I crossed my arms over my chest and locked my foot in place behind the door keeping it only slightly ajar not letting her see into our home. 

Her face shifted to one of slight surprise. “Oh well I better just go then.” She went to turn away. When a thought crossed my mind.

 “Wait, I can call him if you’d like and let him know you are looking for him. What’s your name?” I was wondering whether this was a good idea or not to even call him but i had already offered and i am already in far too deep to turn back now. 

She stopped not turning to face me again. “My name is Maeve. Maeve Donovan.” 

Maeve. Why did I know that name? Why is my brain going off with alarm bells? But why do I know that name? I watched as she vanished from the hallway down the flight of stairs never turning back around to look at me. 

I slammed the door shut as I racked my brain on if I should mention this to Spencer at all. Especially while he is away on a case. Maybe I should wait until he gets home. He should be home later tonight. At least if the weather was alright over in New Hampshire. He had left me a message earlier this morning to let me know the case was solved and it had started snowing there but their flight wouldn’t be ready till a little later. 

He should be home in about an hour now. I will wait. I’ll definitely wait.

 

~

When Spencer walked through the door he looked sluggish and about ready to just collapse. The exhaustion clearly got to him from not getting enough sleep while he was away. He took off his satchel and his suit jacket. He began undoing his tie as he walked his way into our bedroom. Not even making eye contact with me. 

He came back out moments later in nothing but his flannel sweatpants. “Sorry I know I should have said hello to you. I just felt like I was suffocating in my clothes today.” As he spoke he made his way to the couch where I sat at one end.

 Once he sat down he leaned down and put his head in my lap. I gently started running my fingers through his hair while scratching his head. 

“That feels really nice.” His voice was soft and he let out a quiet sigh as he relaxed into the couch and my lap.

 If I wasn’t petting his head I was gently caressing his back with my fingertips. I know I needed to tell him. I was just so nervous. I knew somewhere deep down this would be stressful to him. The day already has worn him out so completely. It was like he needed my touch to recharge himself. I began biting my lip as my hand stopped on his lower back. 

“Hey, Spence, A woman came by to see you today. She said she got your address from Aaron.” He made a humming noise to let me know that he heard me. “Her name was Maeve Donovan.” I felt his back muscles tense at the sound of her name. He sat up immediately. 

“Wh- what did you say?” He looked at me as if I had just grown an extra head or as if I had just spoken another language.  “Mae-” He cut me off. “No, I heard what you said. I don’t need you to repeat yourself. It’s not possible she was at the door. She is dead. She’s been dead for years.” 

He pushed himself up off the couch, the muscles in his arms flexing more than usual. He was more tense than I have seen him in a long time. The last time I saw him this upset or stressed was when he first came back from prison. We were just dating back then.

“I am going to go call Hotch.” he moved quickly to grab his phone when he finally reached it. It began to ring. He looked at it for a couple of seconds before he answered.

“Hello?” His eyes widened slightly. I watched as he clenched his jaw and tears brimmed his eyes. 

“M-m-maeve?” He leaned himself back against the wall. His breathing became irregular as he slid himself down the cold panel. At the same time I saw a couple of tears leave his eyes.

I sucked in a breath and sighed. Was this going to be the end of us? Now that all the stories Spencer told me of her came back once he said that she was dead.

She was his first love after all. It would only make sense right?

====Spencer’s Pov=====

My vision was blurred beyond recognition. I could hear my blood pumping in my ears as the sound of her voice drifted in and out. This isn’t real. It’s not possible. I watched her die. I saw her. She was pronounced dead at the scene. I mourned her. It’s been years. Nearly a decade.

“Spencer? Can you hear me?” I felt my tears stream down my face, nodding as if she could see me. 

“Yeah, Yeah I can hear you.” My voice cracked as I answered her. 

“Just like old times huh? It’s so nice to hear your voice. I’ve missed you.” My breath hitched at her words. 

I felt my heart hammer in my chest. I glanced up to see if I could find my wife. She was watching me with concern but otherwise she hadn’t moved not yet. All the guards Y/n had torn down throughout the years started building themselves up higher and higher. 

"H-how are you alive? I watched you die." The horrible memories of that fatal day still haunted me. What am I supposed to do now?

Do I still have feelings for her? Is it wrong if I do? I don't know how to handle this. What should I do?

"That's why I came to see you earlier.  It was an idea that I came up with at the last minute.  So I faked my death." Her voice was calmer than my breathing.  I felt the walls Barricading around me to keep me safe. I was suffocating.

I wasn't sure I had heard her right. I could feel my ears ringing as the blood in me ran cold.

"You faked your death and made me believe for a decade that the first person I ever loved died a brutal death because you wanted a new life?" My tone was harsher than I anticipated.

I felt my wife's hands run through my hair in a comforting manner as she lowered herself to the floor with me.

I glanced at Y/n as tears streamed down my face. The memories of Maeve and my feelings for her wreaking havoc on my heart.

"Darling, I think you should hang up. For now anyway." She whispered it as her hand lowered to the back of my neck giving me a gentle message. 

My back stiffened. I was so caught up in my own nightmare I hadn't realized that this is probably a living one for her.

"Spencer. I can expla-" I cut off the call before she could even finish her sentence.  Y/n was right.

"You have a lot you need to process and I'm sure you didn't want to say anything you would regret. I'm sorry if I've overstepped." She looked a little nervous as if I was gonna snap at her the way I had Maeve 

I gently grabbed the hand that was touching me and brought it up to my lips placing a kiss on it.

"Nonsense. You are my wife. You were right. I should have hung up. I just. I don't know how to explain what I was feeling." I could feel my breathing begin to slow slightly as I tried to match her breathing to get mine back to normal.

It was like my world paused for a moment and began to spiral faster than I could catch my balance. I felt air fill my lungs when I heard her voice but yet I was left gasping for oxygen. 

The very thought of Maeve brought back so many things I thought I had dealt with prior to now.  I leaned my head against my wife's shoulder as I just let the tears fall.

I felt awful having her comfort me over another woman. Yet I couldn't bring myself to completely care. She was the one offering me comfort.  

She held me in her arms. Whispering to me that things will be okay. That we'd figure things out.

I truly didn't deserve her. She loves me so unconditionally it's unnerving. That's when my phone went off again.

It was the same number Maeve had called me from.

I glanced at my wife. Who just watched me. That's when I fully knew and decided something that had been bothering me for over the past hour or so.

I let my phone continue to ring as I cupped her face. 

"You...you make me feel special and good and all these things that I still don't have the words for yet— good things… things I never thought I deserved to feel.” I pulled her in closer letting our lips caress one another.

"I love you Spencer.  You don't need to say all of this right now. I know you are still-" She tilted her head to the side as if she were trying to figure me out.  "Cluttered and that's okay."

I kissed her harder than I've ever kissed anyone before.

"I’m not in love with her, I’m in love with you”

I have no real idea on if she needed this reassurance all I knew is that I did. I wanted her to know out loud what she meant to me. I couldn't imagine a better partner. A better lover or a better best friend than her.

 I wasn't going to have her doubt everything about us. Not for anything.

I stayed close to her as my phone kept repeatedly going off until eventually it stopped. I was still figuring things out. 

Knowing that Maeve was alive before I met Y/n would have changed my life completely but now? I didn't want anything to change.  For once I was happy. I had someone in my life who put me first. Who cared about me. Who wasn't afraid to hurt my feelings as long as it kept me safe. She loved me for me and all the mess in between who I have yet to become.

She saw me for me. I wasn't Doctor Spencer Reid.  I wasn't a federal agent or a professor to her. I was just Spencer.  The man for some ungodly reason she chose to love. 

[rosewater-chlxe]

pumpkin | colby brock

✖ Summary: While taking a trip to Rosehill Cemetery for one Colby’s videos, you both become a little too distracted to realize the dangers surrounding you. 

✖  genre ; fluff, comfort, the tiniest bit of angst 

✖  warnings ; slight mention of smut, reader w/ anxiety, mention of rituals 

✖ requested - yes | no

anon asked:  Hi love ! I saw that you take requests for colby again and I sent a request a while back asking if you could write one where he and his gf wanted to film a video but they start to make out super randomly and have to film the whole video again and now I am wondering if you could write it ?

a/n: i’m so terribly sorry for the wait; i hope you like it my lovely!! stay hydrated, take care of yourself, n make sure to rest!! ily <3 

✖ masterlist

The setting was quite bizarre for the feelings you felt so deeply and beautifully in your heart; you were completely, utterly mesmerized by the boy standing beside you. You walked in this dark, melancholic place with your fingers intertwined; both his and your hands interlocked. He carried a backpack of filming equipment, drinks, snacks, and band-aids; you carried a separate bag of blankets and pillows. Ghosts and ghouls were rumored to be in this grey, brooding place; even dangerous rituals have taken place here: Rosehill Cemetery. 

“Where do you wanna film the intro? I was thinking next to the Mortuary,” Colby said, “If you’re still comfortable and down for this, that is.” 

“Of course I am!! Maybe a little nervous, but there’s no turning back now,” You replied, feeling a cold chill go down your spine at the thought of anything going wrong. 

“Then the Mortuary it is,” He said with a grin that contained a hint of rebellion and mischief in it. 

As the violet-haired boy filmed the intro to his video, you admired his every feature and each mannerism. The way he talked while swaying his hands and hips; the dimples slightly showing through his cheeks, the motions of his jawline. The angelic, ethereal man that stood before you made you weak to your knees; it was hard to count every breath he took from your lungs. 

You were so in awe that you couldn’t hear the pet names said to get your attention, until finally he said your name. 

“Y/N? You alright?” He questioned with a slight smile, catching your wandering eyes. 

“Perfect.” You replied with a soft smile as he looked you up and down. 

You both ended up heading to the biggest honorary statue nearby, to not only take a thumbnail but also to explore more of the graveyard. As you quietly stumbled down the gravel path with Colby, hand in hand, he made witty comments to the camera whilst paying close attention to your surroundings.  This if the first kind of video of Colby’s that you’ve joined; you’ve always been eager to do something like this, though you know it can get risky and dangerous. That’s exactly why he held it off for so long, he never wanted to put you in any kind of uncomfortable or tense situations. The dyed-haired boy leading you has always been the utmost respectful and kind human being you’ve ever laid your eyes on. 

The amount of pure infatuation and love you held for him came without hesitance or thought; no number could label what you felt, no word could describe what happened in you when you simply glance at him. The electric blue butterflies swarming through your heart and the rosewater in your veins never faded, only growing more and more intense each waking second. Before him, it was as if your world could only be seen in light grey and shades of blue; now everything is built with much higher saturation. 

You knew not of what may happen in the future, but you knew you seen him in every upcoming chapter. 

“Excited?” Colby asked, grinning at you as he looked back at you. 

“Very; and a little scared, not gonna lie,” you replied with a light, friendly laugh. 

“It’ll all be fine, if anything were to happen you know we can just go home,” he reassured you with a sly wink. 

You nodded with a giddy smile, trying your best to look away from him. He could always make you feel like you’re on top of the world even with the smallest of interactions - that absolute bastard. You rolled your eyes as you realized just how much you’ve truly fallen for him. 

You skipped in front of him and stopped him from walking ahead, smirking at him while he looked at you questioningly and suspiciously. 

“What’re you up to, rascal?” He asked, knowing of your mischievous tendencies in the past. 

“Now why do you always assume the worst from me?” you laughed as you started to trace a fingertip along his jawline, then to his neck; you felt him swallow as if he felt nervous, though you knew it wasn’t nervousness making him eager. Soon enough your fingertip made it’s way down to his chest, then to the bottom half of his black button down shirt. You let out a light laugh as you teased, completely removing your hand from his torso entirely. 

Colby scoffed and quickly ran his ring-clad fingers up to your throat, his hand then forming a light grip across your jaw.  

“Wanna think about teasing me again, princess?” He asked with a now lower toned voice. 

You sweetly smiled at his intimidating exterior and leaned in to kiss him, in which he happily obliged. 

You felt his soft, light pink-tinted lips against your own and the rest of your face grew numb. Your body became weak, and your legs tightly squeeze together as you felt the grip on your throat roughen. His tongue darted against your bottom lip, making you let out a sweet, soft sound. Within a few seconds, your hands started wandering beneath his slightly unbuttoned shirt; though as soon as your hand drifted lower, Colby almost immediately pulled away.  

You were snapped out of your lovesick state as his facial features grew concerned; the only thing you seen at the statue you were a few feet away from was the illumination of candlelight and light chanting.

“Down,” He whispered, gently grabbing your shoulder and taking you to crouch with him. He placed a finger over his mouth, creating a silent “sh,” sound as he watched what was happening. 

“Colby,” you whispered, “What’re they doing? Who are they?” you began to panic. 

“Sweetheart, it’s going to be okay, just make sure you stay with me and do as I say,” he calmly whispered while making the softest direct eye contact with you. 

He knew you have always had the worst anxiety and one of his top priorities are making sure that anxiety is calmed; that you’re taken care of. He always tries his best to keep you comfortable in every setting, that became much more evident rather than subtle when you told him about your anxiety. He very much understood what you went through and knew that you could help each other through your anxiety issues. Situations like this was something he never wanted you to experience. 

“Who’s there?” a man in black attire yelled from the statue, looking in your direction. The chanting stopped. 

Colby had a look of shock across his face, then sudden terror as he seen something near the statue that you didn’t; as soon as he gasped, the next thing you knew was running the opposite direction with him. 

“We gotta get the fuck out of here,” Colby loudly spoke right next to you as you ran; he made sure never to let go of your hand. 

“What did you see?” you yelled in response, trying to keep up with him when it came down to every single breath.

Colby didn’t respond, but he glanced back to see six masked silhouettes in the far distance; they did not run, they walked in unison. 

At this point of running for what felt like decades though it had only been an estimated 45 minutes, you could see what looked like the parking lot close ahead. You had tears in your eyes that just wouldn’t drop; your throat felt like it was closing more and more within each passing second. 

You and Colby finally made it to his car and looked back for anyone near you. No one else was to be seen. You jumped in and slammed the door, Colby then locking the car and doing nothing less than booking it. 

He quickly pulled out of the parking lot and started going far faster than he should have. You seen him glance towards you in concern, making sure you were safe. His fingertips tapped on the steering wheel due to anxiousness. 

“Colby, breathe, you’ve got me,” you reassuringly said to him with a small smile, though your voice came out with cracks and whines. 

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry, this was such a bad idea,” he said to you in response, placing his right hand on your thigh whilst he continued driving. 

“I’ll be fine as soon as we get home, please just relax for me?” you asked sweetly. 

He nodded, his muscles untensing and his jaw unclenching. 

“What can I do to make this up to you, sweetheart?” he asked, feeling incredibly guilty for the situation he put you in. 

“You have nothing to make up to me love, but if we’re being honest the footage wouldn’t have been used anyway,” you said causing both of you to let out a light laugh, “so we could film another video tonight instead. A more laid-back one? Perhaps making a Halloween cake?” you excitedly smiled. 

“Anything for you, baby,” he sighed with relief, “but we have to watch horror movies tonight and I don’t make the rules, you gotta cuddle me,” Colby demanded. 

“Most definitely, pumpkin,” you replied lovingly.  

- fin. 

[starshipsofstarlord]

Could I request a Jaskier x female reader where the reader is a princess who during daylight, is condemned to be a bear, after being cursed by an evil sorcerer At night she become a human again. Which the curse can only be broken by a man (who would be Jaskier) who pledges his heart solely to the reader (something like true love’s kiss). Please and thank you!!!

Bruin

jaskier x reader

masterlist

Warnings; mentions of witcher killing, mentions of death and angst, curses, nudity, some fluff, implied smut

“G-Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice shivered, as he saw a great mountain of brunette fur, wading through the long grass, heavy breathing exhibiting from its wet snout. “There’s a bear!”

“If you’re that scared, try to speak quieter.” The Witcher’s speech remained monotone, as he continued walking, leaving the bard to catch up with his hardy footsteps. “We need to leave before nightfall, that is when the true monster is unleashed from the bruin vessel.”

“You kill monsters, we’ll be fine.” The bard waved off, though he was terrified, and Geralt was all but convinced with his dismissal. “We will, won’t we Geralt?”

“It’s bad luck to remain out here at night, it’s an old wives tale, however, no one survives the night out here. Not after the disappearance of the princess of Arafell.” Jaskier remembered that tale, he had even seen the princess at a banquet once when they were both young in age.

Neither of them had the opportunity to converse with one another that evening, it was the night she had ran away. and he certainly had regretted never asking her dance. Before that though, they had often strode through the gardens hand in hand, conversing on the beauty of the petals that veiled around the stems, and she, unlike most people, listened to his descriptive forms of poetry. Back then, he had been shy, and not to mention, she was of sought after royal blood. That evening was the last that anyone from the kingdom had ever been seen, after the slumber of eternity wept over their souls. One thing he severely remembered though, was that she loved dandelions.

The princess had ran away, leaving the king and queen in search of someone that could find her, and thus they hired a private sorcerer to complete their wishes. But instead of seeking out the lost girl, the old man took the gold and the lives of old, wallowing the land in distress that clambered into a delving of madness.

A shout bellowed from the bear, and Jaskier found him to “How long will it be til we reach the borders?”

“The bad luck will loom over us Jaskier, we will not make it out of here in the span of the next countless hours. There will be a moon in the sky, but perhaps we’ll be able to seek out cover in the old guard’s tower.”

“Where are we Geralt?” The brown haired poet feared to be met with the answer “What makes you think that we’ll survive the night?!”

“This is what remains of Arafell.” Stated the white haired hunter, as he continued to plod through the thick foliage beneath his dark boots. He stepped on the dull green life form, not encouraged to pursue any further into the depths as he heard the destination that they were travelling through.

“Arafell, great.” Huffed the irritating bard, clutching his lute as he spoke the haunting name. “There’s no need to be afraid, when you’re in the land of torn bodies, because the witcher is by your side. He’ll slash and dice, protect the mice, from the darkness that falls from above. The people are dead, I am filled with dread, in the land of Ar-afellll.”

“Stop singing.” Whenever there was any fault present in their adventures together, Jaskier had a tendency, wallowing similar like a pie without filling to sing. It shrouded Geralt with epitomised frustration, his betrothed follower sure knew how to pull his strings, it was as though he were a moral lute, a practice run of socialisation for the noble’s son.

“Sorry.” Apologised the traveller, with a shrug encompassed by a spark of coldness affecting his posture. There was a breeze, filled with the pinching of icicles in the air, and it clawed through his clothes, clashing with the meat blanketed warmth of his bones. “It’s just- we’re in bloody Arafell, or what remains of it, and you are so calm. Have you maybe perhaps forgotten what happened here?!”

“No. I was here when it queen Ara and her kingdom fell. And that bear has lurked every inch of these demolished castle lands searching for scraps, and if you cannot tell, it is almost night fall, and she has come up sufficiently short of anything, for all these decades.”

The listener frowned, bears did not live so long. It was a curious prospect, it remained loyal to these grounds, although it was empty. There had to be a reason why, a pattern that supposed why it, or she as Geralt had divulged, remained to lurk in the midst of the overgrown forestry. And then another thought (yes, Jaskier had the ability to do that despite what his protective travel mate may have wondered), hit him, like a bolt of lightning.

