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kopfkino-o · 1 year ago

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The Seer’s Stone - Chapter Five

Summary: Elain Archeron is tired of being the “lovely, sweet gardener” everyone wants her to be. After losing her beloved, her humanity, her life, she’s ready to claim her own path forward with the help of her friends, Nuala and Cerridwen, as she searches far and wide for the mysterious Seer’s Stone: an ancient artifact of old rumored to once belong to an ancient Oracle. But will fate itself step in to stop her? Or will Elain defy the strings of destiny that bind her and forge her own path forward, choosing her own fate, friendships, future, and love, along the way.

Pairing: Elain x Azriel

Timeline: Post-ACOSF

Wordcount: 3800

Taglist: @downingg2001 @gracie-rosee @nivem565 // Let me know if you want on (or off) the tag list for future updates! Thank you all for reading <3

Read:

Chapter One | The Crone’s Trade

Chapter Two | The Oracle of Seraphyros

Chapter Three | Last of Our Kind (Azriel)

Chapter Four | An Empty Seat

THE SMUTTY STUFF - A PREVIEW

Author’s Note: Not saying I’m going to write a Tarqwyn fic, but also not going to say I’m not gonna. Writing Elain and Azriel together on page was so fun and I can’t wait for where their story here is headed 👀

Thanks for reading, y’all!

- Court

Cassian teased Elain the entire flight up to the House of Wind. He tickled the extra sensitive spot between her collarbone and neck, sought out only the hard updrafts of cold wind that ripped at the skirts of her pale purple dress, and pretended he was about to drop her not once. Not twice.

But thrice.

Elain was pale and wobbling by the time he all but dumped her onto the terrace of the House, his laughter so loud and rich it echoed off the red stone walls that made up the private home and stirred a flock of blackbirds perched amongst the rocks to flight. She would have thrown up right then and there on her brother-in-law's shiny leather boots if she wasn't half as much a proper lady.

“Rhys would have never done that to me,” Elain insisted, stumbling as she tried to make for the wide-open terrace doors.

Cassian’s laughter deepened further. “Well I’m not Rhys, and this is no Riverhouse. Best leave your expectations at the door, sweetheart.”

“I suppose I should expect nothing less from the couple who allows a magic house to cook and clean for them.”

“The House is our friend, thank you very much.”

“My point.”

Cassian cracked a smile. “Is it just me or have you grown some claws, Lainey?”

“Always had them," Elain said, throwing a smile at him. "You all just never bothered to notice.”

With that, she snickered at the look on his face and strode proudly into the House of Wind.

Elain found Emerie and Gwyn sitting inside, both women were slick with sweat and panting heavily, their Illyrian leathers and sheathed weapons somehow perfectly at home amongst the casual décor and sunny interiors. The former waved weakly at her, clearly exhausted, while the latter sprung up to her feet, teal eyes sparkling and a wide smile spreading across her freckled face.

“Elain! Cauldron spare me, I’ve been waiting to talk to you.” Gwyn grinned, bounding eagerly over to her. “I tried that recipe from baking club, the one with cinnamon and cardamom. I browned the sugar and left the butter out to melt overnight, just like you suggest, and well, the dough looked fine. But then when I put them into the oven, well, things sort of took a turn for the worse—”

“What she means to say is she almost set our new apartment on fire,” Emerie said plainly, the Illyrian woman's hazel eyes bright and clear.

“Almost, and did, are two very different words. Linguistically speaking.”

Emerie shrugged. “Schematics.”

Gwyn stuck her tongue out at the other Valkyrie. “If I wanted a grumpy opinion I would have just marched down to the Library and asked Merrill."

Elain cocked her head at the mention of the High Priestess, the woman and her moods all too familiar to her as of late.

“I thought you’d finished your last shift at the Library ahead of your trip down to the Summer Court.” She said.

“Oh, I have, but I still like to visit my friends there to catch up on the drama every now and then. Plus, I just... wanted to spend a little more time there before I depart for Adriata." Gwyn shifted nervously on her feet, her teal eyes flicking toward the wide expanse of widows. “I’ll be away from Velaris for two whole months if you can believe it. Apparently, learning the art of the spear is, apparently, no easy feat.”

