#really the most important thing to me is having a team that will survive the final map of tt

[roundandroundthemulberry]

Castiel - Spanner in the works

"You changed me, Dean."

Source:

"I don't know about y'all, but this is literally one of the most important moments in all of SPN for me. For YEARS I always questioned this, why is he the way he is? Back before Evil Chuck, I wondered if maybe God made him "wrong" on purpose, re free will. But no. All just our Cas.

And honestly, at this point in the show, I wasn't expecting that (the WHY of Cas, that little spanner) to ever get addressed. This being addressed by Chuck kind of in passing, like oh, there it is, just like that, kind of blew my whole mind. Just like that! Casual confirmation!

Very I worked on this story for a year, and they just tweeted it out vibes but in the best possible way. Of course, I would have loved to see a longer period of Cas processing this, like the unique power of his own free will, but I am still legit floored by it and so thrilled.

And obviously I wanted to stop the show right there and get like a several-episode arc of delving into how this thing about Cas is literally why Our SPN Universe survived and why Our Sam and Dean endured when all the other Chuck worlds failed and all other Sam and Deans did his ending.

What needs to be said more loudly (and what i kinda wish the show had done exposition on) is that Cas joining was the linchpin to our Sam and Dean's story. Without him, they killed each other. Every time. They broke every time. With him, they won. Like. That is… so huge?

And I don't just mean him raising Jack and saving Dean. It's deeper and more delicate than that. I once wrote an article about how Cas was their gateway drug into forming valuable relationships that aren't with one another. Like, it's about the friendship. hypable.com/supernatural-team-free-will-castiel-10-anniversary/

It's about the fact that Cas was the reason they started opening up their safety net to others, and the more that happened, the less toxic and insular the brothers became about each other. And that insular toxicity and obsession led to them killing each other every other time.

Cas choosing them obviously changed the story so ways Chuck didn't like; he was a wildcard factor in the kind of choices that the boys would make and the resources they had, but Cas also made them healthier about each other purely by merit of creating room for them to grow.

Cas not doing what he was told is ultimately the main reason why this universe isn't the same as all of Chuck's other ones, and why this Sam and Dean have survived the obstacles, and even why this Sam and Dean's own relationship is strong enough not to kill each other.

Cas changed path and grew feelings, and started questioning immediately after saving Dean, and he was known to have rebelled before and been reprogrammed. Cas was "made wrong" before the Winchesters; he was the one who diverted from the plan first.

Chuck here literally spells out that every other Cas immediately stuck to the plan and never fell after saving Dean. Our Cas immediately took Dean's side, and rebelled all of s4 (even reprogrammed once, which Dean broke!) before they ever called him "family"

Cas is the goddamn reason. He's the Nexus event. I wish they'd spelled out the cause and effect on screen, but like. That is how it tracks. He changed everything, he changed their paths, he changed their relationships, it's all down to his "crack." So true of him.

Before Chuck was bad, I wondered if Cas was made like that by Chuck on purpose as a better version of angel, that he was the only one helping in the way God wanted. But what they ended up doing with Chuck was really perfect imo, and that Cas reveal is everything.

This, pals, is why the more loved ones you have in your, the better you are at loving all of them. The more important bonds you have, the more you learn about yourself and how to relate to others. The more space you have to work through issues, the less those issues consume you.

Like, truly cannot explain how much I meant this with my whole chest in September 2018, and how insane it is that the show LITERALLY ended up hinging on God intentionally trying to turn them into sociopaths that end up killing one another!!!

Unparalleled media experience, I love winning, etc."

Source: Natalie Fisher on X, July 2, 2021.

[moe-broey]

The absolute state of affairs actually. When it comes to green mage overlap. Bunny Sharena is a green mage too. At least she's infantry but dear lord we are so susceptible to swords (one of the most common/often op types of guys in the game)

[infiniteglitterfall]

know someone who enjoys horror stories? share this one! it's true!

hahahahahahahahahaha aarrggghhhhhhhhhh 3,000,000 deaths due to COVID-19 last year. Globally. Three million. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. The reason people are still worried about COVID is because it has a way of quietly fucking up your body. And the risk is cumulative.

I'm going to say that again: the risk is cumulative.

It's not just that a lot of people get bad long-term effects from it. One in seven or so? Enough that it's kind of the Russian Roulette of diseases. It's also that the more times you get it, the higher that risk becomes. Like if each time you survived Russian Roulette, the empty chamber was removed from the gun entirely. The worst part is that, psychologically, we have the absolute opposite reaction. If we survive something with no ill effects, we assume it's pretty safe. It is really, really hard to override that sense of, "Ok, well, I got it and now I probably have a lot of immunity and also it wasn't that bad." It is not a respiratory disease. Airborne, yes. Respiratory disease, no: not a cold, not a flu, not RSV.

Like measles (or maybe chickenpox?), it starts with respiratory symptoms. And then it moves to other parts of your body. It seems to target the lungs, the digestive system, the heart, and the brain the most.

It also hits the immune system really hard - a lot of people are suddenly more susceptible to completely unrelated viruses. People get brain fog, migraines, forget things they used to know.

(I really, really hate that it can cross the blood-brain barrier. NOTHING SHOULD EVER CROSS THE BLOOD-BRAIN BARRIER IT IS THERE FOR A REASON.) Anecdotal examples of this shit are horrifying. I've seen people talk about coworkers who've had COVID five or more times, and now their work... just often doesn't make sense? They send emails that say things like, "Sorry, I didn't mean Los Angeles, I meant Los Angeles."

Or they insist they've never heard of some project that they were actually in charge of a year or two before.

Or their work is just kind of falling apart, and they don't seem to be aware of it.

People talk about how they don't want to get the person in trouble, so their team just works around it. Or they describe neighbors and relatives who had COVID repeatedly, were nearly hospitalized, talked about how incredibly sick they felt at the time... and now swear they've only had it once and it wasn't bad, they barely even noticed it.

(As someone who lived with severe dissociation for most of my life, this is a genuinely terrifying idea to me. I've already spent my whole life being like, "but what if I told them that already? but what if I did do that? what if that did happen to me and I just don't remember?") One of its known effects in the brain is to increase impulsivity and risk-taking, which is real fucking convenient honestly. What a fantastic fucking mutation. So happy for it on that one. Yes, please make it seem less important to wear a mask and get vaccinated. I'm not screaming internally at all now.

I saw a tweet from someone last year whose family hadn't had COVID yet, who were still masking in public, including school.

She said that her son was no kind of an athlete. Solidly bottom middle of the pack in gym.

And suddenly, this year, he was absolutely blowing past all the other kids who had to run the mile. He wasn't running any faster. His times weren't fantastic or anything. It's just that the rest of the kids were worse than him now. For some reason. I think about that a lot. (Like my incredibly active six-year-old getting a cold, and suddenly developing post-viral asthma that looked like pneumonia.

He went back to school the day before yesterday, after being home for a month and using preventative inhalers for almost week.

He told me that it was GREAT - except that he couldn't run as much at recess, because he immediately got really tired. Like how I went outside with him to do some yard work and felt like my body couldn't figure out how to increase breathing and heart rate.

I wasn't physically out of breath, but I felt like I was out of breath. That COVID feeling people describe, of "I'm not getting enough air." Except that I didn't have that problem when I had COVID.) Some people don't observe any long (or medium) term side effects after they have it.

But researchers have found viral reservoirs of COVID-19 in everyone they've studied who had it.

It just seems to hang out, dormant, for... well, longer than we've had an opportunity to observe it, so far.

(I definitely watched that literal horror movie. I think that's an entire genre. The alien dormant under ice in the Arctic.)

(oh hey I don't like that either!!!!!!!!!) All of which is to explain why we should still care about avoiding it, and how it manages to still cause excess deaths. Measuring excess deaths has been a standard tool in public health for a long time.

We know how many people usually die from all different causes, every year. So we can tell if, for example, deaths from heart disease have gone way up in the past three years, and look for reasons. Those are excess deaths: deaths that, four years ago, would not have happened. During the pandemic, excess death rates have been a really important tool. For all sorts of reasons. Like, sometimes people die from COVID without ever getting tested, and the official cause is listed as something else because nobody knows they had COVID. But also, people are dying from cardiovascular illness much younger now.

People are having strokes and heart attacks younger, and more often, than they did before the pandemic started. COVID causes a lot of problems. And some of those problems kill people. And some of them make it easier for other things to kill us. Lung damage from COVID leading to lungs collapsing, or to pneumonia, or to a pulmonary embolism, for example. The Economist built a machine-learning model with a 95% confidence interval that gauges excess death statistics around the world, to tell them what the true toll of the ongoing COVID pandemic has been so far.

Total excess deaths globally in 2023: Three million.

3,000,000.

Official COVID-19 deaths globally so far: Seven million. 7,000,000. Total excess deaths during COVID so far: Thirty-five point two million. 35,200,000.

Five times as many.

That's bad. I don't like that at all. I'm glad last year was less than a tenth of that. I'm not particularly confident about that continuing, though, because last year we started a period of really high COVID transmission. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. Here's their data, and charts you can play with, and links to detailed information on how they did all of this:

Here's a non-paywalled link to it:

https://archive.vn/2024.01.26-012536/https://www.economist.com/graphic-detail/coronavirus-excess-deaths-estimates

Oh: here's a link to where you can buy comfy, effective N95 masks in all sizes:

Those ones are about a buck each after shipping - about $30 for a box of 30. They also have sample packs for a dollar, so you can try a couple of different sizes and styles.

You can wear an N95 mask for about 40 total hours before the effectiveness really drops, so that's like a dollar for a week of wear.

They're also family-owned and have cat-shaped masks and I really love them. These ones are cuter and in a much wider range of colors, prints, and styles, but they're also more expensive; they range from $1.80 to $3 for a mask. ($18-$30 for a box of ten.)

[pkg4mumtown]

All-Inclusive Obedience

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x GN!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You and Hotch are volunteered to go undercover as newlyweds on a couples retreat suspected of hiding something more sinister. Emotions, tension, and your giant crush on the man are all running high.

Content Warnings: alcohol, GN!reader (no Y/N), strong language, first person POV, canon-typical injuries and violence, cults, knives/guns, blood, newlyweds, voyeuristic surveillance, SMUT, drugging, kidnapping, human trafficking, fluff, hurt/comfort

A/N: My entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Criminal Minds Undercover Challenge No art this time, I dropped a longer fic than I intended to 😂. The Spotify playlist for it is below the break. Heed all warnings, please and thank you.

Also available on AO3

Intro

Going undercover wasn’t necessarily a new experience. Going undercover as a newlywed, however, was. It was made worse by the fact that Hotch and I were volunteered to go on the assignment together.

Me.

With my boss.

As newlyweds.

My boss.

Who I'd had more than one wet dream about since I'd been on his team.

That boss.

The BAU was gifted a case by Violent Crimes that they simply couldn't crack and Hotch reluctantly took it under the expectant glare from Strauss that he wouldn't fuck it up. The case revolved around an exclusive couples service catering to the ultra-wealthy—a place where high-profile clients would be sent on an all-inclusive trip with their partner in a reinvigorating retreat. It was the perfect match for affluent couples looking to reconnect with their partners.

The FBI was called in when some of these couples had begun to disappear with their assets drained and their whereabouts unknown. After weeks of investigation after the case was given to us, we suspected a trafficking ring where these couples were ending up either sold to the highest bidder or outright murdered. Some of the couples who survived were discovered on surveillance in countries far removed from where they disappeared, yet others came back home with no issue. It was never consistent and the BAU worked tirelessly to figure out what made the unsubs choose one couple over the other.

We checked flight logs and identification of passengers, seeing patterns of a few faces on multiple trips. That one important aspect continually brought us back: if couples were going missing, why were previous attendees returning? Were some of the couples in on the trafficking ring? Or were they ignorant of the happenings?

There was really only one way to find out.

After much research on Penelope's part, we discovered the only safest way was as an affluent married couple. The cover story came together easily: we were looking for a secluded honeymoon getaway hoping to enhance our relationship through one of the service’s elite couples’ retreats—one that many of the couples disappeared from.

As we signed up—well as Penelope signed up for us—we saw how the entire process was too good to be true.

I wasn't one to complain about a semi-dangerous free vacation, though, it might have been less stressful without my attractive boss.

Our only line of communication with the rest of the BAU would be a satellite phone that Hotch was bringing, locked and hidden discreetly in a Faraday cage. The retreat was strictly no-phones, so finding a place to hide it had been a challenge. The team would be on a nearby island monitoring the situation, gathering as much information as they could over there, and ready to extract us at a moment’s notice.

Hotch and I went over briefly what we would be expected to do on the trip: sleeping in the same bed, kissing, various public displays of affection, and if it came down to it—faking a sexual encounter. It was obviously the most nerve-wracking one, one, because of the subtle realism required to make it believable and two, because of the automatic implication that we would both have to be nude. Most things had to be on the table—within reason—for this to be both believable and a success.

-

Day 1

From the moment Hotch and I got in the car to the charter plane which was provided by the service, it was game on.

The driver had asked for our names, which Hotch provided the aliases for without hesitation. Hotch played the ever attentive new husband, taking the luggage from my hand and tossing our luggage in the trunk. We slid in the cushy car, Hotch automatically throwing an arm over my shoulder and pulling me close. It was automatically understood that seat belts were a suggestion in a car like this.

The driver was attentive, a little too much, continuously looking at us in the rear-view mirror. It meant that Hotch had to be handsier than we both anticipated right off the bat.

“Relax,” I felt Hotch's lips brush the shell of my ear, pressing his lips against my cheek.

It would be easier to relax if I wasn't so attracted to him. Frustrated with myself, I forced my body to relax. I slumped into his body, smiling up at him. His eyes flicked down to my lips, a sly smirk that I couldn't tell real from fake spreading over his features.

Biting the bullet, dropped a hand to his exposed thigh, clad in tan shorts and a flowy white button-down, and trailed it high up his leg, tilting my head up until my lips brushed his. It was brief and I pulled away almost immediately like I was teasing him.

“I cannot wait to get you alone,” he muttered just loud enough for the driver to hear. “Waves crashing, fucking you as loud as I want.”

I bit my lip, the butterflies his words caused being all too real. I hummed, smiling at his words and pressing my lips firmly against his.

So that was what it was like to actually kiss him, I vaguely wondered as his teeth scraped over my lip.

The plane trip had a reasonable flight time, shorter than many of our domestic flights with the team, taking us somewhere off the coast of Florida near the Bahamas. The plane ride itself was a blur as drinks were poured, accompanied by a few other couples and more “undercover” kissing than social interactions.

“So, h-how long have you been mm-married?” one of the wives slurred, leaning forward with her third flute of champagne. She had introduced herself as Becca, here with her husband, Leo.

They were one of the repeat couples.

I sipped on my own drink, having discreetly tested both mine and Hotch's for any drugs with an invisible polish on my pinky finger. Satisfied that nothing had come up, I shrugged and toasted his glass before taking a long swig.

“We just got married last month,” I answered, leaning forward toward her and gushing with her.

“Oh, newlyweds,” Becca cooed, clasping her hands together.

One of the partners from a different couple, Avery, who wasn’t as inebriated spoke up, “That’s wonderful! So, what made you decide to come on a retreat so soon after tying the knot?”

I gave Hotch a quick sideways glance, curious how he’d handle this one. He didn’t hesitate.

“We travel a lot for work,” he said smoothly, resting a casual hand on my knee. “It’s been…hard to find time to just be together.”

I smiled as if this were an inside joke between us, letting out a soft laugh. “And my sister swears by couples retreats. She and her husband went on one last year—oh I forget what company—but they came back glowing.” I widened my eyes like I was just so desperate to recapture that newlywed bliss.

Avery's partner, Quinn, was more reserved, simply holding their drink and not interacting much. I thought that maybe they might be like us, new to the experience, especially considering I didn't recognize them from our repeat attendee list.

Across from us, Leo gave Hotch a look that was half camaraderie, half warning, “You’ll be pushed outside your comfort zone, that’s for sure. The exercises can get…intense.”

I leaned in conspiratorially, grinning suggestively, “Intense how?”

He only chuckled, shaking his head, “You’ll see. It's all worth it.”

I shot Hotch a secretive look, as if we were about to be in over our heads—but in reality, I was watching for his reaction. He remained unbothered, simply lifting his glass in a toast, “To new experiences, then.”

I tapped my glass against his, our fingers brushing. I licked my bottom lip, watching the liquid pass his lips effortlessly and his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

He gave me a smirk over the rim, playing into the sultry looks I was giving him. It wasn't even pretending on my part, resisting the urge to shift too much in my seat and tell on myself about how aroused I was.

-

Upon landing on the island, there were several other planes already landed on the small airstrip. We were driven a short distance to the resort, consisting of lavish architecture weaving around the tropical foliage on the way in. The grounds were a typical beach haven, with bungalows lining the pristine beach. Workers covered every inch of the grounds, stopping and waving as the SUV passed, with wide, welcoming smiles.

Chills ran through my body as I made eye contact with one of them.

We were greeted immediately by a man who introduced himself as Trent, the Day Manager. The resort staff poured out to grab the bags of the couples, even to our light protest at being okay to carry our own luggage. More drinks were thrust into our hands as we were directed by Trent to a check-in desk—each couple assigned to a different staff member's desk.

“Welcome to Twin Palms Resort, we hope your travel accommodations exceeded your expectations,” the woman smiled stiffly, watching us for any type of complaint.

“Oh, it was wonderful,” I leaned into Hotch, smiling up at him.

“I’m pleased to hear that. Before we assign you your room, we do need a few signatures,” she slid a document and a pen across the table.

“Non-disclosure agreement,” stood out in bold letters at the top.

Interesting.

I leaned forward, picking up the pen and giving her a smile. Hotch put his hand on my wrist, halting me with light pressure and prying the pen from my fingers gently.

“One second, sweetheart,” he murmured, picking up the papers and skimming over them with a relaxed expression, not wanting to come off too tense or calculating.

I feigned tiredness, resting my head on his arm and glancing at the text every so often. It was painfully vague, talking the resort up about how it’s for an exclusive selection of people and that a level of discretion was warranted. And—did that say loyalty incentives and disciplinary actions? My eyes drifted to the staff member who was writing something on her side of the desk before looking back up to scrutinize Hotch. A lot of the verbiage wasn’t even in “legalese”, considering I wouldn’t need Hotch to translate some of it later. It was vague but self-explanatory, if not a little aggressive.

The very end made me grimace internally.

“By signing, you commit yourself wholly to the experience.”

Hotch gave the woman a smile and set the paper down, scribbling out his alias’ signature effortlessly.

“Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t signing my yacht away,” he winked.

The woman barely cracked a smile, “Of course, sir.”

I signed with my alias after and snuggled back into Hotch’s too comfortable warmth.

The staff member got our room keys sorted, actual physical keys, not plastic cards.

“Your luggage will be taken to your room, shortly,” she stated and stood. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your accommodations.”

Hotch nodded, grabbing his drink in one hand and taking my hand in the other. I walked loosely, keeping up my appearance of having one too many drinks on the plane while scoping out the place. My ears tuned into a conversation Avery and Quinn had with their staff member in regards to the NDA.

“Disciplinary action? What the hell does that mean?” Quinn, who was so quiet on the plane, spoke up, agitation in their voice.

Cameras littered the resort, starting to feel more like a cult compound than a freeing topical resort. Some were hidden in foliage and some were out in plain sight, but it was clear that they were covering their bases.

We approached the end of the path we were led on, where the concrete ended and sand began. Hotch toed out of his very expensive looking loafers, while I stumbled trying to get my shoes off. His arm wrapped around me to keep me steady, sighing happily as it finally popped off. He bent down, faster than me, and picked all four shoes up off the floor, tucking them under his arm.

“Come on,” he smiled gently, pressing a sweet kiss to my mouth and guiding me to the sand.

The staff member stood off to the side waiting and writing like before, waiting for us to catch up. The view from the beach was breathtaking and I groaned internally because we were here to work, not play.

“You'll find everything you need here,” she said while opening the door to the bungalow, the inside looking modern and immaculate contrasting the wood and straw outside. “Everything,” she stressed with a smirk.

We got the hint.

Sex stuff. Yep. Got it.

“Please don’t hesitate to let any staff member know if you need anything else. Your schedule is on the desk. Do try to be punctual to the highlighted events. Everything else is at your own leisure,” she gave us one more tight smile, leaving the keys on the desk and leaving us alone, shutting the door behind her.

“Alone” was a generous word.

We couldn’t be certain if there were bugs or cameras, not yet anyway. Our scanning devices were hidden in Hotch’s bag with his satellite phone.

Hotch tossed our shoes to the floor, sending bits of sand that stuck to the tread bouncing across the floor. I took Hotch’s glass out of his hand, setting both on the table and turning back toward him. Both of my hands trailed from his shoulders down to his chest, giving him a gentle shove until the back of his knees hit the bed.

He bounced on the bed with a “oof” escaping his chest. He propped himself up on his elbows, then his hands. His brows were questioning, but I only smiled and kneeled between his open, inviting legs.

“You said you wanted me alone.”

“I did,” he confirmed, eyes following me as I crawled up his body until he was looking up at me.

Using my hand to push him all the way back down to the bed, I covered my mouth with his, letting out all the pent up arousal from the beginning of this trip.

To him, I might just be a superb actor.

But, there was very little acting being done as I moaned into his mouth and blindly found the buttons of his shirt. As I ground my hips down against his while his hands trailed down from my back to my ass.

This operation was going to be rough.

Before I could completely unbutton his shirt, two knocks sounded on our door. I pulled away, dazed but not from the alcohol. From him.

He looked equally mussed, eyes still trained on my mouth until two more knocks sounded. I got off him hurriedly as if we were about to get caught by our parents. His shirt hung open, skin on display as he answered the door.

A different staff member stood on the other side, bags in hand.

I stood up to help Hotch, “Sorry about that, I can’t keep my hands off him,” I directed to the staff member, a younger man who simply smiled and blushed knowingly.

“N-no worries,” he stumbled, nearly tripping over himself.

He must be new.

After he left, we threw our luggage on the bed, unzipping them and taking out some of the contents. Hotch glanced at me, subtly getting my attention and flicking the small luggage lock he had on the bag that had been cut. I nodded, and took more things out. He fumbled in the bag for a moment before coming out with his toiletries.

“Mind putting those in the bathroom?” He handed the bag to me gingerly.

I felt the dent of the scanning device inside and grabbed my own toiletries to check out the bathroom for bugs. It was unspoken that Hotch would check over there.

The device lit up in only one spot of the bathroom, just under the mirror by the sink. Should be easy enough to drown out with the shower and the sink on.

When I came back, Hotch’s bag was just about empty, with one drawer left open for me. He made eye contact as I came back in.

I winked at him. One.

He blinked at me twice. Four.

“Look in the nightstand,” he grinned.

I hesitantly opened it, seeing it filled with condoms, lubes, dental dams, and factory sealed toys. Holy shit, she wasn’t kidding.

One.

“This drawer has the same,” he laughed. “I guess I didn’t need to bring so many.”

Two.

I put more of my clothes away, “Guess we can’t be too prepared.”

“Oh! You think we can catch the rest of Shark Week out here?” he pointed at the TV.

Three.

“You really want to watch sharks attacking people when we’re at the beach, babe?” I laughed, throwing a pillow at him.

“It’s educational.”

“Mhm,” I shook my head.

He stalked toward me, a smirk on his face. He backed me up against the desk, pushing the glasses and keys aside and lifting me onto it. He stepped between my legs kissing me breathless.

Four.

“Babe,” I moaned, torn between bringing him closer and pushing him away. “I’m not done putting my stuff away.”

Hotch groaned, feigning annoyance, “Hurry. They have a whole welcome thing in two hours and I have been dying to fuck you all morning.”

My jaw just about dropped to the floor at the words that came out of Hotch’s mouth. My brain was short circuiting. What twilight zone had I gotten myself into? Undercover Hotch was so different. Flirty, smiley, attentive, and kind of a slut.

I loved it.

“Yea?”

“Mm, I was ready to take you on that damn plane, the way you were looking at me.”

Internally, I was screaming.

Screw this.

I pulled Hotch back in, moaning as I felt his hips press into mine. I dug my heels into his ass, hearing him grunt and groan in response.

“Fuck me now, then,” I grinned, nipping at lips.

The fact that he was playing into the scene so hard told me he had something he needed to say or else he wouldn’t be so urgently pushing. I pushed myself off the desk, ripping my clothes off roughly as Hotch shrugged the rest of his shirt off and remaining clothing. I didn’t dare look down, shoving our luggage off the bed and pulling him down with me.

I ignored the hot press of his cock against my stomach. Both of us had a silent understanding that it would look strange if we pulled the sheets back when we were supposed to be so desperate and considering we weren’t supposed to know about the potential for bugs and cameras. I hoped it would be convincing enough.

I heard him dig through one of the drawers to locate lube to make it more believable. I didn’t expect him to flip the cap open and pour some out; wiping most of it on himself. Hotch groaned, adjusting himself until I felt his cock slide against my ass, the lube providing much needed relief from chafing where we met. He took a deep, shaky breath with his hips pressing forward mimicking pushing into me.

Hotch hid his whispers with groans and I did my best to help him, “Alarm clock has a camera. I think. Mirror, too.”

He kept his sentences short and in between breaths, “We can’t half ass this,” he muttered into my ear and I squeezed his shoulders in understanding.

“Cameras everywhere. Outside,” I responded against his mouth.

Hotch nodded, pressing his face into my neck, “NDA was fishy. Felt like a cult.”

I moaned in agreement, "Right there,” I hoped he understood the double meaning.

His hips slammed faster, his pubic area providing delicious friction with every writhe and thrust.

Don’t cum. Don’t cum.

Hotch made a passing glance at the alarm clock and I followed his eyes, “Still good on time, don’t worry,” he panted, making a show of lifting my hips and thrusting harder.

I moaned his alias’ name. It felt strange to call him anything but Hotch, especially when I’d dreamed of this moment—well it would be going much differently, but still. I did my best to breathe through the impending orgasm, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable until I felt his fingers dig desperately into my arms and torso as his orgasm snuck up on him. His hips stuttered and stilled, his chest still heaving as he breathed rapidly into my neck.

My ass was slicker than before, his cum coating my skin.

I was surprised; almost sad I hadn’t let myself cum, too.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into my neck. He sounded distraught, concerned, and embarrassed all wrapped into one package. “I’m sorry.”

My feelings immediately shifted and I felt bad, not considering how he’d feel. The post-coital realization hit him hard despite actual intercourse not taking place. I reassured him with a squeeze of his torso, letting my hand brush the hair at the base of his neck. He pushed himself up after a beat, looking at me with a satisfied smile for the camera but the most apologetic gaze I’d ever seen.

“Feel better?” I asked, bringing him down for a languid kiss.

Hotch nodded and sat all the way up, groaning as he did.

“We have time for another,” I bit my lip, reaching out for him.

He laughed, taking my hand, “I don’t want to sleep in a sweaty, crusty bed tonight.”

I pouted.

“Shower?”

He cocked his head toward the bathroom in an invitation, so I pushed myself up and followed him in.

“I thought you said you were too old for shower sex,” I joked on the spot.

“That scotch worked its magic. I’m pain free for another hour at least,” he laughed.

As soon as we entered the bathroom, I tapped his wrist, subtly pointing to where I had found the bug. Tapping the faucet, I pointed to him, then myself, then the shower. I held my hand out, telling him to wait and opened the shower. With one hand on the faucet and one hand counting down to him, we turned them on simultaneously.

“Holy fuck, this shower is huge,”I looked back at him.