“Um, Geralt, where is the bear?” He gulped, hearing the rustling of the thick foliage metres behind them. The moon scourged the sky with its global presence, inducing another shot of ambient fear through Jaskier’s veins. “It was-“

“Shut up a moment.” It was almost impossible half the time to silence Jaskier, but this time, he actually obliged the command. Geralt drew his sword, the one that glistened a predominate silver and was made from the compound, clutching the handle in his vice and skilled grip, as his feet took him closer to the imposter that was imbedded within the weeds.

“Oh.” Jaskier covered his eyes, he couldn’t look as Geralt pointed the weapon at the beasts throat; a whimper escaped it as Geralt took a step back, alerting his companion. “Kill it Geralt, it’s a bear, it’s going to kill us.”

“It was a bear.” Geralt elaborated as he watched the beast transform and lose its course coat of brown fur, turning into a less monstrous beast. It was only a girl, with unruly and wild hair that was matted in all directions, her face contorted into fear. “Of whom are you, my lady?”

“A witcher.” It trailed from her lips as a whisper, her tone alerting Jaskier that it indeed was not a bear, rather it was a woman, laid on the forest ground, in nothing but her own layers of skin. His eyes widened for a moment, until he earned an elbow in the rib from his friend for his long and convicted ogling. “I have only heard legends but...

“You speak english?” Jaskier wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, hinting at his subsequent misunderstanding of the situation. “but you were a bear?!” This was all growing more confusion with each passing second, there were too many angles of the world.

“I’m cursed.” It was an easy consequence to admit, for the lady of the worlds already lived through them. “Each day, I am forced to pad about in the brute body of a bruin, a sorcerer brought by darkness himself to this dimension damned me to this abomination, his name was-“

“Lament.” From hearing that name, the woman on the ground was taken aback as the women, trying to prevail some decency, attempted to cover her breasts with her arms, as she crossed her legs over one another. “Your parents sent me to find you, lady. I came up empty handed in my search for you, there was no trail that I managed to find, nothing that would point in your direction. And that night, as I returned with short of nothing of any news of your whereabouts, Lament was there.”

“He killed them all, didn’t he. My family?” The answer didn’t require any verification from Geralt, the solemn, yet usual expression on the Witcher’s face was all the confirmation that she needed. “Of course he did, he’s a poisonous shadow, when he finds something he wants, he takes away its home, so that it can’t run back to the hearth whence it came from. I regret every running away from home...”

“Wait a moment.” This was all beginning to add up in some mind boggling way. Jaskier flitted his gaze aside for a moment as Geralt pulled a fine blanket from his luggage, knowingly seeing the movement out of the corner of his curious eye that she was pulling the material that conducted warmth over her shoulders, and across her sachet of flaunted skin.

"Shut up Jaskier." Instantaneously stated the bard, whom had returned his cerulean gaze back upon the y/h/c woman, depositing a composition of interest to her form.

"You're the princess of Arafell, aren't you. Y/n, it's you, isn't it?" Y/n's expression was one of shock; how did this man know of her identity? She understood how the witcher did, though with considering he was condemned with the duty of finding her. The brunette man was slightly familiar, and so he revealed why that was. “it’s Julian.” Jaskier held his hand to his chest, almost hurt that you didn’t recognise him, but it had been years, so many, none of which had been kind to you. “My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

���Dandelion!” The reprised title spun from y/n's tongue, remembering the nickname that she had given the now gentleman all those years ago, when he was nothing more than a persisting boy that made her flash an unashamed laughter in the midst of poised quality showrooms of noble gatherings. "I remember you." She dwelled on the fact, if she weren't clothed in only a shrill and frayed blanket that was pebbled with small dots of soil, from where it had been laid on the ground, y/n surely would have jumped up and spun her arms around his 'sexy goose' neck.

"You've got to be kidding me, it is just my luck that the pair of you know each other." Geralt crossed his arms, shaking his sleek silver head, being deprived of attention as he spoke. "Is there any way to get yourself out to get you out of this prospected curse of turning into a bear, y/n?"

"To be betrothed to a man, confirmed with a kiss resonating true love, though, nobody with any sense would put themselves in that position for me, there is no wealth to my name anymore, nor is there relevance with my heritage, for there is nothing that remains, as you have confirmed for me. This man must certainly be one of a kind, for he has to pledge his loyalty solely to me, forbidding himself from ever being with another woman again."

The mention of a lack of sense reminded Geralt of one man in particular, and he was stood right beside him. But it couldn't have been Jaskier, of all people, and- Geralt found himself overcome with dread as the bard stepped forward, crunching his shoed feet into the withered grass, closer to the rediscovered princess.

"I have waited my whole life to see you again." Oh god, here he went, Geralt thought. "When we were younger, I was infatuated with you, and here we are, united again in a union. If my betrothal means nothing then you will remain in this shrine of gloom, but to me, it would mean everything to me."

"Y/N come on, have some sense, it-" There was lack of reason for Geralt to continue speaking, as y/n sprung up, the blanket flowing down from her shoulders, baring her body cold to the crisp air, as her hands clasped both sides of Jaskier's face, and pressed her lips to his.

The witcher cringed, turning away as the pair practically ate the other's face, like starved animals that had been distanced for many years, which in their case was true. "Do you know if the curse is broken, is there any indicator if so?"

A hum fell from y/n's mouth as Jaskier's hand traced the curve of her spine, causing Geralt to scoff. That was the only response he earned, and to a high stake, it disgusted him. "I think I'm just gonna let you two have some time to yourselves, I guess we will see in the morning if you're being mawled by a bear you flippant."

And thus he walked away, leaving the two to pursue their primitive instincts, under the blessed moon, and on the routed curfew on the dark and dead land of Arafell.

[party-gilmore]

...well, I managed to get to literally JUST BARELY before the actual smut starts, so please enjoy this unbetaed 2k word teaser prologue of "demi/grayace Parker doesn't feel like she's Enough for Eliot without Hardison around, so he sets the record straight."

Set during The Hurricane Job, because who gives a damn if the ep is even OUT yet, am i right? XD

“Room 236.”

“What was that?” Eliot hums. His voice is muffled beneath the heavy, sopping weight of his jacket as he tugs the damn thing over his head. His shirt peels off right along with it, so he just shucks the whole shebang in the generic direction of his luggage. He’ll have plenty of time to see to it properly tomorrow - the storm will have them trapped at least another day. With a groan, he stretches out his bad shoulder. It’s not quite dislocated again, but it’s not quite right either. Two nimble hands sneak up from behind and flit their way over the shoulder blade, one bracing against the wet neck of his white tank top while the other presses swift and hard on the joint - and ‘pop’ goes the weasel.

Eliot flashes Parker a pained but soft smile through the old dresser mirror, but it falters when he catches her eyes peeking over his shoulder. There’s a look in them he isn’t familiar with, but doesn’t think he likes.

“Park-” he starts to turn around, but she manhandles him back away from her and shoves her hand into the back pocket of his jeans. No small feat tonight, they way the rain has soaked and damn near suction cupped them to his ass. “H-hey, woah, alright there darlin’, slow it down a bit,’ he chuckles, reaching back to feel for her, but she’s already hopping back and flashing a small, colorful rectangle at him.

“Room 236,” she repeats, flipping it around her fingers like a coin. Eliot frowns. They’re in room 225, just down the hall. They’d found what the crooked cops were after with time to spare, so there was nowhere left to search. Why then, would he still have a room key for-

Oh. He reaches back and pats the offending rear pocket, flushing as he remembers Marshall Shipp’s parting flirtatious wink and accompanying gentle smack on the ass as they’d parted ways a half hour ago. He hasn’t exactly been… discouraging her interest. It's felt good that women are still interested in him even as he’s put a few more miles on, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the attention - especially from someone as 'his type' as Maria.

Well, what used to be his type, at least.

He shoots a sheepish, apologetic grin at Parker. Maria’s ‘interest’ was quickly becoming ‘intent,’ and now Eliot needed to find a way to nip that in the bud sooner rather than later.

“Damn, I should’ve noticed the reverse lift,” Eliot clears his throat, toying with the edge of the pocket absentmindedly. “She must’ve slipped it to me after we completed the radio broadcast. I was uh, distracted by our success I guess.”

“Bet that’s not all she’d like to slip you,” Parker’s voice takes on a bit more of a playful tone for a moment. Cheeky, teasing. It feels like solid ground.

“Hey now,” Eliot teases back, starting to undo his belt, slow and deliberate, as he begins toeing out of his boots. “I can’t help that I still ‘got it,’ darlin’. I can think of a couple folks I know offhand that might like to, uh… 'slip me a little something' right now, 'specially since I'm properly alone with one of 'em for the first time since-” The only problem is, he forgot how damn difficult these boots are to get off on a good day, let alone when soaked through with salt water. Swearing under his breath, he abandons his attempt at being suave to sit at the end of the bed and fumble with the ties. He should know better than try to look cool for either of his partners nowadays. It never works out quite right, and he’s starting to get to the age where he doesn’t even see the use of that kind of posturing anymore himself. They’ve seen him at his worst already - mentally, physically, emotionally - so what would be the point, really? On top of that, he may make a fuss about his ‘cool points’ in front of Breanna, but he knows Hardison’s sneaky ‘dorkification’ process he's been slowly contaminating Eliot with over the last decade is almost complete. He's still drawing the line at DnD, but he doubts that'll last much-

“...or, if you wanted, you could go let her slip it to you.”

Eliot is too caught up in his own head to really register the suggestion at first. He's busy ruminating on how differently his younger self would be handling this whole situation - all smooth moves and hot edges, shucking off clothing with a kind of casual grace.

‘Yeah, those days have long passed,’ he thinks, hunched over and fighting the waterlogged leather of his boots with fumbling, aching fingers. He gets the first one yanked off his foot less than gracefully, wincing at his ankle’s unsubtle protest, before what Parker said finally processes.

Slowly, he sets his singular boot the side and shifts enough to face her. Parker’s tone didn’t hold any bitterness or bite, just nervousness and a bit of resignation. She isn’t looking at him, but out the window, arms wrapped tight around her midsection in a way he hasn’t seen her do in a while. She bounces restlessly on her heels. There’s a clear energy inside her looking to get out. The thunder rumbles lowly through the suddenly silent room, murmuring a warning through the curling reverberation in Eliot’s gut.

He starts out gentle. Easy.

“...now why would I wanna go an’ do somethin’ like that?” Sometimes it’s easiest to bring things to Parker head on, and she’ll respond in her usual stark, frank manner. Just lay it all right out in the open to be picked apart. This isn’t one of those times. Eliot can read that much in every restless tap, every rapid twitch of her eyes to some place else in the room, any place that isn’t him.

“She’s your type, isn’t she?” Parker’s voice is a higher register than it should be, but not quite into her panicking zone yet. That’s a start. “She’s badass, sexy… passionate.”

Eliot notices her leaning heavy on that last word, and frowns.

“So are you, Parker.”

“Not in the same way!” She turns a bit, still looking outside, but her arms unwrap from herself to gesture between them. “Not the same way you and Hardison are!”

It’s quiet for another beat. The white noise of the hissing rain against the window settles into the room with a steady, thrumming tension. Eliot doesn’t jump to demanding clarification like he might’ve done a decade ago, doesn’t snap and tell her to stop beating around the bush. He’s learned that Parker tucks away all the information he needs to understand in every phrase, no matter how inane or incongruent it may seem. So Eliot holds his tongue and chews on the words for a while.

“Me and Hardison, huh?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and rubs his jaw in a performance of pensiveness. The movement draws Parker's attention and she finally looks over to him, following the back and forth of his fingers. He presses on, carefully. “Thought we were talkin’ bout me and the marshall. What’s Alec got to do with this?”

“Because he isn’t here!” Parker breaks, not enough to falter or crumble but enough to say what's on her mind before she can overthink it. "He isn't here and it's different! I can feel it! I'm not-" she fumbles her words for a minute, just waving between them again. "-all passionate about the whole sex thing like he is!"

There's that word again. Eliot knows where to go from here, at least. It's all about that word. He stands up, albeit a little awkwardly with one foot still in an inch high boot.

"Sure it's fun and I like it sometimes, but not like you two do! Alec balanced me out, could give you what you needed! I'm not… by myself, I'm not enough for… for y-..." Parker cuts herself before she can grow any more manic, bunching her face up and looking away again like she does when trying to stave off any waterworks before they can start.

Eliot can see her closing up again as her words fail her, but that's alright. What needed to get out made it out. He can take it from here. He hobbles over in his awkward, single-socked gait until he's close enough to take her shoulders in hand, but he doesn't pull her in for the hug. Not yet.

"Now I want you to listen to me, and listen good." Eliot makes sure his tone is firm, but gentle. Parker responds the way he'd hoped - still not looking, tilting her head down, but leaning toward him. Into his space. Receptive, and ready to hear him. "Yeah, it feels different. That's cause you and me? Are different from me and Alec. We're always gonna be. 'That makes us, us,' remember? Just like that's different from you and Alec. It's all part of 'us,' yeah, but it's… we got our own thing, Parker. And sure, we might like it best when it's all three of us, just because we love him so, so much, yeah?"

He lifts one hand from her shoulder and tucks a bit of hair back behind her ear, giving her a chance to respond if she wants. Parker murmurs a quiet "yeah," and steps in a little closer. Eliot tugs her in the rest of the way now, assured that she's open to the touch. She pillows her chin on the shoulder she fixed, and Eliot lays a light kiss to the outside of her ear before continuing in a lower voice.

"So… we miss him, when he's not here, and we don't have the 'all three of us' thing right now. That doesn't make our thing, the you and me thing, any less good. It doesn't- Parker, you're so much more than just enough for me. You're who I need... especially when we don't have Hardison. Don't ever doubt that."

"I'll try," Parker turns her head and mutters it into the crook of Eliot's neck, and he loves her all the more for it. It's better than any empty promise of 'I won't,' because he knows the honesty of it. Knows it's not just an empty platitude of 'I'll do it,' but the vulnerable admission of 'I want to, but don't know if I can.'

"That's all I ask, darlin'."

Because it is. That's all Eliot ever asks of her. To try. Never demands that she change, never insists she should be thinking of herself differently or more kindly than she does. Just that she tries to.

"Now. About this whole 'passion' thing," Eliot sighs, pulling back so he can do that thing he does to Hardison that Parker loves to watch him squirm under, but likes it a lot less when it's turned on her. That thing where he ducks his neck and tilts his head and looks up at her through his hair with that serious, intimate look that makes her want to run because he for sure can see all of her secrets like this but also want to sink deep into that comforting gaze and never leave it. "I don't know where you got this idea that you're not passionate from, but-"

"Yeah, but it's not-!"

"The same?" Eliot cuts off her half-hearted attempt at argument. "Course it's not the 'same' as us, Parker! You aren't us. So, you… you don't lose yourself in it the same way me and Hardison do, okay? Him and me, how we get high off each other, the way we act... so you don't do that. That's fine! That’s only one type of passion, darlin'. You can't tell me,” he lets his hands skim down Parker’s arms until they meet her own palms. “That the way you focus so damn hard on taking us apart - taking me apart…”

Eliot brings Parker’s hands to his hips, and her fingers start to fidget with the hem of his shirt. Anchoring herself with the ribbed texture of the tank. Starting to explore up his stomach the way Eliot knows that Parker knows he likes. She’d ferreted that one out of him ages before they’d even thought up this whole ‘you and we makes three’ train. He lets his voice go a little breathy, a little raspy, makes sure she notices how she's affecting him. “-the way you always know exactly how to do it, piece by piece, single-mindedly pulling me apart like a damn puzzle, Park… you can’t tell me that ain’t some kind of passion.”

“Yeah, but that’s just the same way I steal stuff,” Parker giggles a little, the familiar flutter of Eliot’s sides under her deft fingers grounding her and soothing some of the unease. He’s right about this. How she knows what to do with him. How good she is at it. But that’s not anything special, it’s just-

“Exactly, Parker,” Eliot is trying to walk them back toward the bed, but it’s not really working out well. Between his having only the one boot on and Parker actively seeking out the ticklish bits of his belly that make his knees go all wobbly when she scrapes her nails down them, it’s comical enough to startle another giggle out of her. Or it’s a sob. Or it’s a hiccup. Or it’s some weird combination of all three, she isn’t really sure, but it doesn't seem to really matter either. The sound is whatever it was, just like she is whatever she is.

“It's just like that. Just like how you plan your next score. And that’s your Thing. Like me and food, Hardison and his nerdery... Do you realize how that makes me feel? Knowing you treat me like a heist? Like the thing that you let define you?”

“Yeah but that’s not a sex thing, it’s just a me thing.”

“It doesn’t matter that it’s not a sex thing, Parker, it’s your passion. Your Thing. Yours.” Eliot finally makes it back to the edge of the bed and drops, pulling Parker into his lap. He guides her wandering hands to his chest so she can feel the rumble in his voice as he growls.

“Darlin’, you treat me like damn masterpiece. Like I’m standing smack under a spotlight in the middle of the Louvre, and the only thing in the world that matters to you is how you’re gonna pick through my security piece by piece until all that’s left under your hands is a canvas stretched tight as it’ll go and a picture meant only for you and the people you choose to see it."

Parker’s nails scrape against the skin of Eliot’s collarbone as her fingers instinctively curl in, wanting to grip take steal hold climb, and he barely restrains himself from throwing his head back in a moan. He needs to make sure Parker’s in the right place first, before he gives himself over to his own wants.

“Wow,” she whispers, damn near reverent now as she looks down at him. There’s a dawning in her eyes that tells Eliot they’re alright. That they’re gonna be good. That it’s okay to pull her tighter and ask her to go ahead and steal him again tonight, since he knows her rigging is secure.

"I can't imagine anything more passionate than that."

“Uh-huh, ‘wow' is right,” he laughs breathlessly, and reaches up to take hold of her chin. It’s a light grip, barely any pressure where he between his thumb resting on the front and the rest of his fingers curling around under her jaw, but she lets Eliot guide her down until their lips touch. Not kissing, yet, just touching. His mouth moves against hers as he speaks, tongue briefly darting out to wet two pairs of parched lips. “-so tell me, why the fuck would I want to go to anyone else?”

“Maybe if you got some bad advice,” Parker murmurs, voice strong and confident again for the first time since they wrapped up the con. “From someone who didn’t realize she made you feel that way?”

“Hmmn, that could make sense,” Eliot hums back, resisting the urge to roll up against her in wet jeans that would only serve to chafe rather than provide any of the friction that having Parker in his lap always makes him crave. “If someone could help me get this damn boot off, maybe I could get to work making sure she’ll never forget it?”

[dontloseyourpants]

Stripped on Stage

A commission I received from @gaystripstories! You can also find him on Twitter here. And you can support him by buying his stories on Amazon here.

I'll out the actual story below the cut. It's about a cocky young Broadway bound hunk who has an embarrassing incident on stage during his big debut. Hope you all enjoy it as much as I did!

Before the Show: 

Hey, just wanted to stop by and wish everyone a great show! 

A sea of blank faces stared up at him, but he kept plodding on to get the reaction that he  desired. Walking further into the crowded dressing room, he finally stopped right behind me. 

I miss the camaraderie of being packed down here with everyone… it’s so lonely having  that dressing room upstairs all to myself. I usually just spend time before shows lying on my  couch until first call. 

Looking up, I saw his face forcing itself into what he thought was a genuine smile. For  someone who was apparently a much better actor than our poor little show deserved, he really  had such a hard time hiding his true emotions. 