Elain nodded, remembering the priestess's mention of her plans to travel south to the Summer Court to learn the art of the three-pronged spear from the southern court from their time spent working together on the details of Nesta's mating ceremony a few months prior.

All of the Valkyries who were comfortable with leaving Velaris were soon due to travel far and wide across Prythian to expand their knowledge of different weapons, fighting styles, and battle strategies. Gwyn amongst the ranks of them, and, apparently, the one who came up with the idea for the journeys in the first place.

“I hear Adriata is beautiful, though. Feyre often speaks highly of the city” Elain said. “And the High Lord who rules it."

Cassin coughed pointedly from where he leaned against the doorway.

."I've always wanted to travel south and see the white-sand beaches and bright blue water of Summer. And the Spear-Daughters of Summer are amongst the fiercest warriors in all of Prythian. Save for us Valkyrie, of course. But,” Gwyn shook her head, teal eyes dropping down to her feet. “ I mean, Mother bless me, I’ve never even left the Night Court before. The idea of traveling so far is just so... new.”

Elain blinked and a lovely, hope-filled image shimmered in her mind's eye.

Yes, so very new but how very beautiful.

She couldn't stop herself from reaching across the space between them and taking Gwyn's hand in her own, squeezing it once and offering a smile she knew was not her place to explain but one she could not suppress.

"I have a feeling you're going to be happy there, Gwyn. Truly happy." She said.

The priestess quirked a copper brow, her freckled lips parting as if to question the statement further, but then Nesta was sweeping into the room, her beautiful face fixed with a general’s hardness and a goddess’s grace, sword flashing silver at her side.

She paused in the doorway, straightening at the sight of her little sister, and raked Elain over with a critical eye that saw everything and missed nothing. Nesta’s lips twitched at the sight of Elain’s unruly hair, her wrinkled and wind-tousled clothes, the flush of green still on her face.

Then frowned.

“Why do you look like you’ve just survived a tornado?” Nesta asked.

Elain threw an accusatory look at where Cassian was leaning in the doorway, smiling smugly as he cleaned his nails with a hunting knife, wings splayed wide and haloed by the sunny terrace beyond.

If Nesta was iron and frozen flames, then he was steel and crackling fire. Two sides to the same coin, honed and tempered by sheer grit and determination. A perfect match.

"Bumpy ride," Elain answered sweetly.

"You're green. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Nesta. Just a touch... flight sick."

Her older sister’s eyes narrowed further. “Well, if you’re going to be sick, try not to lose your lunch on the carpets. The House is willing to do much and more, but cleaning up vomit is not one of them.”

Cassian barked a laugh. Emerie merely rolled her eyes.

But it was Gwyn who leaned in close and whispered to Elain, “She found that out the hard way.”

Nesta scowled. "I can hear you, Berdara."

"Perhaps that's the point, Nes," Gwyn said sweetly, tossing a curtain of copper-brown hair over an armored shoulder before turning to Elain and gently patting her arm. "I'll send you those spices you asked for as I find them. But, until then, best of wishes, Elain. The next time you see me, I'll be good and properly trained on how to drive a spear thrown a grown male's gut."

With a wide smile and dramatic flourish, Gwyn scooped up a wooden stave from the corner of the room, brushed past Cassian as if he were nothing more than a mere stalk of wheat, and sauntered out into the blinding light of the terrace and training ring beyond.

"Mother spare me," Nesta rolled her eyes, though even she couldn't hide the smile turning up the corner of her lips. "A few months out of the Library and she's got enough confidence one might think she's the future Princess of Adriata."

Elain only smiled.

A lapse of silence settled between them and Elain used it to glance around the room, noting the changes that had been made to the House since the last time she visited. The once heavy velvet curtains were replaced with light linens that billowed in the wind and light bright, natural light pour into the space. The old, dusty furniture had been replaced with more modern, but still comfortable, outfittings and nearly everywhere she looked a bookshelf lined the wall.

Even the marble of the hearth was new, the stone simple but chic and, above it, hung a portrait of Nesta and Cassian clad in armor and proud atop the high peak of Ramiel, swords raised and heads haloed with writhing crowns of silver flame.

Something in Elain's heart tightened. It felt strange to see this place, this home, filled with so many things that reminded her of her sister. And the new healing and happiness she’d found within it.