He made a noise of interest, coming over to me, invading my space. As tempting as it had been, I still didn't look down and kept my eyes carefully trained on his face.

“Wow,” he commented. “Plenty of room for…activities.”

I let my laugh float around the bathroom.

Unsure of where to put his hand, he held my upper arm, murmuring lowly, “I'm really sorry, I didn't me—”

“Relax,” I stressed. “It's natural, considering what we were literally doing. Stop feeling bad,” I brought my hand to his shoulder comfortingly. “You probably needed it,” I joked, pushing his shoulder.

He barely cracked a smile, still looking like someone stole his favorite cufflinks.

I stared at his embarrassed, pinched look, “Oh my God,” I gasped, clapping my hand over my mouth. “I knew you were a giver. You're embarrassed because you came and I didn't.”

His face was beet red and though he could explain it away as the steam filling the room, I knew better.

“Well, come on, you can make it up to me. There's two shower heads in here, too.”

Hotch looked conflicted, on one hand—it was only fair, but on the other hand—this would be as ourselves rather than an act.

It would be on purpose. And that left room for danger in regards to returning back to normal life after all this.

Truthfully, I didn’t think he was going to step into the shower. I stepped back to take the pressure off of him, letting the warm water run over my head as I washed off our travels and the cum. I didn’t hear the shower door close softly over the spray of the water, my only indication that he had joined me being the skimming of his fingers on my abdomen as they traveled to my sides, and then my back.

My eyes flew open, obstructed by water, but I didn’t need to see as we came together. Our mouths moved surprisingly slowly, a stark contrast to the urgency not long ago. His tongue dipped into my mouth as his hand wormed between us, finding my sensitive skin still aching for release. How his hand managed to be slick with the water beating down on us—I didn’t question it (though my nose told me it was something scented). His mouth left mine, trailing down my neck while his hand and fingers worked several miracles.

I gave him one more out.

“You don’t have to,” I moaned loudly after as his hand moved just a bit faster with more pressure, letting my head drop back against the shower wall. His free had plastered against my back to keep me upright.

Hotch’s teeth scraped my neck.

It was enough of an answer.

He brought his face out of my neck, water dripping from his hair, down his nose, and beading off his eyelashes. His lips parted in concentration, watching as I came apart under his touch. His tongue swept out, gathering drops of water along the way making his hooded gaze more sensual if it was even possible. I could feel when the slick substance started washing away, Hotch letting me go shortly after.

I whined pitifully, clutching shoulders and digging my fingers in out of frustration, “Please.”

Without a word, my hips were pushed firmly against the wall and Hotch was on his knees.

He was so going to feel that later.

“Wait—you do—,” I moved to protest both the position for his own comfort and the fact that I didn’t intend for him to have to use his mouth.

He didn’t react to my fingers in his soaked hair, only glancing at me and blinking water out of his eyes. It took half a second before I was covered by his hot mouth, sucking, licking—

My mind went white and fuzzy.

My back pressed into the wall as my hips arched involuntarily toward Hotch, “So good—y-yes—mmm.” The pleasure coiled in my abdomen, tighter and tighter, “Fuck, I’m gon—”

It didn’t take long for my body to tense, feeling Hotch’s arms hold me tighter as I trembled so as not to slip. Bliss coursed throughout my body, making my fingertips clench against his head and my toes tingle. Hotch took everything in stride, not stopping until I was practically begging him and pulling him off me by the hair.

My chest heaved as I fought to catch my breath. Hotch didn’t care, covering my mouth with his and stealing my breath all over again. I tasted myself on his tongue, sending a new wave of excitement through my body.

Finally, he let me breathe, forehead pressing into mine as he still helped to keep me upright.

“Did that make you feel better?” I laughed softly, brushing my lips against his for a second.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

I dreaded having to leave his arms and stand on my own. I dreaded more, the idea of having to wash myself instead of letting my eyes slip closed in his arms.

But, we had a job to do and a schedule to follow.

Groaning, I planted myself more firmly on my feet, “Thank you.”

He hummed, releasing me from his arms.

I almost wished he had said “any time”.

We toweled off and dressed shortly after, needing to make up for wasted time.

“Wasted” was subjective.

The mirror was still partially fogged as I checked my appearance, Hotch at my side combing his hair and fixing his collar with practiced ease. He looked relaxed and comfortable like we were getting ready for an actual date and had done this a million times.

“I gotta say, honey,” I mused, dragging the word out and adjusting the back of his collar for him. “For a guy who hates shower sex, you sure were dedicated to it.”

He flicked his eyes to me in the mirror, a small smirk gracing his lips, “Nothing a little scotch can’t fix. You know I don’t half-ass my work.”

“Clearly.”

He turned to me, extending his arms out for approval on his outfit.

“Hot,” was the only word that tumbled out.

Hotch shook his head, pressing his lips to my forehead, “You look perfect.”

It was for show. It was for show. But damn, he really looked like he meant it. He was too good at this.

I rolled my eyes, patting the buttons on his chest, “God, you’re annoying.”

“You’re welcome.”

The moment settled around us, familiar and teasing.

I could get used to this.

-

The welcome dinner was a stunning display of wealth and indulgence, with chairs and tables perched neatly in the pristine sand. The tables were round, dressed in white linens, and encircled a stone and cement patio that overlooked the ocean behind us. Lanterns swayed gently from the trees and the ocean breeze, casting flickering golden light over the guests as the sun set. Laughter from the tables blended in with the rhythmic crashing of waves. Some hidden speakers played tranquil music softly in the background, the music almost having a lulling effect.

That or the orgasm really did more than I expected.

Hotch sat beside me, his arm draped lazily over the back of my chair, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against my shoulder. It was an easy, affectionate touch, one that made it appear as though he simply couldn’t keep his hands off me. It was a simple performance and a silent form of reassurance, a way to remind me he was there and that we were in this together.

At the front of the gathering, Trent, the charismatic day manager from earlier, stood beside a polished mahogany podium. He tapped a spoon against his champagne flute, the chime ringing out over the guests, drawing all eyes on him.

“Good evening, everyone!” he beamed, his voice practiced and smooth. “On behalf of Twin Palms Resort, I want to extend my warmest welcome to our newest guests, as well as our returning couples.”

A smattering of applause followed, though something about it felt performative, not unlike myself and Hotch—rather than genuine excitement.

“This retreat isn’t just an exciting getaway for you all. It’s a transformation,” Trent continued, sweeping his gaze over the attendees. “Here, you will learn to surrender completely—to your partner and to the experience. Only when we let go of our fears and inhibitions can we discover the depths of true connection.”

I felt Hotch’s fingers press just slightly against my shoulder, the tiniest acknowledgment that he, too, had caught the unsettling wording.

From across the table, Becca, one of the repeat attendees, let out an airy sigh and lifted her champagne flute, “To surrendering.” She murmured dreamily before taking a sip. Leo echoed her sentiment, his gaze flicking briefly to Hotch, as if gauging his reaction.

Hotch only smiled, raising his own glass in an effortless toast, “To new experiences.”

The moment passed, but not without leaving behind an undercurrent of something unspoken.

Waitstaff moved seamlessly between tables, refilling glasses before they were even half-empty, their presence almost ghostly in how little they disturbed the atmosphere. The meal was plated with precision and was undeniably delicious, clear that they spared no expense when it came to reeling couples in and retaining them. I took small, deliberate bites, acutely aware of how dangerous it was when we couldn't test the food. We had tested our drinks earlier, but there were more ways to manipulate people.

At our table, the conversation meandered between pleasantries and oddly pointed questions.

“So,” Becca said, resting her chin on one hand and swirling the last of her wine with the other. Her glassy eyes trained on us, “Have you two decided which exercises you’re most excited for?”

Hotch let out a soft chuckle, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. He had been swirling amber liquid in his short tumbler and blinked in thought, “We’re trying to go into this with open minds,” he said smoothly, moving his hand from my shoulder to rest on my knee. He hesitated just a beat too long, then let out a quiet, almost bashful chuckle. “Truthfully, we uh—” He cleared his throat and glanced at me. “We didn’t really take a second to…look.”

His meaning was clear.

Becca gasped in delight, while Leo let out a knowing laugh, clapping Hotch on the back. “That’s the spirit! Didn’t even make it past the threshold, huh?”

I bit my lip, feigning embarrassment, and nudged Hotch’s knee under the table. “We were just—” I exhaled a soft laugh and shook my head, letting the implication hang.

Across the table, Quinn shifted uncomfortably, while Avery gave a tight, uncertain smile. “Well,” Avery said, “there’s certainly a lot to look forward to.”

Leo grinned, “That’s one way to put it.”

I let my fingers skim absently over the back of Hotch’s hand on his knee, as if it were second nature. Hotch glanced over at me as he took a sip from his glass.

Across the table, Avery looked distinctly uncomfortable, their grip tight around the stem of their glass. Quinn, even more reserved, barely touched their plate, only offering nods or small smiles at the conversation around them.

Before I could pry out of sheer tipsiness, the murmur of voices died down as a figure moved into the periphery of my vision.

An older man had appeared at the edge of the gathering, where the glow of the lanterns met the darkness beyond now that the sun had fully set. He wore a darker version of Trent’s uniform, leading me to believe he was the Night Manager to compliment Trent. His posture was ram-rod straight, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He did not speak, nor did Trent acknowledge him from where he stood in the back. His assessing gaze swept over the tables, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was cataloging us, memorizing each new couple.

Hotch shifted just slightly beside me, enough that his thigh pressed against mine. He gently tapped my leg to get my attention, not realizing that I’d been too focused on the Night Manager as his gaze was about to come our way.

I forced a small smile, turning toward Hotch and kissing him.

The rest of the dinner was uneventful minus the watchful gaze of the Night Manager as Trent handed off the festivities to him.

We slowly made our way back to our room, doing our best to not look like we were in a rush despite needing to get back and update the team. Becca and Leo were walking near us and still in earshot, their bungalow not far from ours, so we had to be careful.

“Think we’ll be able to sneak out and skinny dip?” I held his hand, turning and walking backwards through the sand to face him.

“If you were more quiet maybe,” he smirked.

The couple made eye contact with each other, Becca nudging Leo.

“Hey,” Leo got our attention. “They’re kind of strict around here about not wandering at night. It’s a safety thing I think with the water and premises being pretty dark, they don’t want anyone drowning or getting lost.”

“Oh, thanks,” Hotch nodded, offering them a wave. Hotch tilted his head at me, making a mental note to mention that to the team.

We got back to the room, tossing myself unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Tired?” Hotch chuckled.

“Mhm,” I moaned softly, burying my face into one of the pillows.

He let out a soft breath of air through his nose, pressing a kiss to my head, “Get comfortable and pull the covers back, sweetheart. I'm just going to run to the bathroom real quick.”

I grumbled at the thought of getting up to undress and get under the covers, but did anyway. Hotch took a bit, likely sending a message to the team in as much detail as he could with just the satellite phone and no ability to call with all the bugs.

The toilet flushed, Hotch coming out in only his underwear with the rest of his clothes rolled up to hide the satellite phone.

He let out a groan, “My stomach did not like something at dinner.”

Hotch safely stored the phone again and joined me under the covers, where my eyes were nearly shut.

“Mm, you okay?” I mumbled.

“All good now,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head.

-

Day 2

I woke to the sound of the gentle lapping of waves to shore, my sinuses filling with the scent of salt and whatever harsh detergent they used on the bedding.

Inhaling deeply, I startled as I felt a tickle on my leg. I jerked my leg back and turned, only to remember—Hotch.

Oops.

His eyes were still shut and I couldn’t tell if he was awake or not but knew I needed to not act weird to the cameras, so I curled myself into his side and rested my head on his bare chest. Early morning light streamed in through the thin, flowy curtains, casting a glow across our bodies half covered by sheets.

I pressed my lips to his chest.

No reaction.

Maybe he was actually asleep.

I pressed my ear more firmly to his chest, hearing a slightly elevated rate and smiled to myself. I let my fingertips trail lightly down his abdomen, tickling the skin with the rough edges of my fingers. His heart rate picked up more.

I looked up at him, eyes still shut but the corner of his lips had pulled up ever so slightly.

“I know you’re awake,” I let my hand slip lower.

His abdomen tensed under my hand, his eyes blinking open and finding my gaze immediately.

“You were just going to lay there and let me have my way with you?” I smiled, pushing myself up to press my lips to his jaw.

“It’s called acting,” he murmured.

“Mm, so you can make your heart race like that on command?”

“Mmm,” he stretched his legs and arms, “no comment.”

As he brought his limbs back to his body, Hotch spared a glance at the clock on the nightstand.

“Oh, shit,” he sat up quickly, even with the weight of my head and torso on him.

“Wh—”

“The first exercise starts in ten minutes,” he whispered, frantically pulling on clothes.

“Shit.”

I jumped up after him, getting dressed and moderately fresh in record time. Running through sand was not my ideal cardio for the morning, especially on a not-vacation with my very hot boss.

-

We made it to the gathering on the beach with either thirty seconds to spare or five minutes late. It was impossible to tell.

A staff member we hadn't met yet introduced themselves as the leader of the exercise and started immediately.

“Good morning, everyone, My name is Celeste,” she greeted with a serene smile, her voice carrying easily over the soft rush of waves behind her. “I hope you all had a restful first night.”

Some of the couples murmured their agreement—more so the couples closer to her—while the ones in the back near Hotch and I looked just as disheveled as we did.

“I’ll be guiding you through this morning’s exercise,” she continued, clasping her hands together and scanning the group. “Today, we’ll be exploring trust—learning to rely on your partner even when you feel vulnerable. This is all about surrendering and allowing your partner to be your guide. You will be placing your complete faith in them, allowing them to lead you without sight.”

A table was set up next to her, neatly arranged with blindfolds. A murmur passed through the crowd of couples upon seeing the display. Becca shot me an excited look, while Leo leaned in to whisper something to her.

I touched Hotch’s wrist, prompting him to look at me and give me a squeeze in response.

“The exercise is simple,” she continued. “One of you will be blindfolded while the other partner leads. You’ll guide your partner through a short obstacle course using only your voice. Then, you’ll switch so both partners have a turn. This isn’t about your partner controlling you—it’s about letting go and trusting them.”

The phrasing sent an uneasy prickle down my spine.

Couples looked at each other with nervous excitement and stepped forward to grab a blindfold. We exchanged one more glance before Hotch reached for a blindfold after I hesitated for a second too long under the watchful gaze of Celeste.

Celeste smiled as if she didn’t just ask us to surrender ourselves entirely, “Take a moment to decide who will lead first.”

All of the couples looked at one another, Hotch glancing at me with a subtly raised brow in question. I could barely take him seriously with his face adorned in stubble from not shaving in our haste to leave earlier. I didn’t mind it, though I’m sure it drove him insane to have. The flecks of white on his face amidst his natural color was endearing and made him look softer than when he shaved.

“Can I lead first?” I asked nervously, touching the material in his hand.

“Are you sure?” He murmured, his thumb moving over my fingers soothingly.

“Yea,” I nodded. “I already know you’ll lead me perfectly.”

Something flickered in his eyes at my words. Pride? I couldn’t exactly tell, but he gave me a small nod as his expression melted into something fond.

“Alright,” he murmured, surrendering his grip on the blindfold. “I’m yours to guide.”

The words made a strange warmth spread through my chest, one I ignored as we turned into Celeste as she guided the group to the sand. Small obstacles were placed in a course, wooden beams breaking up the smooth sand, wooden platforms giving higher obstacles, and even some ditches in the sand we would have to avoid.

It wasn't anything too crazy. Nothing like any of the courses we had to run at the academy. It was more focused on communication than anything.

“We’ll be sending couples out every minute so it’s not so crowded. Go ahead and line up for me,” Celeste got the couples in somewhat of a line.

Hotch and I watched the couples start, seeing a lot of people tripping, peeking through the blindfolds, and touching their partners when they’d get frustrated. Staff had to verbally reprimand them and remind them of the rules several times.

Soon, Hotch and I were at the front as the couple in front of us went. I tied the blind fold over his eyes, adjusting it so it was snug but comfortable.

“Can you see?”

“No.”

I reached for his hands, steadying him as he shucked his sandals off.

“Trust me?” I laughed softly next to him.

“I do,” he squeezed my hand before dropping it.

I swallowed, pushing down the unexpected weight of those words. Celeste instructed us to start with a hand tap on both of our shoulders.

Hotch took careful steps on to the sand, trusting my estimations of distance to the next obstacle immediately. I walked next to him like we were simply taking a stroll, not wanting to confuse him by walking backwards in front of him or behind him.

“Pause,” I stopped him. “You’ll take a step over and it's just sand on the other side. Good…the next one is a little higher.”

We continued on, keeping my voice steady and calm even when he veered off too far to the right, almost going out of bounds, “You got it, just hear how close I am to you.”

Using his ears a little better despite the laughing and frustrated groans around us, he walked with more and more confidence with each passing step. It was intimate in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

“Stop,” I murmured. “You’re done.”

I reached up, untying his blindfold and watching his eyes blink to adjust to the light again. His eyes immediately focused on mine with a soft smile.

“Good job, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning in for a quick kiss.

He took the blindfold from me and tied it around my head, plunging me into darkness so we could continue the course.

“Ready?” Hotch’s voice was low, but close, meant just for me.

“Always,” I took a deep breath, nervous all of a sudden as I only focused on his voice.

His voice was just behind and to the left of me, taking a slightly different approach than me.

“Step forward, slowly.”

I followed his instructions, relying entirely on the warm, grounding tone of his voice. Each of my steps was tentative and careful, the sand shifting unpredictably under my feet to add another layer of uncertainty.

“Little more to the left, listen to my voice,” he murmured. “Good, baby. Another step and you’ll step over.”

“I feel like you’re guiding me through a minefield,” I laughed.

“Same principle,” he responded dryly.

Hotch didn’t tell me when I finished, instead winding an arm around my waist and pulling me close to him. I felt his lips meet mine, my eyes involuntarily closing underneath the blindfold. When I opened my eyes, the blindfold was removed and Hotch was grinning at me.

“I think we were the best ones,” he dove back in, smiling into the kiss.

“You might be biased,” I murmured.

“Mmm,” he made a noise of protest, indicating his head to where couples were finishing covered in sand and either mad or laughing at each other.

Staff members lined the obstacle course, clipboards in-hand and writing furiously. I accidentally made eye contact with one, who leaned over and spoke to the staff member next to him.

“What do you think they're writing?” I murmured.

“I don't know, but we need to find out,” his eyebrow twitched in contemplation but his hand trailed up and down my lower back to keep up the charade.

Celeste clapped her hands together, signaling the end of the exercise and gathering the couples together, “Wonderful work, everyone. Remember, this wasn’t about speed or perfection—it’s about learning to trust and communicate. Some of you did beautifully, while others…” she gave a knowing smile as some couples groaned and dusted sand off themselves, “may have discovered a few areas to work on. For now, take a break. Breakfast is being served in the main hall, and afterward, we’ll dive into our next exercise.”

Hotch’s fingers brushed against the small of my back as we trailed behind the other couples toward the dining hall. “We’ll have to be careful about how much we stand out.”

“Yeah,” I exhaled, glancing back toward the staff. “But I still want to know what they wrote."

-

Breakfast was a mix of tired grumbling and overcompensating excitement. Some couples barely spoke, still frustrated over the obstacle course, while others dissected every move they made, analyzing what they could do better. Hotch and I ate in a comfortable quiet, making small talk with the other couples.

“—haven’t seen them all morning.”

My ears tuned into a conversation at a different table, Becca’s chatter becoming nothing more than droning as I did.

A couple was missing already? Looking around at faces I already recognized, I hummed thinking who might be missing.

“Maybe they slept in. We almost overslept,” someone responded.

“Travel will do that,” another response.

“I felt kinda hungover, I don’t remember drinking that much,” another chimed in.

I trailed my hand up Hotch’s thigh, squeezing and leaning toward him with a teasing smile. With my lips brushing his ear, I murmured, “Couple missing. You hear that? Maybe drugging?”

Hotch chuckled, letting his hand come up to the back of my neck, “You’re insatiable.”

It was a simple response but let me know he heard me.

Tuning back into the conversation, I saw his eyes scanning other tables for any one he noticed was missing.

By the time we were called back outside, the sun had climbed higher, heating the sand to an uncomfortable temperature. The next exercise was the eye contact challenge. Simple in theory—five minutes of uninterrupted eye contact with your partner. But as I sat across from Hotch, knees nearly touching on the white sheet draped over the sand, I felt my stomach twist and regretted eating immediately.

No words, no distractions.

Just looking at each other. Easy.

The timer started.

I held his gaze, reminding myself that this was just acting, just another role to play. Hotch’s expression was unreadable. His eyes were dark and searching—glinting amber as the sunlight filtered through his eyelashes just right. It felt like they saw straight through me. The longer I looked, the more I felt stripped bare, as if every layer of protection I built up about my feelings for him was being peeled away. The mask I wore, the careful detachment despite our brief lapse in judgment yesterday—it all threatened to crumble under the weight of his stare.

I swallowed hard. My pulse thrummed in my throat.

Five minutes had never felt so long.

I fought every urge I had to look away but couldn’t help the heat I felt on my face as I licked my lips. And it wasn’t from the sun.

When the time was up, I deflated slightly, taking a deep breath as I recovered from the intensity.

“Okay?”

“Mhm, I forget how intense you are,” I rubbed my eyes.

“You forgot yesterday already? Must be losing my touch,” he teased.

Cocking my jaw to the side, I laughed and shoved his chest, “Oh, hush.”

-

We were put through a few more exercises throughout the day but with not enough time to relax back at our room, unfortunately. It was only after dinner—once the sun had already set—that we were released back to our rooms. Thankfully, according to our schedule, the second day was the most structured day out of the retreat, giving Hotch and I more free time to explore later.

Our missing couple also turned up after lunch, looking lost, not believing that it was two in the afternoon. They insisted that they hadn't been drunk but a couple from their flight—another frequent-flier couple—insisted that the husband had been consuming drinks pretty rapidly. He denied it, of course, but it was up to the listener’s opinion on who to believe. Hotch and I knew something more sinister was happening behind the scenes.

“The hot tub sounds heavenly right now,” I groaned, rubbing my hands over my arms in a desperate attempt to get rid of the feeling of sand sticking to my skin.

Hotch opened the front door and ushered me in, “Then use—”

He paused his movements and stopped speaking as he took in the room.

“—it.”

I looked at the room too to see what he was looking at. The bed was made, which wasn’t all that strange. Then, I noticed my bag wasn’t where I had left it this morning and neither was Hotch’s. Both bags were tucked neatly under the desk with the zippers done up neatly.

“I need to wash the sand off,” I rubbed his back and moved toward the bags.

“Good idea,” he grunted and followed me.

I rifled through my bag, seeing nothing missing, and moved to Hotch’s bag. Luckily, his bag had a hard bottom that hid the hard edges of the electronics inside well. Locating the phone and other electronics with a few quick zippers and Velcro pulled back, I emerged from under the desk with a random tube from my bag for show.

I waved it in front of him before moving my hands to the hem of my shirt, “Join me?”

His eyes followed my movements as my shirt slipped off my body, followed by my bottoms. I smiled sweetly as I opened the back sliding door, letting the night ocean breeze flow through the room. It took a moment, but I soon found the exterior lights and flicked them on long enough to turn the hot tub light on.

I felt him before I heard him, warm skin pressing against my back, “Just one bug in the far corner,” he murmured in my ear.

Hotch’s mouth dropped to my shoulder, peppering kisses for any other surveillance we might be missing. His hands smoothed down my sides, pausing when he expected to hit underwear and didn’t. His fingers tightened on my waist and I waited with baited breath for his next move.

His hands released me, so I took the opportunity to step into the tub. The hot water made me sigh contently as I sat fully, facing Hotch as he stood outside of the tub watching me.

The muscles in his chest jumped as he rested his hands on the edge of the round, wooden tub. His shorts slung low on his hips, showing just the top of his underwear.

“Are you gonna make me sit in here by myself?”

He didn’t respond, still staring like he was warring with himself. Slowly but surely, his fingers came to his shorts, flicking open the closure and hooking his thumbs into the sides. His shorts fell to the floor, underwear staying on as he fiddled with the side of the tub. He soon hummed in success as the hot tub bubbled to life and stepped in with me.

He lowered himself as much as he could until his shoulders were submerged, letting out a groan at the feeling. He, then, sat in the seat, exposing his shoulders and chest to the air again. His feet kicked out across the tub, landing on the seat across from us as his arm draped over my shoulders.

“Thoughts?” He murmured softly, trying not to be louder than the bubbling of the jets in the tub.

We kept our mouths close to each other's face when we spoke.

“I don't remember seeing them when we arrived but maybe they asked too many questions or weren't compliant enough yesterday? That other couple was gas-lighting them.”

“Mhm,” he sighed, fingers absentmindedly moving over my skin in the water. “We need to see the files they're compiling. They're storing the information somewhere.”

“Might be assessing compliance or weak relationships?”

“Yeah, I think so, too. Did you see the key cards they have clipped to their uniforms? That might get us somewhere.”

“Mhm, I thought it was strange that we got physical keys and they had key cards.”

Laughs and gentle splashing were thrown about in between our speaking to throw off whoever was listening and make it sound more natural than quiet, as well as drown out our words if they were too recognizable.

I stilled as a loud creak and a hushed whisper sounded, not too far from our patio. I listened for footsteps but the sand made it hard to hear movement. Hotch’s eyes squinted in the low light but if I couldn’t hear anything further, then he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to either.

“I think I'm gonna fall asleep in here, sweetheart,” he murmured, arm tightening over my shoulders to put me at ease.

“Yea, you're right,” I sighed unhappily.

“Shower and sleep?”

I hummed in agreement and followed him inside. I made sure the backdoor was locked tightly and followed him to the bathroom. Entering the bathroom, I started the shower and watched as Hotch averted his eyes and unfolded the sat-phone from his shorts to update the team.

I rolled my eyes at his actions, making the number two with my fingers and pointing at the shower. He glanced my way and nodded, holding a lone finger up.

Was he seriously being reserved now? Especially after what transpired yesterday. Or was he regretting it? The thought made my gut churn uncomfortably.

I knew it was a bad idea. But, I was also overthinking the whole thing.

Yesterday was a favor. It didn’t mean anything.

All of the fake affection was bleeding into my ability to think clearly.

By the time I had rubbed my skin raw, Hotch was opening the shower door with his eyes trained on the free shower head. As soon as his side turned on, I turned mine off and stepped out of the shower to avoid making him uncomfortable any further.

At least the towels were soft.

With the interior room lights on, it was difficult to see outside in the dark. I squinted, still uneasy from the sounds we heard earlier but did my best to shake it off.

I pulled on something loose to wear to bed and was laid back with my eyes shut by the time Hotch was done.

I heard him flick the lights off, then softly step over to the bed and slide between the sheets. I could practically feel him watching me in the dark.

“What’s wrong?”

Of course he could tell.

“Mm,” I hummed. “Just tired.”

“Okay,” he whispered over the gentle waves outside. I heard him shift his body closer, feeling the warmth of his hand as it traveled around me. “We can sleep in tomorrow, nothing mandatory until eleven.”

I was half asleep already and made a tired noise in the back of my throat, turning on my side to be more comfortable. I dampened down my feelings as his chest met my back and his bare legs and feet tangled with mine.

-

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep for but the sound of muffled voices nearby made my eyes snap open. I must have tensed my body because Hotch' tightened his arms around me immediately. His voice murmured lowly in my ear, “Don’t speak, listen.”

I was barely able to make out his whisper, but did as he said.

The voices sounded out of breath—like they were exercising, carrying something heavy—as they walked.