Roger Stilton had quickly made a name for himself on Broadway. A Julliard grad just  like his rich father, he headed straight to Broadway and began booking any role he wanted. With  leading man good looks, his slicked back dark hair, and a jawline that could cut steel, Roger  actually could have earned his roles without daddy’s donations. 

As I continued looking up at him, I realized two things. First, his blush was much too  heavy for a theater as small as this one. 

Roger, sit down- let me help you out a bit. Quickly standing up in my boxers and  undershirt, I let him plop into my chair before wiping a makeup wipe across that beautiful face.  Here’s a tip when you’re not sure how strong to make your blush- you have to see what it should  be naturally and then add two swipes. 

Quickly taking hold of the bottom of his t-shirt, I ripped it over his head to expose that  chest to the whole room. His perky pecs and six pack abs were to die over, but for some reason,  even with all of that narcissism, he didn’t like showing off his body. 

See- that’s the color you want. 

I saw his eyes connect with his reflection to see the blush covering his cheeks, and I  added a bit of my powder onto his face to match. Grabbing his shirt, he just awkwardly held it in  front of him before walking back out of the room with his parting words flung over his shoulder. 

Well, let me let you get back to getting ready… I just love having a great ensemble behind  me on stage. 

I wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t. At least not for another week. He’d joined our show  after workshops, and even if I wouldn’t admit it, he was the reason we’d gotten our residency at  our off-Broadway theater. He was already booked for his next role in a few weeks in one of the  larger theaters, but if I had anything to do with it, I wanted to put his name in the news for  another reason. It was time to confirm the second thing that I realized once Roger walked in  here. 

Listen up. Every head turned back towards me this time, but unlike Roger, I could tell  that they wanted to hear what I had to say. I had a couple of decades on all of the younger actors 

around me, and they looked up to me since I’d give them actual advice. We’re a go for tonight.  Raise a hand if you’re in. 

Smiling to myself as I saw every hand quickly raise into the air, I knew that this would be  one show that Roger or the critics in the audience would never forget. I don’t know if Roger  knew that we’d picked up on it, but there was a lot of info that he gave away. He was using us as  a launch pad for some serious acting cred, and we were using him just as much. And for weeks  of workshops and performances, we existed together, but the last month had been different. He’d  starters treating us as disposable ensemble members even if the small cast all had named roles.  So, tonight, on the most important night of his run, we decided to get back at him. Looking up at  the timer on the ceiling above us, I realized that it was almost time for our first phase of the plan. 

Act 1: 

Look at him- if he wasn’t such a huge ass, he could really be the next big thing. Sorry- all I heard you say was huge ass, and I got distracted. 

Playfully slapping Sam on the arm, I kept watching Roger act as we waited for our cue.  Our show was a new take on the classic murder mystery, and each night, Roger dramatically died  on stage. The twist, the reason that we’d made it out of workshops, was that a new killer was  chosen each show. The audience could return night after night and still get a new experience  since we improved a lot and only kept core scenes consistent.  

This was one scene that was always the same, so Roger felt confident enough to ham it up as he looked at the two women in Row 2: The New Yorker and New York Times. They of  course had names, but Roger only knew them as the critics that he needed to impress. And he  truly was acting his ass off… and that was quite a challenge. Those dark gray slacks were barely  

stretched over that ample peach of a bottom, and I was reminded again that I was happy with the  game plan. And as he placed his glass of water back on the table, it was time for round 1.  

Natasha and Joslyn entered from stage left as Sam and I appeared from stage right, and in  a flurry of motion, we began bombarding him with questions.  

Sir, would you like the dinner menu? 

Please. 

Sir, would you like a wine list? 

That’d be delightful. 

Sir, would you like your water glass to be topped off? 

Certainly. 

Bending down, I poured the contents of my pitcher into his glass and across his chest. Oh monsieur, I am so sorry- let’s get you out of those wet clothes immediately. 

Patting him down with the hand towel, Sam walked behind him and began unbuttoning  Roger’s shirt. In utter shock, Roger just sat there staring at the pitcher that I’d laid down in front  of him- the one that looked completely normal. In every other show, a special prop had been  used that only held half a cup of water, but tonight, it looked like I’d grabbed the wrong pitcher  from the props table accidentally.  

There we go- we’ll have this dried and steamed before you even get the dessert menu…  not that it looks like you eat dessert often.  

He tried to cover his exposed chest as we left stage, but the tiny menu couldn’t cover  much. If he pulled it down, he exposed his perky pecs with his dark brown nipples shining under  the harsh lights, and if he pulled it up, you could see the happy trail disappearing into his pants.  As we all stood offstage in one giggling group, we watched the switch flip over in his head. He 

had just made the choice- he could either be embarrassed about being half naked on stage, or he  could continue acting so that the critics would write about how he powered through adverse  conditions. And he chose the second option… at least for now.

Act 2: 

After improving some line about remembering that he had a spare suit in his car, he  quickly walked off stage with his muscular back facing the audience. Once he disappeared into  the curtain, he began quietly yelling for the prop master, but he was nowhere to be found. Also  gone was the random rack of clothes that had been hiding in the wings for decades, so as he  rushed around, Roger only had time to grab someone’s suit coat and walk back on stage. 

Darling! Is it my birthday already? I thought I wouldn’t get my present until tomorrow. 

With her quick change successfully completed unlike her costar, Natasha was in a skin  tight dress and now playing Roger’s girlfriend. Walking circles around him, she began to  massage his tense body, and it seemed to be having an undesired effect on his lower half.  

Can I unwrap my present early?  

I’m so sorry love, but the weirdest thing happened at dinner earlier. I had time to grab a  spot of food before coming here, and then…  

As he began to sit down, the small blazer completely ripped down the middle, and the  ruined fabric fell in two pieces down each arm. Natasha was really hamming it up now as she  jumped up from the prop bed to kneel in front of her blushing boyfriend.  

I was joking before, but what else is about to come off? Did you somehow trade outfits  with a stripper? 

That time in the gym must have really filled out my shoulders.  

Then flex for me, Romeo. Let me see that body that’s all mine.  

Doing as told, Roger stood up and began to flex his muscles as he faced the audience. His  tanned chest seemed to glow under the lights, and I heard the audience getting into it more now.  If there were any repeat customers here, then they knew what normally happened here. Natasha  would have her birthday party, and in the commotion, Roger would meet his demise. But that  always happened fully clothed. 

Roger’s biceps were glistening in sweat, and his trimmed chest hair was as well. He was  breathtakingly gorgeous, and if only he wasn’t so cocky, we would have all adored him. As I saw  that blush spread further across those beautiful cheekbones, I wondered if there was something  more human under there. Just maybe… 

Oh, I just can’t resist anymore- come ravish me!  

With strength that I didn’t know she had, Natasha pulled Roger towards her as they fell  into the throes of passion on top of that bed. The audience was losing it as Natasha’s legs  comically kicked into the air before wrapping around Roger’s ample ass. She was kissing him all  over as Roger tried to break free for his cue. 

Oh honey, that special suit jacket wasn’t the only birthday surprise that I had planned. In  fact…

And this is where everything went so, so right. Roger lunged into a standing position  without even feeling Natasha’s fingers hook into the two small holes that had come undone on  each side of his tearaway pants. I don’t know how he hadn’t noticed earlier that we’d swapped them out before the show, but they’d stayed together right until they were needed.  

In comical slow motion, the back half of his pants fell to the floor as the front stayed  gripped in her hands.  

You got me exactly what I wanted! 

As Natasha jumped to meet him, we all started streaming on stage, holding balloons and  shooting party streamers into the air. The only one that was still was Roger who was somehow so  very, very visible in the middle of all of this chaos. With his pants gone, he was now standing  there in only his shoes, his nylon socks held up with leather garters on those strong calves, and  an impossibly tiny pair of baby blue bikini briefs that were trying their hardest to stretch over his  large frame.  

We all took a cue from the audience and focused on Roger as he stood petrified on stage.  His hands hung limply at his side, too embarrassed to even move them to cover up his impressive  bulge and thick pubes that were showing over the stretched waistband. You could have heard a  pin drop in the eerie quiet before one camera flash went off from the audience followed by  several more. I saw our one underpaid usher try to stop the cameras, but it was too late.  

Finally urged into action as he saw how many photos of him would soon end up online,  Roger finally spun around to try to find his pants, his jacket- just anything to cover himself up  with. Seeing the bed sheet that had been flung into the floor, he reached to grab it, but I was too  quick and stepped onto it to keep him from getting it.  

Standing back up, he had rage in his eyes as he looked at me, and he had no idea that  even more photos were taken now of him. From the back, his tiny briefs had been wedged  between those glorious cheeks, and he was exposing almost every inch of skin that he could.  

It was you- you’re the one that did it! 

He was about five minutes early with that line, but Roger’s embarrassment had finally  taken over his need to impress the critics. That was usually what he said when he discovered who  the killer was right before falling to the ground, but now, he was saying it to me even though  Joslyn was the one who’d dropped the ‘poison’ into his pasta in the previous scene.  

What are you talking about? It’s me- your best friend! 

A best friend wouldn’t do this on the most important night of their life! 

Reaching forward, he grabbed onto my shirt and yanked it apart. Buttons went flying as  my own chest was exposed to the crowd. My mouth was trying to hard not to break into a smirk  behind my trimmed salt and pepper beard as I backed away from Roger. Following me back  under the lights, he just kept going. 

You’ve always been jealous of me- my career, my body, everything! Do you know how  hard I’ve fought for this? Do you?  

He truly believed the words that he was saying even though he’d never had to go to an  open casting call in a crowded building downtown. He’d never had to squeeze into a borrowed  pair of LaDucas and dance for hours just to be told that they’d gone in a different direction. Oh  no, Roger had never felt rejection like that which is what would make what happened next even  sweeter.  

He lunged at me, and we fell in a heap on the floor. The audience, even the return  viewers, probably had no idea that anything had gone wrong. Everything we’d done had been in  character, and only one thing would be able to prove to them that this show had gone off the  rails.  

Roger’s body was gyrating around on top of me, but he never landed a punch. He wasn’t  angry enough for that, but he was too flustered to even know what to do. He couldn’t handle this  humiliation, and he was just lashing out. And then, it all stopped. As we tussled, we both heard  the pop and froze. It could have been anything, but we both knew exactly what it was. 

The Final Bow: 

And the award goes to Roger Stilton! 

The cameras all swung towards him as he tried to duck down into his seat. This is not  how he wanted awards season to go. He had just lost the Best Actor award for his starring role in  Thoroughly Modern Millie, and he was about to go to the bar until he heard his name called  again. Looking up at the big screen, he saw the category that he didn’t even know that he was  nominated for- Best Quick Change.  

With the DramaDesk award in hand, the late-night talk show host who had no business  being here walked on stage. I was sitting on the side in the cheap seats, but I could still see  everything. The last time that I’d seen Roger was when I’d been lying shirtless beneath him. I  watched as he sat motionless in his chair, and he only got up once the screen started playing a  video from that night.  

He was kneeling on top of me, and as we wrestled, the tiny strap on the right side of his bikini briefs popped right off. With his ass aimed right towards the camera, his pendulous cock  fell into view between his legs, and he tried to cover himself unsuccessfully with his hands. As  he moved, the rest of his underwear fell apart and landed on my chest leaving him completely  

naked.  

Standing up, he kept spinning around, turning one way and then the other to hide his  embarrassment. His hands were clasped over his manhood which left that ass completely  exposed. His tight waist made his bubble butt even more impressive, and the untanned skin acted  as a beacon for everyone’s eyes and cameras. I’d watched this scene dozens of times from the  comfort of my own apartment, but as Roger walked on stage to confront the host, I realized that  he probably had tried to forget this ever happened.  

When Audra Macdonald won earlier, she serenaded us with a few bars. Roger, what do  you plan on showing off to this crowd? 

The crowd was going wild, but unlike that fateful night, the crowd was over five times  bigger and full of people that Roger wanted to impress. He tried to put on a fake laugh and grab  the award, but even from this far away, I could see how strong that blush was as the host kept  going.  

No seriously, I think we need you to show it off! What does everyone here think?  

I let my cheer join the crowd as we egged him on, but he still wasn’t budging. And then,  the host looked right at me, and I pinched myself to see if this was all a dream.  

Do we need your old costar to come help out? He knows his way around this stage since  he’s performed here a few times. Come on up! 

The spotlight hit me, and now it was my time to feel a little shy. I’d been a background  dancer here in a few awards show opening numbers, but I’d never been up there individually.  Would my big break come decades later than it should have? 

Stepping on stage, I saw Roger’s heart drop, and my nerves suddenly vanished. He let the  host turn him around, and I realized that he was petrified again.  

Make me change my mind, Roger. Why shouldn’t I expose you again for how you treated  us on that show? 

Tommy, please, don’t do it.  

I could have been nice and joked around with him as we walked offstage to pretend like  this was a planned bit. But, he messed up.  

Roger, you didn’t even learn the names of your costars. My name is David- Tommy  worked the sound board.  

And before he could react, I grabbed onto those tuxedo pants and yanked them to the  ground. The button ripped off easily, and they gave me no resistance before sliding down to his  ankles. He’d learned his lesson from earlier and was wearing a pair of black trunks, but I still had  a little bit of humiliation left to give him. I could and should have stopped there, but I didn’t.  Grabbing onto his waistband, I pulled his undies to the floor and stepped back to let him have the  spotlight all to himself like he desperately wanted.  

His half-naked body was projected onto the big screen again but in real time now. His  ample, untanned ass still jutted out from his athletic body, and as he tried to bend down and grab  his pants, it jiggled with every movement.  

Looking down into the audience, I somehow made eye contact with Jan, the critic that  Roger always referred to as The New Yorker sitting not too far from where I’d been seated. As  she began typing onto her phone, I realized that Roger would get that big headline after all.

[spinchip]

I Will Answer to Knife

Word Count: 3600 Pairings: Gen Warnings: Post s11 Ice Chapter. PTSD, mentions of blood/murder, Zane isn’t in a good headspace.

Summary: Zane struggles with weapons he isn’t used to. Zane struggles with what he offers.

Wouldbelove, do not think of me as a whetstone until you hear the whole story: In it, I’m not the hero, but I’m not the villain either so let’s say, in the story, I was human and made of human-things: fear and hands, underbelly and blade.

He overcompensates, loses his balance and skids across the courtyard. His side takes the brunt of it, and if he were human the bruises would be layered one on top of the other, each time he slips imprinted onto his skin in a motley purple-blue-yellow. He’s not human, so all he has to show for his fumbling is radiating pain not unlike cracked ribs, a dirty gi, and tight-lipped irritation that barely masks shame. The impact sends his shuriken out of his hands, arcing in an unrefined fling that has one stuck out of the gate across the yard and the other lying, like him, in the dirt.

He rolls to a stop, flopping back onto the ache of his shoulder blades to stare up at the sky. Without thinking, he balls his hand into a fist and bangs the side of his palm against the edge of the training mat he can reach. Frustration seeps hot across his throat and down his chest, like blood from a fresh wound. He rolls over on his sore side by mistake but doesn’t dare suck in a hissing breath, not with the others watching so closely, gathering his legs underneath him and rising to his feet.

Kai looks sympathetic from his spot on the blue mat that is not big enough to keep his failure contained, the dirt on his gi proof of his mistakes spilling over. The wooden swords in his hands are awkward and out of place, their weight different from his normal weaponry yet even with this disadvantage, he puts Zane down over and over.

Well, Zane does most of the work for him, really.

Lloyd watches with a pinched expression as Zane dusts himself off, his position at the head of the training session a solid presence, “I think that’s enough for today.” He says, and he almost seems apologetic.

“I can go again.” Zane insists, and refuses to stumble as he collects his discarded weapons, wrenching the edge of his blade out of the gate with his dwindling strength.

He’s exhausted. They’ve been running basic drills, ameatuer hour stuff Zane should have been able to do in his sleep- but it’s been years. Decades upon decades stuck on the throne of the Never Realm, and now he’s out of practice and off balance. Nindroids don't have muscle memory, and his regular memory has been shredded enough that things like this didn’t bother to stick. He can’t get through a single move without losing the dexterity that used to come easy and sending himself to the dirt- Lloyd had gone from advanced moves to novice to beginner slowly throughout the day, yet the result was the same: Zane in the dirt of his own accord, aching and weak.

To add insult to injury, Kai is obviously holding back. Jay had been too, yesterday, Nya the day before. In the span of a week he went from the most formidable man in the realm to an uncoordinated child who needed to be treated delicately. He could barely land a hit on the training dummy, and it didn’t even move.

“Maybe you can try your bow again?” Zane can’t meet Kais eyes, the pity he’s trying to mask making his wires curl.

“We saw how well that went.” Jay mutters not uncharitably, another string of disappointments a few days prior where his aim left much to be desired, and quite nearly took his eye when he’d lost his grip.

The others had been training too, but they’d stopped to watch as Lloyd summoned Kai and Zane to spar.

“We need to assess your skills in combat,” Lloyd had said earlier that day, the so we can make up for your shortcomings going unsaid but heavy all the same. Or maybe Zane is the one being uncharitable- but he’s in pain and tired and his mask of calm is harder to keep a grip on now.

And Kai had hesitated on the edge of the mat, holding the steel of his swords, and with his head down had swapped them for wooden fakes. The insult threatened to make Zanes lip curl, but he’d been forced to concede to his foresight when dull wood blades cracked against the side of his thigh and forced him to the ground, in one of the few times Zane had managed to stay on his feet long enough to be taken down by something other than his own shortcomings. He should have been able to dodge.

The shurikens are so small in his hands, and he hasn’t used them in so so long. He's rusty.

“I can go again.” He insists, stepping back onto the mat. In a real battle, he’d be less than useless. They couldn’t protect him, he had to be able to take care of himself. He had to keep going until he could at least survive. He was good at surviving, he’d spent decades hanging on by a thread- countering a wooden sword shouldn't be so difficult compared to parrying the knives from assassins or the swords of dead men walking. He’s weak.

Lloyd gets that look on his face that he only gets when he has to do something he really doesn’t want to do, mostly when he must flex his status on the others when they're being particularly stubborn. It’s a pained stony sort of expression, “That’s enough for today.” he says more firmly, shoulder squaring. He loses the soft edges of the boy he used to be, Master Lloyd filling in the spaces rigid.

Protest raises on his tongue, “The longer I go at the skill level I am at now, the more dangerous it becomes.” fear, frustration, and desperation simmers below the surface, “I am a liability on the field, I cannot stop until I can hold my own.”

“We can continue training tomorrow.” Lloyd says, unyielding. Green eyes trail down to Zanes' sore side, assessing.

He bristles and tries to tamp it down, “You do not need to go easy on me-” he starts.

Lloyd interrupts him, “Yes we do-” frustration cracking the facade of the master, the others looking on in wide eyed worry.

“Lloyd, Zane, enough.” Wu's voice rings out in sharp tones, his presence slamming the lid on the boiling over pot, “I believe I have a suggestion to solve our problem.”

Problem. Zane tries not to let that sting as he spins to face Master Wu.

The man is descending the stairs of the monastery into the courtyard, the others parting like the red sea, his cape trailing on the edge of the steps as he comes down. In his hand is-

Zanes vision tunnels, Lloyd, Kai, the others all fading away as he takes in the smooth metal, leather bound handle, the wicked curved blade- a piece of him howls, jagged and frozen fingers scrabbling at the corners of his mind, the sight of that staff is like going snowblind. All at once he’s standing in the courtyard amongst his friends and the throne room at the same time, realities overlapping in brutal contrast.