"What?" Nesta asked, the question almost self-conscious.

Elain shrugged. "Nothing. I just like what you've done with the place."

"You came all the way here to assess my interior design tastes, then?"

"No."

Nesta glanced over at Emerie and Cassian and gestured with a slight jerk of her chin toward the open doorway. Leave us, that gesture said. The former groaned as she rose and trudged, albeit slowly, on muscular legs for the door, collecting a longsword and wooden shield as she went. The latter merely winked, blowing Elain a kiss and offering Nesta a look that would have had anyone else blushing red before swaggering out to the training ring.

Finally alone, Nesta let her guard down, the hardened general softening to a concerned older sister. Even the hard glint in her blue eyes seemed to ease up.

"Is everything okay? Your head, the visions?" She asked softly.

"Yes, Nesta. I'm—"

"And Feyre, the babe?"

"Everything is fine, Nesta. I swear it.” Elain assured feverishly. “I've just come to fetch a book, that's all. No need for any worries. Everything is perfectly fine. ”

Nesta blew out what very well might have been a sigh of relief but then the worry furrowing her brow turned hard one more and the thin line of her lips became a scowl.

"You came all the way here for a bloody book?"

Elain nodded. "I need it for a gardening project. The collection of the local flora and fauna is far more impressive in the library here than in the one Rhys and Feyre keep at the Riverhouse."

The lie came so easily it felt almost as if it were the truth.

Elain's gut twisted at the realization, twisted and withered at the utter lack of suspicion in Nesta's eyes. Nesta, who she had shared every secret with. Nesta, who had always been there and always understood. Nesta, who was her older sister and closest friend. Elain had never lied to her, never had a reason to, until now.

Until these last few months.

A clash of steel on steel drew Nesta's gaze out towards the veranda. Once that might have hurt her, might have made Elain feel small and overlooked, but she understood more now, could See more now. She and her sister had different purposes now, new lives and relationships that demanded more focus, more attention. Nesta had her Valkyries and her mate. Elain had the twins and her gardens and her ugly little secrets.

"Alright," Nesta said finally, nodding slowly. "Ask the House if you need help. It can find just about anything, anywhere, but only if you're polite. Come find me before you depart. We can take the stairs together if you're feeling up for it."

"I'm not sure my body could physically handle that," Elain chuckled.

"You'd be surprised what your body can do when you put your mind to it."

Oh, but Elain did know. Perhaps a little too well.

But she merely smiled, grabbing her sister and hugging her tight, before bidding Nesta goodbye and watching, lovingly, almost enviously, as her older sister strode out to the training ring and her new life that waited within.

Alone and unwatched, Elain wasted no time getting down to business, hurrying at once for the stairwell.

The floor above was occupied by House of Wind’s library at the end of the hall with private bedrooms lining the narrow space on either side. Elain moved swiftly past them on silent feet, checking every other heartbeat over her shoulder until she stood before the closed door of the last bedroom on the left.

She wasn’t sure how she knew this particular one was his, only that she could feel it. Could scent it. She’d never been inside, never even been close, but she knew it in her bones.

Heart in her throat, she knocked once.

And waited.

When there was no answer she knocked again, louder now.

Again, no answer.

So Elain rallied her spirits, forcing down every worry and fear that warred within her and tried the doorknob. Unlocked. She glanced one last time down the hallway towards the stairwell before slowly pushing the door open.

The space beyond was well-lit, the linen curtains thrown away from the wide panel of windows that illuminated the meticulously neat and utterly empty room.

The worn leather couch was unoccupied and the nearby neat column of books was seemingly untouched. No cloak hung from the iron peg in the entryway and her delicate ears caught no whisper of movement within.

“Hello?” Elain called out anyway, nerves a maelstrom in her stomach.

But, again, no answer came.

So she gathered her skirts and slipped quietly into the Spymaster’s bedroom.

The scent of mist and cedar and something more floral hit her at once. It was so familiar, yet the space around her so foreign. Elain couldn’t stop herself from taking in her surroundings, feeling as if she'd d stepped into another realm, a world entirely of his own that gave her the chance to steal an intimate look into his personality.