“w—t d—we tel—them?” one voice came through. (What do we tell them?)

“t—at th—y—eft early.” (That they left early.)

The distance and huffing didn’t help but I managed to understand the words. Their voices passed closer to the wall our bed was against, the voices much clearer now that they were practically up against our bungalow.

“This batch is going to take longer than expected to break in.”

My heart was racing and I wanted nothing more than to rip Hotch’s arm off of me and help whoever the staff were taking. I couldn’t jeopardize the entire mission. I would have to hope that they were still alive. The voices faded out eventually but Hotch held me still, waiting just in case.

The whine of a golf cart sounded in the distance, a mental note made of the direction it traveled.

“Do. Not. Get. Up,” Hotch murmured. “Can’t help if we’re caught.”

“We don’t even know where they’re taking them,” I murmured back.

“We’ll find out,” Hotch responded.

I clenched my jaw in frustration, ready to shoot back another protest when sounds of shifting sand came closer. They were different voices speaking to each other this time.

“Think they heard anything?”

“Nah, they’re newlyweds. They fucked as soon as they got here yesterday, I doubt they’ve stopped.”

“Yea, but—”

“Dude, pay attention, you’re missing parts.”

Missing parts?

“Sorry, sorry. Wait, so you—like—watched?”

“That’s the entire point of camera duty.”

“Was it hot?”

“Bro.”

“What?”

“Just fucking rake.”

Were they covering the tracks of the other two staff?

My heart rate eventually slowed, but I was still on edge. My eyes stayed open in the dark, my brain creating floating shapes born from my distress.

“Try and sleep,” he sighed.

I wouldn’t be very successful.

-

Day 3

Hotch had fallen back asleep after the events of last night, but I laid there in the dark listening—waiting and helpless. As soon as the sun rose, I wormed out of Hotch’s arms, made myself a coffee, and sat out on the patio. I tried to look for any evidence of the kidnapping we heard, only to see combed sand with footprints stepping sideways rather than forwards. It was still follow-able but I couldn’t very well go without Hotch and risk him getting pissed off.

Or worse—getting myself taken, too.

I tried to follow the tracks back to a specific bungalow with my eyes, squinting as it got harder to distinguish in the distance. It had to be one of the two to our left but I couldn’t tell which.

The resort looked normal like this. Serene and quiet, like a real vacation. Like none of what transpired last night could have happened.

Footsteps around the corner made me tense, my head snapping toward the sound. A staff member trudged around the corner, shoes heavy with sand. Her hands were full of white envelopes that she shuffled through, looking at each bungalow where our unit numbers were indicated on the outside.

She finally noticed me, pausing her movements and making eye contact. She looked startled before blinking and making her way over to me.

“Good morning,” she smiled, shuffling through the envelopes and locating one with our unit number on it.

“Morning,” I smiled back.

“We usually put these on your door but since you’re up…” she handed me the envelope. “This will take the place of your mandatory slot today. Congratulations. We hope you’ve been enjoying your time here with your partner. You two have been a delight to watch—blossom.”

The hitch in her voice didn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh—uh—thank you,” I took the envelope from her.

She tilted her head slightly, her smile was polite but otherwise unreadable, “Hopefully, you’ve both found the experience enlightening.”

I nodded slowly, fidgeting with the envelope, “We—we certainly have.”

Her eyes flicked to the glass door, where Hotch's sleeping form was visible through the thin, fluttering curtains, “You and your husband make such a lovely pair, so natural together.”

It made me all too aware of how exposed we were at night.

Her smile widened, something darker in her eyes than before, “We love to see couples fully embracing every exercise here.” She tapped the stack of envelopes against her palm, her tone friendly and teasing, “Those who don’t take full advantage of the retreat…let’s just say they don’t always get the same privileges.”

The meaning settled like a weight in my stomach.

She took a step back from the patio, still watching me intently, “Be sure to enjoy each other tonight after this reward. It’s one of our most special ones,” she added, voice lilting as if it were a friendly suggestion, but it wasn’t.

It felt like an order. Like a warning.

“Of course.”

Her gaze lingered a second longer before she turned away and left her tracks in the sand. She went back about her business, moving to the other bungalows. I watched her discreetly, feigning reading the letter as I watched her drop off at every unit except for the one diagonally from us to our left, closer to the shore than we were. That must belong to whoever got taken last night.

I tried to wrack my brain to remember who got placed there when we arrived. It wasn't the couple who had gone missing yesterday, I knew that for sure. It was—

Oh, shit.

I glanced back at Hotch, still tangled in the sheets, surprised that her voice hadn’t woken him. I glanced down at the letter I extracted from the envelope—a couples massage. Though, we wouldn't be getting massages together—no—we’d be giving them to each other.

I fought the urge to groan in protest. I chewed the inside of my cheek and stood, leaving my coffee on the table.

Gingerly, I got on the bed with one knee, throwing my other leg over his hip so I was straddling Hotch.

It was cruel considering what we heard last night but I figured it would help stay in character.

Hotch jumped at the contact, eyes flying open. He was practically ready for a fight, but as his groggy eyes focused on me his whole body relaxed.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” I smiled, running my hands up and down his chest.

He took a deep breath, willing his adrenaline down and blinking his eyes rapidly to focus better.

He rubbed the sleep from the corners of his eyes, “Morning, what’s got you so excited?”

I turned the paper toward him, which he squinted at and tried to distance his face from the paper but his head was blocked by the bed and the paper was blocked by my body.

“Need your glasses?”

Hotch threw me an exasperated look, closing his eyes in frustration and blinking a few times again.

“Read it to me?”

I tossed the paper on the bed, leaning down so my lips nearly touched his, “We have been gifted a couple’s massage.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Mhm,” I pressed my lips to his, then trailed my mouth to his jaw. “It was Avery and Quinn. They didn’t get an envelope on their door and the tracks go that way,” I whispered. I came up speaking at a normal volume, “But we’re giving each other the massages.”

“Yea?” He grinned slyly.

“Sounds kinda fun,” I kissed him, letting my tongue dip past his lips. “I can give you a massage right now, in fact. So, nice and hard for me already,” I cooed, wiggling my hips as if I could feel his fake hard on.

It was insurance to make sure we were worth keeping around, I told myself.

I waited for his approving nod before sliding under the sheets, keeping my movements slow and natural. My hand trailed over his stomach, my nails barely scraping his skin as I shifted between his legs. I smiled to myself as I felt his muscles tense beneath my palm, his breathing steady but elevated.

I wasn’t actually going to do anything to him, but the cameras and microphones didn’t need to know that. I let my head dip low enough so the sheets shifted and moved my shoulders just enough to insinuate that something was happening. My fingers ghosted over his thighs, my palm meeting coarse hair, while my other hand pressed against his hip.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back against the pillow like he was relaxing. The noises escaping his throat warmed me from the inside out, sounding like he was actually enjoying himself.

I had no way to know if the staff watching the cameras were buying it, but I had to assume they were. I let out my own moan as his fingers slid under the sheets and found the back of my head, feeling more like reassurance than performance. I let it go on for an extended amount of time, letting Hotch tell me when it was an appropriate time to stop. His moans grew in volume, keying me into the act. His hips shifted under me as he let out a long groan, hand pushing my head down until my nose made contact with his stomach.

I was so close to where I could see the outline of his actual erection through his underwear, our actions likely having made it appear. I could smell his natural scent this close to him, almost jealous that he’d been able to taste and smell mine and I hadn’t been able to do the same the first day.

After a beat, I slowly dragged myself back up. I made a show of pressing a lazy kiss to his chest and wiping the corner of my mouth before settling next to him.

“It still surprises me how good of a cock-sucker you are,” he hummed.

My face felt like it was on fire at his words despite me not actually doing what he said, just the words alone made me heat up. I hid my face in his neck, away from his teasing grin.

“The person who gave this to you. Lady? Dark hair? Short?” he murmured, pretending to turn and chase my embarrassed face. “Don’t get all embarrassed now,” he said louder.

“Mhm,” I laughed as his breath tickled my neck, pretending to push him away.

“She walked by, stared at me while you were under and smiled,” he hummed against my skin.

His words sent a chill up my spine.

Hotch laid back against the bed and pulled me against him again.

“That wasn’t a smile,” I inhaled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That was approval.”

-

The massage wasn’t until the afternoon, so we had time to kill. Under the guise of breakfast, we got ready and left the room. I took Hotch’s hand, and dragged him to the water first. It was warm enough outside in the late morning that the water felt refreshing rather than shocking.

Naturally wandering down the wet sand, I stared in the direction of Avery and Quinn’s patio. I didn’t see any movement, but squinted through the glare of the sun.

“Trust me?” I murmured to Hotch, who looked like he dreaded what I was about to do.

A muscle in his jaw jumped but he finally nodded. I clenched his hand and took off in a jog toward their patio.

“Avery! You guys up?” I turned up the excitement in my voice, blocking the sun from my eyes with my free hand as I got to their patio. “Quinn?”

I squinted harder, seeing the room pristine as if it hadn’t been lived in. There was no luggage to be seen and the bed was made the same way ours had been when we arrived.

“Hi, there,” a staff member appeared from the other side of the unit, a tight smile adorning her features.

I jumped at the sudden voice. It wasn’t the woman from earlier, but her attitude was very similar.

“We discourage interrupting couples in their rooms for privacy reasons,” she continued.

Privacy? How rich.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I laughed, my hand over my chest. “We had made plans to get breakfast together and I didn’t see them pass by us, is all.”

The woman clasped her hands together, not budging, “Unfortunately, Avery and Quinn had to leave earlier than expected.”

My heart dropped into my stomach.

No.

“Oh—what ha—”

“We can’t disclose that personal information. I’m sure you can understand?”

“R-right, of course. I’m so sorry, again,” I spared another glance at their room.

“Enjoy your massage,” she smiled, effectively ending the conversation and sending us on our way.

-

We ate lunch in relative silence, my knee shaking as I wanted so badly to ask Hotch what he would and wouldn’t be comfortable with during this massage, especially since I fully expected it to be under the watchful eye of a staff member. By the look on Hotch’s face, he knew I had something important to talk about and read me like a book.

As soon as we finished eating, he held out his hand and led me out to the beach away from everyone and hopefully any surveillance. We still had about an hour until we were to meet a staff member at a secluded cabana down the beach. It was both enticing and terrifying knowing we would be on our own.

Hotch stopped near the gentle waves, just close enough for our feet to get wet every so often and hugged me from behind comfortingly.

“Are you nervous?” he murmured.

“Yea,” I swayed with him. “It feels like a trap, but I also can’t get past what she said about this being a reward. We’re obviously doing something right if we didn’t get disappeared.”

“I don’t think they’d do something like that during the day, it’s too brash. Remember, they do need people to come and spend money on the trip regularly.”

“Yea, you’re right.”

“Then, what else is bothering you?” he wondered, his nose brushing the shell of my ear.

“I—I don’t want to make you more uncomfortable if they—you know, make us touch each other for an hour all sexual and shit.”

Hotch laughed, an honest to God laugh, not whatever bullshit laugh he put on for show here.

“I trust you with my life,” he assured me. I opened my mouth to interrupt him, but he gripped my waist tighter, “Let me finish. We’re both professionals and I know we didn’t really talk about the other day but you didn’t make me uncomfortable, I promise.”

He sighed, letting his lips fall to my shoulder, “I enjoyed myself…and I hope you did, too.”

I hid my face from him, groaning at his teasing laugh, “I did, I did.”

“Good,” he paused. “I’m glad it was us on this mission.”

I looked back at him, waiting for an explanation but only saw him looking out at the waves. He blinked and looked at me, kissing me softly and tightening his hold on me. I didn’t know what to do with my arms besides hold on to his forearms.

“I don’t think I could have done this with anyone else,” he murmured.

I did my best not to read into it, knowing he very well could do this with any other member of the team with lives at stake.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, you would have made it work regardless. That’s just who you are.”

“Maybe,” he nodded. “But, it’s easier with you.”

That. That, I couldn’t ignore. By the intensity in his eyes, he wanted me to read between the lines, too.

“Okay,” I nodded.

“Meaning, whatever they have us do? I trust you completely. I promise. And I hope you feel the same.”

“I do,” because truthfully, I’m sure I could have felt safe with any member of the team, but the way I clicked with Hotch? I knew I was in perfectly capable hands.

“Good. Ready?”

I nodded my head, but stopped him from walking by turning in his arms and placing a hand on his exposed chest beneath his loose button down. Out of pure-selfishness and to seal the promises we just made, I used a hand to guide him in for a kiss. One of his hands pressed into my lower back to hold us together, but let us part all too soon for my taste.

Hotch gave me a knowing smile, bringing his thumb and forefinger up to my chin, “We’re going to be okay.”

We set out down the beach, where the invitation indicated, seeing a cabana with huge, white, flowing curtains billowing on each side. They were transparent enough that you could see two people shapes inside but not transparent enough to make out details.

We slowed our steps as we approached the wooden platform. It was surprisingly void of sand, which made me kick my shoes off and leave them in the sand rather than track it on the platform. Hotch held my hand as I stepped up, finally letting my hand go to ditch his own shoes and follow me.

Two staff members, one woman and one young man stood clutching a clipboard each to their hips with their arms straight down. Their smiles felt less sinister than many of the other staff members, but they were dressed in the same white button downs, slacks, and plain work shoes as every other staff member.

“Welcome, we’re so glad to have you,” the woman greeted. “I will be guiding you through this experience and training my associate, if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” Hotch smiled, reaching out to shake the young man’s hand, recognizing him as the young man who brought our bags on the first day.

The young man seemed a little nervous, earning a glare from the woman but he presented his hand to Hotch after some hesitation.

“We provided drinks for you as well,” she indicated, gesturing to two drinks that they’d clearly taken notes on us ordering often. “If you would like any more, please let me know and my associate would be happy to make you more.”

“Thank you, so much,” I smiled, reaching for mine.

Hotch mimicked my movements, bringing his glass to mine for a small toast. The noise he let out as he sipped the scotch was borderline criminal—a cross between a hum and a moan.

“The scotch you use here is…” he hummed appreciatively again. “…it’s so good.”

He brought the glass to my lips, the little bit that I tasted making me wince both at the strong flavor and the flavor change from my own drink.

I blinked rapidly, feeling like I was breathing fire, “You can keep that.”

Hotch just laughed at me and took a bigger sip.

Realizing we were getting off track, I cleared my throat and turned my attention back to the woman, “Sorry.”

“No, please, this exercise is all about you two to bring you closer. I want to encourage you to be as expressive as you want with your partner,” she smiled, her voice as soothing and serene as the breeze around us.

I nodded, feeling Hotch’s hand come to rest on my waist, “So, how is this working?”

“Well, typically, couple’s massages occur when a couple gets a massage together by two separate masseuses, as I’m sure you’re aware. Due to the nature of this retreat, we want to teach and encourage partners to implement massages to be closer to one another, for use as a form of foreplay, or even as aftercare. To start, you will massage your partner's back side from head to toe before moving to the front from head to toe. You’ll focus on non-sexual areas first. We have different oils you can choose to use for your partner. Take the time to undress one another completely, and when you’re ready and choose who will give first. If you need guidance, I am trained and can offer help without any physical intervention,” she stated with practiced ease. “Do you have any other questions?”

“What’s our time limit?” Hotch asked, ever the planner.

“No time limit, you can take as long or as short as you need. If this experience brings on sudden urges, you may act on them once both partners have gone. We are not here to rush or judge. You’re to treat us as if we’re not here unless you need something.”

Urges.

Sex.

Did she just insinuate we could get busy in front of them? Not that it was much different than the cameras, but…still.

We both nodded at her, then looked at each other.

“If there’s no more questions, you may begin when you’re ready.”

At that, Hotch nodded and tossed the rest of his drink back for some extra courage. I followed his lead and placed my empty glass next to his on the platter.

I smiled as Hotch invaded my space, his fingers finding the edges of my clothes easily.

“Can I give you yours first?” he asked, bringing his forehead to mine so his eyes solely focused on me as if we weren’t being watched or out in the open.

“Yes,” I let my fingers skim over his chest and fall to the buttons of his shirt, starting to pop them open.

With one last brush of his nose against mine, he began slowly dragging my clothes off my body. I stopped him from shrugging out of his shirt, letting my hands move up the planes of his chest to his shoulders to push the fabric off. I guided it down his arms and off one, then the other, until it fell into a pool on the floor with my clothes. My fingertips trailed down his abdomen, meeting coarse hair on his stomach just before I reached the waistband of his shorts. I managed to undo the shorts without looking and hooked my thumbs in both the shorts and his underwear to push them down his legs.

“Lay down,” he murmured.

I didn’t need to be told twice and laid down on the massage table covered in a soft, white sheet. My toes clenched anxiously as I was hyper aware of my exposed skin to the elements as the breeze filtered through the cabana. Hotch’s hands grazed my back briefly as he rounded the table, then made more firm contact. The tension melted from my shoulders at his reassurance.

“Any scent in particular?”

“Surprise me,” I mumbled.

I heard the clinking of glass for a moment, then felt Hotch’s presence by my head. I bit my lip in anticipation, not having to wait long before I felt his thumbs pressing into the muscles in the back of my neck. The moan that immediately escaped my throat was involuntary but warranted as he dug for every knot he could feel in my back.

I had a lot.

My boss was a bit of a hard-ass, I laughed to myself.

I inhaled deeply as his hands found my lower back, whimpering at a particularly sensitive area near the middle. As he moved onto my arms, I realized he’d picked an unscented oil. I could only smell the alcohol on my breath, the beach, and Hotch. The faintest vestiges of the soap from his shower this morning were overtaken by his own scent and a hint of sweat from the heat.

“No scent? You did surprise me,” I hummed, shying away from his hand as he went over a ticklish area.

His hands didn’t stop their movements, his mouth suddenly by my ear with his nose brushing my neck repeatedly, “I only wanted to smell you.”

I had to fight sleep as his hands bypassed my ass, digging into my hamstrings instead. As much as it hurt, it was relaxing as I felt my muscles unwind for the first time in ages. My feet twitched away from him as his calloused fingers skimmed the bottom of my foot rather than held my foot.

“I’m gonna kick you,” I mumbled, hearing him laugh and finally grab my foot.

The man had magic thumbs. It was unreal.

With my feet happy and pliant, his fingers teasing along the inside of my legs. He wasn’t stopping either, rising higher and higher until his thumb notched perfectly into the crease where my ass met my thighs. I let out the smallest of whimpers, one I would deny until the day I died.

But, Hotch heard it. The environment was quiet enough that there was no way he missed it.

“Can I get another round?” He murmured to the staff members.

The young man was all too quick to make himself busy, placing his pen and clipboard down on the chair he stood up from.

I didn’t realize I could have knots in my ass, but feeling how loose and pliant the muscles were after Hotch’s hands were done with them made me realize my body was in worse condition than I thought.

My breath hitched as this thumb slipped between my ass cheeks, his other fingers reaching forward to tease whatever sensitive skin he could reach. My hips pushed back against his hands, making him laugh softly and retreat his hand.

“Turn over, sweetheart,” he whispered.

I didn’t want to as I felt my body reacting to his teasing rather than relaxing. Whining as I tucked an arm in to roll over, Hotch’s hands helped guide me so I wouldn't fall off.

“Sit up a little,” he murmured, reaching for my freshly made drink and bringing it to my lips.

The ice cold liquid helped to cool my face and wet my dry mouth.

Hotch pulled it away from my face when I was done, easing me back down onto the table. He picked up his own drink, sipped it, and came back.

Before he re-oiled his hands, he brought his fingers to my temples and pressed his fingers firmly into my scalp, moving them in even patterns. Hotch’s hands moved down to my neck before disappearing entirely. Before I could open my eyes, I felt soft lips press against mine twice. They were gone too soon but replaced by freshly oiled hands on my shoulders.

His hands worked down to my chest, only getting level with my armpits before moving to my arms again. He redid each arm, gently placing it back down with a kiss to my wrist. His large hands gripped my rib cage, just under my arms, smoothing over the skin simply to touch. Just like before, he skipped straight to my legs, digging into my quads and calves until they were a loose puddle of muscle.

I kept my eyes closed, knowing what was coming next as Hotch’s fingers skimmed the inside of my thighs again. Bypassing where he knew I wanted to be touched the most, his thumbs happily dug into my hip flexors just above my thighs. It actually felt good but I let out a frustrated moan.

“So needy, sweetheart,” he murmured.

He wasn't much better, I noticed, feeling his erection brush my hand. I behaved and let him be. I let out a low moan as his slick hand finally made contact with my heated flesh, moving in agonizingly slow rhythms just to tease. He didn't tease me long, removing his hand after a couple minutes of torture.

“Shh, shh,” he smoothed his hand over my abdomen and flicked my nipples with his thumb. “Can't have you cumming and getting sleepy before it's my turn, honey. We have plenty of time.”

I nodded, agreeing, though not happy about it.

Giving me a satisfied smile, he pressed a kiss to my pouting lips and let me get up on my own terms.

It took me a second to get my footing, my legs wobbly after being so relaxed. Hotch finished his second drink and sat, brushing his hairy knees against my thighs in the process. He let out a full body groan as he laid face down, shoulders slumping against the table.

“The key here is to not rush,” I heard the woman speak up from the corner.

I nearly forgot they were here.

“Too often we neglect our partners when we’re too tired or already satisfied. Be aware and give him as good or better than you think you received.”

I was actually getting sound advice from a cult. Nice.

Deciding to copy Hotch on the unscented oil, I started much the same as him. The system was efficient, just like him. Why change it?

I let my hands run soothingly over his skin first, admiring the constellations of freckles across his shoulders and back. I fought the urge to gasp as my hands pressed into the muscles at the back of his neck and shoulder. He didn’t just “have knots”, the man was a walking knot. I couldn’t even press very hard without receiving a whimper in response.

No wonder he’d been drinking so quickly. He was trying to relax for this part. How did he exist like this?

“It’s okay, just go. I’m okay,” he assured me. “I’ll feel better after.”

I glanced at the staff member for guidance, not believing I was actually seeking guidance from these assholes.

She nodded, “Just go slow.”

Taking a deep breath, I worked on his back in sections and tried not to pay attention to his pained cries unless he outright told me to stop. Which he wouldn’t, I knew that much. I was relentless on the knots, not stopping until each one unwound and his whimpers eased. The pain in my hands from the effort stopped registering after a while.

I gave his back a break and worked on his arms, paying more attention to his forearms, wrists, and hands than anything because of our job. After paying attention to both arms, I placed my hand at the middle of his back.

“Feeling okay?” I looked his way despite his face being hidden.

He sniffled, releasing a shaky breath, “Yea, keep going.”

I sighed, threading my fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp soothingly. He jumped as I pushed my thumb into one of the erector spinae on either side of his spine. I adjusted my pressure, thinking I had hurt him.

“That part’s just ticklish, it’s okay.”

I continued, enjoying the quiet laughs as my fingers pressed into his sides, surprisingly ticklish there. My thumb pressed into the top of his glute, earning me a grunt.

“Sciatica?”

“Mhm.”

“Is there any part of you that doesn’t hurt?”

“I can think of one,” he lifted his head to look back at me with a smirk.

“I walked into that one,” I murmured and continued.

Thankfully, it looked like he carried most of his stress in his upper back, so the rest was a breeze. He seemed to enjoy the digging of my thumbs into his ass cheeks a little too much, but as long as he wasn’t crying anymore, I’d take it. I put extra oil on my hands as I got to his legs, not wanting to accidentally tug on his leg hair and cause any further pain. The groans he released as I worked on his legs and feet were far more pleasurable and turned me on more than I anticipated.

I still didn’t rush. She was surprisingly right.

The smile on his face as he turned over was worth it.

“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” I commented, patting his abdomen, not really massaging just yet, just touching.

“That’s what the hot tub is for.”

I shook my head, walking around to his head and pressing a kiss to his forehead. I wrapped my hands under his head as I did, letting my thumbs press into the sides of his neck. Happy hums left his chest as I paid attention to his head, surprised that he didn’t have a million knots there, too. It would be unrealistic of course, but I was still surprised.

Eventually, the hums stopped, his face slacked, and his breathing evened out.

He’d fallen asleep.

I couldn’t do anything but smile, keeping my movements slow and steady to avoid jostling him awake. I pressed my fingers into his chest loosening the taut muscles, especially where they met his shoulders. Not wanting to tickle him awake, I skipped his abdomen and moved to his leg—focusing on those and not his half-hard erection. His foot twitched as I grabbed it but barely reacted as I pushed my fingers into the arches of his feet. The only noise he made was a simple breath releasing from his nose.

I brought my hand back to his abdomen, letting my hand skim down to his protruding hip bones.

I still didn’t look. I—

“Are you just going to stare or…?” Hotch murmured, an arm—one I didn’t even notice had moved—tucked behind his head. His eyes were half open, glancing down to where my fingers teased his hip.

“Are you going to ask nicely?”

He was silent, but the smirk didn’t leave his face. His eyes twinkled, and not with tears.

“Touch me, sweetheart,” he requested, and I was weak to resist the way his lashes made his eyes impossibly darker.

“You’re the one who has to limp back to the room,” I commented, adding a little more oil to my hands. If I had to wait, so did he.

I did my best to not look hesitant as I reached out and teased his cock by trailing my finger up the shaft and pressing the head between my thumb and finger. Wrapping my hand fully around his cock, he was thick and hot in my hand. His hips pushed into my hand at the contact, but I didn’t budge, still moving my hand up his shaft at my own pace. He fully hardened in my hand, and I let go when he did.

“Babe,” he pleaded as his cock slapped against his stomach, leaking precum onto his oiled skin.

“Can’t have you cumming and getting sleepier,” I threw his words back at him.

He groaned, sitting up and stretching his newly loosened back.

“You’re free to use this space,” the staff member spoke up again.

Licking my lips, I looked at Hotch. I could see the hesitation in his eyes but he wouldn’t vocalize it.

The gentle smile on the woman’s face began to vanish.

So, I improvised.

“There’s a toy I found in the room that I’ve been dying to try on him, honestly.”

Her smile suddenly returned.

“We can give you a ride back to your room, if you’d like. I’m sure you’re…impatient…by now.”

“That would be great, actually,” Hotch smiled at the offer.

-

The cart ride back to the room was heated. The woman drove quickly and efficiently while the man sat fidgeting in the front seat. It was stupid of us to be so engrossed in each other rather than paying attention to our surroundings, but Hotch’s tongue was down my throat and my hand was down his pants as soon as we sat.

I don’t even think we were acting.

A clearing of a throat broke us out of our actions.

The cart had stopped.

It took me a moment to realize we had arrived at our room. Removing my hand from his pants hurriedly as the staff members looked back at us, I scrambled out of the golf cart with Hotch close on my heels.

“Thank you!” I called back to where they still sat in the cart.

The woman flashed me a knowing smile.

The door gave way to my key easily. The door had barely shut behind Hotch when I was met with his broad form backing me up against the edge of the bed in a few long steps. My knees just about wobbled at the look in his eyes.

No words were exchanged as we ripped the clothes off of one another that had barely been replaced a few minutes ago. I found myself astride his hips, large hands gripping and plastering my body against his with his cock trapped snugly between us. His cock was aching—practically purple from neglect—and leaking all over his stomach.

“I need you, sweetheart, please,” he whispered against my cheek. “I need you.”

The look on his face was pure desperation. He wasn’t acting. Frankly, neither was I.

“Sure?” I mouthed.

He nodded furiously, “Please.”