His shuriken bounces off his foot and he is thrust back into his body, his hands empty where he’d dropped his weapons in shock. Wu approaches him with the staff and he takes a shaky step backwards, wiping at his mouth with wobbling hands, half expecting to wipe away spit- salivating at just the sight of it. His wrists and fingers ache, begging him to take it in his hands.

Wu disregards his reaction, walking into his space among the group on the mat. He thunks the staff down in front of Zane, the weight of it digging into blue, like it is the answer.

He’s so spooked he doesn’t dare move, looking at it with wide eyes. Now that he’s more present, he realizes it’s nearly identical to the Staff of Forbidden Spinjitzu, except this one is notably missing the scroll that gave it the corruptive power. It’s just a staff, plain and simple.

No one says a word. Zane stares at it, trembling.

Lloyd is quiet, then, “Are you sure that this is a good idea, Master Wu?”

Wu looks sad but he’s trying to mask it, “You are their teacher, Lloyd. When Zane falters, what do you see?”

Zane is listening, sort of. He’s tracing the edge of the blade with his eyes- sharpened to a fine point, clean and perfect. It looks heavy, the whole thing does, he can nearly taste the weight of it on his tongue. He wants to take it so badly it hurts, and in the same breath he wants to cast it off the side of the mountain or freeze it solid and shatter it against the stone under his feet.

“He’s off balance. He’s compensating for a weight that’s not there.” Lloyd looks like he’s swallowed a lemon, “The shuriken are too small.” He admits.

Wu nods to the weapon in his hand, glancing from Lloyd to pin his eyes on Zane, “You’ve had a lifetime of practice with this weapon. You’ve wielded a staff longer than a shuriken or a bow, perhaps it is time to embrace that.”

Zane doesn’t even look at him. He can almost feel the whisper on the back of his mind- it’s not there, the staff is a replica without the extra power, but Zane can imagine it all the same.

He reaches out and takes it.

The feel of it in his palm is like a starburst of agony, an ice burn that jumps up the metal of his forearm and digs into the plane of his chest. Flickers of memories flash in his mind's eyes all like looking through a pane of frosted ice-glass, cold seeping into his skeleton. A memory rises unbidden, a man he did not freeze, who had been close enough to strike with the blade- red red red

He chucks it across the courtyard without thinking, staggering away from it, “I can’t.” he nearly gags, before darting past Wu and Lloyd and narrowly avoiding Coles worried brush of his fingers. He takes the stairs two at a time, throwing open the front door and not bothering to shut it behind him.

He holes himself away in his room, sitting on the floor next to his bed, trying to hold himself together.

Too much too soon, the staff wrenched memories he’d been ignoring and hiding away free.

He doesn’t want to admit it, wants to choke it down and pretend it didn’t happen, but he can’t deny that- even with the pain and shame and bloody wounded guilt overwhelming him- taking that staff had felt like coming home.

Home was supposed to be Ninjago. Somewhere along the way, it became the throne room, too. He’d been split in half, pieces of him trapped in a realm he could never return to. The closest he’d ever get to sating the pervasive homesick itch is to hold a facsimile of his tool of violence.

Perhaps it is time to embrace that Wu had said, holding out the weapon he’d bloodied his hands with.

Evening comes and goes, and he skips dinner again. He’s crawled into bed at some point, staring up at the ceiling, trying hard not to think. He swallows down the threatening urge to crack under it all. In the darkness, he stares at his palms.

Vex is standing at his side, the throne room an open doorway behind them, and the staff is a curling presence he’s never without. It’s hard to think about these memories because he doesn’t form thoughts like he did when he was broken, the memories jagged and warped. Trying to understand is like catching a blade you’ve dropped- a falling knife has no handle. It hurts.

But in this memory he and Vex are walking through the palace hall. Grand windows might as well be painted white with the snow obscuring the now frozen wasteland, but the Emperor had no desire to see the outside world, or anything at all. This is before he had snuffed out the rising rebellions, this is before he’d flexed his power and made the people afraid, this is before they’d even given him the moniker Ice Emperor. He is nameless now, even Vex only calls him by his title. He doesn’t even know he is missing something so vital.

Vex says, “You don’t need to worry about the inconsequential things,” he’s a step behind Zane, and when his emperor slows he can prod him so he keeps moving, “You are an instrument of power, these things are beneath you. I will handle the day-to-day for you, my Emperor.”

The click of his staff ticks across the hall as they walk, “And what am I to handle?”

“Nothing. Simply keep your hold on our eternal winter, and raise your staff when I ask it of you.”

There's a stirring of thought in the empty caverns of his head and not a hint of it is kind, “I am your attack dog, then.”

To his credit, Vex doesn’t falter, “You are my Emperor.” he says immediately, and then- carefully, and almost genuinely curious, “What do you have to offer other than violence?”

Zane lays in bed and stares at the shapes in the dark that might be his hands. Shurikens don’t fit right any more, his arrows shoot askance. If the next threat arises in the morning, what can he do except cost his friends focus?

He is a bleeding wound. They need to treat him gently and delicately- but life is not gentle and delicate, and perhaps it is time to take a knife over a fire and cauterize the injury.

He slips and goes horizontal and his blood spills across the dirt. It’s metaphorical until it’s not and the newest adversary forgoes fake wooden swords for real ones, sharpened blades sinking home. If he were human he would bleed red blood. He’s not human, so it’s oil and coolant and hydraulic fluid seeping into the soil.

He is a liability. Weak-link. He has to learn to fight again. He has to embrace it, even if it feels like frostbite chipping away at him, even if it hurts. Vex had forged him into a knife, forced him into the shape of a blade and sharpened him with blood instead of water, if he can accept these pieces he can make himself useful once more. It was all he had.

He wants to feel strong again.

Morning comes in slanting lights though his window, the blanket is too hot under them. He hadn’t slept enough but he rolls out of bed and changes into a clean gi anyway and trails out of his room. Conversation falls hushed when he comes into the kitchen, and he eats breakfast despite the way his stomach churns- it tastes like it always tastes, bland and unappetizing. The ache in his side had faded over the night, nearly non-existent. He can spar fresh.

“We didn’t think you’d be joining us today.” Nya tries, smiling over her bagel.

He doesn’t shrug, putting his fork down, “I meant what I said. I cannot stop until I can protect myself.”

Nya’s face grows pinched and worried, “You can, though.” She reaches across the table and sets her hand on top of his, and she doesn’t jolt or comment at all about how cold he is, “You can take a break, Zane.”

Wu had called him a problem. Zane knows that’s not what he meant, but it weighs his shoulders like lead, and he doesn’t respond. He stands up and takes his plate to the sink, and her hands falls flat against the table.

The staff is sitting on the porch, leaned up against the wall. He focuses on it the moment they walk outside, and Jay ducks his head nervously- he was probably supposed to put it away so Zane didn’t see it again, but they thought he was going to skip like he had the first few days after he’d come home. Never put off until tomorrow what can be done today.

They do warm-ups, then Lloyd pairs them up for sparring, and his eyes skate over Zane reluctantly until, “Cole… Zane. Come spar.” The others don’t need for Lloyd to supervise them, or the training mat. Zane needs both.

They both go to the weapons and Cole, like Kai yesterday, avoids his hammer. He reaches for the wooden training swords but Zane catches his wrist.

He looks up, startled, “Zane?” He asks, confused.

He manhandles his hand over to the grip of his hammer, “Do not hold back.” He says firmly, and then jogs up the stairs and wraps his fingers around the staff.

Expecting it this time, he compartmentalizes the memories the instant they surface, shoving them back. In the absence of pain there is comfort, the weight so achingly familiar a hole inside of him he didn’t know he had is filled. Like coming home, he’d felt it yesterday. Confidence pours into his system- he knows how to hold this, to swing this, to fight with this. He picks it up and it’s perfectly balanced, a missing limb reattached.

Carrying it down the stairs, he’s aware of their stares.

Kai and Nya break formation, moving back to give Cole and Zane room. Jay follows their lead, and they settle back to watch.

Cole is holding his hammer and his expression is grim, “Are you sure you can handle this?”

He feels like he’s being filled with ice, chill threatening to frost over his eyes. He’s not sure at all, but he says, “Don’t hold back.” Again anyway.

Shurikens are small. To fight, he has to stand back, give space, evade and dodge. Bow and arrows are much the same. They are largely defensive. Before the Never Realm, he was good at defense.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Lloyd says and Zane carefully tunes out the apprehension in his voice.

Now he is more comfortable on the offense.

He moves.

The Ice Emperor rarely fights in close combat- he rarely fights at all, actually. He waves his staff and freezes, he calls ice and allows that to do the work for him, but when he does face off one on one, he does so as brutally efficiently as he can. He is all offense, blow after blow after unrelenting blow- he pours bone-shattering strength into each strike, driving rebellion leaders to their knees, knocking back a town's most elite soldiers, and if they don’t go down on the first hit he wastes no time lashing out again. He rushes his opponent, he overwhelms them, and he offers not a single second of reprieve.

He hauls back, crossing the mat in half a second, and slices through the air in a clean and powerful swing. The crack of his staff against the handle of Cole's hammer sounds like a gunshot with the terrible force behind it, and before Cole can gather his bearing he swings again.

He beats him back faster than he expected- Cole underestimated him, and it cost him precious ground. He tries to put distance between them to get a moment to make his move, but Zane is with him step for step, suffocating any moves before they can breathe.

To fight with his shuriken or his bow is like oil against his water, they don’t mix now that the staff has imprinted itself onto his mind. He cannot reconcile the difference, not yet. He compensates for the weight of the staff, keeps his balance, and advances on his target with brutal efficiency.

He sweeps his leg out while splitting Cole's attention with a strike intended for his side, and Cole goes down with a startled shout. Zane twists the staff so the flat side of the blade is sitting on his chest- the intent is clear, but there’s no danger he’ll accidentally cut him. It’s over in heartbeats, and Cole looks up at him, astonished.

“Holy moly.” Jay breathes.

Zane moves the blade aside, shifting the staff to hold it upright. He glances over at Lloyd, who looks a shade paler than before the fight, whose eyes are a bit too wide. He was the only one who’d seen the Ice Emperor in action, and the last time he’d held the blade against someone's chest it had been him- sharp side down, the intent had been clear then, too. Zane averts his eyes, guilt threatening the progress he’d made even picking the staff up, and focused on holding out a hand so he could bring Cole back to his feet.

Cole winces as he pulls him up, “Zane…” He says, staggering, “That was like nothing I've ever seen from you.” He flexes his fingers, the blows stinging his hands even now.

He doesn’t flinch or shy away from his friends' looks, “It’s how I fought.” He’s hoping he doesn’t have to put any more context to that sentence, he doesn’t want to say the Never Realms name out loud.

“How?” Nya asks, “You left so many openings, how did you win?”

“Overwhelming force.” Zane says.

“The openings mean nothing if I can’t even swing.” Cole shakes his head.

Master Wu smiles from the doorway, “Very impressive, Zane."

The pieces of himself snapped clean down the middle don’t mend, but they aren’t bleeding anymore either. Satisfaction, purpose, strength floods his system. He is not striped with dirt or bruises, he is no longer a failure- he is formidable, dangerous. He can fight, now.

What does he have to offer other than violence?

Zane cannot be the man he was before, but he can be a weapon. He can't remember any other way to be.

The staff sits comforting in his hand.

I like to call myself wound but I will answer to knife.

Underbelly by Nicole Homer

[spencers-renaissance]

dry me off and hold me close

Summary: Derek has finally relented and is bringing his boyfriend Spencer to meet the rest of the team. That means, though, he has to finally tell them about his boyfriend's disability. Terrified that they'll react badly, he puts it off until he can't anymore. Turns out he was worried for nothing.

Tags: so much fluff, protective derek, disabled spencer, caretaker derek, au: spencer is not in the bau, team as family, hurt/comfort, light angst, est. rel, day to day disabled life, physical disability/chronic illness

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 5.7k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

Hello! I am nervous to share this one, I won't lie. It's incredibly personal. It was a pain in the arse to write but I love how it turned out and I hope you do, too. Just a note: this may be triggering for some people - there is description of nausea and severe chronic pain, as well as frequent references to ableism towards wheelchair users.

As soon as Rossi brings up the prospect of a fully-catered family dinner at his ‘mansion’ this weekend, Derek’s heart sinks. They’re on their way home from a pretty gruelling case and it’s well-deserved of course, but he knows what comes next, knows what question will be asked of him, and he’s dreading it. There’s only so long he can go on avoiding answering. 

“Please tell me you’ll finally let us meet Spencer, Derek,” JJ asks, levelling him with a look to rival one of Penelope’s. “At this point I’m starting to think you’ve made him up.” 

Spencer is very real. He’s a very real, very sexy, very intelligent man who Derek has no doubt would get on brilliantly with the team. But Spencer also happens to be disabled. And while his boyfriend has had decades to get to terms with broaching such a sensitive, taboo topic, Derek has not. He’s far from ashamed of Spencer — that’s not it at all — he’s just so protective of him, and the idea of others being touchy or patronising or outright rude around him is an idea he’s never been able to get used to, no matter how many times he’s witnessed it.

Derek’s laugh is strained as he rubs his face awkwardly, trying to find the words to politely decline, but the others are pouncing on him before he can speak. 

“You’ve put it off enough times now, Morgan,” Emily says, siding with JJ. “If he’s even half of what you say he is then we’ll love him. Just bring him along. Rossi doesn’t mind.”

“Oh no, I’m dying to meet the man who could finally tie Derek Morgan, ladies man extraordinaire, down,” Rossi chimes in.

“He definitely sounds like my kind of guy,” Alex agrees. “I’m impressed you managed to land such an educated man, Derek.”

He looks sort of desperately towards Hotch who raises his hands guiltily. “I would actually like to meet him, too, Morgan,” he says reluctantly, a rare smile playing across his face.

Derek groans and throws his head back against his plane seat. He can only be glad Penelope isn’t on the flight because she’d be absolutely relentless in such a conversation. 

As hesitant as he is to let his team in, maybe it is time to finally get over himself and bring Spencer to meet them. After all, none of them have ever given him actual cause to be so nervous, and he knows they’d all inevitably fall in love with him almost as quickly as Derek did, so really it’s his own fears and fierce protective instincts keeping Spencer away from his second family. 

“Fine,” he relents, anxious butterflies not easing. “He’s home this weekend, and apart from planning lectures I think he’s free, so I’ll ask him. But I can only promise to ask, I won’t promise he’ll agree.” It’s a pointless caveat; Spencer’s been bugging him to meet the team almost as long as they’ve been bugging him to meet Spencer, he’ll jump at the chance to go to dinner with them. 

“Finally,” JJ groans, pretending to collapse against Emily in relief, who giggles fondly at her antics.

“I’m sure we’ll love him, Derek,” Rossi says reassuringly, a proud fatherly look on his face that has his chest clenching painfully. 

As everyone settles down, his stomach churns anxiously as he stares back out of the jet window. He knows everyone will love Spencer; he just doesn’t know how to tell them what to expect. What if Spencer has a fainting episode or gets nauseous at dinner time? What if he can’t keep his energy up or is too photosensitive to have the lights on? What if meeting that many people at once overwhelms him? Spencer always tells him he worries too much, but he can’t help it — not when the love of his life is involved. 

He’s brought out of his nervous stewing by Hotch. “You know, Morgan, if you really don’t want to bring Spencer, you don’t have to,” he says softly, making him look up to see everyone staring at him guiltily. 

“We didn’t mean to pressure you,” JJ says hesitantly, and the others agree, all clearly having noticed his pensive expression.

He forces himself to take a calming breath and bite the damn bullet already. Spencer would be rolling his eyes at him. “Okay. There’s something I haven’t told you,” he starts carefully. He hasn’t had to introduce the concept of Spencer’s disability to anybody since he told his family. “Spencer is disabled. He has a chronic condition that impairs his mobility along with bringing a whole host of other symptoms, and while he’s had it for most of his adult life, I’m still not used to broaching the topic and I didn’t know how you would react. He already experienced enough difficulties in life, he doesn’t need my co-workers, hypothetically, being patronising or weird about it. So, I put it off.”

It feels like a weight off his chest once it’s out in the air, but the surprised looks on his team’s face make him briefly wonder whether telling them was a mistake after all. “Spencer will really look forward to coming though,” he rushes to continue. “He’s on his own a lot of the time and struggles to make it out of the house except for work if I’m not there, so he can feel quite isolated. It will be nice for him to spend time with other people, and finally meet you guys.”

By the time he’s finished speaking, everyone seems to have mostly recovered from their immediate shock, and look relaxed and intrigued again — far more appreciated expressions on Derek’s end. 

“Well,” Rossi starts, and he feels like holding his breath in anticipation, “will he need any accommodations?” Relief spreads warm and thick across Derek’s chest as he feels himself physically relax. Of course immediate support would be the response from his team; he was stupid to think otherwise. 

“His mobility fluctuates daily. Sometimes he can walk small distances okay, other times — and more frequently — he needs aids like forearm crutches or his wheelchair. Can I text you on the day and let you know?”

“Of course,” Rossi promises, a warm smile on his face, “whatever you and Spencer need.”

“There is one more thing, if Spencer’s coming it will need to be earlier in the evening… think more six rather than eight. He’ll be too exhausted later in the evening and he needs to be home early to get the amount of sleep he needs.”

“That’s fine,” Rossi agrees immediately, “six it is.”

“Sorry for pressuring you, Derek,” JJ says, tilting her head as she looks across the table at him. “But we’ll love Spencer, this won’t change anything.”

“Yeah, fuck you for thinking we’d be assholes about it,” Emily chuckles, punching him softly in the arm. 

Derek grins at her before shaking his head. “I’m just too protective of him,” he explains a little guiltily. “He thinks it’s ridiculous but I can’t help it. We’ve been together nearly five years now and I’ve seen the things he has to go through, professionally and in his day to day life. I just saw an area for potential harm, no matter how slim the chances, and immediately bricked it up in my mind. It’s hard to tear walls down like that.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Alex says in her signature gentle tone, smiling at him.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Hotch agrees and Derek gives them all another quick smile before they settle in for the rest of the flight. 

It’s late by the time Derek unlocks the door to his and Spencer’s home and he knows his boyfriend will already be in bed. It had been a weird adjustment when they’d first started dating, Spencer having to be home by 10pm so Spencer could get at least nine hours of sleep, topped up by regular naps during the day. Now though, he’s completely used to operating around Spencer’s sleep schedule; it’s just routine. 

He makes his way through the house quietly, toeing his shoes off and shedding his coat before dumping his bag in the living room and padding up the stairs. The house is dark but their room is dimly lit by Spencer’s night lamps, there to ease him off to sleep and keep him company when bouts of painful insomnia torment him. There was a time Derek used to mind, but those days seem so long ago now. He climbs carefully onto the mattress, taking off his trousers and socks but not bothering to change into anything new.

As gentle as he is with his movement, Spencer still stirs beside him. “Derek?” He blinks sleepily over at him in the soft light of the bedroom and Derek immediately scoots over and wraps him in a hug. It might be gone midnight but he misses Spencer like crazy when he’s away and physical contact is very much essential business right now.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers as he relishes the feeling of Spencer’s small frame against his own. “Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s okay. Just glad you’re home. Missed you.”

“I promise I missed you more,” Derek murmurs as the warmth of the room and comforting presence of his boyfriend wrapped around him finally break down the walls he’s been holding back the sleepiness working a 5 day case inevitably brings. 