The unlit heart was completely devoid of ash or burned logs as if it’d been a long time since a fire had been lit within it, if ever at all. Nearly every visible surface was lacking even a speck of dust and every single thing within the room seemed to have a methodically dedicated place.

Artwork hung on the walls, some pieces clearly done by Feyre’s hand, others older, more classic. A long bookshelf occupied the western wall and was stuffed full of books and greenery and trinkets from worlds Elain could only ever dream of visiting. Whirling golden instruments from the Dawn Court, fur-trimmed masks from the Winter Court, and tiny, carved wooden bobbles that could only hail from the Human Lands.

A potted Kingsflame flower bloomed in the corner, healthy and vibrant as if it’d been tended to both night and day, while a collection of seedlings were just now greening on the window sill. A star-sphere and a looking glass sat upon a nearby table, a bushel of carefully dried flowers and a worn hunting tapestry hung carefully above it.

And the books, Mother bless him, there were so many books. Perhaps even enough to rival the collection in the Library just down the hall. They occupied every spare space, all neatly stacked with obvious care.

Elain drifted further into the room, rounding a cutout in the wall and mounting a small set of stairs up to where a large, four-poster bed occupied most the space. It was made, clearly long-since slept in, but the bedding was surprisingly worn, the cobalt and amethyst quilt threadbare and bearing the hallmarks of something obviously handmade.

She found what she was looking for just beyond the bed.

The large, elegant desk was framed perfectly by a cascading beam of sunlight as if it’d been waiting just for her.

The stacks of papers atop it were neat, the collection of scrolls and tomes in the cubby nearby even neater. A large ale glass that reminded her of the one her father used to drink from held a collection of quills and writing utensils, a fresh pot of ink capped and waiting beside it. Even the small astrolabe resting at the desk’s edge was clean and neat, the interlocking golden spheres polished so thoroughly they shined in the sunlight.

Elain approached it as if she were in a dream, her attention clouded by her plan.

Find a map of the Prison, commit to memory, and bring it back to Kalla and the Twins so they could help her design a plan for infiltration. Find the fragments of the Stone, find the Staff.

Easy enough, Elain thought sarcastically.

She opened the unlocked center drawer and began to shuffle through the papers inside. Her eyes flew over the papers, drinking in different codenames and dossier titles and reports from spies in any and every court. If there was a secret, it was here. If there was any kernel of hidden knowledge, it was here. None of it mattered to her, though. Her course was set, her mind decided.

The Prison, the Middle, the Autumn Court. The Stone, the Staff, the—

"I never took you for a snoop."

Elain jumped at the low, soft voice and her hand immediately fell away from the map of the Prison she'd wriggled free, flashing instead to the dagger concealed at her side, and whirled.

Only to find Death standing in the doorway.

Azriel was dressed all in black: black knee-high leather boots, black leather breeches, a black tunic with black iron fastenings, black scaled pauldrons with matching black gauntlets, and a black cloak that flowed from his shoulders like smoke, even his hair was fully black in this light, but his eyes were bright gold and his face was flushed with life and color, as if he'd just come off a cold wind. Shadows swarmed around him, snakes twinning and whispering around his hands and shoulders, already murmuring her secrets.

Beautiful. Terrifying. A face she’d seen in countless dreams.

Elain snapped her hand behind her back, straightening at the sight of him, and forced a demure smile, steeling herself against his assessing gaze until she was nothing more than a trembling fawn. Innocent, unaware, and entirely unassuming.

"Cassian asked me to fetch something," She said sweetly.

Azriel only cocked his head. "Did he?"

"Training plans. For the Valkyrie’s afternoon drills."

Azriel took another step into the room, shadows swirling. One in particular curled around his neck and murmured in his ear, whatever secrets it whispered drawing a small smile across his lips.

“They tell me when you lie, you know.” He said softly.

Cauldron spare me.

Elain swallowed hard, racking her brain for an excuse. “Nesta asked me to help find your travel long. She wanted to know if you'd be back before the Valkyries head out for their trips abroad."

"That's not it either, is it."

He took a step.

"Mor was worried about you."

Another step.

"You lie again."

They were so close now she could smell the wind on him, could see the veins of emerald in his hazel eyes. Could see the pale smattering of freckles that graced his cheeks, tiny constellations dusting his golden skin as if the Mother herself had tossed them there.