I leaned over him, pulling open the nightstand drawer and digging my hand in. Hotch’s mouth attached itself to my chest, licking over the dips and peaks, laving over sensitive nipples. It was a miracle I was even able to grab a toy as I promised the woman. I pulled a small finger vibrator from the drawer along with some lube and a condom. I shrugged, figuring that would do as I looked it over in view of the camera.

I rolled the condom on him with a teasing slowness he didn’t appreciate for a second. Still, ever the gentleman, he slicked two fingers up and wormed them between us, pressing against my entrance.

“I don’t nee—” I moaned in the back of my throat as his fingers pressed deep, stretching and pressing against my walls.

“I know what you need,” he interrupted me, curling his fingers and pressing harder, ripping another moan from my throat.

“I need you inside me,” I gasped, holding his wrist down with one hand so I could raise myself off his fingers.

Lube was spread haphazardly over the condom in our haste. His hand gripped the base of his cock as I lined myself up, hands and fingers digging with bruising grips into the same shoulders and chest I had just healed.

The stretch of him was intense, more than I expected but very little had gone in the way of preparation besides the massage. His hum was satisfied, finally feeling some kind of relief as I worked my way down his shaft. Each groan leaving his throat was wobbly, as if he had to keep himself together to avoid cumming too quickly. Hotch’s hands itched on my waist, eager to urge me along.

I patted around the bed for the little vibrator I’d found, ripping it out of its packaging and thanking the stars that it was charged. I hooked it on my finger and waited for the perfect moment to introduce it.

When I felt ready, I found an easy rhythm. If this was the only time I’d be in this position, I wanted to savor it. Hotch’s feet came up to plant themselves on the bed, giving me more stability with his knees supporting me from behind.

“That’s it,” he praised as I sped up.

One hand left my waist to help me along, using his fingers to tease, rub, stroke—anything. I craned my thumb to switch the vibrator on and brought the finger-shaped device to his nipples, enjoying the gasps that left his throat with each teasing vibration.

“Kiss me,” he requested.

I couldn’t refuse such a pretty gaze, meeting his mouth with a needy whine. I did my best to keep the rhythm, assisted with his hand guiding me every time I faltered. His eyes just about rolled back in his head as I clenched around him. As patient of a man as Hotch was, he was pent up from the massage and the long three days we’d had so far.

His impatience made itself known as he used his hips, feet, and arms to roll me onto my back. Hotch’s hips took off from there, jack-hammering that spot inside me so perfectly I could hardly catch my breath through the moans. His arms hooked just under my legs, lifting my hips off the bed enough to accomplish his feat.

“I’m gonna come, sweetheart,” he panted, hips and abdomen flexing and straining in full view. “Come with me, come with me,” he panted, on the verge of pleading.

I righted the vibrator that hung uselessly from my finger and pressed it against myself, hands shaking as I fought to hold it together and come with him.

“Yes, yes,” I gasped as my toes curled, my body tense and squeezing Hotch in more ways than one as my hands reached out for his arms where they still hooked my legs.

Hotch was dropping my legs and plastering himself against me, grasping at anything he could reach as he came with a few sharp thrusts. He hid his precious gasps and groans in my neck, but I tugged him away by the hair, kissing him and swallowing the vibrations as I purposefully squeezed around him.

I could feel the urgency and adrenaline leave his body, his tongue slow and languid as it pushed past my lips. His body was heavy against mine but slow to move away.

I didn’t mind the weight, happy to hold him as long as he wanted as he came down from the events of the day.

Eventually, his lower back ached from the position, and in an attempt to not regress all of my hard work on his back, he pushed himself up and away, slow and measured like a cat rising from a nap.

I made a noise of discontent in the back of my throat, desperate to keep contact with him after all that.

“One second, baby,” he pressed a kiss to one of my outstretched hands and left to clean himself up, rummaging through a drawer, presumably to update the team considering—we were definitely here to bring this organization down rather than let them convince us to fuck.

When he returned, he produced a damp resort towel for me.

“I knew I married you for a reason,” I smiled, reaching for the towel only for him to bat my hand away slither into the bed next to me.

He brought the towel to my messy, hypersensitive skin; taking care to clean me up while looking at me with more emotion in his eyes than I was used to seeing from Hotch. He pressed his lips to my brow, then my cheek, tossing the towel somewhere unimportant.

“Okay?” he murmured.

I nodded, languid and sleepy after the events of the evening. With care I could have wept at receiving, he pulled the covers back and out from under me, then covered both of us.

“Go to sleep,” he smiled softly,

He reached for the light switch, the soft click being the only noise in the room besides our breathing. His body pressed up against my back, warm and comforting with his arms holding me close. I felt myself slowly spiral into sleep, lulled by the waves outside and Hotch’s gentle breathing.

-

Day 4

When I blinked my eyes open next, I didn’t expect the room to still be dark. I blinked my eyes again.

Why was I awake?

Attempting to move my arm, I felt Hotch’s hand immediately grab my wrist and pin it tight to my body.

“Don’t move.”

“W—”

I didn’t have time to ask my question as a knock sounded at the door, clearly not the first one. I heard a staff member saying our aliases through the door, apologizing for the interruption, then muffled, hushed tones.

“Are you sure they’ll wake up? They didn’t the other nig—”

“Shut up, you’re so fucking loud,” a voice growled back.

“If they wanted us gone, they wouldn’t have knocked, no?” I murmured.

Hotch was quiet, thinking through my question, then made a noise of agreement.

Hotch groaned, making a show of stretching his long limbs, before getting out of bed. I moaned grumpily at the loss, sitting up while he answered the door, not even bothering to cover himself. I flicked on the lamp on the nightstand to help him, letting my eyes drift over his backside for just a second before focusing back on our safety.

Hotch answered the door, greeted by two male staff members, one older and burly, while the other younger was lanky but toned. Hotch’s hair was a mess, eyes bleary and still trying to focus in the low light. The staff members immediately averted their eyes back to Hotch’s face when they realized he hadn’t bothered putting any clothes on.

“Yes?” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his face, feigning an attempt to wake up.

“Good morning, sir, we apologize for the interruption,” the older one spoke and bowed his head slightly. “The night manager has requested an audience with you and your spouse to congratulate you on your achievements the last few days.”

“Right now? What time is it?” he sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“3:35 AM, sir. And, yes, now. The night manager does his best work—well—at night,” the man chuckled to himself.

“Uhm, yea okay. Give us a few minutes? We don’t smell all that great,” Hotch gave them a sheepish smile.

He shut the door, coming to me and bringing his mouth to my ear, “Quick shower to wake yourself up. We’re meeting management.”

My heart pounded as I got out of bed and followed Hotch.

It didn’t take us long to wash the leftovers of our earlier activities off and get dressed. For what? We didn’t know, but decided to dress no differently than during the day. The night air was still warm in this part of the world, so the shiver I expected to hit as we stepped outside never came. Instead, the air was moderately humid causing our skin to feel tacky as soon as we stepped onto the sand. It only added to our discomfort.

The golf cart ride was short, but I wrapped my arms around Hotch’s arm nonetheless, not exactly happy about being awake at this hour. His hand came down to the inside of my thigh, rubbing his hand soothingly to calm both of us.

The cart whined to a halt as we reached the main resort area. The staff members stepped out quickly, guiding us precisely where to go before we could wander off by accident.

“Follow us, please,” the older one instructed, waving his hand in the direction of the younger staff member in front of us.

We entered the main resort building where we’d checked in, but were taken to the opposite side of the spacious lobby where private offices were located down a hallway. The only reason I wasn’t more hesitant as we followed them was the lack of drugging or knocking us out to get us here and the fact that Hotch was with me.

One of the staff members knocked on the door twice before a gravelly voice sounded on the other side, “Enter.”

The office was dimly lit and the angle caused it to cast long shadows as we stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of something harsh—like a cheap cologne and mildew.

Behind a large, immaculately polished desk sat the Night Manager. He was a frail-looking man, almost ghostly pale, with deep-set eyes that rapidly assessed us in the low light. His fingers were long and bony, drumming slowly against the desk as he observed us with an unreadable expression.

“Ah,” he rasped, voice like sandpaper grinding against metal. “Our star couple. Please, sit.”

We exchanged a glance before obeying, sinking into the uncomfortable wooden chairs in front of his desk. I clasped Hotch’s hand in mine, not too desperately so as to give off fear but to give the impression of comfort and love.

The Night Manager leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands together, “I imagine you’re wondering why I’ve called you here at this hour.”

Hotch fell into his role, giving the man a slow smile interrupted with a pretty convincing yawn that he covered with his free hand, “A little. We were told you wanted to congratulate us?”

A slow, thin-lipped smile stretched across the man’s face. It was chilling. Though I was convinced any smile the man gave—genuine or not—would be much the same.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Congratulations. You’ve done remarkably well these past few days. Your commitment to the experience, your trust and confidence in each other, your…affection for one another. It’s exactly what we like to see.”

I swallowed hard, resisting the urge to shift in my seat. There was something off about the way he said it, but it was quickly becoming clear that the Night Manager was far more important to the operation than we thought, given his absence from our initial intel.

“Thank you,” Hotch said smoothly.

The Night Manager hummed, “You see, this resort is an opportunity to test your relationship—one that not everyone is suited for. But you two?” He gestured at us with spindly fingers. “You are exactly the kind of couple we hope to cultivate.”

Hotch’s fingers twitched ever so slightly in my hand, but his voice remained calm, “How so?”

The Night Manager smiled again, “We pride ourselves on our…special clientele. People come here looking for paradise, for an escape, for a place where the constraints of the outside world don’t apply. But the truth, of course, is that not everyone deserves paradise. Only couples who preserve what it means to be two halves of a whole. Two souls separated at creation.”

He let that statement linger, as if expecting us to piece something together. Maybe expecting us to give up that we knew more than we let on. A test of our true intentions and that our aliases weren’t fabricated.

I kept my face pleasant, an easy smile drawing across my lips, even as my mind raced.

“There are initiates here,” the Night Manager continued. “Couples who need…guidance. They’re uncertain, resistant, sometimes even fearful. But a reassuring voice, a friendly face, a convincing couple—they can make all the difference.”

Hotch exhaled through his nose, “You want to…hire us?”

The Night Manager’s grin widened, his teeth small and yellowed, “In a manner of speaking. Think of it as…helping people find their purpose. Some couples come here hesitant about our methods. But with the right encouragement? With the right examples?” He gestured between us. “They see how fulfilling this experience can truly be. They commit. They invest. And in return, they are rewarded beyond their wildest dreams.”

Hotch tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, “And those who don’t?”

The Night Manager exhaled, as if disappointed by the question, “Not every couple is suited for this level of privilege. Some find it difficult to embrace the experience fully, to synergize with what we offer here. Those who resist? Well,” he gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Some people simply aren’t meant to move forward with us.”

My stomach twisted at the sneer that came over his face.

“Others,” he continued, his fingers drumming idly on the desk, “have all the potential but… lack harmony. A couple must function as a unit, don’t you agree? If one partner hesitates while the other acts, it creates imbalance. And imbalance, unfortunately, has consequences.”

The implication settled between us like a thick fog.

“And what exactly are those consequences?” Hotch asked, his voice smooth but pointed.

The Night Manager regarded him with something akin to amusement, “Oh, I think you already understand.” He was smart to not say it out loud. “You've already met some of our other star couples who have been instrumental in our work.”

Silence stretched between us.

“Leo and Becca?” I asked.

He smiled—more like a grimace, “Yes, lovely aren't they?”

“Yea, they're great,” I smiled, looking over at Hotch, who smiled in return.

“I hope you don't mind that we’ve done some extensive research on you two. We do with all of our new clients,” he opened a folder containing much of the information Garcia had fabricated for us. “A lawyer and an accountant are also very, very valuable to us as you can imagine.”

Hotch smiled smugly portraying that he was well aware of his worth, “I don't mind at all. Talking about my victories is my favorite pastime.”

“I'm sure,” he grinned. “You're both exceedingly impressive.” Then, as if nothing had happened, the Night Manager straightened, brushing off his lapels. “Now then. Let me show you the true heart of our resort. I think you’ll find it…enlightening to our work.”

He stood, moving with an eerie, effortless grace. Behind his desk, a door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit hallway.

Hotch stood, reaching his hand out to me to help me stand. His hand engulfed mine with a gentle squeeze as we stood side by side, following the Night Manager through the threshold with the two staff members we came with bringing up the rear.

The deeper we went, the harder it would be to leave.

Was it a mistake to follow him? Probably.

But we couldn’t leave now without drawing unwanted attention to ourselves.

The Night Manager led the way, his boney fingers laced behind his back, the soft shuffle of his loafers the only sound in the pristine hallway. The two staff members flanked us, close enough to remind us of their presence.

“There’s another reason we chose you two,” the night manager rasped, barely above a whisper, yet his voice echoed through the cold, sterile corridor. “Most couples come here thinking they’re strong, but you…” He turned his head slightly, glancing at us from the corner of his sunken eyes. “You’ve demonstrated a unique harmony. An understanding of partnership. And that makes you valuable.”

Hotch didn’t react, his facial expression carved from stone. I forced myself to do the same, even as unease curled in my stomach.

We reached a set of double doors, sleek and white, with an old-fashioned keycard scanner. One of the staff members produced it from his pocket and swiped it. A soft beep, a mechanical click, and the doors slid open.

Inside, the atmosphere was light. The air was cool, unnervingly fresh, like a high-end spa. The hallway stretched before us, lined with private rooms. Each had a frosted glass door, obscuring the view inside, but movement flickered behind some. A quiet sob. The shuffle of feet. The hum of a soft-voiced recording playing through speakers.

“These,” the Night Manager gestured with a long hand, “are the Conditioning Suites. Couples who need a little…encouragement. The ones who arrive too afraid to embrace their potential or simply don't synergize well enough. But with time, with guidance, they see the benefits of our philosophy.”

We walked past one of the doors just as a figure moved inside. A woman sat on the edge of a plush, white bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes vacant. A man knelt in front of her, whispering something, his grip firm on her wrist. The door was soundproof, but her lips trembled as she nodded along. I vaguely remembered them from the welcome dinner the first night, but they had been sitting at a different table.

My chest tightened.

“Their progress is monitored, of course,” the Night Manager continued, his fingers lightly brushing one of the frosted panels. “Some take to it quickly. Others…” He made an amused squeak in the back of his throat, his voice trailing off as we reached the end of the hall.

At the end of the hall, we met another set of doors. This time thick metal, with a biometric scanner. One of the staff members pressed his thumb to the scanner while the Night Manager waited.

The doors groaned as they opened, revealing a room that contrasted starkly to the suites behind us.

It was colder here. The sterile freshness of the previous hall was replaced by something stagnant, metallic. The lighting was dimmer, buzzing overhead, casting long shadows against the gray-tiled walls. There were no frosted doors here. Just cold metal, like cages to house animals. Horizontal slots were cut into the cages like prison doors for inmates to receive food.

“This,” the Night Manager said, voice almost reverent, “is where we separate those who are incompatible with the program and from whom you will be generously compensated for your troubles.”

A sharp clang echoed down the corridor. A weak, shuddering cough followed.

The faintest smell of bleach and something coppery. Blood, likely. My fingers twitched at my sides.

“Couples who resist—,” the Night Manager sighed, shaking his head. “Who cannot or will not embrace the beauty of partnership…” He trailed his fingers along the closest cage. It was empty but no less chilling. He, then, turned to look at us with a small, knowing smile. “They don’t last long.”

I fought the urge to glance at Hotch.

“Shall we?” the Night Manager asked, not specifying whether we were done or if there was more.

Hotch cracked a smile, “Preferably somewhere warmer?”

“Certainly.”

The Night Manager gestured back the way we came. As we turned my eye caught a familiar face.

Avery.

Their hands were shackled, skin littered in bruises and cuts. They silently sobbed into their palms.

Quinn was nowhere in sight.

As if feeling my eyes on them, Avery's eyes snapped to me, their breathing quickening as they pleaded for help.

“W-wait! Help me! Please!” their cries echoed. “Don’t leave me here!” I heard them crying out our alias’s names, their voice cracking and straining through the sobs.

A stern bark sounded from across the room with a loud clunk followed by hasty, angry footfalls.

“Come now,” the Night Manager ushered us away.

One of the staff members not-so-gently pushed Hotch forward from his back, my body being forced forward as a result. I tried to catch myself to not stumble, my arm tightening around Hotch’s to steady myself.

The screams followed us until the door shut behind us. Then, blissful silence as we re-entered the Conditioning Suites.

“The couples here,” Hotch spoke up. “Do they return to the beach when they're better?”

“Oh, they get far better than that,” he smirked. “A European getaway for their hard work, and they’re well taken care of. If a couple you bring in graduates to that, you also get compensated.”

The way he said “European getaway” made me feel sicker than I already felt. That had to be the trafficking part of this operation. All the compensation he kept mentioning had to be their stolen assets.

“How lovely,” I cooed. “You still need to take me to Italy, my love.”

“In due time,” Hotch hummed, pressing his lips to my head.

“If you come on board now, you'll have more than enough for an Italian villa by next summer,” the Night Manager grinned, turning back toward us, gesturing vaguely with his boney fingers.

“How does that sound, hmm?” Hotch hummed, nose brushing mine.

“Perfect,” I answered, pressing a quick kiss to his lips and finding comfort in his embrace as we continued walking.

As we entered the Night Manager’s office once more, the door shut behind us with a quiet click and hiss. He waved us back into the seats across from his. The two staff members posted up at the door to his office, as if they didn’t trust us to stay put. It was clear that we couldn't leave until he was done.

“I hope this has been an enlightening experience for you both,” he sighed, groaning as his joints popped as he sat. His eyes searched our faces with an eerie amusement playing about his lips, knowing we didn’t have much of a decision. “I trust you understand what’s expected of you, now, based on your interactions with Becca and Leo?” His fingers were steepled under his chin as he asked us.

I looked at Hotch who nodded to me and took my hand, “We do,” we said at almost the same time.

“In sync as we love to see,” the Night Manager grinned. “Well before I can let you return to your room, I need a show of good faith. Loyalty.”

Hotch blinked, fingers barely twitching on my hand, “What do you need?”

The Night Manager smirked, his eyes flickering between us. The tension between us was making me anxious. Were we going to have to hurt someone? Each other?

His chair creaked softly as he leaned to reach for one of his drawers, unlocking the drawer and pulling out a thick, worn leather-bound ledger. The pages were old and yellowed, crinkled from the moisture in the air, but the contents were easy to decipher. A detailed record of couples on their payroll, those who had pledged themselves—unwilling or otherwise—to this cult. Names, dates, signatures and—blood?

“This book is older than any of us,” he said, running his hand reerently over each page he flipped through. “Everyone who matters to this operation has signed their life to us here. But, ink isn’t quite…binding enough for my liking.”

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small, sharp blade that we both looked at warily.

“Not to worry,” he produced sealed wipes and slid them over with the knife. “We’re not in the business of infecting our prized possessions.”

Hotch reached for the blade first, looking at the Night Manager questioningly.

“Just your fingerprint, dear boy. Right here,” he tapped the page where our aliases had already been written with what seemed to be an ID number. “A proof of your commitment and insurance that you will keep things here confidential.”

I made note of where he’d pulled the ledger from, the DNA evidence in it could be priceless to the investigation and catching any stragglers. When we raided the compound, this would have to be one of the first grabs besides the victims downstairs.

Hotch flicked the blade open, cleaning it and his skin before pricking his thumb. He squeezed his thumb, letting the blood bead up and leaned toward the ledger which was now facing him the right way. His blood joined others’ fingerprints, which were now more brown than red from exposure to the elements.

Hotch handed me the knife and I followed suit, wiping his blood off the blade and cleaning my thumb before pricking my thumb. I cringed slightly, unable to completely ignore the sting. I pressed my own on the space next to my alias, shoving my thumb into my mouth immediately after to lap the drying blood off my thumb.

The Night Manager smiled, satisfied, and snapped the book shut. He tucked it back where he pulled it from and sat up straight once more.

“Welcome to the Twin Path.”

He gave us a final nod, waving at us to indicate we were free to go. As quickly as we were ushered in, we were being ushered out.

“You’ll receive further instructions later.”

I rose from my seat slowly, almost unsure, but was reinvigorated by Hotch standing up casually with a nod and smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt.

“Let’s go back to bed, honey,” he murmured, hand finding mine easily as the staff members opened the door for us.

“I’m excited to have you two on board,” he gave us one final sentence as the door shut behind us.

-

The cart ride back to our little bungalow was quiet, the tension still wound tightly in our bodies though we did our best not to show it to the two staff members. When the cart arrived, we couldn’t get out fast enough, bidding them goodbye and scrambling inside.

We had been with the Night Manager longer than expected. The sun was breaking over the land behind us, shining bright orange across the sky and bringing out the blue of the water sharply against the greyed sand. No one was up yet, the beach around us still sleepy and quiet, with the only sounds being the lapping waves and local wildlife waking up.

Stripping off the clothes I hastily put on earlier, I tucked myself back into bed without bothering to look at the agenda for the day. I heard Hotch rummaging through his bags and head to the bathroom, clearly still coherent enough to work. My eyes fluttered shut, only opening when I felt the bed dip next to me.

“It’s okay,” he hushed, pressing his lips to my head as he slid between the covers. He buried his face into my neck, wrapping his long limbs around me, “Have to hold out for the day so they can get ready. Nothing mandatory on agenda, just sleep.”

I wrapped my arms around him, fighting the way my hands shook from the adrenaline dump.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

I dug my fingers into his back, tilting my head to search for his mouth. His lips found mine, pressing softly; more comforting than anything. The situation had bled dry all the residual sexual desire we might have had from the night before. His hand engulfed the back of my head, pulling me tightly against his body. His unshaven face prickled against my chin, making me grimace but it was a welcome distraction. Hotch pulled away with a sleepy hum, laying on his back and inviting me to tuck myself into his warmth. I admired the way the light outside began glinting against his salt and peppered beard before my eyes finally shut.

-

Sleep didn’t last as long as I would have hoped.

I woke to the feeling of something…not right. Not unlike the feeling of being watched the last few days. I pressed my forehead into Hotch’s chest, groaning as I felt his hands trying to rouse me gently.

I opened my eyes, my body shooting upright and back toward the headboard.

Silent figures surrounded the bed, watching us intently.

Hotch reached out to settle me, having woken up before me and seen them first.

I was terrified at the intrusion but confused given that it was broad daylight. The heat was emanating through the back sliding door, the harsh light outside making it seem unnaturally darker inside.

A shiver ran down my spine as I realized this wasn’t over yet. But, the team was on their way, weren’t they?

“Time for your initiation,” Trent’s voice chirped in a sing-song voice from the doorway, more warmth to his tone than the Night Manager.

This rollercoaster of a morning was not sitting well with my stomach. It continued rolling and churning from the stress, lack of food—not that I’d be able to hold anything down right now—and the sterile but damp musk that still clung to my nose. The only time it had calmed was when I’d breathed in Hotch’s scent.

They’d been pushy about wearing all white and I grimaced at the thought of getting the inevitable stains out if blood was to be involved again. Honestly, after this op, all the clothes I brought with me were getting burned. I’d never be able to wear them again without smelling this awful place.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Trent apologized, turning to face us in the back of the cart, though he didn’t sound like he meant it. “You weren’t answering the door and we were worried. Just one more task to complete and you’ll be fully fledged members,” he grinned, sharp, white canines contrasting his tanned skin.

“No problem,” Hotch smiled, clutching the coffee they provided in his hand, taking a sip after I’d tested it with my pinky. “Had an eventful night, then the meeting at three, so we were beat.”

“Ha, I can imagine. You two didn’t waste any time when you arrived,” his grin was sly and predatory.

Bile rose up in my throat despite the sweet smile on my face. Hotch’s free hand came to the back of my neck, his touch helping to ease my fear as he traced imaginary circles there.

We were ushered back down through the Conditioning Suites into the damp dungeon that re-assaulted my nose immediately. I tried to emulate the same confidence that Hotch presented as we followed Trent down the hall with staff members behind us, only being half as successful as I’d hoped.

The damp air thickened as we descended further. The sound of dripping water echoed in the narrow hallway, the fluorescent bulbs flickering overhead like they were struggling to stay alive in solidarity with the captives just below them. Each step felt heavier, my heartbeat growing louder in my ears. It smelled of damp rot and old blood. The air clung to my skin, heavier than the humidity outside, soaking into my lungs all over again.

The first thing I noticed as we passed through the biometric door was the Night Manager on the other side, waiting to bear witness to…what?

Trent led the way, hands casually clasped behind his back like this was just another morning ritual, “You’ve done well so far,” he mused. “It’s rare for newcomers to be so…committed after such a short time, so we wanted to be sure,” His tone was syrupy and fake.

The Night Manager followed closely behind us like a grim shadow.

I forced a chuckle, “We believe in the process.”

Hotch hummed in agreement, his grip tightening ever so slightly against my neck—just enough to remind me he was right there. That we’d get through this.

Then, Trent stopped.

A heavy metal door loomed ahead. The two staff members behind us shifted, and I felt the weight of their presence, an unspoken warning that turning back wasn’t an option.

Trent produced a key and slid it into the rusted lock. He took his time unlocking the heavy steel door, the clank of metal on metal grating against my nerves. It clicked open with an almost theatrical slowness.

I wasn’t prepared for what was inside. The room was dim, lit by a single bulb swaying from the ceiling. At the center of the room sat—

Avery.

With still no sign of Quinn, though I’d been too distracted to look properly.

Avery was bloodied, restrained, and barely conscious.

I sucked in a breath through my nose, struggling to keep my expression neutral. Hotch, ever composed, merely tilted his head as if assessing the scene with detached curiosity.

Trent gestured toward a small wooden table where various knives and a set of pliers rested. A sick little selection that nearly made me squirm, but my fingers rested on the table for balance.

Hotch reached for a small knife first, inspecting the blade as if considering its craftsmanship. “And?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow at Trent.

Hotch tested the weight of it in his palm as he waited for an answer, the blade not even long enough to clear the length of his palm.

Trent leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, “Avery’s been…more difficult than we anticipated. We need to soften them up. A little pain, a little fear. Nothing lethal. Just enough to remind them of their place.” Trent sighed dramatically, like this was just an inconvenient chore, “Before you fully join our family, we need something concrete.” His grin widened, flashing too many teeth, “A shared burden, if you will.” He gestured lazily to Avery, “We’re not asking you to kill them—just a lesson. A little reminder that non-believers don’t thrive here.”

Avery groaned weakly, their swollen eyes cracking open just enough to see us. And then pure, raw terror filled their gaze.

They thought we were really going to do it. My heart clenched at the thought of them believing Hotch and I could be so monstrous.

Hotch exhaled slowly, spinning the knife in his grip before sighing with an air of casual indifference, “Are you sure this won’t just make them more withdrawn and scared?”

Trent scowled, “They’re failing to adapt. We don’t tolerate weakness here.”

I swallowed thickly, glancing at Hotch.

We were out of time.

Hotch looked at me, still holding the knife, as if we were deciding together. But I saw the way his fingers shifted subtly on the handle. He was stalling, too; waiting for an opening.

Avery let out a weak whimper from between their cracked and bleeding lips, making my pulse roar in my ears.

If we stalled too much, we’d blow our cover. If we played along too well, we’d have to live with it.

And then—

BOOM.

The entire room rattled as something crashed above us.

A heartbeat later, the distant sounds of shouting and pounding footsteps. One of the staff member’s radios crackled for a moment but no one spoke from the other side.

Trent snapped his head toward the door, his scowl deepening, “What the hell—”

I dared to make eye contact with Hotch again. The raid was here.