“Make me pancakes in the morning?” 

Spencer doesn’t need to ask, it’s a tradition for Derek to make pancakes for breakfast the day he gets back from the case, but it makes him smile anyway. “Anything for you, baby boy,” he yawns. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

⭐️

Derek waits until dinner the next evening to bring up the subject of the dinner party. It’s just a simple takeaway on the sofa of the house Derek had renovated for them, but even five years into their relationship, every moment shared with Spencer feels like a date. 

“How would you feel about going to a dinner party with the team?” Derek asks when there’s a lull in their conversation. Spencer’s just finished explaining a complicated debate he’s having with one of his colleagues about kinetic particle theory and Derek has no idea how to respond. Moments like these used to make him feel stupid and inadequete when they first got together, but now he just stares fondly at his genius boyfriend and wonders how on earth he got so lucky. 

Spencer lowers his fork. They’re eating chinese but he still hasn’t mastered chopsticks, and it never fails to make Derek smile. “Are you serious?” he says, an excited grin spreading across his face.

“I am.” He quirks an amused eyebrow as he takes in Spencer’s eager expression. God, he’s so fucking in love.

“Well obviously I want to go,” he giggles, “you know that. When is it?”

“Saturday.”

Spencer just launches himself into Derek’s lap in lieu of response, not that he has far to move on their cosy sofa, slotting himself against his body as they melt into one another. “Thank you for finally getting over yourself,” he says with his face buried in Derek’s neck.

Derek’s responding laugh jostles both of them as he wraps his arms around Spencer’s small frame, loving the way he fits in the palms of his hands. “I’m sorry it took me so long, baby,” he says, tone transitioning into sincerity. “But they can’t wait to meet you, and you’re going to love them.”

“I know,” Spencer says drily, pulling back to look him in his eyes. “Why do you think I’ve been pushing to meet them for the last five years?”

Derek answers with a squeeze to Spencer’s waist and a kiss to his shoulder. “Go on,” he says, lifting him off his lap to sit on the sofa next to him. “Finish your dinner.” 

“Mm, I think I’ve had enough,” Spencer hums nonchalantly, busying himself with putting the carton on the coffee table as if Derek doesn’t know him like the back of his hands. 

“This is your favourite dish from your favourite Chinese and you’re expecting me to believe you’ve just had enough,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, pretty boy?”

“Nothing,” Spencer says, but he sounds winded and Derek isn’t stupid. He levels him with a look. “Okay… I just feel a bit sick is all.”

“Floor, sofa, or bed?” He’s aware of the nausea protocol, and he moves his own dinner aside as he springs into action. 

“Floor.” He’d been surprised the first time his boyfriend had crawled onto the floor and lay curled up until the nausea passed, but it was second-nature now. Apparently, the flat, firm surface was the most comfortable when such intense sickness consumed him.

“Okay, baby, let’s go.” He gently lifts Spencer off the sofa and down onto the floor, taking care not to jostle him too much. His eyes stay closed, face screwed up as he tries to weather the waves of nausea crashing over him. It never fails to make Derek’s heart twist in pain. “Are you actually going to be sick?” The majority of nausea spells usually pass on their own with no vomit to speak of, and Spencer’s usually very good at telling which kind it is.

“No,” he whispers, reaching his hand slowly towards Derek’s and gripping it tightly. He gets the message and lays down next to him, stroking his hair softly as they wait in silence for Spencer’s body to right itself. It only takes about twenty minutes to pass, and when it does, Derek carries him to bed, bringing him his toothbrush and a flannel as they follow another of their set routines that have been established over so many years of being together. 

“I love you so much, Spencer Reid,” Derek murmurs as they lay in bed together that night, the soft light of their bedroom catching on Spencer’s cheekbones.

“I love you more, Derek Morgan,” Spencer whispers back, voice slurred as he cuddles further into the arms of his boyfriend. 

“Not possible,” Derek insists, but Spencer’s already dropping off to sleep. 

⭐️

Spencer wakes up on the day of the dinner party in what Derek can clearly see is nothing short of agony. He doesn’t try to hide it, they’re mostly past that now — although he still sometimes convinces himself he can handle smaller symptoms by himself, no matter how many times Derek insists they’re a team — but he doesn’t say much either. The morning is spent on the sofa, using numerous heated blankets and painkiller combinations until he can at least think straight. 

“How do you feel about this evening?” Derek asks as lunchtime approaches, rubbing Spencer’s good arm gently as he leans against him, legs outstretched on the chaise. 

Spencer hums. “I’m gonna take a nap after lunch,” he decides after a moment of deliberation, “and then decide. I think with meds and the wheelchair, I’ll be okay.” He pauses for a moment as he nibbles nervously on his bottom lip. “Do you think they’ll be weird about the chair?”

“No, baby,” Derek says decisively. Really, he can’t believe he ever thought anything different, but he was scared and fear easily spirals into irrationality. “They won’t even blink. Especially since I warned them about the mobility aids. I think they’d be more surprised if you walked into the Rossi mansion.”

“You sure?”

It hurts Derek’s heart to hear him so anxious and uncertain, and it’s only more painful because he knows it's rooted in experience. He’s had to fight for most of his life to be seen as a competent adult, equal to his peers despite his disability, and people can be cruel. “I’m sure. And even if for some reason they were dicks about it, I’m there, okay? Nobody’s gonna get away with being anything other than an angel towards you when I’m around.”

Spencer giggles at that, turning his head into Derek’s chest. “You turn into the hulk when you’re protecting me.” 

“I do,” he agrees, chuckling at the sound of Spencer’s adorable laugh, “and for good reason. No-one hurts my baby. You know that, and everyone else knows it, too. We’re gonna be just fine, pretty boy.”

Spencer sighs, reassured by Derek’s words. “Love you,” he whispers, twisting a bit to press a kiss to the side of Derek’s neck. 

“I love you more,” Derek promises, lifting a hand to rest on Spencer’s cheek.

“Not possible.”

The rest of the day passes slowly as Spencer takes it easy, deciding that he’s definitely up to it after a decent nap curled up against a reading Derek. They get ready together, Derek helping him shower when his arms hurt too much to wash his hair and getting him dressed in his favourite outfit before dressing himself. 

By the time six thirty rolls around, Spencer’s feeling a little bit better, his meds are hitting the spot and they’ve mastered all the wheelchair adaptations to make his life as easy as possible over the years. His cushions and heated seats connected to the wheelchair’s motor, which he uses to help self-propell at work, ease the pain as much as they can and the built in phone charger always makes him popular whenever they go out with friends. Plus, his cane and crutches connect neatly to the back of the chair, giving him more options, which is especially helpful on nights like this. 

“Comfy?” Derek asks as he pushes him out of the apartment and into the hallway, locking the door behind them. 

Spencer hums in affirmation, wiggling a little as he settles into the warm support of the chair. They have a ground floor apartment for safety reasons: Spencer needs to be able to exit the building if the lifts stop working, but it’s also convenient. They get down to the garage quickly and Derek helps him into the passenger seat before packing the wheelchair in the boot.

He spends the journey in contemplative silence and Derek can’t keep himself from shooting worried looks his way. His hand makes its way onto Spencer’s knee and he rubs his thumb gently against the skin, before stilling the digit, all too conscious of how painful repetitive stimulus can be, especially on days like these. 

“Stop worrying, baby,” he says, ten minutes into the drive when Spencer still hasn’t said a word. His bottom lip is chapped from the worried chewing it has endured for most of the day. “They’re going to love you, I promise.” 

“You really think so?” 

Derek’s about to answer quickly but he looks over and sees how absolutely dead serious Spencer is. He sighs. “Let me tell you exactly why. Alex is a fellow academic with the softest streak of anyone in the BAU field team. Emily and JJ have the ability to befriend literally anyone, and Penelope already is in love with you, just from what I’ve said about you. She’s told me so multiple times. Rossi immediately accommodated you and wasn’t at all fazed when I mentioned your disability. Hotch is a gentle fatherly type when he’s talking to good people and the rest of the team, so he’ll just be interested in you as a person. There’s no-one I’m worried about, okay?”

“Okay,” Spencer whispers eventually, finally sounding like he actually believes him. 

“Besides, you’ve already got one member of this team whipped,” Derek smirks, glancing over at him again. 

He considers it a win when Spencer rolls his eyes, and his grin couldn’t be wider when he hears him mumble, “arrogant asshole” under his breath.

Derek’s grateful Rossi doesn’t have a gravel driveway as he gets Spencer out of the car and into his wheelchair, before pushing him the short way to the front door. They’d battled some tough terrain over the years, and gravel was absolutely his least favourite. As they approach the house, though, he notices that Spencer’s grip on his armrest is tight enough that his knuckles are white, and it hurts Derek’s heart that he’s only this nervous because real people and real experiences have given him genuine reason to be. 

Before he gets to knock, though, the door is thrown open by an uncontainably excited Penelope. “You’re here!” she shouts, and completely bypasses Derek to shake Spencer’s hand. He’s glad she doesn’t crouch, just leans down a little so he doesn't have to reach up so far. “You must be Spencer. I’m Penelope. It is a crime that Derek has kept us apart for so long, but none of that matters now. Would you like me to push you in through to meet the others?”

“Um, it’s nice to finally meet you, Penelope,” he says, smiling at her genuinely. “Would you mind if Derek keeps pushing me, though?”

“Oh, no, that’s fine!” Her smile doesn’t drop a bit. “Come through, everyone’s already in the living room. Oh, and hi Chocolate Thunder.” She sends him a quick wink. 

“Hi, Mama,” he says, rolling his eyes. He’s grinning, though. So far, so good. 

They follow Penelope further into the house after Derek closes the door behind them, and the girls get up first. “Spencer, oh it’s so good to meet you,” Emily says, coming up and shaking his hand. “I’m Emily, this is JJ.”

“Hi,” JJ says, shaking his hand too, giving him a conspiratorial look. “I’m glad we finally bullied Derek into bringing his oh-so-secret beau to meet us.” 

Derek just grins. “What can I say? I’m protective of my baby.” He reaches down and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. 

“Ignore this caveman,” Spencer laughs, and Derek is sure he rolls his eyes again. “I’ve been dying to meet you all, too.”

“Well, it’s our pleasure,” Alex says, coming up for her turn. “I’m Alex. Your paper ‘How Thinking Makes Us Write’ you published a couple of years ago is incredible; I used it in my Psychology of Writing class last year and only just realised it was written by Derek’s top-secret boyfriend! I’d love to talk to you more about that later.”

“That’s so cool, wow, yeah I’d love that.” He smiles at her, clearly feeling a little flattered by the immediate praise of his work. Derek thinks it’s the least he deserves.

“I’m Aaron, but everyone calls me Hotch,” Hotch says as he and Rossi step forward, a warm smile on his face. “Sorry to overwhelm you with all these introductions, but it’s lovely to meet you. It really is a shame Derek’s been so secretive.” 

Spencer smiles up at him. “Are we all going to dunk on Derek all night? Because if that’s the case, I’m glad I came,” he laughs, twisting around slightly to look at Derek. 

“Yeah, yeah, keep talking, pretty boy,” he says, raising a brow. “Two can play at that game.”

“You’re too whipped, I’m not worried,” Spencer dismisses him, before touching his hand lovingly, letting him know that he’s only teasing. 

“I don’t doubt it,” Rossi says. “I’m Dave, or Rossi, whichever you prefer. I actually own this house, despite being the last in line for a formal introduction. I’m sorry I didn’t greet you at the door, Penelope had been waiting on the stairs for half an hour so she could be the first to greet you.”

“That true, baby girl?” Derek chuckles, looking over at her. 

She doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, but then Derek doesn’t know what else he expected. “This is on you,” she defends herself, “if you hadn’t waited so long to introduce me to baby genius here, I wouldn’t have been so desperate to meet him.” 

Spencer laughs at their interaction, turning his attention back to Rossi. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says. “Derek told me you were really accommodating, so thank you for that.”

He waves the thanks aside with a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing. Speaking of which, though, would you rather eat in your wheelchair or transfer to one of the dining chairs.”

Derek knows what’s about to happen even before he sees Spencer tense up. “Give us one second,” he says, wheeling him out into the hallway. Decisions are really hard for Spencer to make on bad days, especially those that pertain to his health or needs, and being under the eyes of so many people was not about to make that an easy interaction.

“Derek…” Spencer says anxiously, looking at him for help as he feels his mind spiral into fogginess at the question. 

“Okay, it’s okay, baby,” he says soothingly, crouching down in front of him to be at eye level. He takes his hand and kisses it gently. “Do your hips need a break from the chair or would it be more painful to transfer?” 

Phrasing questions like Rossi’s as directly applicable choices is always more digestible for Spencer and he sees him visibly relax at his words. “Hips need a break.”

“Great,” Derek says. “Do you want to go back in or do you need a minute to yourself?”

“No, I’m fine,” Spencer says, and he believes him. He instantly relaxed at having made a decision. “Let’s go back in.”

“As you wish, sweetheart.”

They walk back into a room full of vibrant conversation and laughter. “Oh, Spencer, Spencer,” Emily says, immediately roping him back into the conversation without making a big deal of him having to leave the room, “we’re debating whether Derek’s really the slob Alex insists he is. You need to help us settle it.”

“I shared a room with him once, okay,” she says, “it was a state!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Spencer agrees. “At home, he’s so anal about ‘everything in it’s place’ and won’t even let a mug sit on the counter without being washed up. But whenever we go away, he can’t keep the place clean, it’s the weirdest thing. It’s like his suitcase vomits its contents all over the room.”

“Hey, I didn’t know this dinner was gonna be all about airing my dirty laundry,” Derek laughs.

“Literally,” JJ points out.

“Right,” Rossi says, interrupting the laughter filling the room. “Dinner is ready, so we should eat. Did you come to a decision about seating, Spencer?” Derek’s impressed at how much he knows about accommodating disabilities. He probably has someone close to him who’s been through something similar to Spencer.

“I’ll transfer,” he confirms.

“Great, we can just move your wheelchair to the hall once you’re settled so it’s not in the way, if that’s okay?”

At Spencer’s nod, they all file into the kitchen/dining area and choose their places. Penelope bags the seat to Spencer’s left, Derek sitting to his right, as the other girls sit opposite them. Hotch and Rossi sit at Derek's end of the table. He holds hands with Spencer under the table all through the delicious pasta primavera, helping to ground him, reminding him he’s right there. 

Conversation and laughter flows with the wine Rossi serves, and Derek doesn’t even mind his embarrassing stories being shared with the team, because it’s Spencer, and he’s so far gone for this man that he could slice him open and with his dying breath, Derek would thank him. 

“I love you, really,” Spencer grins up at him, after he’s just revealed his Nina Simone shower concerts to everyone sitting around the table, everyone cracking up as the tough exterior Derek’s built up at work over the years slowly disintegrates, his own boyfriend fuelling the fire. 

“And I love you, baby,” he says, leaning over to kiss him briefly, before pulling back. “Even when you spill my deepest darkest secrets.”

“Well, aren’t you two just the cutest,” Alex says fondly. “You’re a lucky man, Derek.”

“No, I’m the lucky one,” Spencer insists. “Do you know what he said when we first met? We were at the supermarket, and I was reaching for some baby carrots. He said ‘whoa, pretty boy, don’t get those ones. They go off far too quickly. Someone as beautiful as you deserves better than that’. No mention of the wheelchair or bags under my eyes. He didn’t see Disabled Spencer, he just saw Spencer. Asked for my number then and there.”

“You were irresistible,” Derek says fondly, brushing a thumb against his cheek. “I knew right at that moment I would spend the rest of my life with you.” 

“Stop,” Penelope begs, “my heart is literally a puddle on the floor. This world needs more Derek Morgans.”

“I’ll toast to that,” JJ says, her face just as soft as Penelope’s. 

“A real toast,” Hotch says, raising his glass with a happy smile on his face. Derek very rarely sees such a relaxed expression on his face, and as much as they have their disagreements, it’s a nice thing to see. “A toast to Derek and Spencer. May your happiness live long and be as contagious as it is tonight.”

Everyone toasts to his words, and Spencer buries his face in Derek’s shoulder, a little embarrassed at the attention. They sit around the table a little longer, but Spencer slowly sags against his body, finding it painful to keep himself upright. 

Noticing this, Penelope claps her hands. “Shall we move back to the living room? I bought chocolate and Rossi has wine.”

“This is true,” Rossi says as they all get up. He grabs Spencer’s wheelchair from the hall and Derek helps him back into it as they head back to the sofas.

“It’s weird using my chair inside,” Spencer laughs as Derek pulls him into his chest so he doesn’t have to keep himself steady upright, everyone else settling themselves around the room.

“Do you not need it often?” Hotch asks. 

“No, I need it quite a lot. I just don’t usually have to. Derek’s usually fairly insistent on carrying me around our apartment.”

“We’ll never live in a big house,” Derek says, chuckling along with anyone else. “I couldn’t haul this big lug around a Rossi mansion, now could I?”

“Hey!” Spencer smacks his side lightly. 

“You’re 6 foot tall, baby,” Derek defends himself. “You might be tiny but there’s still a lot of you.”

“Fair enough,” Spencer acquiesces, laying his head just under Derek’s chin. 

“Right,” Rossi says, coming back into the room, “I have more of your non-alcoholic wine, Spencer, and more of the real stuff for everyone else. Hand out the chocolates, Penelope, and we’ll have ourselves some satisfied guests.”

“I don’t live here, old man,” Penelope says, raising an eyebrow but getting up from her seat cuddled against Emily and JJ anyway. 

“Hey, you answered the door to pretty much everyone today; you’re co-hosting.”

“Can’t argue with that, Penelope,” Emily says drily, looking on amusedly as she huffs but hands out the chocolates anyway.

Derek discreetly pops two painkillers out in his pocket and hands it to Spencer, who swallows them down with a sip of his non-alcoholic wine, relaxing as they start to take effect. They all chat leisurely for a while, enjoying each other’s company in a non-pressured environment where they’re not surrounded by high profile cases and serial killers. 

Eventually, though, Spencer starts to fall asleep on his chest, clearly feeling relaxed enough in the warm room, pressed up against his boyfriend and surrounded by the reassuring conversation of people he trusts. As soon as Derek notices, though, he knows it’s time to get him home and into bed before any true crisis of pain or fatigue takes place. 

“I think we’ll need to get going, guys,” he says quietly, drawing everyone’s attention to Spencer’s dozing form. He watches as their faces soften and conversation quietens, everyone clearly enamoured with his boyfriend. It occurs to him that he feels no jealousy, only pride that he gets to call this wonderful man his, that he’ll be going home with him tonight, tucking him into bed and cuddling him until he falls asleep. 

He shakes Spencer gently, and the others start to get up, tidying or just moving through to the kitchen so as not to embarrass him when he opens his eyes. “Sorry,” he murmurs sleepily, as he looks up at Derek. “I’m tired.”

“I know, baby,” he says softly, feeling so fond his heart could burst. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Everyone’s sad to see him go, gathering at the front door to say their goodbyes. 

“You are invited to every BAU event from hereon in,” Penelope asserts confidently as she leans down for a gentle hug. She whispers, “you’re better company than Derek, anyway.”

“I heard that, Mama,” he says, poking her in the side.

“You were meant to,” she says, sending him a pointed look, before dropping the act and wrapping him in a hug as the others say goodbye to Spencer. 

“It was so nice to finally meet you, Spencer,” Hotch says warmly. “Derek had better not keep us from seeing anymore of you.”