“I needed a map.” Elain breathed.

Azriel hummed. “That’s more like it.”

He reached behind her and gently plucked up the documents she'd discarded between scarred fingers. Elain watched anticipatingly, heart hammering in her chest, as he unfolded them and studied the various maps of the Prison Isle with eyes that gave away nothing. A beautiful, tortuous face that gave away absolutely nothing.

“Why?” He asked after a long moment.

Elain straightened. “It’s none of your business.”

“Is it not?" Azriel countered. "You are here in my bedroom, uninvited, trying to steal from me after all."

“I wasn’t stealing, merely borrowing. And your door was unlocked besides.”

Azriel leafed through the maps again, hazel eyes churning. Unable to bare the tension between them, Elain eached for the map and tried to snatch it from him, but he was too tall, too fast, for her to even come close. Instead, she found her fingers curling over the strong expanse of his forearm, his burnt skin warm beneath her grip. Their eyes met over the sparse space between them.

This was a mistake.

Elain yanked her hand away, fumbling as she took a step back. The edge of the desk pressed into the column of her spine but the dul pinch was a welcome reprieve from the heat building in her blood. Mother spare her, why did he have to have this effect on her?

"Why?" Azriel asked again, voice softer this time.

Elain sighed. "I just...I need to see if something's there. If something I thought might not be real is, in fact, very real after all."

"You saw something."

I wasn't a question. And Elain certainly wasn't about to answer. She tried to draw further away from him, desperate to put space between them, if only to stop the strange feeling that swirled in her belly whenever he was near, but Azriel only drew nearer.

"The Prison is not to be considered lightly," Azriel said. "The Isle itself is largely uncharted. The land is just as much a monster as the creatures locked away on it. It's law unto itself, unchecked and untamed."

"Right, because I'm utterly incapable of taking care of myself. I suppose you've forgotten it was me who stabbed the King of Hybern just like everyone else."

Elain could see the blow land. Something in Azriel's eyes flickered out at her words, the harshness with which she spoke them, but Elain refused to let herself feel guilt over them.

Desperate to be away from her, from the weight of his sad hazel eyes, Elain moved to shove past him. She didn't need the physical maps to navigate the Prison's vast isle and complex passageways. The mere glimpse of documents was all she needed. Her magic could help her recall them later, and in near-perfect detail too.

Azriel's hand flashed out and caught her wrist. A bolt of static skittered up her skin from where their bodies touched. "I don't doubt you, Elain. I never have." He said gently. "But you just can't wander into the Prison without a plan. There are residents there who scare even Rhysand. Who scare even me. I won't let you go alone."

"I'm not going alone. I do have friends, you know."

“The twins might be privy to a lot of things, but access to the Prison is not one of them. Rhys has only granted myself and a select other few the ability to bypass the wards there. No one else could ever even dream of getting past that sort of magic without his knowledge. Or his approval." Azriel released her wrist. Her skin felt cold without the warmth of his touch. "And something tells me you don't intend to ask Rhysand for that."

"Rhys would grant me a palace amongst the stars if I asked nicely enough. Feyre too, for that matter." Elain said defiantly. She wasn't going to back down on this, not now that she'd finally spoken her mind. "Besides, I don't need Rhysand's permission. I don't need anyone's."

Azriel chuckled, the sound sending his shadows skittering and warmth radiating through her bones. "I’m not sure I’d call that spelllspinner you’re hiding away in the Library a friend. She’s far from trustworthy from what I’ve gathered.” He said and Elain did not fail to note the sly little smile that curved his lips. He knows about Kalla then. She did her best to master herself, unwilling in letting him know he’d surprised her with that reveal. “It’s not like she’ll do you much good, either way,” He continued. “One mere tug at the threads of those binding the spells to the Prison and your spellspinner will scramble her mind so thoroughly she'll forget her own name.”

Elain had been afraid of that. While Kalla was confident within her own abilities to manipulate and break the threads of magic, the twins hadn’t been so convinced, both Nuala and Cerridwen afraid of something exactly like this. The Prison was old, they’d warned her, and it’s magic older still. Breaking past those wards would be no easy task, especially not without Rhys or someone who carried his expression permission to step foot on the Prison Isle.