Before we could fully register what was happening above us, a blast went off; the heavy metal door to the basement blasted off of its hinges. Armed agents barged in through the smoke, trapping Trent, the Night Manager, and the other two staff members before they could bolt. It couldn’t have worked out any better, honestly.

Hotch dropped the knife and we both raised our arms up and kneeled on the ground as guns were pointed our way.

It was easier like this.

One of the other agents used bolt cutters to unchain Avery as we were taken away in zip ties. We passed through the Night Manager’s office again, seeing Reid and Prentiss forcing open the drawer that contained the ledger.

Good.

As we were ushered back outside, we were met with agents sifting through the attendees, separating those on payroll from those who were innocent.

“I’ve got these two,” a voice spoke up, my body relaxing almost instantly hearing Rossi through all the noise.

He led us to a helicopter where JJ was waiting for us already with our belongings packed.

“Good work, you two,” Dave gave us each a pat on the shoulder and helped us into the helicopter.

As we took off, JJ finally cut our restraints. We practically melted into the seats as the stress of the day vanished.

“You two aren’t injured?”

I shook my head tiredly and Hotch gave her a short, “No.”

“We’ll wait for the others at command and debrief on the plane, so you two can rest a bit,” JJ smiled, understanding the exhaustion evident in our postures.

-

We slept fitfully while the rest of the team oversaw the raid, only allowing for a couple hours of sleep before we were loading onto the jet home.

We debriefed in detail, glossing over most of the sexual encounters to save the team from those mental pictures. The agents who had raided the basement found Quinn in far worse shape than Avery, but alive. Both of their recoveries would be trying and long but they at least had each other.

The next phase would include finding everyone in the ledger to cut off every head possible of the cult, but that would be a job for tomorrow.

I nodded off as the conversation died down, feeling Hotch’s eyes on me for most of the debrief. He was worried, probably that this whole thing had affected me more than we thought, and he would be right. But, all things considered, we got off with an insane amount of luck.

I startled awake as the plane landed, sitting up straight and gripping the arm rests with worried glances thrown my way. It was only logical, my reaction, considering we’d been woken up several times to those damn cultists doing strange things.

“You need a ride home?” Morgan asked as we got off the plane, hand hovering at my back but not making full contact, just in case.

“I’ll be okay, I promise,” I gave him a barely there smile.

Morgan sighed, resigning to my decision. He nodded and let his fingertips drift to my shoulder as he stepped away. I glanced back to the plane where Hotch was talking to Prentiss as they were the last ones to exit the plane, but ground my teeth at the thought of asking him for help.

I was home. I’d be fine.

I met Rossi and Reid’s eyes as they glanced in my direction, but just gave them a tight smile and a wave. Reid returned the wave with sympathy written all over his face, but didn’t say anything.

“Night, kid,” Rossi called as he walked off.

I made my mind up, straightening my shoulders and marching to my car as bravely as possible.

I missed him, I realized as I drove home. Hell, I probably lov—no, no.

I glanced at my phone several times on the way, refusing to call him but slightly hoping he’d call me. But, he was going through the same thing I was, he was just better at hiding it. I’d be lucky if he even looked in my direction tomorrow, his words and actions over the course of the operation just collateral damage. It wouldn’t be unreasonable.

A hot shower helped my nerves to a point but laying in bed by myself, remembering hearing the staff members dragging out Avery and Quinn and being unable to do anything about it. Remembering waking up this morning surrounded. Remembering the stench from the basement…

I stared at the empty dark ceiling above me, lit occasionally by headlights reflecting off windows and passing through the cracks in my blinds.

I wanted to sleep. I wanted to wake up tomorrow and have everything I witnessed be nothing more than a nightmare. I wanted Hotch here to tell me we’d be okay. I wanted—

The scraping of feet on concrete broke me out of my thoughts. I sat up in bed, immediately reaching for the sidearm I neglected to put away. Throwing my covers off, I stalked as silently as I could toward the front of the house, the scraping still there but localized to one spot now. Like someone was pacing. The feet stopped and I held my breath as I brought my face to the peephole, seeing Hotch standing there illuminated by my porch light.

I unlocked the door slowly so as not to startle him since he hadn’t knocked. His head snapped to the slowly opening door as I brought my face out from the darkness.

“Hey,” I greeted softly.

His eyes softened as he realized I’d heard him, “Can’t sleep?”

I shook my head, stepping back and opening the door wider, hand still gripping my pistol. His eyes flicked to it but he didn’t acknowledge its presence.

Hotch stepped inside as I put the pistol down and scrubbed my face with both hands. He closed, then locked the door behind him, finding his way to me in the dark. I heard him take a breath in, like he was about to speak but nothing came out.

I couldn’t hold it in anymore, stepping forward and crashing myself into his chest. My shoulders sagged as I breathed him in, hiding my face against him so he couldn’t see my chin trembling.

He wasted no time wrapping his arms around me, tucking his face in and pressing his lips to whatever he could reach. It was a desperate embrace, arms holding on for dear life but bringing peace nonetheless.

“I’m here, we’re safe,” he murmured.

I nodded against him, the few tears that escaped being absorbed by his t-shirt.

“I’m sorry,” I cleared my throat, attempting to step back but his arms tightened.

“Don’t be.”

“I—you came here for something?” I wiped my face, stepping back more intentionally.

He let me this time.

“To talk,” he nodded. “But we can do that tomorrow, okay?”

I licked my lips, “Yeah, yeah.” I couldn’t help the, “Sorry,” that slipped out immediately after.

We were silent and I briefly wondered if he was going to just leave but the words tumbled from my mouth faster than I could stop them, “Will you stay?”

“Of course,” he murmured, finding my hand in the dark and letting me guide him to bed.

We faced each other under the sheets, fully clothed but shier than we’d been when we were void of clothes.

“Can I…?” my hand twitched toward him under the covers.

“Yea,” he whispered.

Our arms reached for each other at the same time, limbs tangling together and heads practically sharing a pillow.

“Can I kiss you?” he murmured.

“Is that my fake husband asking or my boss?” I let out a soft laugh.

“Neither,” he hummed, his nose bumping mine from our close proximity. “Just Aaron.”

“Please,” I pulled him closer, welcoming his kiss.

It was soft, languid, and reassuring. As soon as it ended, I tucked my face into his neck and felt my eyes growing heavier with sleep, until I snored softly in his embrace.

[pixiexdusts-world]

The Edge Of Something Real

Bucky Barnes x thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes falls for a tough new Thunderbolts* teammate and risks everything to save her when she’s injured on a mission, revealing their growing bond.

Word count: 1,490

Notes: no thunderbolts* spoilers :)

Bucky Barnes wasn’t one for first impressions anymore.

He’d learned long ago that people were complicated, layered, and often disappointing. But the new recruit on the thunderbolts* team? She shattered every expectation from the moment she walked in.

Her name wasn’t important at first. What stood out was how she carried herself—calm, controlled, eyes like fire. She didn’t try to impress anyone. She didn’t talk much. And when Valentina tossed her into a sparring match with Ghost during her first week, she didn’t flinch. She won.

She was fast, brutal, and efficient. Bucky knew killers when he saw them. And she was one.

So maybe it made sense that he couldn’t stop watching her.

⸻

The first time they actually spoke was in the training room.

Bucky was working the punching bag with quiet precision, sweat dripping from his brow. She walked in without a word, unzipped her jacket, and started stretching on the mat beside him.

“Nice work with Taskmaster yesterday,” he offered, not looking at her directly.

She raised an eyebrow. “You saw that?”

“I hear everything.”

She smirked. “You always this chatty, Barnes?”

That made him glance over. “Only when someone impresses me.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Then you’re hard to impress.”

“Exactly.”

She let out a dry laugh, then started wrapping her hands. “Good. Wouldn’t want things to be too easy around here.”

They trained in silence after that, but it was a comfortable one. Bucky couldn’t help glancing over at her form—sharp, purposeful, never wasting energy. She didn’t just fight well. She moved like someone who survived things most people couldn’t imagine.

And that… he understood.

⸻

Weeks passed, and the team started gelling in that broken, violent way the Thunderbolts* were known for. The missions were ugly, high-risk, and rarely clean. But she never hesitated. She kept up with the chaos, stood her ground with Yelena and U.S. Agent, and even earned Taskmaster’s rare nod of respect.

Bucky watched her more than he admitted. Not just in combat, but in the little things. How she patched her gear herself. How she didn’t talk about her past but carried it in her posture. How she always volunteered to scout ahead alone.

She was a lone wolf. Just like he used to be.

So when she got hit—really hit—during a botched extraction in Prague, Bucky’s reaction surprised even himself.

She was bleeding, her shoulder torn open, pinned down by gunfire.

“I got her!” he shouted before anyone else could respond, already breaking formation.

He reached her under heavy fire, shielded her with his body, and hauled her behind a wall.

“You’re an idiot,” she grunted, wincing as he checked the wound.

“Probably,” he muttered. “But I’m your idiot now, so shut up and let me stop the bleeding.”

She blinked at him, stunned—not just by the pain but by him. For once, she didn’t argue.

⸻

Back at base, after stitches and silence, she found him alone, cleaning weapons.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said softly.

He didn’t look up. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

Finally, he met her gaze. “Because you’re not just another soldier to me.”

She swallowed hard. “Then what am I?”

Bucky set the gun down and stood. There was a storm in his eyes, the kind that carried decades of regret—and something else, something fragile.

“You make me remember I’m still human.”

She didn’t respond right away. She didn’t need to. The look in her eyes said it all.

So did the way she stepped closer, reached for his hand, and didn’t let go.

⸻

They didn’t talk about it much. Not in words. Their connection grew in looks, in quiet touches, in the way Bucky stood a little closer to her in the field. In how she learned to read his silences.

They started sparring more—sometimes as an excuse to be alone, other times because it was the only way they knew how to connect. When she knocked him down one afternoon, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her on top of him.

They stared at each other, breaths shallow.

“Gonna kiss me or keep pretending we’re just teammates?” she whispered.

Bucky chuckled, voice low. “Depends. You gonna let me?”

She didn’t answer. She kissed him instead.

It was sharp and slow and messy in all the ways that made him feel alive again.

⸻

Of course, nothing stayed easy for long.

During a covert mission in Madripoor, she got separated from the team—and vanished.

They searched for hours. Then days.

Valentina declared her MIA. The team prepared to move on.

But Bucky refused.

“She’s not dead,” he snapped. “I know she’s not.”

“You’re letting feelings cloud your judgment,” Taskmaster warned him.

“Good,” he growled. “It means I’m not a damn machine anymore.”

He found her two days later, trapped in a holding cell underground, barely conscious. He broke the lock with his metal arm and carried her out himself.

Her voice was weak. “Took you long enough.”

“You knew I’d come?”

She smiled faintly. “You always do.”

⸻

After that, something shifted. She didn’t push people away as much. She let him in, piece by piece—her real name, the reason she joined the team, the life she lost before this one.

And Bucky? He opened up in return. Told her about the nightmares, the guilt, the weight of being someone the world used and feared in equal measure.

They weren’t perfect. But together, they weren’t alone anymore.

One night, as they lay in bed in some safe house far from war, she whispered, “You think we deserve this?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, fingers tracing lazy circles on her back. “But I want it anyway.”

She closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest.

And for once, neither of them dreamed of blood.

[laser-tripwires]

i am occasionally reminded that parker knows how to shoot/handle a gun competently in redemption s1e3 and it's like, eliot, mr. "i dont like guns", why are you teaching people this.

(i am aware parker has a handgun in s1e1 but i dont think the skills are transferable to shotguns and its never really established if she can actually hit anything and also i doubt archie would train her in it bc its not a gentleman thief skill and by the same logic i doubt parker would teach herself bc its not particularly thief-y)

anon, this ask was like an early christmas present for me. i love when people are "wrong" in interesting ways, or if not wrong then... take a different view to what i do. so, parker and guns. i can't believe i've never made a post about this.

(heads up, i've stolen vast swathes of this post from conversations i've had with both @ghostlyarchaeologist and @aardvaark. words are all mine but ideas are mutually borne, so thank you both for being sounding boards at various points in the past. everyone go follow heather and adrian cos they're better at this than i am.)

right, let's talk about the pilot, becuase parker can absolutely hit things with that. both eliot and nate know immediately that hardison isn't a real danger, but the second nate hears the safety beng turned off there he whirls around and matches her threat; that's what you do when you know someone's not making pointless bluffs.

also, boiling this back to it's utter basics, what's the main skillset you use in order to handle a pistol competently? hand-eye coordination. which is something we know for sure parker has in spades; she's a master pickpocket and she learns fast.

we need to remember, also, that parker's initial sense of morality is completely fucked. or... not morality, exactly, but sense of what does and doesn't count as wrong, what does or doesn't count as harm? because there's that scene in homecoming, right, where everyone's protesting the concept of eliot having to do the thing they hired him for, and parker weighs in with "i never hurt anyone." except... like, the FIRST thing we know about parker is that she blew up a house as a child. it's canonical that the parents survived, but parker also spent six months in juvie and has broken out of prison multiple times and lived on the street for god knows how long and stork job shows she can fight pretty well pre-leverage, too. i'll come back to all this in a minute.

her being a crack shot with a gun is... not really incongrous with who she was pre-leverage. archie describes her when he found her as "a danger to herself and to others" and like YEAH no i buy that. i buy that completely.

next up, what about things that aren't pistols? well.

that's a fucking sniper rifle.

that's a fucking sniper rifle.

that is, and i cannot stress this enough, a fucking sniper rifle.

so yeah, i'd say that those skills are transferrable. she can take out an armed gunman and tie him up with duct tape, without causing a scuffle, and re-aim the gun. with enough consistency that nate knows for sure she'll manage it in less than three seconds. sure, we can chalk some of that up to parker at this point having had four seasons of eliot here's-how-you-take-out-thugs-with-guns fight training, but... i think at this point it's pretty fair to say that (regardless of the provinance of her skills) parker's kinda a good shot, actually.

okay, let's revisit that point about morality, because there are kinda a bunch of really important touchstones here.

so, john rogers once said that "parker is the second most dangerous person on the team, and eliot would argue first most dangerous." she's the team member with the least qualms about hurting people, always, and that's a detail that tends to get brushed over.

she would have killed tara here. she makes that extremely clear. i can't listen to that "Bye, now." and not get shivers.

talking of shivers.... "I want to do the right thing."

because, look, parker's not eliot. she's not thawing ice all the way through, and yet we're shown again and again that, despite that, "She has the nuclear winter inside her." there will always be a part of her who's first instinct is to jump, to hide, to run, to kill, to not care because caring hurts. but there's also a part of her that is softer than any of the team, that is a child who'll never grow up and yet grew up too fast. she grew up beaten, bruised, neglected and starved yet she's something wonderful - but she knows she's broken, she knows they all call her crazy, and it hurts. she wants to do the right thing, make the right choice, but she hates that it'll never be her first instinct. and the thing is? that's okay. she went through hell and back and turned out someone strange and weird and at times unkind, but... the team like how she turned out. hardison likes how she turned out. and that's worth the world - she just needs to remember it and believe it and use HER skills instead of trying to be something she's not. that is what parker and eliot's conversation in the ice cave is about, if you strip it back to it's bare essentials. parker doesn't want to be normal, she just wants to be normal enough for her friends.

has parker ever killed someone? i don't know. i don't know if she even thinks like that, in such clear terms - as i already talked about, parker's definition of 'hurt' is not the same as anyone else's.

so let's talk about broken wing job for a second, because absolutely everyone overlooks the reason why parker does the job in the first place - "You brought a gun? To my bar?"

because. yeah.

"Those guys are gonna rob this store, right? Which is fine. I don’t mind robbers who aren’t robbing me, or my friends, or kids or… But they brought a gun to the party, and that changes all the rules."

this is season five. she investigates the theives because she's bored - but she only decides to stop them because they brought a gun. that's the kind of very specific morality you only get after being the good guy for a very long time, and i do think that hanging around eliot probably helped affect that a bit.

actually, fuck it, look at what else she says about this whole thing in the broken wing job.

"No cops. No cops. That will actually increase the chances of people getting hurt. [...] Seeing a uniform in the middle of stealing something could cause you to panic, make bad decisions..."

"These guys aren’t that good, which is actually another reason why we should do this, ‘cause sooner or later, they’re gonna make a mistake. Someone’s gonna get hurt."

so. yeah. on the one hand, this is weapons safety 101, for someone in parker's position. "[The Leverage crew] don't use guns because - when guns come out, people die. This attitude very much comes out from traditional American crime literature, and also from talking to our professional criminal friends. Guns are messy, when they show up things escalate, you take a longer, harder fall when doing a crime with a gun - professional criminals are pathologically averse to carrying weapons." i'm quoting john rogers here, because i can, but you'll hear similar in any training manual, and it's especially relevant to parker's actions both here and elsewhere in the show.

on the other hand, mix up all those statements and it definitely implies parker has fucked up badly in the past. again, i don't know if she's ever killed someone. but.

well, for funsies, let's look at the rest of JR's above statement about gun safety (i'm quoting from his blog on the gone fishin' job, in case you wanted to find the source): "You do not point a gun at anything or anyone you are not willing to kill. [...] I had that drilled into my head at an early age. A gun has two settings - holstered and murderous. 'Wounded' is an accidental condition. Eliot in particular is aware of this, and one of the many reasons he does not use a gun is because he is trying to, well, not kill people anymore. Hardison is magnificently awful with weaponry. Although Parker is probably a fine shot, she's trying to play nice by the new rules, and only brought a weapon to the meet in the pilot because she wanted to get paid."

and all that is, more than anything else, the core and crux of everything i'm saying here. factor in how broken parker is, how we know she's made mistakes in the past, throw in archie's "a danger - to herself and to others" line, think about the tara rooftop incident... there's a picture emerging here. it's not a nice one, but it's unpleasantly clear.

so. where does that leave us?

well, it at least leaves me extremely certain for a vast number of reasons that eliot didn't need to teach parker how to shoot a rigged game.

[mrs-delaney]

Letters You Never Sent | Part Two

read part one →

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 14.4k-ish words

request: college sweethearts since ohio state 🫶 but by 2023, fame starts to change joe. he acts single, barely mentions his girlfriend, and reader starts feeling invisible—like she doesn’t even exist in his world anymore. so she starts writing letters. not to give to him—just to survive it. just to say the things she doesn’t feel safe saying out loud. they break up in january 2024. she moves out in a rush and forgets the letters. months later, joe’s in a new (casual) relationship. and the girl finds the letters. she gives them to him. he reads them. and it wrecks him. realizing how badly he hurt someone who loved him with everything she had. and maybe… just maybe… there’s still a happy ending. 🥺❤️

📝 Author’s Note: y'all this one wrecked me. it's the most emotionally honest thing I've written to date. i literally cried.

thank you to everyone who showed up for part one with so much love. the messages, the tags, the dms—i read every single one. you reminded me why i wanted to tell this story in the first place.

this chapter is for anyone who’s ever had to grieve someone who was still in the room. who stayed too long. who loved so hard it hurt.

creative liberties were taken.

alexa play “from the dining table” by harry styles 🥀

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

April 2023 - The Team Event

You're standing in the corner of Tyler Boyd's backyard, holding a beer you haven't touched, watching Joe laugh with a group of teammates you don't recognize. It's the annual team barbecue, the kind of casual gathering you used to love because it felt like family.

Now you feel like a stranger.

"Y/N!" Kierra Boyd approaches with a bright smile, but there's something careful in her expression. "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever. How are you?"

"I'm good," you say automatically. "Just busy with work."

"How's the hospital? Still loving pediatric nursing?"

You're touched that she remembers, that someone still asks about your life outside of being Joe's girlfriend. "Yeah, it's great. Challenging, but I love it."

"That's so amazing. I always thought it was so cool that you had your own thing going on, you know? Not just..." She gestures vaguely toward where Joe is holding court with a group that includes some women you don't recognize.

The pause is loaded. Not just what? Not just a football girlfriend?

"Yeah," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "It's important to have your own identity."

Kierra nods, then hesitates. "Can I ask you something? And please tell me to mind my own business if I'm overstepping."

Your stomach drops. "Sure."

"Are you and Joe okay? I mean, you guys seem... distant lately. At events and stuff."

You glance over at Joe, who's now taking selfies with some of the women in the group. Young, pretty women wearing Bengals jerseys and bright smiles. He hasn't looked for you once in the past hour.

"We're fine," you say, but the words taste like lies. "Just figuring some things out."

Kierra follows your gaze and her expression softens. "Tyler mentioned that Joe's been different this season. More... I don't know, guarded? Less like the guy who used to talk about you all the time."

"He used to talk about me?"

"All the time. Like, to the point where the guys would tease him about it. 'Joe's girlfriend this, Joe's girlfriend that.' It was actually really sweet."

The past tense hits you like a physical blow. Used to.

"Things change," you say quietly.

"They don't have to."

Before you can respond, Joe appears at your side, his hand settling on your lower back in a gesture that should feel familiar but somehow doesn't.

"Hey babe," he says, but he's looking at Kierra, not you. "Kierra, have you met Madison? She works for the team's social media."

A blonde woman materializes beside him, all white teeth and perfect highlights. "Nice to meet you," she says with a bright but empty smile, already turning back to Joe.

"Madison was just telling us about this new campaign she's working on," Joe continues. "Really innovative stuff."

You watch him light up as Madison launches into an explanation of her work, the same way he used to light up when you talked about your patients. When did he stop looking at you like that?

"That's really interesting," Kierra says politely, but you can see her watching the interaction with growing concern.

"Joe," you interrupt, "can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure," he says, but he doesn't move away from Madison. "What's up?"

You glance around at the group, realizing he expects you to have this conversation in front of everyone. "Privately?"

Joe's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Can it wait? We're in the middle of something here."

The dismissal is casual but clear. In front of his teammates, in front of their wives, in front of some woman he just met, Joe is choosing not to step away with you.

"Of course," you say, your cheeks burning. "Sorry."

You turn and walk toward the house, needing space, needing air, needing anything but the sight of Joe giving someone else the attention he used to give you.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and stare at your reflection. When did you become the kind of woman who gets dismissed at parties? When did you become someone Joe treats like an inconvenience?

When you come back outside, Joe is exactly where you left him, still deep in conversation with Madison. He doesn't notice you return.

* * *

May 2023 - The Foundation Event

The children's literacy event is at the community center where you and Joe volunteer regularly.

But everything feels different.

"Y/N!" Mrs. Rodriguez waves you over to where she's setting up reading stations. "I'm so glad you're here. Sofia has been asking about you."

You smile, remembering the eight-year-old who'd been one of your patients last year. "How is she doing?"

"So much better. She starts fourth grade in the fall." Mrs. Rodriguez glances around. "Is Joe coming today?"

"He's here somewhere," you say, though you're not entirely sure. He drove separately, saying he had a meeting that might run long.

You spend the afternoon reading with kids, helping with crafts, doing the work you genuinely love. It's only when you're packing up that you realize you've barely seen Joe all day.

You find him by the sign-in table, talking to a reporter from the local news station. There's a camera crew setting up nearby.

"...really important to give back to the community," Joe is saying. "These kids are our future."

"And what brought you to this particular cause?" the reporter asks.

"I've always been passionate about literacy. Education is everything."

You wait for him to mention that this is your regular volunteer spot, that you work with many of these families through the hospital. You wait for him to acknowledge that this event was partially your idea.

He doesn't.

"We'll be right back with more from Bengals quarterback Joe Burrow," the reporter says to the camera, "after this quick break."

During the break, you approach the group. "Hi," you say to the reporter. "I'm Y/N."

She looks at you politely but without recognition. "Nice to meet you."

"Joe's girlfriend," you clarify, feeling pathetic for having to introduce yourself that way.

"Oh!" Her face lights up with professional interest. "Are you involved with the foundation as well?"

"I volunteer here regularly, and I work at Cincinnati Children's Hospital, so—"

"We should probably wrap this up," Joe interrupts, checking his watch. "I have another appointment."

The reporter nods. "Of course. Thank you so much for your time."

Joe is already walking away, leaving you standing there mid-sentence. The reporter turns back to her cameraman, the moment lost.

You follow Joe to the parking lot, your frustration building with each step.

"Joe, wait."

He turns, keys already in his hand. "What's up? I really do have to go."

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"In there. With the reporter. You completely cut me off."

Joe sighs. "Y/N, it was a quick interview about the event. Not everything has to be about you."

The words sting worse because of how casually he delivers them. "I wasn't trying to make it about me. I was trying to talk about the work we do here together."

"We?"

"Yes, we. I've been volunteering here since before you ever came to an event. These families know me. This is my work too."

"Okay, and? You want a medal for reading to kids?"

You stare at him, genuinely shocked by his tone. "I want my boyfriend to acknowledge that I exist when we're doing something together."

"You exist, Y/N. You're standing right here."

"But I'm not part of your story anymore, am I? When you talk about your life, your work, your future—I'm not in any of it."

Joe runs his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "Can we not do this here?"

"When, then? When can we talk about the fact that you're erasing me from your life?"

"I'm not erasing you from anything. You're being dramatic."

"Am I? Because I've been keeping track, Joe. It's been six months since you posted a photo of us together. Four months since you mentioned me in an interview. Three weeks since you introduced me as your girlfriend instead of just saying my name."

"You're keeping track?" Joe looks at you like you've admitted to stalking him.

"I'm paying attention."

"Look, I have to go. We can talk about this later."

"When later? You're always busy, always somewhere else, always—"

"Later, Y/N."

He gets in his car and drives away, leaving you standing in the parking lot of a community center where you've volunteered for years, feeling like a stranger in your own life.

* * *

June 2023 - The Interview

You're at the hospital, just finishing your shift, when Emma texts you: Turn on ESPN. Joe's on SportsCenter.

You find a TV in the break room and catch the tail end of an interview about the upcoming season. Joe looks good—confident, relaxed, every inch the franchise quarterback.

"So Joe," the interviewer is saying, "what's your support system like? Who are the people who keep you grounded through all the pressure?"

Your heart speeds up. This is it. This is where he talks about you, about how you've been there since college, about the partnership you've built.

"Well, first and foremost, my family," Joe says. "My parents, my brothers. They've been my foundation since day one."

You nod along. Of course. Family first.

"The coaching staff and my teammates have been incredible. Really can't say enough about the organization and how they've supported me."

Okay. Team second. That makes sense.

"And just having good people around me, you know? People who knew me before all this, who help me stay focused on what matters."

You wait. The pause stretches.

"That's really what it's about," Joe continues. "Surrounding yourself with the right people who believe in your vision."

The interview moves on to football strategy, and you realize with a sinking heart that he's not going to mention you. Not at all.

You think about the AFC Championship loss, when you were the first person he looked for. You think about all the times he's credited you with believing in him when no one else did.

Now, apparently, you're not even worth a mention when he talks about his support system.

Your phone buzzes with another text from Emma: That was weird, right? That he didn't mention you?

You don't respond. You can't find the words.

* * *

September 2023 - Season Opener Party

The rooftop bar overlooking the city is packed with players, coaches, and their families celebrating the season opener win. You're wearing the dress Joe complimented you in last year, hoping tonight might feel different, might feel like old times.

It doesn't.

You've been here for two hours and have barely seen Joe except in passing. He's working the room like a politician, stopping to chat with everyone, taking selfies with fans who somehow got invited, deep in conversation with teammates you've never met.

"Excuse me," a woman with perfect curls approaches you by the bar. "Are you with the team?"

"I'm Y/N," you say, extending your hand. "Joe's girlfriend."

Her face lights up with recognition, but not the kind you want. "Oh! I'm Ashley, Mike's wife. I was wondering... we haven't seen you at any of the family events this season."