“I’m not sure I could possibly get away with that anymore,” he sighs. “Guess I’ll have to share my baby with you assholes.”

Spencer rolls his eyes at that, stifling a yawn. “Come on, caveman,” he says, rolling his eyes again. “I need to get home.”

“Anything for you, my highness,” he chuckles, before lifting his chin with his knuckle and bending down to kiss him briefly. 

“Bye, lovebirds,” Emily calls as they make their way to their car.

“Drive safely,” JJ shouts, which makes Derek laugh fondly. He does love his team.

“See you on Monday,” he calls back as he helps Spencer into the passenger seat. They drive home in the comforting darkness of night, illuminated by the car and street lights of the city, and satisfaction pools in his stomach as he reflects on such a perfect evening as Spencer falls asleep against the passenger window. It really couldn’t have gone any better, and the relief he feels is staggering: the two most important facets of his life finally integrated after far too long.

While his whole life feels like it’s finally falling into place, all that really matters is that the man who is his entire world is happy, a small smile on his sleeping face as the shadows of the city brush their way over his cheekbones. He has to force his eyes back to the road, but he can’t resist the hand he slips into Spencer’s, or the smile that lights up his face as even in his sleep, Spencer’s fingers curl themselves around his.

Spencer's symptoms in this fic could fit any number of neurological conditions, but his unnamed condition was modelled on my own experience with fibromyalgia. I have a rather severe case, as would Spencer if he was diagnosed with this illness. The symptoms could also fit these conditions in one way or another: Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (M.E.), Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis or Axial Spondyloarthritis, as well as others I'm sure I'm forgetting.

Everything about Spencer’s disability is true to the chronically ill/disabled experience as I know it, and to learn more please visit the end notes on AO3 where I explain in a little more detail some of the features of Spencer’s symptoms and condition.

<333

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @hotchgans @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith

[geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde]

Fanning The Flames

Hello, hello! 

I am back with another fill for the @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

This is a continuation of @jaskierswolf’s fic Burning Connections (it can be read as standalone but why would you want to when Wolfie’s fic is right there?!?!)

Prompt: Soulmates Title: Fanning The Flames Relationships: Geraskier Rating: M Content Warnings: Groping/under the table touching via foot in a public restaurant Summary: It’s been a week since Geralt and Jaskier stumbled across each other in a supermarket and realized they were soulmates, and now it’s time for their first date.

-

Geralt couldn’t remember a time he had ever been so nervous. His hands were shaky where they rested on his lap, his mind was racing as he yet again looked at the clock. He had arrived to the date half an hour early and here he was, fifteen minutes later, trying to calm his nerves.

Of course Jaskier wasn’t here yet, it made perfect sense. Geralt couldn’t expect anyone to be as early as he was normally and he certainly couldn’t expect anyone to be as early as he had been today.

Glancing around the restaurant again, as if he hadn’t already committed it to memory, a movement near the entrance caught his eye.

Jaskier.

The man looked stunning, his brown hair artfully disheveled. He dressed up beautifully, the well-tailored suit framing his body exquisitely. It was the most clothes Geralt had ever seen the man in. Geralt tried to will away the blush he could feel rising on his face as he got to his feet to greet him.

“Geralt, darling! I hope you weren’t waiting for me long.”

“No, not long at all,” Geralt lied.

Jaskier smiled, his eyes crinkling around the corners in a way that captivated Geralt.

“Shall we sit?” Geralt finally asked, gesturing behind him at his chair.

After taking a moment to get seated and flag down the waiter and order, the two lapsed into an awkward silence.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier broke the quiet, “How was your week? You sounded rather stressed the last time we spoke.”

Geralt nodded slightly, taking a sip of his water to delay having to answer, “It was just busy. I had a couple of doubles at the fire station and had some trouble getting a sitter, but we managed.”

Jaskier leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. His eyes sparkled mischievously, “I still can’t believe you’re a firefighter. The fantasies I’ve had…”

Geralt cleared his throat, “Believe me… I’m well aware of them.”

Jaskier laughed suddenly, head thrown back exposing the long delicate lines of his throat. Geralt couldn’t believe just how enamored he was with everything about the man in front of him.

His soulmate.

The very thought still sent Geralt’s head spinning.  The entire concept of soulmates had never made any sense to Geralt and he certainly had never believed in such things before but now, experiencing this… whatever it was, with Jaskier, Geralt felt significantly less doubt about the whole subject.

He had always thought soulmates were utter bullshit, and maybe he was still right, but he couldn’t help but be grateful for the excited fluttering he felt in his stomach every time his eyes were inexplicably drawn back to Jaskier’s, bright blue and easy to drown in.

The waiter arrived then with their meals and the two fell into a comfortable quiet and they dug in.

It wasn’t long before the conversation began again, spurred on by Jaskier’s chatty nature. The man was quick witted and funny and always had something to say. Geralt found himself laughing along easily, responding and sharing his own anecdotes, asking questions out of curiosity and a desire to know more about the man in front of him.

Geralt had never been a great conversationalist, preferring to be direct and to the point, avoiding anything more flowery, but now, listing to Jaskier’s wild explanations and tales, he couldn’t quite remember what he had found so wrong with flowery.

It sounded rather nice; truth be told.

Once dessert had been served, an indulgent chocolate cake topped with a decadent chocolate ganache, Jaskier leaned forward, his expression suddenly coquettish.

“So,” he began, picking up a fork and cutting into the cake, “tell me, have you had anymore fantasies lately?”

Geralt felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment even as his eyes followed the path of the fork until it was delicately placed in Jaskier’s mouth, lush lips wrapping around it. He had hoped that the man wouldn’t get any of his recent fantasies through their bond, but it seemed he hadn’t been so lucky.

Geralt jumped when he felt something brush his leg under the table. Jaskier smirked.

Oh.

Geralt felt something move up the inside of his leg slowly as Jaskier reclined in his seat. Jaskier’s foot.

The past couple of days, as Geralt had gotten more and more excited for his upcoming date he had also gotten more and more… excited. And using his hand perfunctorily in the shower hadn’t taken the edge off nearly as much as he would have liked. His growing frustration had certainly led to some more interesting ideas about what activities they could partake in on their date. One of which, it seemed, Jaskier was going to tease him with now.

Jaskier had kicked off a shoe and was now pressing his sock covered foot to the front of Geralt’s slacks where he could feel himself hardening under the contact.

Fuck.

Geralt looked around, dessert forgotten, suddenly feeling a desperate need to be somewhere not quite so public where he could shove Jaskier up against the nearest surface. He did his best to ignore the delicious friction pressed against his erection and flagged down the waiter quickly. Not willing to wait the time to get his card back, Geralt handed the waiter cash, declining change and giving the waiter at least a fifty percent tip.

As the waiter retreated from their table, Geralt’s eyes met Jaskier’s as he gripped the man’s ankle, rolling his hips into the pressure.

“I think it’s time we head out.”

Jaskier licked his lip seductively and pulled his leg back, “I think you’re right. Lead the way.”

-

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 Tag list: @stinastar​​​ @feraljaskier​​​ @bastardofmothman​​​ @hailhailsatan​​​ @moonysourenza​​​ @its-onions​​​ @elliestormfound​​​ @dapandapod​​​             @jaskierswolf​​​ @fontegagrilledcheese​​​ @negativenuggetz​​ @veritasrose​​ @feral-jaskier​​ @kozkaboi​​ @kueble​​ @llamasdumpsterfire​​ @selectivegeekwithstandards​​ @dani-dandelino

[winterscaptain]

no deal.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: and thus begins the 100 arc! i am so excited to share this with all of you. these are going to include more canon episode moments than my other episode-attached fics because everything builds on itself and the details are key. i promise we’ll still get a lot of added scenes and little changes! 

an ajf fic arc that happily stands on its own!  one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven

words: 8.4k warnings: canon-typical violence and discussion of violence, language

summary: a case comes back to haunt Aaron in more ways than you can imagine. you’re there to be his shadow, to catch him when he falls. 

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | requests closed!

“Hotch?” You poke your head around the door, and you find him at his desk, in a surprising ensemble of khakis and an earthy quarter zip.

Almost whimsical, for him. 

He looks up, his eyes softening for a moment before his brows pull in confusion. “You’re still here?”

You gesture to his desk lamp, the only light on in the entire office. “You are, so I figured…” You shrug. “I dunno. Is everything okay?” He looks exhausted, but it’s bone-deep - nothing sleep can fix. 

He shakes his head and sighs. 

That’s his tell.

But he says, “Yeah, everything’s fine.” 

You don’t believe him. 

“Are you sure?” You cross the room and lean on his side of the desk, quickly scanning over the documents you find there. He doesn’t mind your nosiness. He's mostly accustomed to it by now. 

Most of it is pretty normal - after-action reports, performance evaluations (it looks like you’re doing well), and task force meeting agendas - but there’s one file that sticks out. 

Your brow furrows. “The Boston Reaper?”

He shakes his head again. “I’m just reviewing it for an academy lecture about dormant or otherwise inactive serial killers.” 

“Ah, I see.” You know he’s still lying. “Anything I can help with?”

A little half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No, thank you.” He looks up at you and you offer him a small smile. There are many things at work behind his brown eyes. 

He never keeps things from you without reason, so the lying doesn’t bother you so much as the unease radiating off him in waves. 

For now, you decide to let it go and pat his shoulder as you stand. “Alright. Walk me out?” It’s a pointed question - you know he won’t leave if left to his own devices. 

He’s about to throw you a denial, but the look on your face leaves no room for it. “Yeah. I’ll just be a minute.” He starts packing up, sorting the files into neat little stacks that will be there waiting for him when he gets back tomorrow. The Reaper case, you notice, goes into his briefcase, decisively snapped shut and taken into his hand before you can process much else. 

The walk down to the garage is a quiet one. You take the stairs, happy for the excuse to stretch your legs. 

You snag the sleeve of his (very soft) quarter zip before he turns toward his car. “Aaron?”

His eyes snap to yours at the use of his first name. 

“Just…” you aren’t sure where you’re going with this, but he’s probably used to that by now, too. “Just, erm...Drive safe, please? Get some sleep when you get home?”

He takes a little breath and nods, his gaze softening. He’s quiet as you release his arm, quiet on the walk to his car, quiet (you imagine) as he drives out of the garage.

You watch him until the echo of his tail lights fall out of your sight.  

+++

The next morning, JJ trots up the stairs to Hotch’s office and exchanges a few words with him before he flies out of his office and down the stairs. 

“Shouldn’t we wait for the official request? We haven’t been invited.” JJ does her best to keep up with him, trotting down the stairs behind him with a file in her hand. 

“We will be.” 

You look at her with questions in your eyes and she shrugs. Derek, too, looks at her with confusion. Hotch continues toward the doors. 

Is he already headed toward the plane? 

She throws her hands up. “Well, it looks like we’re going to Boston.” 

+++

When all your things are packed and ready, you settle in beside Aaron in your usual place, on the arm of the couch across from the table. 

He walks you all through his work from a decade ago as you all review the files in your hands.  "The Reaper is driven by a need to dominate, control, and manipulate."

Emily’s the first to speak up. “So then why would he offer a deal that would stop him from doing that?”

“Well, killing gave him power, but after so many, the payoff began to diminish. So he decided to switch tactics. Offering the deal gave him the ultimate power, better even than killing. He manipulated the police into voluntarily surrendering.”

“He even got it in writing,” Reid adds. He’s looking closely at the letter, likely starting the structure of what would become a linguistic profile. 

JJ looks up, a little confused. ”He won. Why start killing again?” 

“Because the only person who knew he'd won, the person he made the deal with, just died.” Morgan says, closing the file and tossing it on the table in front of him. 

That’s an easy train of thought to jump on. “Narcissistic killers need other people to recognize their power.” With a little smile, you remind her, “That's why they contact the media.”

Emily’s next. “So how did he stop for 10 years? 

“In Night of the Reaper, the author suggests he had been arrested for an unrelated crime or died.” Reid pulls the book in question from his bag, placing it on the table. “Perhaps he's trying to correct that misconception.”

“Like BTK,” you offer. 

You can see Aaron's eyebrows rise for just a moment in your peripheral vision. Good one. 

You purposefully bump his shoulder on your way to steal one of Morgan’s snacks. Thanks. 

JJ takes the book, thumbing through. “What has he been doing all this time? 

“Well,” you say, “I would imagine he was planning what he would do if he started killing again.” You look at Aaron, who nods with his mouth in a thin, grim line. 

Morgan opens the file again, running his finger down the metrics as he speaks. “So, from '95 to '98, he shoots, stabs, and bludgeons twenty-one victims - men, women, all ages, all types, no specific victimology or MO.” He looks up at Hotch. “How did you build a profile from that?”

“We didn't. Shaunessy sent us home before we had a chance.” Aaron takes a breath before his next thought. “BTK, the Zodiac, and the Reaper all have similarities. They're all highly intelligent, disciplined, sadistic killers who name themselves in the press.”

“Highly intelligent may be a bit of an understatement,” Reid says. “The Reaper and The Zodiac Killer have never been arrested. And the BTK killer was only caught after twenty-five years because he went to the press to counter a book that said he'd died, moved away, or been locked up, just like this one.”

“Speaking of the media,” JJ notes, “when this gets out, it's going to be a frenzy. If they get wind of this, they're going to be all over the Boston Police.” 

Aaron agrees with a brisk nod. “The longer we can float the copycat story, the better chance we'll have of catching him.” 

You sit up straighter. “Meaning, if we keep pushing at his ego, he might take another risk?” 

“Exactly,” he says. “Rossi, Prentiss, and Morgan, go to the field office, set up shop, go through everything there.” He assigns himself, you, JJ, and Reid to the crime scene.

You’re happy for the chance to keep an eye on him. There’s still something off about this whole thing, and the fingers on his left hand worrying his pen is only the most obvious clue. You reach out for his sleeve across the aisle when the team breaks, tugging a little, just like you did last night. 

He looks over at you, almost startled. “Yeah?”

You don’t say anything. Tell me what you need. 

“I’m fine. Just want to get on the ground and get to work.” 

Bullshit. Your squint says it all. 

He sighs and you release his arm. He’ll talk to you when he’s ready. 

He always does. 

+++

You and JJ stand off Aaron's shoulder as he introduces the three of you to the local police authorities. Hotch is already on edge. 

An odd exchange between Hotch and one of the veteran cops leaves you with the entire department at your disposal. How he manages to do that every time is beyond you. 

Reid, the case file in his hand, walks you all through the preliminary findings. “Nina Hale, ninteen, and Evan Harvey, twenty-three. Nina's throat was slashed, she was stabbed forty-six times. Evan was bludgeoned and then shot. No shell casings were found.” 

“A revolver, maybe?” You ask, in-step with Aaron, whose gears are turning as he examines the inside and outside of the car. 

“He preferred revolvers, .44 magnum.” If he weren’t so focused, you were sure he’d be impressed by your observation. “The younger the female victim, the more time he spends with them, usually with a knife.”

You point at one of the photos of the female victim. “Tan line on her wrist. Probably wearing a watch of some sort.”

Aaron’s on the other side of the car now, leaning close to the driver’s side window, looking at a photo of the male victim. “Do we have his wallet?” At your questioning glance, he adds, “The Reaper took items from each victim and placed them on the next, so as to make sure we knew it was him.” 

“That’s quite the signature,” you muse, straightening. 

One of the crime scene techs hands him the wallet in question. After a quick examination: “No corrective lens requirement.”

Your brow furrows and you look over at him. “The glasses aren't his?”

“He only took glasses from one victim--the ninth.” He looks increasingly agitated as he speaks and the crease in your brow deepens to match his. “We should have found them on the tenth, and we didn't. They were never found.”

How does he know which victim was the ninth? How does he remember? 

“What was so special about the ninth victim?” 

Aaron levels you with a look that sends cold wriggling up your spine. “He survived.”

Oh. 

+++

JJ and Dave take the second car back, intending to make a few stops on their way back to the precinct. You sit shotgun, staring out the window, while Aaron drives. His fingers tap arrythmically on the steering wheel. 

He’s restless. Fidgety. It’s weird. 

“What are you thinking about over there?” You ask. 

He shakes his head, just a little. “It’s not a copycat.” 

Your brow furrows. “We knew that, though.”

“Right.” 

Oh.

It must be surreal to have a case come back to life like this. “Wasn’t this one of your first cases? You joined the BAU in ‘98, right?”

When I was a sophomore in high school…

Oh, shut up. 

You snap back to the audible conversation as he nods. “It was my first case as lead profiler, so I’d been on the team a couple of months. Gideon thought, well...I don’t know what he thought. He gave me point on this one for some reason or another.” 

“Look at you, hotshot.” You reach out and shove lightly against his shoulder and you’re rewarded with a huff. “Only on the team a few months and you get assigned your very own case.” 

He rolls his eyes. “I did it with you.” 

It’s true - he did. Spencer may have saved the day in the end, but you polished, delivered, and implemented the profile throughout the investigation. As scared as you were for the professional leap (and the personal one, given the nature of your teams’ closeness), it paid off. 

“That doesn’t count.” 

He glances at you before returning his eyes to the road. “Why not?”

You shrug. “We’re kind of…” You clam up, for some reason, a little embarrassed. 

Don’t be stupid. 

“...I don’t know? Friends?”

You get a real smile from him this time and you match it. “Well, ‘kind-of-I-don’t-know friends’ seems like a stretch, don’t you think?” He looks over at you and holds your gaze a little longer than he should, considering he’s driving a little more than eighty miles per hour. 

You’re an idiot, your eyes say, an amused chuff leaving your nose.

His eyebrows bounce before he looks out at the road again. And?

+++

“George Foyet, 28, was the ninth victim and the only one to survive The Reaper.” Aaron passes you files as he speaks, clearly not needing any notes or other aids to regurgitate the details of the case, verbatim. 

Dave snorts. “Not for lack of trying.”

Hotch walks you all through the Foyet attack, outlining the oddities and patterns that collectively create The Reaper’s signature. His good mood from the car has either entirely evaporated or been smothered by his focus on the case, leaving him with his normal operational stoicism. “The Reaper always uses some sort of ruse to get close to and spend time with his victims.”

“So, how did Foyet survive?” You ask. 

It’s weird he’s not summarizing it for you all, but then again, this case is odd in its obvious, meticulous execution. It’s probably best to let it speak for itself. 

Hotch wordlessly starts the recording. 

“911. What's your emergency?”

“I just murdered two more.” The voice is distorted, ominous. 

“Excuse me, sir, did you say you murdered someone?”

“Victims eight and nine, by a silver Toyota on Riverton past the Tyson Quarry.”

Reid fills you in. “That call was made from a payphone about a mile from the crime scene. EMTs arrived fifteen minutes later. Bertrand was DOA, Foyet barely breathing.”

“So,” you ask, looking over the case. “The Reaper made one of these calls after each of his killings telling the police where to find the bodies?”

Aaron nods. “Until this one, the ninth. If he hadn't made this call, Foyet wouldn't have been found in time. The call saved him.”

You look up from the file. “Can I guess that the Reaper didn't make any 911 calls after this one?”

Aaron’s brows raise for a moment. Exactly. 

“There's a reason he left Foyet's glasses at the last crime scene.” Aaron looks grim as he presents the glasses again. 

Morgan pulls his phone out of his pocket, likely for access to Penelope. “Foyet could be in danger.”