Because you haven't been invited to the family events this season. Because Joe keeps "forgetting" to mention them until after they've happened.

"I've been busy with work," you say.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a pediatric nurse at Cincinnati Children's."

"That's amazing! You know, Mike mentioned that Joe was single. I thought maybe I'd misunderstood, but here you are." She laughs, but it's awkward. "Men are terrible at sharing information, aren't they?"

Your stomach drops. "Mike thinks Joe is single?"

"Oh, I'm sure it was just a miscommunication. You know how guys are about talking about personal stuff."

But you can see in her eyes that she's trying to make you feel better about something that can't be explained away. Joe has been telling his teammates he's single. Or at the very least, he's not mentioning that he has a girlfriend.

"I should find Joe," you say weakly.

You spot him on the other side of the rooftop, laughing with a group that includes some women you don't recognize. When you approach, he glances at you briefly.

"Hey," he says, not moving to include you in the circle. "Having fun?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Kind of in the middle of something here. Everything okay?"

The group is watching now, and you feel like you're being dramatic, needy, clingy. All the things you never wanted to be.

"Never mind," you say. "I'm going to head home."

"Okay. I'll probably be here for a while."

He doesn't offer to come with you. Doesn't ask if you're feeling alright. Just turns back to his conversation like you were never there.

You take an Uber home alone from your boyfriend's season celebration party.

* * *

October 2023 - The Sports Illustrated Profile

You're on your lunch break at the hospital when Emma texts you: Have you seen the SI article about Joe? It's really good.

You pull up the piece on your phone: "Joe Burrow: The Evolution of a Champion." It's a beautiful profile, full of gorgeous photos and thoughtful writing about his journey from Ohio State benchwarmer to franchise quarterback.

The writer traces his path through LSU, the Heisman, the draft, the injury, the comeback. They interview his parents, his coaches, his teammates. They talk about his leadership style, his work ethic, his vision for the team's future.

Six years of your relationship gets one line: "Burrow keeps his personal life private, preferring to let his performance on the field do the talking."

That's it. Six years reduced to "private personal life."

No mention of the girl who believed in him when he was third string. No mention of the support system that helped him through the transfer decision, the injury, the comeback. No mention of the pediatric nurse who moved her entire life to Cincinnati to build something with him.

You think about all the interviews you've watched where he gushes about his parents, his brothers, his coaches. People who matter enough to mention. People whose support he acknowledges.

You read the article three times, looking for any reference to you, any hint that you exist in his story.

There's nothing.

* * *

November 2023 - The Charity Kitchen

The Cincinnati Children's Hospital benefit dinner is one of your favorite events each year. It's where your two worlds—your work and Joe's platform—come together for something meaningful.

You arrive separately because Joe had a meeting that ran long, but you're not worried. You know this event, know these people, know how important this cause is to both of you.

"Excuse me," a woman with a clipboard approaches you near the registration table. "Are you here to volunteer in the kitchen? We're running a little behind on prep."

You look down at your cocktail dress and heels, confused. "I'm sorry?"

"The volunteer kitchen staff? We have appetizers that need to be plated."

"Oh, no. I'm not a volunteer. I'm here as a guest."

She looks at your dress again, clearly confused. "Are you with one of the corporate sponsors?"

"I'm here with Joe Burrow. I also work at the hospital."

"Oh!" Her face changes completely. "I'm so sorry! I thought... well, we had several volunteers sign up to help with service, and I just assumed..."

You smile tightly. "It's fine."

But it's not fine. Because this is an event honoring the work you do every day, at the hospital where you've worked for three years, and the event coordinator doesn't recognize you as Joe Burrow's girlfriend.

Later, during cocktail hour, you watch Joe work the room with practiced ease. When a reporter approaches him, you instinctively move closer.

"Joe, tell us why this cause is so important to you," the reporter says.

"Children's Hospital does incredible work," Joe responds. "Being able to support the families who are going through the hardest times of their lives—that's what it's all about."

The reporter nods. "Do you have a personal connection to pediatric care?"

Your heart speeds up. This is it. This is where he mentions you, mentions that his girlfriend works here, that you see these families every day.

"Not personally, but when you're in a position to help, you help. It's that simple."

The interview moves on, and you're left standing three feet away from your boyfriend while he talks about your life's work like he has no personal connection to it at all.

* * *

December 2022 - The Birthday

Joe's 26th birthday falls on a Tuesday, which should make it low-key. Intimate. Just the two of you, the way you've celebrated every year since you've been together.

Instead, Joe announces he's having a party.

"A party?" you ask, looking up from your laptop where you've been researching weekend getaway ideas for just the two of you.

"Yeah, just a small thing. Some of the guys want to celebrate."

"Oh. Okay. Do you want me to help plan it?"

"Nah, Tyler's wife is handling most of it. Thanks though."

Kierra is planning Joe's birthday party. Not you, his girlfriend of six years. Kierra, who barely knows Joe outside of team functions.

"Where are we having it?"

"That new rooftop place downtown. Should be fun."

The party is not small. It's at least fifty people, most of whom you don't know. Joe works the room like he's campaigning for office, taking photos with everyone, making sure he talks to each guest.

You spend most of the night standing with the other girlfriends and wives, feeling like an accessory rather than the guest of honor's partner.

"This is a great turnout," one of the newer wives says. "Joe's really popular."

"He always has been," you reply, watching him pose for photos with a group of women you don't recognize.

"How long have you two been together?"

"Six years. Since college."

She looks surprised. "Really? That's so sweet. You're like childhood sweethearts."

"Something like that."

Later, when the crowd starts to thin out, you find Joe on the rooftop terrace, looking out at the Cincinnati skyline.

"Good party," you say, joining him at the railing.

"Yeah, it was great. Good turnout."

You stand in comfortable silence for a moment, and for just a second, it feels like old times. Just you and Joe, away from the crowd.

"I got you something," you say, pulling out a small wrapped box.

Joe takes it, looking surprised. "You didn't have to get me anything."

Inside is a watch—simple, classic, the kind he's mentioned liking but never gets around to buying for himself. You'd noticed him checking his phone for the time constantly and thought he might appreciate having a nice watch again.

Joe looks at it, turning it over in his hands. "This is really nice."

"I know you've been wanting a new one," you say. "And I thought... I don't know, I wanted to get you something you'd actually use."

Joe is quiet for a moment, still looking at the watch.

"Thank you," he says finally. "This is really thoughtful."

But he doesn't put it on. He just closes the box and slips it into his pocket.

"Should we head back in?" he asks.

You nod, following him back into the party, where he immediately gets pulled into another group conversation. He doesn't mention the gift to anyone. Doesn't show it off the way he used to show off thoughtful presents from you.

At the end of the night, as you're getting ready to leave, you realize that Joe never introduced you to anyone as his girlfriend. You were just "Y/N" all night, floating around the edges of his birthday celebration like a guest who didn't quite belong.

December 11, 2023

Joe,

Today was your 26th birthday. I've been there for five of your birthdays now, and this one felt different than all the others.

I gave you a watch for your birthday. Something simple that I thought you'd actually wear since you're always checking your phone for the time.

You said it was thoughtful, but you put it in your pocket and never mentioned it again.

I used to be the person who planned your birthdays. Now I'm the person who shows up to parties planned by someone else, where I don't know half the guests and you don't introduce me as anything more than my first name.

I used to be your person. Now I feel like I'm just... here. Taking up space in a life that you're building without me.

I keep waiting for us to talk about what's happening. I keep waiting for you to notice that we're falling apart. But you seem completely fine with the distance between us, and I don't know what that means.

Are you trying to break up with me without actually breaking up with me? Are you hoping I'll just fade away so you don't have to do the hard work of ending things?

Because I'm starting to feel invisible, Joe. I'm starting to feel like I don't matter to you at all.

And the worst part is, I don't think you even notice.

Y/N

* * *

December 2023 - The Christmas Party Photos

The team Christmas party is at the Omni, elegant and festive with perfect lighting for photos. You've been looking forward to it because Joe seems more relaxed lately, and you're hoping it might feel like the old days when you were part of things.

Joe looks incredible in his navy suit, and when he compliments your red dress, you feel a flicker of hope.

"You look beautiful," he says, and for a moment, his smile is real.

The party is lovely—good food, open bar, festive atmosphere. You mingle with the other wives and girlfriends, most of whom are polite but distant. The newer ones don't seem to know who you are.

Then the photos start.

Joe poses with his teammates at the bar. Click. With the coaching staff by the Christmas tree. Click. With the team owners near the dance floor. Click.

"Joe!" the team photographer calls. "Let's get one with all the players and their families."

This is it. This is your moment to be included, to be part of the team family, to exist in the visual record of Joe's life.

Joe joins the group, and you start to move toward him, but he's already positioned himself between Ja'Marr and Tyler. The photographer is arranging people, and somehow you end up standing behind a group of wives, partially obscured.

"Perfect!" the photographer says, snapping several shots.

Then comes the couples photos. You watch as player after player poses with their significant other. Sweet, intimate shots that will probably end up on the team's social media.

You wait for Joe to look for you, to gesture you over.

He doesn't.

Instead, he starts chatting with the team's social media manager about posting strategy, completely forgetting that couples photos are happening.

By the time he's done with that conversation, the photographer has moved on to group shots with the front office staff.

You stand by the dessert table, watching everyone else create memories, and realize you're going to be the only long-term girlfriend who doesn't have a single photo with her partner from this event.

"Y/N!" Robin Burrow appears beside you with a warm smile. "You look gorgeous, honey. Are you having fun?"

"Thank you. Yes, it's lovely."

"Where's Joe? I wanted to get a photo of you two. You never take pictures anymore."

Your throat tightens. "He's busy with team stuff."

Robin follows your gaze to where Joe is now posing with a group of sponsors, laughing at something someone said.

"Hmm," she says quietly, and you can hear years of motherly wisdom in that single sound.

When you get home that night, Joe is already scrolling through the team's Instagram stories, watching the photos from the party pop up.

"Good party," he says absently.

"Mmm."

"Oh, look, they got that group shot." He shows you his phone, and there it is—the team family photo where you're barely visible behind three other people, like a ghost at your own boyfriend's Christmas party.

"Nice," you say.

Joe doesn't seem to notice that you're not really in it. Or if he notices, he doesn't care.

That night, you lie awake thinking about Ashley's comment from September: Mike mentioned that Joe was single.

You think about the Sports Illustrated article where six years of love and support were erased completely.

You think about being mistaken for kitchen staff at an event honoring your own workplace.

You think about watching every other couple at the Christmas party take photos together while your boyfriend forgot you existed.

And you finally admit to yourself what you've been avoiding for months:

Joe Burrow has already broken up with you. He just hasn't told you yet.

December 25, 2023

Joe,

Merry Christmas. I'm writing this while you're asleep next to me, and I can't stop thinking about how different this feels from every other Christmas we've spent together.

Last night at the team party, I watched you take photos with everyone except me. I watched every other couple create memories while you forgot I was there. I stood by the dessert table feeling like a stranger at my own boyfriend's Christmas party.

Your mom asked why we never take pictures anymore. I didn't know what to tell her.

I keep waiting for you to notice that you're erasing me from your life. I keep waiting for you to care that I'm disappearing. But you seem fine with it. More than fine—you seem relieved.

I think I finally understand what's happening. You don't want to be the bad guy who breaks up with his college girlfriend, so you're just making me disappear instead. Death by a thousand small cuts instead of one clean break.

It's working. I feel invisible.

I feel like I don't matter to you at all.

And the worst part is, I don't think you even realize what you're doing. I think you've convinced yourself that this is just how things are now, that this is normal relationship evolution.

But it's not normal to erase someone you love from your life.

It's not normal to treat your girlfriend like an inconvenience.

It's not normal to act single while you're in a six-year relationship.

I'm writing this letter on Christmas, and it might be the last one I ever write to you.

Because I finally understand that you don't want me in your life anymore.

And I'm too tired to keep fighting for someone who doesn't want to be fought for.

Y/N

* * *

January 14th, 2024

You're in the kitchen making coffee when Joe comes downstairs, already dressed in his team-issued workout gear. The playoff loss was yesterday—a heartbreaking end to what should have been a championship season—but he looks like he's ready to move on.

"Morning," he says, grabbing a protein bar from the pantry.

"How are you feeling?" you ask, even though you already know he won't give you a real answer.

"Ready to get back to work. Season's over, but next year starts now."

There's no mention of how devastating the loss was, no acknowledgment that you were there in the stands watching his dreams slip away. No need for comfort or processing or any of the emotional intimacy that used to define your relationship.

"Joe," you say, setting down your coffee cup. "We need to talk."

He checks his watch. "Can it wait? I've got a training session at nine."

"No. It can't wait anymore."

Something in your tone makes him look up, really look at you, for the first time in months.

"What's going on?"

You take a breath, steadying yourself for what you've been building toward since Christmas. "When did you decide you didn't want to be with me anymore?"

Joe's expression shifts from confusion to something like annoyance. "What? Y/N, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that you've been acting single for months. I'm talking about the fact that you've erased me from your life so completely that your own teammates think you're available."

"That's not—"

"When was the last time you introduced me as your girlfriend, Joe? When was the last time you posted a photo of us together? When was the last time you mentioned me in an interview about your support system?"

Joe runs his hand through his hair, that familiar gesture that used to seem endearing but now just looks irritated. "Why does everything have to be about social media and interviews? Why can't our relationship just be private?"

"Private and invisible aren't the same thing."

"I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you to act like you want to be with me. I want you to stop treating me like I'm some embarrassing secret you have to hide."

Joe leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "I'm not hiding you."

"Really? Because at the Christmas party, you took photos with everyone except me. At the hospital benefit, you talked about pediatric care like you had no personal connection to it while I was standing right there. A Sports Illustrated profile about your entire life mentioned me for exactly zero sentences."

"You're keeping track of magazine articles now?"

"I'm keeping track of being erased from your life!"

The words come out louder than you intended, and Joe flinches slightly.

"You want to know what I think?" he says, his voice getting colder. "I think you're looking for problems that don't exist because you're insecure about me being successful."

The accusation hits like a slap. "Insecure about your success?"

"Yes. You can't handle that my life is bigger now, that I have more obligations, more people depending on me."

"Joe, I've been supporting your dreams since you were riding the bench at Ohio State. I moved my entire life to Cincinnati for your career. I have never, not once, been anything but proud of your success."

"Then what is this about?"

"This is about you changing. About you deciding that the girl who loved you before you were famous isn't good enough for the life you want now."

Joe is quiet for a moment, and in that silence, you see something shift in his expression. Not denial, not confusion. Recognition.

"Maybe," he says slowly, "we're just in different places now."

The words are careful, diplomatic, but they land like a confession.

"Different places," you repeat.

"I'm trying to build something here. A legacy. And maybe... maybe that requires making some choices about what fits and what doesn't."

"And I don't fit."

It's not a question, but Joe answers anyway.

"I don't know."

The honesty is almost worse than a lie would have been. After six years, you've been reduced to "I don't know."

"You know what the worst part is?" you say, your voice surprisingly steady. "It's not that you've changed. People change, I get that. It's that you've been too cowardly to just end things. You've been hoping I'd get the hint and leave so you wouldn't have to be the bad guy."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it? You've been making me smaller and smaller in your life, erasing me bit by bit, hoping I'd just fade away so you could move on without having to actually break up with me."

Joe doesn't deny it, which tells you everything you need to know.

"I think," you say, surprising yourself with how calm you sound, "we should end this."

Joe looks up sharply. "Y/N—"

"No, it's okay. You don't have to pretend anymore. You don't have to keep me around out of guilt or obligation or whatever this has become."

"It's not guilt. I do love you."

"I know you do. But you love the idea of your future more, and I'm not part of that picture anymore."

Joe is quiet, not denying it, not fighting for you, and that tells you everything.

"I'm going to pack some things," you say. "I'll come back for the rest later."

"Where will you go?"

"That's not your problem anymore."

You turn to leave the kitchen, but Joe's voice stops you.

"Y/N. I never meant for it to happen like this."

You look back at him, this man you've loved for six years, who looks genuinely sad but also relieved.

"I know," you say. "But it did happen like this. And we both have to live with that."

* * *

You pack quickly, mechanically, throwing clothes and essentials into suitcases while Joe presumably goes to his training session. You can't think too hard about what you're taking or you'll fall apart.

Your nursing textbooks. Your favorite jeans. The Ohio State sweatshirt you've had since freshman year. A few photos from before everything went wrong.

The wooden box of letters sits in your nightstand drawer, forgotten in your rush to get out. Six years of loving someone documented in careful handwriting, left behind like everything else that used to matter.

When you're done packing, the apartment looks the same except for the empty spaces where your things used to be. Like you were never really there at all.

You leave your key on the kitchen counter next to your coffee cup, still half full and growing cold.

By the time Joe comes home from training, you're gone.

* * *

Two days later, Joe texts you: Can we talk about practical stuff? I want to help with your transition.

You're staying at Emma's, sleeping on her couch and trying to figure out your next move, when the text comes through. You almost don't respond, but there are things you left behind that you need.

You meet him at a coffee shop near the hospital, neutral territory. He looks tired, guilty, like he hasn't been sleeping well.

"I found an apartment for you," he says without preamble. "Downtown, close to the hospital. I want to pay for it."

You stare at him. "What?"

"An apartment, living expenses, and enough money that you can focus on whatever you want to do next without worrying about bills. Ever."

"Joe—"

"I know how this looks, but I just want to make sure you're okay. That you land on your feet."

The offer is generous. Too generous. A one-bedroom downtown would probably cost more than you make in several months, and the financial security would give you time to rebuild without the stress of money.

It would also mean accepting his guilt money. It would mean letting him buy his way out of feeling bad about how he treated you.

"No," you say.

"Y/N, be practical. You've been living a certain way for years now. You shouldn't have to struggle financially because of how this ended."

"No." Your voice is firm. "I don't want your money, Joe."

"Please. Just let me do this one thing right."

"Doing this right would have been having this conversation six months ago instead of making me disappear from your life piece by piece."

Joe's jaw tightens. "I'm trying to help you."

"You're trying to make yourself feel better. And I'm not going to take your money so you can sleep better at night knowing you paid me off."

"That's not what this is."

"That's exactly what this is Joe."

Joe is quiet, and you can see that part of him knows you're right.

"I want to do this," he says finally. "Please let me do this."

"I want to do this myself."

You stand up, leaving your untouched coffee on the table. "I'll get my things this weekend when you're out of town."

"Y/N—"

"I don't want your guilt money, Joe. I want to forget this ever happened and build something that's mine."

You walk away before he can argue, before the practical part of your brain can override your pride, before you can change your mind about money that would solve all your immediate problems.

Because taking his money would mean staying connected to him, staying grateful to him, staying small.

And you're done being small.

* * *

Three weeks later, you sign a lease on a tiny one-bedroom apartment in a decent neighborhood. It's nothing fancy—old hardwood floors, a kitchen barely big enough for one person, a view of the parking lot—but it's yours. Paid for with money you'd saved over the years while Joe covered most of your living expenses.

Emma helps you move your few boxes of belongings. You buy a couch from Facebook Marketplace and hang up photos from before everything went wrong.

It's small and humble and nothing like the life you thought you'd be living at twenty-six, but when you sit on your secondhand couch in your empty living room, you feel something you haven't felt in months:

Peace.

You don't think about Joe during the day when you're busy with patients. You don't check his social media. You don't wonder what he's doing or who he's with.

You think about the little girl in room 304 who's going home next week after three months of treatment. You think about the continuing education class you're taking to specialize in pediatric oncology. You think about the book you're reading and the weekend plans you're making with Emma.

You think about building a life that belongs entirely to you.

And if sometimes you lie awake at night remembering what it felt like to love someone that much, to believe in forever that completely, you remind yourself that loving Joe Burrow was the best and worst thing you ever did.

The best because it taught you how much you were capable of feeling.

The worst because it nearly made you forget how much you were worth.

But you remember now. And that's enough to start over.

* * *

July 2024 - Six Months Later

Melissa finds the box on a Saturday morning while Joe is at training camp.

She's been staying over more frequently lately—nothing serious, just convenient—and Joe mentioned she could reorganize the bedroom furniture if she wanted. "Make it feel more like home," he'd said, though they both know this isn't going anywhere permanent.

"She's moving the nightstand to get better morning light when she notices it's heavier than it should be. When she opens the bottom drawer to see what's weighing it down, there's a wooden box pushed all the way to the back.

It's beautiful—polished wood with delicate metal hinges, the kind of thing someone keeps treasures in. Melissa stares at it for a long moment, knowing she shouldn't be curious about Joe's personal belongings. It's probably documents, maybe family photos, something private that's none of her business.

But something about the box draws her in. It looks old, well-loved, like it holds memories.

She almost closes the drawer and pretends she never saw it. That would be the right thing to do. But her fingers are already reaching for it, already lifting it out to examine the craftsmanship.

The box isn't locked. The hinges open easily, as if they've been opened countless times before.

Inside are letters. Dozens of them, written in careful feminine handwriting on different papers—notebook pages, stationary, hotel letterhead. Some are dated, some aren't. The oldest ones are from 2017, the newest from December 2023.

Melissa's stomach drops. She shouldn't be reading these.

Instead, she picks up the top letter, dated October 15, 2017, and reads the first line:

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

I'm starting this collection because someday you're going to be a famous football player...

Melissa sets the letter down immediately, her heart racing. These aren't just personal—they're love letters. Someone wrote love letters to Joe, and they've been hidden in this drawer for God knows how long.

She should stop reading. Should put everything back and pretend this never happened. Joe's past relationships are none of her business, and reading someone else's private correspondence is a massive violation.

But the date catches her attention. 2017. These letters span years, not months. This wasn't some casual relationship—this was something serious, something long-term that Joe has never once mentioned.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Melissa picks up the letter again and reads the whole thing. Then another. Then another.

By the time she's read five letters, she understands she's holding someone's entire heart in her hands. Six years of love letters from someone named Y/N, documenting a relationship that clearly meant everything to her and apparently meant enough to Joe that he kept every single letter.

But if these letters are so important, why are they hidden in a drawer? Why has Joe never mentioned this woman who obviously loved him completely?

Melissa has heard the name exactly once, in passing, when Joe mentioned his "ex from college" without elaborating. She'd assumed it was some brief relationship, nothing significant enough to discuss.

These letters tell a different story.

She reads about Ohio State, about late nights studying together, about Joe being too nervous to make a move. She reads about LSU and the Heisman and the draft. She reads about moving to Cincinnati together, about building a life, about talks of marriage and forever.

Then she reads about the slow dissolution. About feeling invisible, about being erased from his life, about watching the man she loved become someone who treated her like an inconvenience.

The final letter, dated December 25, 2023, makes Melissa's chest tight:

I'm writing this letter on Christmas, and it might be the last one I ever write to you. Because I finally understand that you don't want me in your life anymore. And I'm too tired to keep fighting for someone who doesn't want to be fought for.

Melissa sits on the bedroom floor, surrounded by six years of someone else's love story, and feels sick to her stomach.

Not because she's jealous—she and Joe aren't in love, aren't building toward anything serious. But because these letters paint a picture of a man she doesn't recognize. A man who systematically erased someone who loved him completely, who slowly broke someone's heart while they begged him to remember what they used to mean to each other.

When Joe comes home from training, Melissa is sitting at the kitchen island with the wooden box in front of her.

"Hey," he says, dropping his gear bag by the door. "How was your day?"

"I found something," she says quietly.

Joe glances at the box and his face goes completely white. He stares at it like he's seeing a ghost.

"What is that?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I was hoping you could tell me." Melissa's voice is careful, controlled. "I found it in your nightstand drawer when I was moving furniture."

"Joe's face goes completely white when he sees the box. "That's Y/N's. She had it when we moved in, but I never... I never knew what she kept in it."

"Joe—"

"I remember Y/N having this, but I never knew what was in it." He reaches out to touch it, then pulls his hand back. "What's inside?"

"Letters. A lot of them. From her."

Joe's face crumples like he's been hit. He sits down heavily in the chair across from her.

"Y/N wrote me letters?"

"You really didn't know?"

"I had no fucking idea." Joe's voice is strained. "She must have left it when she moved out. I never... I never cleaned out that drawer. I never had any reason to."

Melissa watches his face carefully. The shock seems genuine, but so does something else. Fear, maybe. Or dread.

"Did you read them?"

"Some of them." Melissa's voice is careful, controlled. "Enough."

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of six years of hidden love letters between them.

"She was so in love with you," Melissa says finally. "These letters... they're six years of her heart on paper."

Joe nods, not looking at her.

"And you just... what? Got tired of her?"

"It wasn't like that."

"What was it like?"

Joe runs his hands through his hair, a gesture Melissa now realizes probably drove Y/N crazy with familiarity. "It was complicated."

"She doesn't make it sound complicated. She makes it sound like you decided she wasn't good enough for your new life and slowly pushed her out instead of having the balls to break up with her."

Joe flinches. "That's not what happened."

"What was it then?"

Melissa reaches into the box and pulls out a letter from September 2023. "She writes about your teammate thinking you were single. About you not mentioning her when you talked about your support system." She looks up at Joe. "Sound familiar?"

"You don't understand the pressure I was under—"

"From who? From your agent? Your publicist?" Melissa's voice gets sharper. "Or from yourself because you wanted to be available?"

Joe is quiet.

"There's a letter in here about you liking Instagram photos of other women. About her friends having to tell her because she didn't know." Melissa shakes her head. "That's not pressure, Joe. That's cruelty."

"I never meant to hurt her."

"But you did hurt her. For months. You made someone who loved you feel like they were crazy for expecting basic respect."

Joe finally looks up, and Melissa can see something breaking behind his eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Melissa says, standing up and gathering her purse, "I can't be with someone who treats people like that. And because she deserves better than having her love letters hidden in a drawer like they're something to be ashamed of."

She pushes the wooden box across the island toward him.

"Read them," she says. "Read what you threw away. And then figure out how to live with what you did."

After Melissa leaves, Joe sits alone in his kitchen staring at the wooden box. He's never seen it before in his life.

He turns it over in his hands, examining the delicate metal hinges, the worn spots where fingers have traced the edges countless times. It's clearly old, clearly meaningful, clearly not something that belonged to him.

Y/N must have left it behind when she moved out. In six months, he's never cleaned out that nightstand drawer—never had a reason to. He'd assumed she took everything that mattered to her.

The fact that she forgot this, whatever it is, feels significant in a way he can't quite name.

With trembling fingers, Joe opens the box.

His heart stops.

Inside are dozens of letters, some on notebook paper, some on stationary, some on hotel letterhead. They span years—he can see dates ranging from 2017 to 2023. Six years of letters he never knew existed.

Joe picks up the first one with shaking hands, dated October 15, 2017:

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

I'm starting this collection because someday you're going to be a famous football player, and I want to be able to show you that I always knew you could do it...

The words blur as Joe reads about nineteen-year-old Y/N, sitting in her dorm room after their library study session, so sure of his potential that she started documenting her belief in him. She writes about his terrible impression of Coach Meyer, about the way he looked when he talked about football, about being proud to love someone chasing such big dreams.

He had no idea. No idea she was writing to him, about him, for him. No idea she was creating this record of their love story, this proof of her faith in him when he barely had faith in himself.

The second letter is from after their first date, gushing about his nervousness and his sweetness and how she's already falling for the frustrated quarterback who everyone overlooks.

The third is from LSU, about missing him but being so proud of his courage to transfer, so sure he'll prove everyone wrong.

Letter after letter of unwavering support, of love, of belief. Y/N documenting every milestone, every moment of growth, every step of his journey from benchwarmer to Heisman winner to NFL quarterback.