“Uh, Hotch,” JJ pops her head into the room, looking more than a little confused. “There's a reporter outside insisting on speaking with you.” At Aaron's questioning look, she adds, “Roy Colson. He says he knows you.”

You watch him leave and exchange words with the reporter, your lower lip planted firmly between your teeth. JJ hangs at your side while Derek comes up behind you, putting his hands on your shoulders. 

“Is Hotch okay?” He asks. Spencer, Dave, Emily, and JJ also look to you for an answer. 

You shake your head the barest amount and when you speak, it’s almost a whisper. “I don’t know.” You clear your throat and try again. “I don’t know.” 

+++

Dave peers into the car. “Another couple. Much older this time. One shot and one stabbed.” 

“No reason to stop out here.” You’re just off Aaron's shoulder, following the line of his flashlight. 

Dave sounds resigned, tired. “His license and registration are out of his wallet.” 

You squint. “Looks like he used a cop ruse."

“Good spot, isolated, few drivers.” 

Hotch sighs, coming in close to something with his flashlight. “He left Nina Hale's watch."

"Okay," Dave says. "So what'd he take?"

“His wedding ring.” You note the tan line on the man’s fourth finger - a dead giveaway. 

Pardon the pun...

A local officer is quick to give you the victim information, approaching Aaron with a file. “Arthur and Diane Lanessa. Weymouth. Married 32 years. They were coming home from the Elks, where they played bingo twice a week.” He looks over at the press, rapidly arriving at the perimeter. “I gotta go make notification.”

You refocus on the crime scene, anticipating Aaron's wandering eyes and shining the light where he needs it most. 

“Looks like he went through her purse,” he says. 

You hover over his shoulder again. “Any idea what he was looking for?”

Hotch shakes his head, moving on. 

A photo falls out of the drop-down mirror during Hotch’s cursory check. It depicts the victims and who you assume are members of their family. In blood, FATE? is scrawled across the front of the photo. Aaron straightens, leaving the car and crossing to Dave. You, of course, follow. 

When you both reach Dave, you finally have an opportunity to take a look at the photo. “The question mark is new.”

“It's for us.” Aaron doesn’t need further examination for his assessment. “He's saying it's not fate. He's saying we had ten years to save them and that these latest ones are on us.”

“You got all that from one question mark. That's impressive.” Dave’s compliment is only a little undercut by his sarcasm. You can’t help but agree with the implication. 

Aaron sighs, copping to it. “I may know him better than I've let on.”

“What does that mean?” You step closer to him, your brow furrowed. 

He levels you with a somewhat guilty look. “It means that there is a profile on The Reaper.”

Dave frowns. “I thought we were called off before we had one.”

“We were. I had just started the profile, and then he stopped killing, so officially we were done. But this case…”

“It stuck with you,” you finish for him. Your brows drop lower over your eyes, finally understanding the stakes at play. 

“I kept coming back to it over the years, and I worked on it alone.”

The exhaustion in his voice, gravelly and low, worries you more than you’d like to let on. “So you never shared it with anyone.”

“I know I'm always preaching that profiling is a collaborative effort, but this one wasn't. I don't know, maybe if -” he sighs. “If I was wrong, I was gonna head us in the wrong direction.” The doubt in Aaron's voice breaks your heart a little. 

“Now you think you're right.” Dave, of course, has the brief words to coax the thought out of Aaron. You’re thankful he’s here. Between the two of you, you’ll get more out of your unit chief in twenty minutes than anyone else would get in three days. 

“The more I see, the more accurate I think it may be.”

“Okay,” you say, “then we need to hear it.”

+++

It’s decided that Aaron will deliver the profile solo, with only a little input from Dave. It’s odd to see him up there all by himself while the rest of you stand off to the side. You’re students just as much as the local police, this time. 

You tune into Aaron, whose eyes are bouncing all over the room, from person to person, holding and keeping their attention. His eyes meet yours and you hope the respect and pride overflowing in your chest is visible on your face. 

“The Reaper fits a profile we refer to as an omnivore. Unlike most serial killers, an omnivore doesn't target a specific victim type. Although he tends to focus on his younger female victims with his knife, he essentially is a predator who will kill anyone.”

One of the local cops has a decent question (for once). “Why is he so democratic?”

“Because his kills aren't just about his victims. He needs recognition. He needs us to know.”

Dave chimes in. “The symbols, the placement of prior victims' possessions on subsequent victims--it's all for us.”

“Why?” 

“Power,” Aaron answers simply. “The Shaunessy letter is the clearest example of this. He manipulated Tom Shaunessy into literally surrendering to him.”

It reminds you of the first time you saw him - alone, in front of a room of people focused only on him. It was one of your first lectures at the academy, your favorite, and the one that inspired you to ask for a placement with the BAU when Jenny told you to take a running leap. 

How far you’ve come. 

Without permission, your mind wanders to a few things that haven’t changed in the last year and a half. Aaron is still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen - capable, worthy of deep admiration and respect. His voice is the same - demanding respect and carrying the weight of the world in it. 

Anything that won’t condemn you to a life of unrealistic expectations of men? 

No. Maybe you’re a better shot?

Great. That’s useful. 

“Like BTK killer Dennis Rader,” Aaron continues, “The Reaper is extremely disciplined. In his everyday life, this will very likely make him so inflexible, he can't keep close relationships or work closely with others. 

“I believe our killer has another interest that may give us the best opportunity to catch him.” You’re glad Dave is there to help, his seasoned expertise coming in handy once again. “The Reaper's last victim was an older woman. He killed her quickly, with a single shot. The prior, younger victim, he spent more time with and stabbed forty-six times.”

Yet another “Why?” from one of the local officers. 

Curious group, it seems. 

Aaron answers. “He pays special attention to his younger female victims, and his weapon of choice with them is the knife, a substitute instrument for bodily penetration.”

Dave, again, has something else for you all. “The younger the victim, the more time and effort he spends. I think our guy is a hebephile.”

“Hebephile?” Naturally, that particular proclivity is not a familiar one to the layman. 

Reid lends an assist. “A hebephile is someone who's attracted to adolescent post-pubescent children. Teenagers.” 

“Look for men with access and authority -” Aaron assumes command again, “- high school teachers, counselors, coaches--and anyone who's been charged with sex crimes against teenage girls in the last ten years.” He checks in with you, and you nod. “That's all for now. Thank you.”

+++

You look up as Aaron walks into the room, Derek ready with bad news. “Garcia can’t find George Foyet.” You stand and resume your post as his shadow, beside Emily. 

Morgan holds the phone toward Hotch. “I’ve got nothing, sir,” comes Garcia’s voice from the speaker. 

“What do you mean? 

“I mean, he’s gone. He’s completely off the grid. He’s gone.” 

“How is that possible?” You tap Aaron's shoulder with the back of your hand as his tone grows sharper with Penelope. 

Be nice. 

He shakes you off and you clench your jaw, looking over at Derek as Aaron tries to wiggle more information out of Penelope. It doesn’t work. “Garcia, we don’t have much time.” 

“I know, sir.” 

You huff. “I mean, how would you even drop off the grid like that? There has to be someone he talked to.”

Aaron wordlessly dials a number, shooting you a somewhat grateful, if not a little rueful, look. “Roy, Aaron Hotchner. I need a favor.” 

+++

“That’s him.”

Aaron shuts the back door of the car behind you and out of habit, you take quick stock of him while he does the same for you. 

You spot the man you’re looking for skittering across the street and toward the apartment. “George Foyet?” He’s visibly skeptical, and Aaron pulls his credentials. “It’s okay. We're FBI.” He introduces you and Rossi while you flash your credentials for good measure. “I'm Agent Hotchner. We met once before. Do you remember?”

"Yeah, I remember.” He’s agitated, his eyes jumping to every moving person on the near-empty street. “Would you mind if we get off the street, please?

You follow Dave and Aaron into the cramped apartment, noting the clutter and general feeling of paranoia permeating the space. Everything looks rushed - half-lived in and half-finished. 

When you reach the kitchen, Foyet collapses into a coughing fit and Dave immediately supplies him with a glass of water. 

“Thank you.” He takes another decent gulp. “How'd you guys find me?”

“Roy Colson,” Aaron says. He’s focused on Foyet, but you can tell he’s keyed into the peripherals, just in case. 

“Oh.” He seems disappointed, though in what you’re not sure. “Well, is this gonna take long? 'Cause I really can't be late for work.”

“What do you do?” You ask. 

“I'm a freelance computer specialist with the city.”

Dave steps forward. “We're sorry to bother you. We'll make it as quick as possible.”

Aaron pulls the evidence bag containing the glasses out of his breast pocket. “This yours?”

“I knew it wasn't a copycat.” 

You pull a chair for Foyet as he coughs again, feeling only a little odd about taking care of this man in his own house. 

“Thank you.” He takes another sip of water. “I'm sorry.” He pauses, remembering. “I was gonna propose to her that night...At the restaurant, but I got cold feet. The ring was still in my pocket when he approached us. He said he was lost. He had one of those sightseeing booklets. I was looking at it when he stabbed me. Yeah...Perfect timi-”

You interrupt him, attempting to stem his agitation. “Mr. Foyet, you don't need to go through this again.” Nevertheless, he continues, increasingly distraught. 

“I couldn't move. I just sat there, bleeding. I watched him kill Mandy. He stabbed her sixty-seven times. Do you know how long it takes to stab somebody sixty-seven times? ...I never found the ring.”

For some reason, your mind drifts to the man beside you, the horrifying thought of seeing him stabbed, the life leaving his body. You shake it off with a little shudder. 

Why, brain? Why? That’s a fucking awful thought. 

And yet the image sticks with you, forcing you to manually lock it away. Aaron looks at you, almost like he can read your mind. 

That’s nightmare fodder.

The smallest flex of his brow asks, Are you okay? 

Fine. You offer him a tight twitch of your lips. It’s not a smile, but you’d be thankful for at least a mockery of one right now. 

With a little bit of a squint, Aaron turns back to Foyet. “He should have left your glasses on his next victim, but he didn't. He held on to them all this time.”

“What, you think he's got some special interest in me?” He almost laughs. “I've been living with that possibility for the past eleven years.”

“Have you received any strange letters or calls? Hang-ups?” Dave asks. 

“I keep residences under different names. I move between them randomly. He likes to get you in the car, so I take the bus. Believe me, I've gone through great lengths to make sure that none of the things you've just mentioned ever happened.”

What a terrifying, sad existence. 

Dave offers George his notebook and a pen. “We'll need your other names and residences so we can reach you.” 

“We can take you someplace safe until this is over.” Aaron’s brow is knit in concern - it’s a look you’ve seen many times, but it never fails to inspire a little flicker of warmth in your chest. 

Quit, would you?

“No. Boston is my home. It's the one thing I promised I would never let him take from me.”

Aaron insists, pushing. “Then we'll protect you here.”

“You can't protect me. Nobody can.” He frantically writes in the notebook for a moment before handing it back to Dave. “Please be careful with this. Please.”

Dave assures him, “It's safe with us.”

“He's just a man, nothing more.” You hope it’s the right thing to say. You feel Aaron take a breath, and you almost feel bad. It’s a line he’s said before, one you borrow when necessary.

Don’t mean to steal his thunder. 

Instead of looking at you, he looks at Aaron. “Then why can't you catch him?”

“We will.”

+++

You’re both sitting in Aaron's hotel room, the photos from each of the crime scenes spread out all around you. It’s far later than you’d like, but the time spent is worth it if it gets you one step closer to this sick, scary bastard. 

“What was it like? The original case?”

Aaron sighs, pulling a hand down his face. “Frustrating. Exhausting. Like this.” He shakes his head. “Every day was another dead end, and then another pair of bodies every few weeks. Then…they just stopped.” He holds up the note. “Now I know why.” 

You tip your head to the side, studying him. “What would you do?”

“What, you mean about the deal?” 

“Yeah. What if -”

The phone rings, cutting you off, and you rise to answer. You’re stopped by a hand on your wrist as Aaron passes you and picks it up. “Hotchner.” 

You plant yourself back on the bed, legs folded underneath you. It’s probably one of the team, given the hour and -

“Who is this?” His voice is low, almost angry. 

You scramble to the edge of the bed, giving Aaron space while remaining completely keyed into him. 

“...You think I’d take that?...I’ve misjudged you. I thought you were smarter than this...Then you’ve misjudged me...I don’t make deals.”

Oh my god. It’s The Reaper. 

No. It can't be.

You pull out your cell and fire off a text as quickly as you can to Penelope. 

3:42am trace call to ah’s room stat

She doesn’t disappoint. 

3:42am on it. 

“I’m the guy who hunts guys like you..." Aaron laughs, dark and humorless. "You all think that...I’ll see you soon.” He slams the phone down and starts to pace, his hand over his mouth. 

“What’s going on?” You stand, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “Hotch. Who was that?”

He stares down the phone like it’s a living thing, but doesn’t breathe a word. After a moment, he jumps back into action, sitting heavily on the bed and going over everything with a renewed, almost frantic, focus. 

You watch him for a moment before you pull out your phone. A text message from six hours ago blinks up at you. 

Haley Brooks-Hotchner

9:13pm when you get a chance, can you have aaron give me a call? no rush. just school paperwork for j. he’s not picking up his phone. thanks xx

You answer her, praying she didn’t leave her ringer on. The hour alone will reveal the extent of the team’s attention on this case and you can only hope she understands. 

3:48am can do. this one’s bad. might be a minute. 

Aaron looks up at you, a question in his eyes.

You shake your head with a little smile. It’s nothing. 

+++

“Six bodies, not including the driver. He put 'em down with the gun--or more likely guns--and finished them off with his knife.” Dave looks around while Aaron stands stock still near the driver, slumped over the wheel. 

The scene inside the bus is macabre - bodies and blood everywhere. The numbers on the window send shivers up your spine. 

“There;s Arthur Lanessa's wedding ring.” You peer over Aaron's shoulder. “What'd he take?” 

He scoffs. “Does it matter?” 

He straightens quickly, shoving past you and getting off the bus. You get out of his way, letting him go with a frown. Dave meets your eyes and tips his head. You follow him out as he goes after Aaron, giving them just a little bit of distance 

Dave catches up to him. “Hey. What's goin' on with you?”

Aaron stops in the alley a little ways away from the bus. “He called me tonight and offered me the deal.”

So that’s what happened. 

You thought as much, but the thought alone was too much to consider. It’s never been less satisfying to be right. 

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him, and then he does this.” Aaron gestures to the crime scene, NO DEAL staring you all in the face, along with all those numbers. 

The idea of The Reaper torturing Aaron like this is horrifying. Plenty of unsubs have made your skin crawl in the past, but this is a new kind of awful. You’ve never seen him like this. 

“So, you think this is your fault?”

“It is,” he insists. You’re shocked to see tears in his eyes when he looks back up at Dave. There’s a part of you that wants to reach out, but something keeps you back. 

Dave pulls his gun and releases the safety, turning the grip toward Aaron. 

What the fuck? 

“Well, here, use mine. You convinced me.” 

Aaron waves him off with one hand while he pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. 

Of all the things you would have thought of at this moment, pulling a gun on SSA Aaron Hotchner wouldn’t have made the list. You watch, ready to jump between them at a moment’s notice. They’ve never gone after each other before, but you’ve seen more worrisome behavior from Aaron in the last forty-eight hours than in the preceding eighteen months. 

Even at the height of the divorce proceedings, he was steadier than this. 

“No, no, you hung up on him.” Dave pushes the gun at him, trying to wrangle it into Aaron's hand. “You practically killed them yourself. Go ahead, get it over with. Don't worry about us.” He gestures to you and Aaron's eyes flicker to yours. You have no idea what you look like right now. “We'll get this guy without you.”

Dave is a genius. 

He blinks, tears wetting his cheeks. It’s certainly one of the more alarming things you’ve ever seen. He’s audibly frustrated, his hand flexing at his side as he talks. “Dave, I had 10 years to do something about it.”

That’s not fair. 

When has Aaron ever been fair, or even kind, to himself? 

Well, shit. 

That’s why you’re here. Do your job.

You step forward, keeping your voice down. Approaching him like a cornered animal seemed the best tactic at the moment. “Shaunessy made the deal. The killing stopped, as promised. He closed the case and sent you away, Hotch.” Your eyes beg for his as you continue. “You moved on. You worked on other cases, active cases. You saved lives in that time. It wasn’t wasted.”

Aaron huffs, clearly frustrated. “But I kept coming back to this one. I kept coming back to this profile.” There’s something desperate in his voice and you know he’s trying to get you to understand something he can’t articulate. 

Dave takes over again. “Hey. I was retired. Should I blame myself for every victim who got killed while I was on my book tour? Look, if you want to end up like Shaunessy, like Gideon, blaming yourself for everything, you go ahead.” 

Damn. Good point. 

Aaron’s eyes meet yours for just a moment before looking away again. You keep your face soft, neutral. 

Safe. 

“But that voice in your head,” Dave says, “it's not your conscience. It's your ego. This isn't about us, Aaron. It's about the bad guys. That's why we profile them. It's their fault. We're just guys doing a job. And when we stop doing it, someone else will. Trust me. I know.” 

Aaron checks in with you for a moment and you nod. It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay. 

He wipes at his eyes before leveling Dave with something that looks almost like his classic glare, gesturing to the offered gun at his chest. “You can put that away.”

With a cheeky smile, Dave says, “You sure?”

“It's a little dramatic, don't you think?” You ask, stepping up and clapping Dave on the shoulder. 

“My wife always said I had a flair for the dramatic.” Dave’s deeply chuffed pleased that he was able to bring Aaron back to his senses. He holsters his weapon, throwing the safety back on. 

“Which one?” Aaron asks. You’re relieved to hear a little bit of humor in his voice. 

“All of 'em.”

The three of you share a little smile before you walk back to the crime scene. 

Aaron’s thanks is so quiet you’re almost certain you made it up. 

You’re only sure it happened at all when Dave replies, “Anytime.” 

+++

“He knows where Foyet lives. We’ll split up and cover each address. Go.” 

You rise and somehow end up with Derek. Though not your intention, it’s probably for the best. For good measure, you take Jameson, a seasoned SWAT agent. The three of you had the biggest of Foyet’s properties on lock. 

Derek speeds to the house, flooring it with sirens blaring. 

“I’ll take front,” Derek says, nearly shouting over the siren. 

You’re locked and loaded, ready to go in your vest as soon as the car stops. “I’ll take the back.” You twist in your seat to look in the back. “Jameson, you good on my six?”

“I’ve gotcha.” 

You’re clearing the house, kicking in the back door. There’s a thump behind you and you turn. Before you can do anything, something makes contact with the back of your head, sending you straight to the ground. You hit something else on your way down, and you’re done. 

Fuck. 

You’re knocked out cold, but come to only a few minutes later. You stumble to your feet as lights and sirens round the corner. Bringing a hand to your head, you feel the blood on your forehead. There’s probably a decent cut near your hairline and when you look down, you find an alarming amount of blood on your vest. 

Head wounds bleed. You’re fine. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

Derek. 

You brace yourself on the wall as you rise, checking your service weapon. It’s not in your holster, but you find it nearby on the floor. 

Why didn’t he take it? 

Kicking it under the table, you draw your secondary weapon. The thought of leaning down to reach for the gun on the floor is too much and your only aim is to get to Derek, then Jameson.

Blinking blood out of your eyes, you do your best to clear the rest of the house before finding the mess in the living room and front yard. Without much of a thought, you haul yourself over the broken window sill, getting a nice slice in your arm for your trouble, and land hard at Derek's side. With a groan, you roll over onto your knees, crawling toward your prone teammate. 