But it's not just about football. She writes about the way he makes her laugh, about his terrible cooking, about lazy Sunday mornings and shared dreams. She writes about loving him not because of what he might become, but because of who he is.

Joe reads for hours, watching their relationship unfold through Y/N's eyes. The joy in her words when he wins the Heisman. The excitement when he gets drafted. The love when they move in together. The security when she writes about their future like it's inevitable, beautiful, certain.

Then come the 2023 letters, and Joe's heart breaks completely.

The shift is gradual at first—confusion replacing confidence, questions replacing certainty. She writes about his Instagram activity, about feeling invisible at events, about being erased from his life piece by piece.

March 15, 2023: When I tried to talk to you about it, you called it "my problem." You acted like my feelings were irrational, like caring about this made me crazy and jealous.

Joe remembers that conversation. He remembers dismissing her concerns, making her feel small for caring. Reading her words now, he sees how cruel he was, how blind.

July 15, 2023: I gave you a watch for your birthday—something I thought you'd actually wear since you're always checking your phone for the time... You said it was thoughtful, but you put it in your pocket and never mentioned it again.

The watch. Joe looks down at his wrist where it sits now, the watch he wears every day but never thinks about. He'd forgotten it was from her, forgotten the love behind the gesture.

December 25, 2023: You don't want to be the bad guy who breaks up with his college girlfriend, so you're just making me disappear instead. Death by a thousand small cuts instead of one clean break.

The accuracy of her observation hits him like a physical blow. That's exactly what he did. Too cowardly to end things cleanly, he slowly erased her instead, hoping she'd fade away so he wouldn't have to face what he was doing.

The final letter, written on Christmas night, destroys him:

I'm writing this letter on Christmas, and it might be the last one I ever write to you. Because I finally understand that you don't want me in your life anymore. And I'm too tired to keep fighting for someone who doesn't want to be fought for.

Joe reads it three times, each word cutting deeper than the last. Y/N, the woman who loved him before anyone believed in him, reduced to begging for basic recognition in her own relationship. Y/N, who documented six years of loving him, finally admitting defeat on Christmas night.

When Joe finally closes the box, the sun is coming up outside his kitchen windows. He's sitting in the same spot where he dismissed her concerns about Instagram, where he made her feel crazy for wanting to matter to him, where he let her walk away rather than fight for what they had.

For six months, he's told himself it was for the best, that they just weren't compatible anymore, that he was doing them both a favor. The letters obliterate every lie he's told himself.

Y/N didn't leave him. He systematically destroyed her until she had no choice but to save herself.

And she'd been documenting it all—not to hurt him, but because she loved him so much she couldn't stop believing their story mattered, even when he was busy erasing her from it.

Joe picks up his phone, Y/N's contact still saved under a heart emoji he never changed. His fingers hover over her name.

But what could he possibly say? How do you apologize for six months of cruelty? How do you explain that you never knew someone was writing love letters to you while you were busy breaking their heart?

How do you ask for forgiveness when you finally understand you don't deserve it?

Joe sets the phone down and stares at the wooden box containing six years of the most genuine love he's ever received. Love he never knew existed, never appreciated, never deserved.

Love he destroyed because he was too blind to see what he had and too selfish to protect it.

For the first time in his adult life, Joe Burrow understands what he's lost. And it's too late to get it back.

* * *

August 2024 - The Unraveling

Joe starts saying no.

No to the networking events that feel hollow. No to the sponsor appearances that require him to be "on" for hours. No to the parties where he doesn't know anyone and everyone wants something from him.

His agent is confused. His publicist is concerned. His teammates start asking if he's okay.

"I'm fine," Joe tells Ja'Marr over lunch. "I'm just trying to figure some things out."

"This about Y/N?" Ja'Marr asks.

Joe looks up sharply. "How did you—"

"Dude, you've been different since she left. And you used to talk about her all the time." Ja'Marr shrugs. "Now you act like she never existed."

"Did I really talk about her that much?"

"Constantly. It was actually annoying. Y/N this, Y/N that. You were gone for that girl."

Something cold washes over Joe. He'd forgotten that version of himself—the one who couldn't shut up about his girlfriend, who was proud to be claimed by someone who chose him when he was nobody.

"What happened? You never told me." Ja'Marr asks.

"I got stupid," Joe says simply. "I thought I wanted something else, and I threw away the best thing I ever had."

* * *

Fall 2024 - The Work

Joe starts seeing a therapist.

Not because anyone suggests it, not because it's trending or good for his image, but because he reads Y/N's letters again and realizes he doesn't understand why he became the person who could treat someone like that.

Dr. Andrews is in her fifties, has probably never watched a football game in her life, and treats Joe like any other patient working through relationship issues.

"Tell me about fame," she says during their third session. "How did it change you?"

"It didn't change me. It just... amplified things."

"What things?"

Joe thinks about this. "The need to be perfect. The fear of being vulnerable. The idea that I had to be worthy of the attention."

"And being in a relationship made you feel unworthy?"

"Being in a relationship made me feel... tied down. Like I was missing out on something."

"What were you missing out on?"

Joe is quiet for a long time. "I don't know. That's the fucked up part. I threw away something real for something that doesn't even exist."

Dr. Andrews nods. "Fame can be a very effective shield against intimacy. It's easier to be loved by thousands of strangers than to be truly known by one person."

The observation hits Joe like a physical blow, because it's exactly right. Loving Y/N required him to be real, to be flawed, to be human. Fame let him be perfect, untouchable, always performing.

* * *

Winter 2024-2025 - The Isolation

Joe spends his first off-season in years actually off. No training camps in exotic locations, no promotional tours, no appearances. Just him, his house, and the uncomfortable silence of not being constantly busy.

He gets back into reading actual books, not just playbooks. He cooks real meals instead of ordering out or having his chef prepare them. He takes long walks without his phone, remembering what it feels like to think without interruption.

He also writes letters he'll never send.

Y/N,

I read your letters. All of them. I had no idea you were writing to me, documenting us, believing in me even when I was too stupid to believe in myself.

I wish I could explain why I became the person who hurt you, but I'm still figuring that out. All I know is that somewhere along the way, I started believing my own hype and forgot that the best parts of my life had nothing to do with football.

You deserved so much better than what I gave you. You deserved to be chosen every day, not slowly erased because I was too cowardly to face what I really wanted.

I hope you're happy. I hope you found someone who appreciates what I was too blind to see.

I hope someday I become worthy of the love you gave me, even if it's too late for us.

Joe

He writes dozens of these letters, each one an attempt to understand what went wrong, to take responsibility, to imagine a version of himself that could have been better.

He never sends them. But writing them helps him understand the difference between regret and genuine remorse.

* * *

Spring 2025 - The Breakthrough

"I think I understand now," Joe tells Dr. Andrews during a session in March. "Why I did what I did."

"Tell me."

"I was terrified of being ordinary. Y/N loved me when I was just a backup quarterback, when I was nobody special. Part of me always worried that if I stayed with her, I'd stay ordinary too."

"And now?"

"Now I realize that being loved for who you really are is the most extraordinary thing in the world. And I gave that up to be loved by people who don't actually know me at all."

Dr. Andrews nods. "That's significant insight, Joe. What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know. She's moved on. She's probably with someone else, someone who deserves her. But I want to become the kind of person who could be worthy of that kind of love, even if it's too late for us."

* * *

Summer 2025 - The Changes

Joe starts living differently.

He buys groceries and cooks his own meals. He calls his parents every week just to talk, not because he needs something. He volunteers at the children's hospital—not for publicity, not for photos, but because Y/N's passion for helping kids finally makes sense to him.

He stops following Instagram models. Stops going to parties where he doesn't know anyone. Stops saying yes to every opportunity just because it might look good.

His social media becomes quieter, more authentic. Less brand management, more actual life.

People notice. Teammates comment that he seems more relaxed, more present. His family says he sounds like himself again for the first time in years.

"You're different," his mom says during a visit home. "More like the Joe we raised."

"I'm trying to figure out who that person is again."

"He's a good person," Robin says. "He just got lost for a while."

* * *

Fall 2025 - The Understanding

Joe has dinner with Tyler and Kierra Boyd, something he hasn't done in years—just dinner, no agenda, no networking.

"Can I ask you something?" Joe says as they're finishing dessert. "How do you stay real when everything around you is fake?"

Tyler and Kierra exchange a look.

"You remember what matters," Kierra says finally. "You remember that the football stuff is what you do, not who you are."

"And you surround yourself with people who knew you before," Tyler adds. "People who'll call you out when you're being an ass."

Joe thinks about Y/N, who used to tease him about his terrible jokes, who kept him grounded without even trying, who saw through his bullshit even when he couldn't.

"I had that," he says quietly. "I threw it away."

"Y/N?" Kierra asks gently.

Joe nods, surprised she remembers.

"She was good for you," Kierra says. "You were different when you were with her. More... yourself."

"I know. I just didn't appreciate it until it was too late."

* * *

2025 - The Growth

Joe's first full year of therapy focuses less on what he did wrong and more on building the person he wants to be going forward.

He learns to sit with uncomfortable emotions instead of numbing them with work or distractions. He practices vulnerability in small ways—admitting when he doesn't know something, asking for help, letting people see him struggle.

He dates occasionally, but nothing serious. Partly because he's still working on himself, partly because everyone feels like a pale imitation of what he had with Y/N.

"I keep comparing them to her," he tells Dr. Andrews.

"That's natural. She was a significant relationship."

"It's more than that. She was... home. She was the only person who made me feel like I could stop performing and just be."

"Do you think you could create that feeling with someone else?"

"Maybe. But not until I can be that person without needing someone else to bring it out of me."

* * *

Early 2027 - The Readiness

By his third year of therapy, Joe has become someone he actually likes. Someone who can sit in silence without needing constant stimulation. Someone who asks his friends about their lives instead of waiting for his turn to talk. Someone who volunteers because he wants to help, not because it looks good.

He's still successful, still driven, still competitive. But those things don't define him anymore.

"I think I'm ready," he tells Dr. Andrews during one of their sessions.

"Ready for what?"

"To be in a real relationship again. To be the kind of partner someone deserves."

"What would that look like?"

"Present. Honest. Willing to be vulnerable. Someone who chooses their partner every day, not just when it's convenient."

Dr. Andrews smiles. "That sounds like growth."

"I know she's probably moved on. I know I probably lost my chance with her forever. But if I ever get another opportunity to love someone that completely, I want to be ready for it."

* * *

Late 2027 - The Invitation

The wedding invitation arrives on a Tuesday in October: Kyle McClain & Emily Stevens request your presence...

Joe remembers Jake from Ohio State—offensive lineman, good guy, someone who knew both him and Y/N back when they were just college kids figuring things out.

His first instinct is to decline. Weddings are complicated, full of people from his past who might ask questions he's not ready to answer.

But then he thinks about the person he's become over the past three years. Someone who can handle awkward conversations. Someone who doesn't need to perform or impress. Someone who can show up as himself and be okay with that.

He RSVP's yes.

He doesn't let himself think about whether Y/N might be there. He goes because Jake is a good friend and because he wants to celebrate love, even if his own chance at it might be gone forever.

But as he drives to Columbus the morning of the wedding, Joe allows himself one small hope: that if he does see Y/N, she'll be able to see the man he's worked so hard to become.

The man who finally understands what he lost.

The man who might, just might, be worthy of a second chance.

* * *

October 2027 - Columbus, Ohio

Joe sees her before she sees him.

She's standing near the bar at Kyle and Emily's wedding reception, wearing a navy blue dress that skims her knees, her hair longer than he remembers and pulled back in a way that shows off the elegant line of her neck. She's laughing at something the woman next to her is saying, and the sound carries across the room like a melody he'd forgotten he knew.

For a moment, Joe can't breathe. Three and a half years of therapy, of growth, of becoming someone better, and the sight of Y/N still hits him like a physical force.

But this time, it's different. This time, he doesn't feel the desperate, possessive ache he might have felt years ago. Instead, he feels something quieter, more complex—a mixture of joy at seeing her looking so genuinely happy and a profound sadness for everything they lost.

She looks good. More than good. She looks like she's thriving.

Joe stays where he is for a few minutes, just watching her interact with the other guests. She's confident in a way she never quite was when they were together, engaging in conversation with an ease that seems effortless. When she throws her head back and laughs at something, Joe can see that this is who she was always meant to become.

He's about to turn away—maybe slip out early, let her enjoy the evening without the complication of his presence—when she glances around the room and her eyes land on him.

The recognition is instant. Her smile fades slightly, not in an unfriendly way, but in the way of someone who's just been reminded of a different lifetime. They stare at each other across the crowded reception hall, and Joe feels like they're nineteen again, meeting for the first time in that orientation session.

Y/N says something to the woman she's talking to, then begins making her way across the room. Joe's heart rate picks up, but he stays put, letting her come to him.

"Joe," she says when she reaches him. Her voice is warm but careful. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

"Y/N." He smiles, hoping it looks more natural than it feels. "You look... you look really good."

"Thank you. So do you."

There's an awkward pause as they both try to navigate this moment. The last time they saw each other, she was packing boxes and leaving their shared life behind. Now they're adults at a mutual friend's wedding, trying to figure out how to have a normal conversation.

"Beautiful ceremony," Y/N says, falling back on safe territory.

"Yeah, Kyle looked like he was about to cry during the vows."

"He did cry. I saw him wiping his eyes when Emily was walking down the aisle."

Joe smiles. "Good for him. They seem really happy together."

The conversation continues in careful, polite territory for a few more minutes. They talk about the wedding, about how good Kyle and Emily look together, about how strange it is to be back in Columbus. Neither of them mentions their past directly, but it hangs between them like a third person in the conversation.

Then Y/N mentions, "I actually moved to Chicago about a year ago."

"Chicago," Joe repeats. "That's great. For work?"

"Partly. I got into a pediatric oncology program at Northwestern. It's what I always wanted to do."

"I should probably go find my table," Y/N says eventually. "It was good to see you, Joe."

"Wait," Joe says, surprising himself. "Would you like to dance? I mean, if you're not here with someone..."

Y/N hesitates for a moment, and Joe can see her weighing the decision. "I'm not here with anyone," she says finally. "And... okay. One dance."

The band is playing something slow and romantic as Joe leads Y/N to the dance floor. When he places his hand on her waist and she puts her hand on his shoulder, muscle memory takes over. They fit together the same way they always did, her head at the perfect height to rest against his chest if she wanted to.

She doesn't, keeping a careful distance between them, but Joe can smell her perfume—something different than what she used to wear, more sophisticated—and feel the warmth of her hand in his.

"This is weird," Y/N says with a small laugh.

Joe nods. "I was thinking the same thing."

They dance in silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Joe wants to say so many things—wants to apologize, wants to explain, wants to tell her about the letters and the therapy and the person he's become. But he also knows that this moment isn't about him or what he needs to say.

"You seem happy," he says instead.

"I am," Y/N replies, and there's something in her voice that tells him she's surprised by her own certainty. "It took a while, but I am."

"I'm glad."

"Are you? Happy, I mean."

Joe considers this. "I'm better. I'm not the same person I was when... when we ended things."

"None of us are the same people we were at twenty-six."

"No, I mean really different. I spent a lot of time figuring out why I became someone who could hurt you like that."

Y/N looks up at him, and for the first time tonight, he sees something vulnerable in her expression. "Joe..."

"I'm not trying to relitigate the past," he says quickly. "I just wanted you to know that I understand now. What I did, why it was wrong, why you deserved so much better."

"I appreciate that," Y/N says quietly.

The song is ending, and Joe knows this moment is almost over. When the music stops, Y/N will go back to her table, and he'll go back to his, and they'll finish the evening as polite acquaintances who used to mean everything to each other.

"Y/N," he says as the final notes play. "I know this might be presumptuous, and I know you probably have a whole life in Chicago that I don't know anything about, but... would you have dinner with me sometime? Just dinner. Just to talk."

Y/N is quiet for so long that Joe starts to prepare himself for rejection. But then she looks up at him with those same eyes that used to watch him across library tables and football stadiums, and he sees something he hadn't dared hope for.

Curiosity. Interest. Maybe even a little bit of the old warmth.

"I'd like that," she says simply.

The music stops, and they step apart, but neither of them moves to leave the dance floor immediately.

"I'm flying back to Chicago tomorrow night," Y/N says. "But I'll be in Cincinnati next month for a conference."

"Text me," Joe says. "When you know your schedule."

"I will."

They stand there for another moment, both seeming to realize that something significant has just happened. Not a reconciliation, not a grand romantic gesture, but something quieter and more important. A door opening, just a crack, to the possibility of finding out who they might be to each other now.

"I should let you get back to the celebration," Joe says finally.

"Yeah," Y/N agrees, but she's smiling now, a real smile that reaches her eyes. "It was really good to see you, Joe."

"You too."

Joe watches her walk back to her table, where her friends immediately lean in to ask what that was all about. He can see her laughing, shaking her head, probably deflecting their questions with the same grace she's always had.

He doesn't stay much longer after that. He makes his rounds, congratulates Jake and Emily, and slips out before the bouquet toss. But as he drives back to Cincinnati, Joe feels something he hasn't felt in years.

Hope.

Not the desperate, grasping hope of someone trying to reclaim the past, but the quiet, mature hope of someone who's done the work to become worthy of a future.

Y/N said she'd text him. Maybe she will, maybe she won't. Maybe dinner will lead to more conversations, or maybe it will give them both the closure they need to finally move on completely.

But for the first time since he read those letters in his kitchen three years ago, Joe Burrow allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the best love stories are the ones that teach you how to love better the second time around.

* * *

November 2027 - Cincinnati

The restaurant Joe chooses is small and quiet, the kind of place that values conversation over ambiance. Y/N arrives exactly on time, wearing a simple black sweater and jeans, looking nervous but determined.

"Hi," she says, sliding into the booth across from him.

"Hi," Joe replies, and they both laugh a little at the awkwardness of it all.

For the first hour, they stick to safe topics. Her work at Northwestern, his off-season training, mutual friends from Ohio State, the food. But gradually, carefully, they begin to venture into deeper waters.

"I read about your foundation work," Y/N says over dessert. "The literacy program you started. That's really beautiful, Joe."

"Thanks. It actually started because of something you said once. About how reading was the first way you learned to escape when things got hard."

Y/N looks surprised. "You remembered that?"

"I remember a lot of things I wish I'd paid attention to at the time."

They're quiet for a moment, the weight of their history settling between them.

"I found your letters," Joe says finally. "After we... after you left. I had no idea you'd been writing them."

Y/N's cheeks flush slightly. "I forgot them when I packed. I almost came back for them, but..."

"I'm glad you didn't. Reading them made me understand what I'd actually lost. What I'd thrown away."

"Joe—"

"I know we can't go back," he says quickly. "I know too much happened, too much hurt. But Y/N, these past three years, I've done everything I could to become someone worthy of the love you gave me. Not to win you back, just to... to honor it, I guess."

Y/N reaches across the table and touches his hand briefly. "I can see that. The way you are tonight, it's different. You're present in a way you never were before."

"Are you happy?" Joe asks. "In Chicago, with your life?"

"I am," she says, but then adds quietly, "but I think I could be happy other places too. With the right person."

They look at each other across the table, both understanding that something fundamental is shifting between them.

"I don't want to rush anything," Joe says. "I don't want to mess this up again."

"Good," Y/N replies with a small smile. "Because I'm not twenty-six anymore. I know what I'm worth now."

"You're worth everything," Joe says simply. "I just hope I'm finally worthy of you."

When they leave the restaurant three hours later, Joe walks Y/N to her rental car. They stand in the parking lot, neither wanting the evening to end.

"I fly back tomorrow," Y/N says.

"I know."

"But I could come back. For another dinner. If you'd like that."

Joe's smile is soft and genuine. "I'd like that very much."

This time, when he kisses her goodnight, it feels like a beginning.

[violetwolfraven]

Wait wait wait remember that post about how Team Starkid/the Lang brothers are going to be comparable to Shakespeare 500 years from now and it was mostly played for laughs like yeah lol you’ll need a paragraph of footnotes to explain the zefron poster but like

I don’t think that’s actually far off from how Starkid’s place in theatre history might play out and here’s why. Just hear me out

Why is Shakespeare so popular today when he definitely wasn’t the only playwright from that era? When he’s not even the only playwright from that era from England that we have surviving works from?

Two main reasons:

1) Shakespeare’s work is (relatively) universally relatable. The characters do things that are so fundamentally human. They make jokes at their friends’ expense. They complain about being awkward in front of their crush. They have daddy issues. The plot lines of the plays aren’t too complicated. The dick jokes land whether you’re watching in 1611 or 2024, and they probably still will in 2637. Shakespeare’s works are timeless because he didn’t try to outsmart his audience. He wrote about things everyone could relate to rather than trying too hard to peacock his intellect in front of the nobility. This is not true of every playwright.

2) Shakespeare was really popular right around the time England started colonizing everything in sight. Copies of his work got shipped all around the world, translated into dozens of languages, performed probably thousands of times. Setting aside the moral implications of this, the important thing to note is that Shakespeare was about the most easily accessible English playwright during a time of rapid, intense globalization.

Meanwhile, Starkid:

1) Invests hard in meaningful, relatable character arcs instead of spectacle and expensive sets or costumes. Also, lowbrow, immature humor and dick jokes that make A Very Potter Sequel funny and enjoyable regardless of if you’ve ever seen any other Harry Potter media in your life.

2) Posts professional recordings of their musicals to YouTube FOR FREE, making their shows about the easiest, best quality musical theatre you can get pretty much anywhere in the world, regardless of if your area has an active theatre scene. Proshots from other companies are rare and usually not free. Bootlegs are all well and good, but even if the video quality is alright (and that’s a big if) the audio is usually garbage. Starkid has been posting the best quality free recordings they can afford since 2009, shortly after the birth of social media, another time of rapid, intense globalization.

In short, I’m not saying that theatre historians in 500 years won’t remember any our current Broadway faves, but I am saying that in my opinion, Team Starkid is probably going to be more accessible for the general public. If you’re a 26th century English teacher trying to teach your class about narrative structure in 21st century theatre, what are you going to show your students? A bootleg of Hadestown with blurry video and garbage audio? Or the professional recording of Twisted, parts of which they will probably even enjoy, because even long after no one remembers Disney’s Aladdin anymore, your class of 26th century 16-year-olds are still going to laugh at “No One Remembers Achmed.”

[100gayicons]

Graham Chapman was heading for a career as a doctor until he met John Cleese at Cambridge University in the late 1950s. The duo were both members of the Footlights theatrical club, where they began writing comic skits. This partnership eventually led to the creation of Monty Python’s Flying Circus in 1969.

Chapman was considered the most subversive of the Monty Python members. When he was asked why he parodied authority figures, he said:

"Because they don't know their fucking business."

Chapman said that when he realized he was homosexual, it was "an important moment in my life". He met David Sherlock, his long-term partner, in Ibiza in 1966. When they returned to London and soon lived in together. The next year, Chapman came out to friends John Cleese and Marty Feldman.

In 1971, Chapman and Sherlock met John Tomiczek, a 14-year-old runaway from Liverpool. They later spoke with Tomiczek’s father, who agreed to let the pair become his legal guardians. (In later years, Tomiczek would become Chapman’s business manager.)

Chapman was a vocal supporter of Gay Rights. In 1972, he publicly supported the UK Gay Liberation Front and helped fund the pioneering newspaper Gay News. The same year, Chapman became one of the first British celebrities to come Out to the public - during a television chat show (although some say he was drunk at the time).

Chapman drank alcohol heavily most of his life. He once described it as:

“(It) was for relaxation. But it became more of a necessity. Four pints of gin a day is really hitting the juice.”

In 1973, while on tour with Monty Python, Chapman missed cues to go on stage and suffered from DTs (shakes, shivers, and confusion), which could last days.

In 1975, the Python Team began developing the script for “The Life of Brian”. Chapman had been considered by the team to be the best actor of the bunch, so he was cast as Brian. At Christmas 1977, Chapman became increasingly concerned that his drinking would impact his performance as Brian, so he quit drinking and remained sober for the rest of his life.

After the film opened in 1979, Chapman said:

“I'm still rediscovering myself. I don't really know who I am.”

Chapman took up pipe smoking at 15, which became a lifelong habit. It would have serious repercussions. In 1988, Chapman had a routine dentist appointment. The dentist discovered what appeared to be a small tumour on one of his tonsils. He had a tonsillectomy, but a year later, it was discovered that the cancer had spread into his spinal column. He underwent chemotherapy and other procedures, but it was determined the cancer was inoperable. Chapman died in October 1989, survived by his partner, David Sherlock, and his adopted son, John Tomiczek.

Chapman died the night before a planned Monty Python 20th anniversary celebration on the BBC. Python member Terry Jones called it "the worst case of party-pooping in all history".

At Chapman’s memorial service, close friend and writing partner John Cleese said:

“I guess that we're all thinking how sad it is that a man of such talent, of such capability for kindness, of such unusual intelligence, should now, so suddenly, be spirited away at the age of only forty-eight, before he'd achieved many of the things of which he was capable, and before he'd had enough fun. Well, I feel that I should say, nonsense. Good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard. I hope he fries! And the reason I feel I should say this is he would never forgive me if I didn't, if I threw away this glorious opportunity to shock you all on his behalf. Anything for him, but mindless good taste."

[coco--rush]

Why Hunter doesn't have rot

Spoilers for Hunter / Survivor / Monk / Watcher

Just to clarify before even going into this I’ll be treating Downpour as it’s own separate universe thus not making it cannon to Vanilla. This is in no way to discredit Downpours story (I love it myself, I think it's a really powerful narrative) But considering it was not written by the Vanilla team I’d prefer looking at it as an AU for my Vanilla analysis ! This also leads me to treating Watcher more cannon than Downpour since it was written by the original team, but it will only be used to reinforce smaller points.

Now with that said despite Downpour popularizing the idea that Hunter has rot Vanilla in no way supports this. The reasoning is quite simple there's no mention of it whatsoever beyond pebbles making a remark of “We both have something... unfortunate growing in us.” which if you want to interpet as we have the same thing growing in us you could say he has the rot, but this is a sympathetic statement. Pebbles is simply (for once) empathizing with something for having a similar-ish experience that is some form of disease spreading in them respectively. But Hunter is a normal animal he is much more likely to have a normal disease like cancer / tumour. 

Where would have Hunter even gotten the rot from? By Downpour standards the rot does not survive outside of Pebbles. He also for all we know is not from anywhere near Moon / Pebbles having been sent by NSH / Pebbles not seeming to recognize him either. We’ve also never seen an example of rot taking over a creature anywhere in Vanilla, not even in Downpour (ignoring Hunter ofc) If the rot was powerful enough to infect animals already there is no reason most creatures around Pebbles should be as healthy as they are. We’ve only seen creatures be infected in the Watcher which also shows insight into what it would look like.

All rot Hunter depictions have the rot be his fur color / generally blend into his body seamlessly that we see in the Watcher would not be the case. The rot well, rots the animals it infects distorting their colours and malforming them. The inner cores glowing the colour of the rot since it is a foreign object consuming them rather than a part of that creature. Even in different regions the rot stays black with only the inner core of it changing colour. The single evidence I’ve seen of Vanilla Hunter having rot is his sleeping sprite which I’ll break down why I do not believe is rot with an anatomy breakdown.

Their body is one big banana shape with limbs attached on top of it.

Tho sometimes drawn as a ‘single toe’ we could safely say that is for simplifying the drawing process.

Why are these important?

Apologies for messy visuals. But what people interpret as a rot cyst on Hunter's back is in fact just his hind leg with some unfortunate perspective. What Hunter does when sleeping is curl their tail all the way below their chin while laying down flat on their stomach which is bound to contart their body in funny ways leaving their leg to really only do 1 of 2 things, be smushed under his tail (what Survivor and Monk does) or above his tail that he does in his prite. 

If that’s not enough we also never see hunter with any sort of cysts on his back any any other art of him. But we do see 1 other art of him have scars on his hind legs.

Considering his eye scar is depicted everywhere since it is a big part of his design (even really fainting on the last pick it’s more visible on the other ones tho) A less reliable but worth to mention thing too his eye scar is visible in every merch (again it’s his main design beyond being red) yet he has not even a scar on his back since it was uneseceary detail (one of the poster arts does have him with an x scar on his side tho without cysts as per usual) If he truly had rot I don’t see why such a huge detail would not be included in multiple sprites of him and even as a small detail on his merch (remeber they have all of spearmasters tail holes embodered / inv's sketchy eyes being kept they don't cheap out on details) So in short. We have no reason to believe normal rot we see in Vanilla can infect creatures like the sentient rot in Watcher. We also do not have real evidence of him visually having rot for the only depiction in my opinion is just confusing a sprite of his for something it is not (some of the what seems to be early art can be a little janky since they were still figuring out how to draw slugcats) We also know for a fact he is not from near Pebbles thus not having a real way of catching rot unless the sentient rot has spread in the world already.

Worthy mentions I couldn't fit neatly anywhere else: - I’m aware that in the last slide him is having his illnes disolved out of him but just before that he's simply seen swimming without anything affecting him and we do not see any growths on his back. which would've been a perfect placement to show it be removed from him. - his death sprite also doesn’t have any rot sprouting out from him which would be very important if he did have it. - This isn’t to say I don’t like the Hunter rot theory but to me it’s just a really popular fannon that got slightly out of hand to the point people think it’s fully cannon. - I also think the hunter rot theory is really cool to explain how he can have extra spears. I’ll admit I have no idea how he does that without having rot. Maybe his fur is just so thick it gets stuck in it /hj 

If anyone has counterpoints or supporting point I’m very interested to listen !

[r0-boat]

MC naked & afraid featuring 7 idiots Headcannons

(What in hell is bad! survival Island headcannons)

Based off of my whb survival Island poll

Author's notes: I'm watching a documentary right now This shit made me laugh so hard imagining these demons becoming feral

It was supposed to be a cruise Mammon was testing out his new cruise ship but something horribly wrong happened where you and the seven kings were stranded on an island in the human world. Their powers unable to work for plot reasons.

They're not stuck forever They can go back home but a rescue team will take a month to arrive.

Satan

Satan somehow got a campfire running. He got so angry he lit the fire based off of pure anger. Because Leviathan was bullying him that he didn't know how to start a simple fire and asked him to hand over the sticks. Satan said "NO! FUCK YOU PUSSY BITCH I GOT IT!"

Satan is a really good hunter, like an exceptional hunter. And he quickly goes into his role. It's been 2 days and now He wears the pelt of his latest kill. Hey sharpens his own tools and he looks like a savage according to Leviathan.

Satan has gotten a thrill for the hunt and for some reason he keeps staring at you....

Mammon

For an hour he's been looking around this deserted island it is populated with native animals and foliage as well as fresh water. You know what he's thinking about... Turning this island into another one of his villas.

When he is not checking out this island as if he's trying to purchase real estate He's actually helping you with building a shelter. Tino's absolutely nothing about building shelters but he's glad to be your heavy muscles and tools for whenever you can't do something.

Following Satan His deconstruction of a civil man has begun but the only thing that really changed is his shirt came off that's it... Only because It got ripped when Satan and him had a fight.

Leviathan

He hates this he fucking hates this. Everyone's running around like headless chickens and he's the only competent devil (except for Lucifer)

He's been better... He was actually a lot worse when you first crashed on the island You had to actually calm him down from his panic attack and when he did finally calm down He has been clinging to you like his life depended on it. Using you as some kind of strange therapy. Becoming more possessive over you.

Anything you're doing he is doing with you no questions ask if anyone were to question it he will take a sharp rock and stab them right in the eye.

Beelzebub

As soon as you woke up in the sand Beelzebub. You wanted to search for him But the other kings we're not worried for him at all.

Before the sun goes down he does turn up with a stick sharpened into a spear and food. Beel is an exceptional hunter. He is the reason why All of you aren't starving. Beel can literally eat anything But that doesn't mean you and other devils can't. So if he tells you not to eat something don't need it.

Beel and Satan have some kind of dick measuring competition with killing and hunting prey. Satan comes back with a rabbit, Beel catches a wild boar, Satan comes back with a big fish, Beel comes back with a crocodile.

Lucifer

Oh my god finally a competent devil. Lucifer is the most important devil since he can heal injuries as well as sicknesses. Even though his magic isn't in effect he still knows a lot of natural plant remedies. He knows every plant species that God has made.

He looks at you with an odd look, while you follow his instructions closely on how to build a proper shelter.

He takes this chance to study you as if you were his science project every time you get a bump I scrape or scratch He studies you meticulously how your human body heals naturally slowly. His fingers delicately tracing each scar you've ever had.

Belphegor

Motherfucker is either asleep or jacking off while you guys do the work. He's so lucky to have all these hard workers working for him and with the shelter built he could finally... It's not comfortable...

He knows that you guys are doing your best and what not but damn sleeping on the ground sucks ass wipe. He wants to find natural soft moss or bedding just for a better sleep.

Because of Belphegor The shelter in looks more and more comfortable with his additions which he always adamantly reminds you. Every time you go in there's new shit added and it looks more like a nest then a shelter.

Asmodeus

Oh yeah the clothes are gone... Are you surprised? This demon has become full feral and he loves it. An island paradise for you and him and of the other 6 would like to join they're more than welcome to.

This uncivilized natural land spark something inside him that you don't want anything to do with.

After you literally threatened not to have sex with him for 2 months until he puts his clothes back on He decides to use leaves or vines instead now he just looks like PornHub Tarzan...

Bonus:

This devil is the king of lust, He has been eyeing this human potential mate for a while now...

The human bathing in the crystal pool catch a sight of him, They seem weary but content with his presence.

This is his chance The devil puffs out his chest showing off his horn it is a devil's way of showing strength and virility.

In his usual habitat He would be the undisputed king. But now his territory is shared. And another eyes his prey.

The human looks into the foliage before jumping back a splash of water fills his vision he hears warning hiss as his opponent comes in view a devil of envy, He has already laid claim to them and he will not back down.

Unlike his one horn this male has two, two against one is hardly fair but that doesn't mean he'll stand down without a fight.

Before these two demons can fight for this potential mate, the human screams "STOP FUCKING AROUND!! I'M TRYING TO BATHE GET OUT!!"

[getsuuna]

KNY Fandom so fucking insufferable I'm gonna start behaving like those GiyuShino and SaneKana shippers and go around spreading misinformation and say "no you don't get it SaneGiyuu was implied!!!" /j

because I'd actually have more content to mention without even mischaracterizing them

wanna talk about how they're a two-faced mirror? almost as if they were written to parallel each other and there's so much to talk about on this matter

or, since not everyone in this Fandom can dive into analysis, wanna mention how Shinobu figured Sanemi could've made Giyuu smile by inviting him to eat his fav dish with him? why not ask him directly instead? why Sanemi out of all people?

wanna mention Sanemi's pseudo-obsession on that man? he disliked his ass, but if we go back to analysis, his intolerance to someone feeling superior can be tied to a multitude of factors and one of which is being low-key reminded of himself, and he loathes himself while at the same time he puts on that strong façade. he can't face it though. and he wanted to understand why Giyuu felt that way SO BADLY he went to him for training and tried to speak with him, he wanted a contact, he wanted to understand, he needed Giyuu to speak up but he didn't.

on the other hand don't we wanna talk about Giyuu's perspective? Giyuu never hated him nor did he really feel sad knowing he disliked him, contrary to how he felt towards Obanai. not to mention he even got to be sarcastic towards Sanemi's dumb ass at least twice.

and the iconic ohagi scene? idk about y'all but between the hashira I think that's THE iconic scene, alongside Giyuu and Shinobu beefing and Shinobu almost stabbing him (don't get me wrong platonic GiyuShino has my whole heart)

the first time we saw Giyuu smile in the series is while imagining to befriend Sanemi??? and out of everyone he chose Sanemi? the hashira who is canonically the most difficult to talk with?😭 he only ever smiled either for food, for Sanemi or Tanjiro

oh and let's not talk about how Tanjiro, after getting knocked up, wakes up and the first thing Giyuu says is "yeah Shinazugawa left" ..? or the whole novel chapter in which they end up talking about him (supposedly right after that scene in the manga) and Giyuu cheered up. what

anyways, likewise, the first time Sanemi was seen smiling genuinely outside of his family was with Giyuu. Obanai and especially Masachika were both closer to him, not to mention the most important person in his life, Genya...yet here we are ig?? (after Giyuu he also smiled more in general, the scene of him smiling at Nezuko was one of my fav panels ever so keep in mind I'm taking in consideration the chronological events and not the impact of the scenes per se)

or let's talk about the most important part in their development which is when they fought together.

Sanemi saving him, telling him not to zone out while throwing the sword at him, it made Giyuu realize he's the water hashira, it was the first time Giyuu acknowledged it. Sanemi influenced Giyuu's character positively, and so far Tanjiro was the only other one who managed to. Sanemi saw him as his ally (rightfully so), and hopefully seeing him fight also made him realize he wasn't that much of a conceited guy, he was just like him, as he initially wanted Giyuu to understand (despite the fact it was a miscommunication)

Sanemi teaming up with Giyuu out of everyone, in such an impactful panel.... idk, if it was a straight ship that would've felt like a confession for the Fandom 💀

they impacted each other's character, they were the only two hashira surviving after facing the same war, they faced similar struggles during their lives (but let's not get into analysis, once again...), they could've understood each other better than anyone else would ever have, and they ended up bonding and eating together

that panel was there, in the middle of other panels all portraying important bonds, whether canon romantic bonds or platonic and sibling-like ones (Tanjiro and Nezuko, the Kamaboko squad, the swordsmiths etc.)

if it wasn't important it wouldn't have been there, but the funniest thing is that if either of them was a woman it would've been considered canon since it also included TanKana, ZenNezu and InoAoi🙏🏻

but oh, if we try to name either of these things and more, people will rightfully say "can't they be friends anymore?", which is valid, but I wonder why this doesn't apply to equally fanon straight ships.

a show so peak has so many fans that are so dense😭😭😭

[shiver-on-the-slab]

The Uranium Mission happened years earlier. Maverick was called back to Top Gun to train that year's graduates (which included Rooster, Hangman, and Phoenix). Everything happened the same way, except Ice didn't die; Ice fell into critical condition.

When Maverick left for the seas on the naval carrier, he didn't know whether he'd see Ice again, even if he managed to survive this suicide mission. When Maverick flew his jet and led his team into enemy territory, he didn't know that Ice had pulled through. Or that the first thing Admiral Kazansky did after regaining consciousness was ask where Captain Mitchell was and then pull rank to have a radio unit installed next to his sickbed. When Maverick intercepted a missile to save his godson, he didn't know that Ice was listening in.

After hanging on to dear life by a thread, Tom Kazansky wanted nothing but to cut the thread and fall back into the sweet limbo of death. There was no point continuing an old, sick life where he had sent into demise not only the love of his life, but also the child they raised together. That is, until he heard the unthinkable. Rooster's signal and the F-14. Maverick, you goddamn fucking bastard.

Pete meant every word when he thanked Bradley for saving his life. Maybe the lieutenant was right, maybe his life was still worth saving. In fact, he was looking forward to doing more with it, make up for lost time with Baby Goose. So he was caught off guard when someone handed him a satellite phone. Apparently some admiral wanted to speak with him. Great. Can't wait to chew out the ol' rogue pilot huh.

"How's my wingman?"

"...Ice? You're alive?"

"No thanks to you. Helluva stunt you did out there. Almost stopped an old man's heart."

"You know about that?"

"Remember who you're talking to."

"Yeah, an elderly."

"Bastard."

"Hey, Ice?" A pause, then, "I love you."

"Get your sorry ass back to shore immediately. That's an order."

"Sir, yes Sir."

"I love you too, Mav. I think I always have."

"Look at us two old men crying on the phone exchanging I-love-you's. What happened to those hotshots butting heads in Miramar in '86?"

"Time happened to them. Enough time to learn what's important. And I'm not counting on another time, Mav. We might not have it."

"Well. If you'll excuse me, an order just came in from the Pacific Fleet. It says I gotta get my sorry ass back to shore immediately."

...

They got married soon after.

Maverick was 50/50 on letting Ice retire because yes, Ice was sick (1), but (2) Ice didn't want to retire yet and (3) his health was improving. And most importantly, calling Tom "Iceman" Kazansky the COMPACFLT his husband was really, really hot (4).

[jadeazora]

PLZA Wishlist/Hopes, gonna divvy it up between both, past, and present/future:

Both:

Obtainable AZ's Floette

At least one new Zygarde forme. Imagine if it could go beyond Complete.

An underground area based on the catacombs (doesn't have to be mass grave tho)

Hostile rogue Megas being our rampaging Noble equivalent

Bring over (at least most of) the ORAS Megas

More Kalosian Megas, or potentially re-introducing Battle Bond as a "pure variant" of it (especially since Mega Evolution was mentioned to have terrible effects on the Pokemon.)

Yveltal being a threat to the city at large at some point, with a team-up with Xerneas to corral it.

AZ getting more story importance.

Letter "A" Legendary Pokemon, perhaps based on one of the Kalos League statues?

Past:

Malva, Sycamore, Lysandre, and Diantha ancestors (I feel like Sycamore or Malva's ancestor has the highest probability of being our main villain)

I feel like it's more likely to get his Floette here? It's gonna be a hundred and something years till it returns to him, we can look after it in the meantime!

Old starters getting new regional forms a la PLA

Going more into depth about the discovery and origins of Mega Evolution.

More lore on the war from 3000 years ago.

Future:

Set maybe a couple decades after XY at most rather than the far future. (Descendants would be cool, but I'm more interested in the characters we actually know tbh.)

Sina and Dexio sharing a joint professor role since they give you the Zygarde Cube in the Alola games. They could potentially carry on that research.

Vastly expands outside of the Lumiose we had in XY, further into Kalos. (I always wanted to explore the ruins of the Ultimate Weapon.)

Villain Sycamore or Malva. Or both. Like I said when I brought this up before, I don't think Sycamore would be evil, just misguided and let his guilt get the better of him. Malva is still more of a villain, and we need more lady main villains in this series. It's only really been Lusamine and Sada (if you played Scarlet), but this girl had hella potential in XY, and it's always been super frustrating to me that she got so little screentime.

The Flare scientist girls too! The only one of them that really got any slight fleshing out was Xerosic.

Diantha gets more story importance. She's another character who got majorly shafted in XY and deserves another chance!

Kalos starters with new Megas, secondary Kanto or Hoenn starters.

Potentially canonize Lysandre's survival from Masters here. It would be neat to see him get stuck with the same immortality curse AZ has, condemning him to live in and adapt to the world he lost faith in.

What are some of the things you all want to see? 😄

[mania-sama]

Mondstadt and Its Religious Implications

One thing that I will NEVER get over about Genshin Impact is the iconography used in the designs for Mondstadt and the implications it has. Now, don't get me wrong, as a rule of thumb, Hoyoverse has done a really good job in creating unique environments for Genshin's nations that more or less accurately portray a real-life cultural region. Liyue is based on China, Inazuma on Japan, Sumeru on India and Egypt, Fontaine on France (and Australia, if you squint), and Natlan on African and Native American tribes.

Mondstadt is based on Germany. More specifically, many of the designs and icons seem to resemble the Holy Roman Empire. Now, an important thing to note is that most of Western and Southern Europe was some denomination of Christianity at this time, with some exceptions due to various holy wars that occurred kind of all of the time. Anyway, the point is that the Holy Roman Empire was an established Catholic nation (and Germany still is predominantly Christian in modern-day). One thing about the Catholic denomination is that they proudly display religious symbols anywhere they can or in ways that they can carry with them, usually coming in the form of a rosary or a cross. When it came to specific places of holy worship, they would obviously spend no small amount of effort to completely embellish the place with gold, art, and symbols. Catholic churches are known to be the most extravagant of the denominations for a reason.

When a design team looks at The Holy Roman Empire, they will see this religious imagery everywhere. Namely, they will see the cross, because that is kind of, you know, THE Christian symbol. So it makes complete sense for them to note that down and underline it in red; for a mostly-accurate portrayal of the region they are taking from, a church and crosses HAVE to be included.

Places of worship are obviously not unique to Christianity, nor is the "cross" as a religious symbol even born from Jesus Christ. There are a few cases from different regions in which crosses and cross-like images were used for their gods. HOWEVER, with the specific cross that Mondstadt displays, and with the fact that not only is it based on Germany/Holy Roman Empire but that it is the ONLY Genshin region to use the cross in its designs (along with the usage of distinctly Christian/Catholic roles like nuns)... it is safe to assume that this is representative of the Christian cross.

You can see the issue we are about to have.

The fact that Mondstadt displays crosses as a religious symbol in CHURCHES and on the KNIGHTS' ARMORY (because most knights were historically Christian), that characters like Barbara are seen wearing in their designs, implies two things:

Crucifixation is/was a method of cruel execution in Mondstadt's history.

SOMEBODY of high esteem and worship had to be crucified, and thusly held up as the ultimate symbol of religion...

For the first point, while it IS still crazy to think that Genshin would imply this, I can, indeed, believe it to be true to canon. Why? Well, Mondtadt's history is already rife with the same abuses as Europe's actual history. From slaves to gladiator fights to rebellion to cruel monarchs, Mondstadt has not had a pretty life. Crucifixion honestly fits right in. I can imagine, in failed revolts against the aristocracy, those rebels who survived were later crucified. Other victims may be those who try to falsify gods or improperly worship Barbatos in a manner that the ruler doesn't agree with, those who commit treason, etc. etc..

Is it insane? Perhaps a little. But if we really get into it, Hoyoverse has done some crazy things with their lore so it's not really out of place, no matter how cruel the actual punishment is.

The second point is a little more complicated. Let's first rule off Christianity being a thing in Genshin - while you could consider the most of the nations to be monotheistic because they technically worship one god, the respective one of their nation, they most certainly do not obey/follow one god holistically, nor is there one mortal representative that god, nor is there a specific spirit that lives on in every believer who follows that god. So, there is no Holy Trinity; no Jesus Christ, no Holy Spirit, and there is no God, so to speak. No Christianity.

However.

One thing about Genshin Impact is that it takes from biblical mythology heavily, for some reason (and I say mythology because modern denominations don't consider the demonology stuff canon). For example, Paimon is the name of a demon who was more or less a servant of Lucifer (interpretations may vary). It is well known that the Archons are based on demons from biblical demon mythology. Even in the latest Natlan Archon Quest, Ronova, the Ruler of Death, looks unnervingly like Ophanim, the one everyone draws when they make "biblically accurate angels" or whatever.

Mondstadt accomplishes biblical references in two ways: one, that Barbatos, the demon, had four main kings/knights that rode with him. This can be seen represented in the Four Winds. Two, that these Four Winds can be viewed like how the Catholics would view a saint. Saints were, in simplistic terms, mortals who achieved great things and helped many people, and were then canonized after the death (usually). The church essentially declares them a Saint and worthy of worship. Idols and imagery are produced of these saints and hung like one would a cross or other images of Jesus Christ.

The most clear representation of that in Genshin would be in Venessa, who is a mortal who dies and then ascends to Celestia. She then becomes the Falcon of the West, one of the Four Winds of Mondstadt. So, a saint, essentially. Even though Mondstadt isn’t Christian, it certainly is Catholic.

The reason why I am going over all of this is to say that, well, it may not be necessarily implying that Venti was the one who was crucified. That is the popular opinion when discussing the crosses - that somewhere along the way, Venti was crucified. I am here to say that that really might not be the case. While the Holy Trinity is interpreted by many denominations to all be one and the same as each other, it is still a fact that it was Jesus Christ who was crucified, not God Himself. Jesus is the son, not the God.

Which is to say that it could be anyone, really. The most clear "child" of Barbatos that comes to mind is Venessa, who we could interpret as someone who could have been, at one point, crucified (though she was not). Rulers and people of high esteem also claim her titles and name like monarchs would claim holiness and divine right in Europe. Again, the problem with this is that she was not crucified and lived a very successful life post-rebellion.

The other option that comes to mind is the Unnamed Bard. He also could have been crucified. Even though we know he died in battle, it is not unreasonable that his corpse would have been strung up by pissed-off nobles upon the defeat of Decarabian. But, again, the problem being is that a. the timelines don't match up (Barbatos was not yet the Anemo Archon), and b. they won the rebellion so he still probably wasn't crucified.

So, it could be someone we haven't heard of, or someone deep in Genshin lore that I don't know about. Or, you know, perhaps Venti really was crucified. I don't know.

THIS is what Hoyoverse is implying. AND I DON'T LIKE IT (it's fucking hilarious).

[ravenstargames]

✦ LOST IN LIMBO — 2024 WRAP-UP + 2025 MILESTONES

And here we are, after the holidays! Another year has come to an end and this one was simply incredible. You can anticipate what our most important milestone was for 2024, but there has been a lot going on this past year that maybe we all have forgotten. So let's see what these four friends have accomplished this year, and what's coming for a 2025 that already looks promising!

Good news is that we achieved every goal we set up for this year! Isn't that awesome?! We published our first demo, hosted our very first casting call (and it was nuts!) and so much more! Let's see it :3

✦ OUR STUDIO, RAVENSTAR GAMES, WAS OFFICIALLY FOUNDED ON JULY!

Let me tell y'all that when you finish college, keep studying because it turns out the job market is absolutely devastated and cannibalized, and then have an existential crisis, the last thing you think about is saying "fuck it we ball" and open a studio. I mean, we are literally four people with no stable jobs (well, Kayden is an exception) and with no previous experience making a game entirely by ourselves.

So this was a huge step for us. A scary one. A terrifying one, and still is. But we've survived so far, so let's hope we can still do just that—survive at least long enough to start living. Calling this our job would be a dream come true, but there's still a long road ahead until that!

✦ WE SUCCESSFULLY FUNDED LOST IN LIMBO ON KICKSTARTER!

And you were right if you thought this was our most important milestone of the year!

Honestly, I low-key thought we weren't gonna make it. As I said—four people with no budget, paying for what we couldn't do ourselves with what our grandmas give us on Christmas—what were the chances anyone would be interested in helping us fund our game?

But we still had to do it, because making it this far and not risking not being funded would be madness. So there we were, opening Photoshop with tears in our eyes, watching our mediocre bank accounts get obliterated and working on the Kickstarter graphics with nothing but glitter and Jesus.

Also, we were asking for a lot of money and it was our first project. We've seen firsthand a lot of projects fail, a lot of people being scammed, and a lot of projects not going like the audience and devs wanted. So I thought we were a bit doomed.

Well, turns out there are people who believe in us and our project, so I was proved wrong. Maybe our graphics were really cool in the end, huh? I worked my ass off on those! /silly

So 980 people donated almost 60k euros and on September 27th, Lost in Limbo became officially a thing. Which is wild. I don't think I believe it still, honestly.

Of course, not everything went smoothly! As first timers we made a lot of mistakes, but we knew we were going to mess up something. Sometimes it was us, sometimes it was Backerkit or Kickstarter...Truth is watching a million YouTube tutorials, reading articles or learning about other devs' journeys doesn't make you ready to run a Kickstarter. There's some stuff you can only learn while running it!

So we ordered our merch, had our 🎉first delay🎉 because we made a mistake with our pins, and managed to deliver our digital goodies to our backers without blowing up (almost) anything.

✦ WE FUNDED OUR VERY OWN SOUNDTRACK!

And it'll consist of 19 original tracks by our wonderful composer Tomás Palazzi! 💜

✦ WE RELEASED OUR FIRST DEMO!

And overall, people seem to enjoy it! In fact, we recently reached +10k downloads and +71k views on itch! T^T

Of course, getting our demo out there was nerve-wracking, but we received a lot of love, and that includes wonderful and constructive feedback from a lot of folks who love our project and want it to succeed in its best form. Incredible content creators played our demo, reviewed it—and we've met amazing and stunningly creative people in the process!

However, as with anything you publish for others to see, not everyone is going to like it, and I think as a team we needed to also be exposed to that. There have been negative reviews that have helped us improve, and some others that have made us realize that our game, just like any other, isn't for everyone, and that's okay—our game isn't perfect and it won't ever be, and that's okay. As creators and creatives, accepting the critiques that help us improve is as important as letting go of the ones that contribute nothing, and to accept there are some things we don't want to change.

Of course there have been nasty or rude reviews, (most of them private) and albeit there were very few of them, but that was guaranteed. We try to have a few laughs at those!

✦ WE CREATED OUR OWN DISCORD SERVER!

And it's brimming with life!? We are almost 400 members and I may be biased, but it's full of amazing, supportive, and incredibly creative people. It feels so strange to see people talk daily about your game, about your characters—theorize, laugh, ask stuff...I can only hope our members feel at home as much as we do, because even if we can't interact with everyone all the time, just reading y'all makes us extremely happy :')

✦ WE STARTED WORKING ON OUR EXTENDED DEMO!

And it's going great! The script is doing better than expected, even if I'm editing more stuff than I originally planned. Implementing feedback we received during our survey is helping me improve the pace, storytelling and dynamism of the script. I'm an overthinker so I know I'm most likely editing / adding more stuff than I planned, but so is the way of the west.

Raquel has (as you all know) been working on the reworked sprites, and for now there's 4/7 done! 💜 We also have finished one of the new backgrounds and one is close to being done. That's 2/3!

Also, thanks to y'all buying extra stuff via Backerkit, we've managed to raise a bit more money and have been able to commission Airyn for help on the extended demo, as well as Allie (our editor) and the wonderful, the Ren'py Jesus, Feniks, to help us with our programming adventures! So technically we didn't reach our second stretch goal (outsourcing) but the extra coins have allowed us to hire some help!

That's all for 2024! Phew! Now, our plans for 2025 are quite simple (me when I lie).

First of all we want to ship our Kickstarter merch (more on that on a Kickstarter update coming soon!)

Finish production for our Kickstarter artbook

Release our Extended Demo

For now, we are aiming for a June 2025 release of the prologue, and the first chapter of every route will follow soon after.

Open our Patreon!

We have to think about this thoroughly, plan it, and make sure we can offer quality stuff worthy of your support. Some of you have asked a lot about a Patreon but we want to make sure we make it right!

On a personal note—this year I have been working on my OCD, as last year, and booked with two therapists. My therapist (the one who diagnosed me last year), and a different one specialized in OCD. This year has been full of highs and lows, but I'm in a much better headspace than I was last year, to the point of my meds being lowered! ✌���

I also enrolled for my PhD program like a month ago, and I got accepted after a lot of college shenanigans that almost became my villain arc. So this year is going to be funny for me!

Every member of the team has had their personal issues to deal with this year. Mental health, family, etc. It hasn't been an easy year for us, but I'm happy to say we've been there for each other.

And I think that's all! Overall it has been an insane year. Very productive, very nerve-wracking, and incredibly awesome. We can only hope this year is as good as 2024 if not even better, both for us as people and for our game. We hope your 2024 has been good, and we also hope you are excited to make 2025 a year you can be proud of; but most importantly, a year in which you can take care of yourself, be at peace with who you are, discover new things about yourself, and crave a path to the future you want to live!

Talk to you all soon! 💜