You look up as headlights hit you, shading your eyes with one of your hands. The other rests on Derek's chest. To your relief, you can feel his breath under his vest. He’s alive. He’s okay. 

With the intensity of the lights shining on you, you can’t see Hotch as he lifts you to your feet by your upper arms. He shields you from the light with his body, his brows drawn and concerned. You’re dizzy in the extreme, your right eye almost unable to open with all the blood caked down the side of your face. 

He takes you under his arm and brings you to one of the ambulances posted on the street. The paramedic takes your vitals, but Aaron keeps a hold on your other hand. You’re not sure he realizes he’s still got you, but you’re not about to let go. 

“What happened?” He asks, quiet and tense. 

You shake your head even though it only increases your dizziness. Blinking a couple of times, you answer, “I don’t know. He came out of nowhere. I had the side of the house, Jameson had the back, Morgan the front. We were clearing room by room and he just…” your eyes float to the front of the house, where Emily has Derek with a paramedic. “He appeared and I didn’t have time before he hit me with...Something. I was out before I could blink. I think I hit the table on the way down.” 

Hotch sighs and to your dismay, you see the coroner approaching the back of the house with a gurney. Jameson’s dead. 

Why aren’t you?

“He didn’t take my service weapon. It’s under the table in the kitchen now, but it was next to me when I came to. I don’t -” you swallow, still dazed. “I don’t know why he left us alive.” 

You can see Aaron's teeth grinding as he collects himself. “He’s trying to get in your head. Don’t let him.” 

“What, like you?” You know your functioning isn’t at one hundred percent - you’d never make a jab at him like that, even weak as it was, at a moment like this if you were clear-headed. 

He sighs as your eyes flutter shut, leaning on the inside of the ambulance. You hear the paramedic tell him you’re concussed and need to be kept awake for the next ten hours. Hotch gets the details on your other injuries before squeezing your hand once and leaving you. 

After another few minutes, EMS releases you with a packet of concussion information (which you immediately crumple and shove into a passing crime scene tech’s jacket pocket). Far too quickly, you make your way across the yard and into the house, avoiding Jameson's body and the coroner’s staff. 

You find Derek and Emily sitting together on the back of the couch as he, too, is patched up. 

“You okay, kid?” He asks. 

You nod. “Just concussed, a couple of lacerations. I’m fine. Are you okay?” There’s a compulsion to fuss over him, but you resist. 

He nods, bringing a pristine .44 caliber bullet into your eye line. “He left this.” 

A shiver runs down your spine. “Sadistic bastard.” 

Emily raises her eyebrows and cants her head, agreeing with your brief assessment. 

You look outside to where Hotch stands in the middle of the yard, with his arms crossed, looking over the damage to both the house and his team. 

Eventually, he returns to the house with Spencer in tow. You follow them, moving slow. 

Reid points to evidence as he talks. “Jameson was clearly killed outside. This is someone else. There are signs of a struggle and a lot of blood."

"But no body,” you note. 

What the hell happened here? 

Reid nods. "Just the drag marks. The human body holds 5 quarts of blood. I'd say there's a little more than half that here. Whoever the bleeder was, they lost too much to survive."

It begs the question, so you ask. "Foyet?” 

“It was his worst fear, that the Reaper would come back and finish the job,” Dave says, appearing out of nowhere and leaning on the door jamb to the kitchen. 

With a firm conviction, Aaron says, “We offered him protection. He refused. It was his choice.”

+++

JJ’s brow crumples as she looks over the files again. "Why is he so focused on Foyet? What's so special about him?"

Aaron, of course, answers her. "He was his only surviving victim, the only one he couldn't defeat."

“But he's not a threat. Defeating him would be no great accomplishment. There's something there that we're missing.” You thumb through the case again, certain the answers are there for you to find. 

JJ’s persistent. “What about the girlfriend, Amanda Bertrand? Wh-what do we know about her?”

“Nineteen. A freshman. She came here from Michigan to go to school. Foyet was a teacher's assistant in one of Amanda's courses.”

“Michigan. Where The Reaper had Shaunessy post the personal ad.”

“That can't be a coincidence.”

“He told us she was the love of his life, that he was gonna propose. But she just got here from Michigan. They only met when the class started.”

“How long had she been in the class?” You ask

There’s an incredulous laugh in Emily’s voice. “Four weeks.”

“So it was either love at first sight or what?”

Derek picks up JJ’s thought. “Foyet was lying?”

“He's a 28-year-old teacher's assistant in freshman classes.” Hotch immediately starts dialing a number, and you’re sure you know which one. As you suspected, he gets Penelope on the phone. 

“What are Foyet's aliases?” Quickly, you hand him Dave’s notebook, the rest of your body coiled for action. He bows his body over the phone, rattling off instructions. “I want you to look up in Boston city records Kevin Baskin, Miles Holden, and William Parker. Try the Department of Education.”

“Well played, sir.” You hear her keyboard in the background. “They all work for the Department of Education, they're all substitute teachers, and they all teach computer science.” She pauses. “Oops. Scratch that. They're not all working for the Department of Education.”

“They're not?” Aaron’s head tilts, listening. 

“No. William Parker was fired for alleged inappropriate behavior with his female students.”

Something clicks. You watch the gears turn and turn and turn, Aaron’s eyes flickering over the photos, the file, back and forth as he puts pieces together. 

“Hotch?” Your hand hovers over his shoulder, but he pays you no mind. 

“Roy Colson went to see Foyet.” He begins to stand, his voice rising as he gets farther from the phone. “Garcia, I need you to trace Roy Colson's cell phone. George Foyet is The Reaper.”

Garcia gives you the address and the rest of you chase Aaron out to the car. The headache pushing behind your eyes is the least of your worries. “What? What do you mean George Foyet is the Reaper?” It’s almost comical, the efforts you take to keep pace with him down the stairs and to the car. 

Aaron communicates all the details he put together in the conference room, taking you step-by-step through his process. “He stabbed Amanda Bertrand to death, he drove a mile, he called 911, he went back, and he inflicted those wounds on himself.”

You’ve already caught up, the pieces clicking in before he can repeat them. “He knew EMS would get there in time to save him.” 

“And between the phone call and the severity of his wounds, we never considered him as a suspect.” There’s frustration in his tone, but you know it goes deeper than that. It’s his pride. 

“Hotch, you couldn’t have -” 

Derek cuts you off. “Why would he do it?”

“It put him at the core of the investigation. Everything we had came from him.”

Talk about inserting yourself... 

Derek is right there with him. “He left his own glasses at the crime scene, he pointed us right back in his direction, and still, we didn't see it.”

Aaron nods, his jaw tighter than you’ve ever seen it. 

Don’t blame yourself. 

Hotch rolls up to the house, no lights or sirens, and you surround the house, on his six. You quietly breach the back door, clearing the kitchen and the hallway. 

“It's over.” Aaron’s tone leaves no room for argument as he levels his gun at Foyet’s head. 

There’s a strange smile on Foyet’s face as he speaks. “I'll kill him.”

“You need him to write your story.”

“I'm taking him with me. I'll let him go as soon as I'm safe.”

You step to the side, trying to get a better shot, but Aaron stops you with the smallest turn of his head as Foyet redirects his attention to you.

“I said I'll kill him.”

Aaron pulls his focus again. “You kill him, I kill you.”

“You think I'm afraid to die?”

“You're not afraid.” Aaron sneers. He’s aiming to hurt and it’s a good idea. “You're greedy and narcissistic. You want the recognition that's gonna come from the book that he's gonna write. You want the fame that's gonna come from the media. It's gonna be like Bundy.”

“I'm gonna be bigger than Bundy.”

“Well, you can't enjoy it if you're dead.”

You’ve got him there, Aaron. 

“If you know me so well, how come some many had to die to bring you here?”

You can almost feel the lance of shame and guilt that shoots through Aaron. He almost flinches. Between you and Emily, if looks could kill, Foyet would be long dead. 

You fucking asshole. 

It takes everything in you not to leap on him and pummel him into the floorboards. You’d love nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off his face. 

“That's your choice, not mine. You're the serial killer.” To your ears, it sounds like Aaron's convincing himself as much as telling Foyet. 

“That's right.” He turns, smirking. "Hello, Derek.” 

He drops his gun and Derek pounces on him, restraining him. "Where's my badge?” He jerks Foyet’s head back by the hair. “Where is it, you son of a bitch?”

He doesn’t answer Derek's question, but shifts his icy gaze to you. “How’s your head?” He gives you an imitation of a pout, and anger sears through your chest. “You took quite a spill last night, Agent. Probably had your unit chief very worried.”

You squint at him, but don’t respond. Aaron steps a little to the side and you’re not even sure he realizes it, but he’s made himself a barrier between you and Foyet. 

The bastard notices, though, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “I'm gonna be more famous than you even realize.”

The look he gives Hotch makes you shudder. 

+++

Only an hour or so after you land back at Quantico, JJ jogs from her office to Hotch’s. Your heart sinks. 

That’s never good. 

“Foyet escaped.”

You grab the remote and stand from your desk, turning the volume up on the TV. 

She chases Hotch down the stairs as he joins the rest of you, surrounding Derek's desk. “Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing. They rushed him to the prison hospital.”

“Get me the U.S. Marshals office.” He turns, but she stops him. 

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance. He said they'd call us if they needed it.”

Aaron doesn’t stop moving until he’s at your side. Your search for his eyes and he meets your gaze after a moment. 

What do we do? 

His jaw clenches. I don’t know. Then, a huff. Fuck. 

You shake your head a little. It makes you feel a little dizzy. Fuck, indeed. 

“How’s your head?” He asks. 

Of all the things to worry about…

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

Just then, Emily returns, a file in her hand. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet's house. They're schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.” 

You take it from her, looking it over before looking at Hotch. “He had the schematics. And not just for Woburn. For every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And 10 years to plan,” Dave adds. 

"They're gonna find him, right?" Penelope’s voice is small, and you can’t blame her for it. Derek’s at her side, staring at the news footage with a grim look on his face. 

Aaron’s eyes are trained on the television when he answers. “No, they're not.”

Derek turns to you before looking at every member of the team individually. “He said he'd be more famous than we knew, and he was right.”

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @wandaswitxh @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @gublergirls @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @ogmilkis @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @whoreforhotch @pinkdiamond1016 @pan-pride-12 @lee-rin-ah @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @nohalohoseok @giveusbackourbucky @writerxinthedark @bauslut @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @buckybau @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @violentvulgarvolatile  @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @garcia-reid-lovechild  @cevanswhre @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321 @zizzlekwum @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @this-broken-band-girl @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @winqhster

[katsukikitten]

Part 5

For once in your life, your eyes slowly open, only having been disturbed by warm morning sunlight. The soft comforter trapping your body heat and essentially you, as it pinned you to the soft mattress. You snuggle deeper into the sheets, breathing in the smell of clean linen and caramel.

Wait. Caramel?

With a jolt you jump from the bed, eyes wide as you look for the source of the scent. Patting down your jeans and shirt for at least one knife. You hardly remember what happened after dinner with his family. You remember booze, light conversation while feeling warm and floaty. Oh shit what was that passive that activated again? Rest assured?

"Info on rest assured." You grumble, voice soft from disuse. Your quirk happily pulls up a little informational box that you can see. Too sleepy to make the box private as it reads aloud to you.

"PASSIVE BUFF REST ASSURED. A newly unlocked buff that increases sleep quality and can only be activated around trusted individuals and safe places. Would you like a list?"

You stare at the question box with a flashing yes or no before you point with the tip of your knife to yes.

"Currently there is only one thing listed. Type : Individual Name: Bakugou Ka…."

"Oi." Someone calls from the front door of the apartment as you dismiss the information with a wave of your hand. He discards his boots at the door before making his way to his bedroom.

"You talking to yourself dumbass?" He says, blocking your only exit by leaning on the door jamb. He holds an iced coffee towards you, his eyes sharp as he adds.

"We need to talk about your file."

Crossing his arms you ignore his offer of iced appeasement, he sets it on the low dresser as you speak.

"It's not up for discussion."

"I'm your boss, I deserve to know."

"What you deserve to know is what's in that file. My whole life doesn't fit into a manila fucking folder. Quit asking questions."

"I'll ask what I want." He growls, "Because it's suspicious that you have this unbelievably complex quirk and yet I'm sure your top skills have nothing to do with stealing."

"If you're that concerned then ask the director of the program. I'm not the only secret 'reform'." You throw your hands into the air is exasperation

"He showed up dead shortly after you were inducted. Plus no one has any real record of what you've done. Not a single thing listed on what you've stolen."

"Talk to Deku then, he's next in line for that program, he ain't dead."

"He said he doesn't remember approving your file." He bites back and before you can retort strong fingers wrap around your wrist. His calloused pads brush over the cool metal of your bracelet.

"RECOGNIZED, BAKUGOU KATSUKI : NEW LIMITED ACCESS GRANTED. 1. Health and Condition status, upon request 2. Top five skills 3. Buffs that would benefit Bakugou Katuski. 4. Pending buffs to be activated by host. Please state a number."

"Two." "Cancel!" You try to shout over him but he beats you to it. The bracelet opens up a little box displaying your top five skills as of late.

"Stab resistance, poison resistance, what would a thief need those for? Stealth is number three and slight of hand is number five. Shit don't add up Princess." He glares while your nostrils flare, ripping your wrist away from his grip.

"You're really fucking pushing it…" He takes a step towards you while you step back as if it were part of a dance as you try so hard to keep your wrath in check.

"Am I? Like I said, shit ain't adding up. You have this bracelet that still has limited information to your quirk, support knows nothing of the recordings or god damn blocks you've placed on it and lastly…" Your knees hit the back of the back of the bed causing you to sit on the mattress. His rough palms come to lie flat against the fabric next to your thighs as he leans in. You fight to shrink back.

"Lastly, I deserve to know how an unnamed woman, who obviously knew you, turns up dead moments after I arrive on scene and then her body is gone in a matter of minutes. She poisoned you with a complex concoction that the lab in the agency has yet to figure out the formula to it and yet you knew the fucking antidote? What did you really do?"

Rage boils in your blood as you stare into his vermilion eyes. Like flipping a switch you turn ice cold, your breath mingles with his.

PASSIVE BUFF SHARP TONGUE ACTIVATED INSULTS DEALT WILL HAVE 39% MORE STING.

"You know what's funny? You don't see me asking how you became a manager with your shitty attitude. Nor do you see me asking how you manipulated and gaslit your way to the number one spot." You press your cheek against his as your lips graze his ear, "And you sure as hell don't see me asking how you're considered a hero at all after you told Izuku to kill himself in middle school."

The scars in his chest and stomach roar to life, demanding attention as his shirt scrapes against the sensitive skin. He takes a step back as if struck while the room begins to smell of smokey spiced caramel. His bones groan as his knuckles bloom white.

You smile as you stand, collecting your bag and the jacket he lent. Even grabbing the iced coffee he got you. Because why let it go to waste?

Cruelty slips onto your shoulders as nicely as his borrowed jacket while you pause at his bedroom door wanting nothing more than to leave him with terrible thoughts.

"Did you ever even apologize for that?"

Silence is your answer as you chuckle to yourself.

"Didn't think so."

You leave him with those nasty thoughts. Long gone as he still pants, pain shooting through his gut and lungs as it did all those fucking years ago.

As he moved without a second thought and placed himself in front of a stupid, dopey mop top boy who tried to hold up the weight of the world by himself.

With a guttural growl he looks over his destroyed room, as if a bomb went off.

He reaches for his phone dialing the number he never bothered to save.

"Meet me at our usual when you get off your stupid fucking shift. I know you've forgotten to eat you useless hero." The other line chimes in with a deep laugh as he adds.

"Okay Kaachan. I'll be there."

Izuku doesn't get invited out often and especially not by Bakugou. So the emerald haired boy decides to keep an eye on his oldest friend. Silently watching and not glancing too long as hot head huffs and puffs, taking another shot. The ash blonde's favorite spicy ramen goes untouched as the large man across from him slurps up his fourth bowl, covered in sweat and dirt from the day's work.

"You better get my fucking money's worth of this endless ramen bowl shit." He bites, slamming down another shot, fingers subconsciously finding the old scar on his chest. The action does not go unnoticed by his more docile friend. Izuku thanks the waiter as he starts on his fifth bowl.

"I'm starting to think you're mad about more than the endless ramen you ordered me." Bright emerald meet dark garnet eyes that glare, Bakugou's cheeks burn in his buzz.

"Fuck you. Nothin's wrong." Another deadly shot.

"That's your seventh. Kaachan you can't fool me. Your body language gives it away." Bakugou follows Izuku's eyes to his fingers. Quickly he removes his calloused pads from the divot. Angrily staring at the wall like a child who's been caught.

"Fuck you." He murmurs, silence settles over the pair in the far back corner of the restaurant. Bakugou's eyes glance over to Izuku who continues to eat, crimson bore into the scars on his arms from where the dumbass had broken them time and time again. His scars burn with your words, with the memory of what he's said in the past.

Too cruel and for what?

"You know I'm-" Bakugou starts but Izuku holds up a hand, wanting to spare his friend.

"I know, you've shown me everyday, even before you jumped in front of me, Kaachan. I've always known." He leaves it at that, in his heart he knows that Bakugou is sorry. He's seen it in every action since their first year at UA, he doesn't need to hear him say it.

What good are words when actions spoke louder?

"So what's bothering you? Worried over someone? You're dating Rogue now right?" Izuku asks, holding his chopsticks at a point while Bakugou takes another shot.

"Her file is what's bothering me. Deku, she doesn't have a fucking thing of her past. Not to mention you don't even remember signing off on her. Real responsible." Bakugou watches with a dull snarl as Izuku goes back to slurping his noodles.

"Ka...Kaachan." Izuku chokes, "Not fair. They put a lot of your desk too and I bet you don't remember half of it."

"I'd remember something like that. Just makes it that much more suspicious. Probably foraged by someone but the question is who…." Katsuki sets his head in his hand, staring at his orange broth.

"Well, did you ask her yourself?" Bakugou scoffs in response.

"Yea, and it didn't fucking turn out well." His finger finds his stomach this time, the ghastly white crater suddenly irritated by the fabric of his shirt. Izuku stops eating, he isn't stupid and easily connects the dots. The soft man thinks back a decade of his friend is the worst condition but more worried about him.

"Kaachan…" Deep jade eyes water a bit but Bakugou puts up a hand

"Don't." He barks, sighing.

"So you must really care about her if whatever she said affected you that much. You weren't even bothered when they were trying to 'cancel' you." Izuku taps Bakugou's bowl with his chopsticks, silently begging the blonde to eat. Hopping he'll take at least a bite to soak up some of that alcohol. Reluctantly deadly fingers pick up the sticks, gathering ramen between them but still undecided if he should eat.

His silence is answer enough for Izuku.

"I know my agency started the program. I'll look into it some more tomorrow. I'll be mostly office duty since I have so much paperwork anyway. But even if her past is dark Katsuki, what are you going to do? She may not have had any say in the matter, she doesn't give me that evil vibe."

Bakugou thinks back to you. How you fight, how you hold yourself.

How cute you were sleeping on his shoulder before he eased you onto his lap. How softly you snored in his bed. His stomach twists, Izuku's words and yours floating around his head.

"I guess I'll decide once I have more answers." With that the blonde decides to bring the spicy noodles to his lips.