But Elain had hoped, Mother had she hoped…

Closing her eyes, Elain drew in a long, steadying breath and loosed it on a slow exhale. "Are you going to try and stop me?" She asked him finally.

“No. Never.”

“Then what do you want, Azriel?”

Now it was the shadowsinger who drew in a deep breath of his own. Azriel met her eyes when he finally answered, his voice soft but resolute. “Let me help you, and Nuala and Cerridwen, with… whatever it is you’re trying to do. I won’t ask questions, won’t pass judgment, only lend help where I can.” He said. “You want on the island without Rhys or Feyre knowing? Fine, consider it done. The Prison is no place for recklessness. I won’t stop you, Elain, but I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to try and keep you safe.”

Azriel extended the maps he’d caught her with as if he were offering an olive branch. Elain could only stare at him. His words were both hope and heartbreak.

“You don’t have to face the darkness of that wretched place alone. Let me help you, Elain.” The spy master of the Night Court, the man who they claimed was Death given form, pressed. “Let me face that darkness with you.”

Elain eased the maps from his burnt fingers and tucked them into the pocket hidden in her cloak lining before meeting Azriel’s hazel eyes. She offered him only one word in answer before brushing past him and striding from the room.

“Fine.”

#The Seer's Stone #The Seer's Stone fanfic #elriel fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #elriel #pro elriel #elain archeron #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfic

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the-lady-general · 14 days ago

Note

Trick-or-treat!

*pushes candy bucket and Star Trek head canon towards you*

So, there's a little guy called a nelora'tesh, really popular around the capital of the Trill Assembly. The anthropologists suspect that its origins probably trace back to early settlements in Leran Manev Bay, but the fishers know that they first brought him on land.

Tesh is a demon and loves causing mischief. He is especially fond of tearing fishing nets and stealing any small, shiny object that isn't nailed down. But he likes fish and he'll make sea lilies grow in the places where the shoals build their nests. That's how you find the biggest shoals: by the sea lily fields.

So after a good catch you throw the first fish you caught back into the water to invite Tesh on board. And then you lie out the small, silvery fish on the deck and Tesh will be so busy admiring their scales glittering in the morning sun that he won't tear up your nets. If he stays with you all the way back into the harbour, you will have favourable winds and calm waters and your fish will get a good price at the market.

The linguists say that nelora'tesh an is unusual name, its first syllable related to "counting" and "law", but also to "servant" and "liar". House Rin, an ancient warrior-poet dynasty and former caretakers of the Rin symbiont, tells a story of how the omnipresent nelora'tesh figures of Leran Manev received their modern name:

In the days when Rin still walked on Trill, the princess of his House wanted to conquer the Golden Islands for Rin's comfort. Her fleet was ready, but the rainy seasons were much fiercer in the old days. The fleet sat in the harbour among the rabble of fishers and dockworkers, month after month. The princess grew impatient and promised her hand in marriage in exchange for safe passage through the storms. Tesh overheard her and granted her wish. The princess conquered the Golden Islands and brought back ships with golden nails and her warriors with golden spears.

But she would not fulfill her promise to Tesh: The wife of a demon, she would never be joined with the Rin symbiont. So she thought of a trick, and set out in a small boat into the Bay and cast sea lily seeds all around. She asked Tesh to be married in the after the stormy season. Then she commanded her House to carve sea lilies along every beam of her palace, to paint them on every wall and stamp them onto every spoon.

When spring came, she said to Tesh, "For our marriage I ask this wedding gift of you: every sea lily in Leran Manev. How many are there?"

Tesh dove into the water and counted the sea lilies until they withered in the dry season. He came back to the princess and gave her the count: none.

"I have given you what you asked. Now marry me!"

But the princess showed him her palace, and Tesh began to count again. It took him a whole year, but finally he had counted every sea lily ornament.

"I have given you what you asked. Now marry me!"

But by now each artist in Leran Manev had filled their works with sea lilies to win the favour of House Rin. When Tesh saw sea lilies printed on the finest silks and the coarsest linens, adorning lamps and roof tiles, even on the seals of palace letters, he cursed and dove back into the sea. To this day he is bound to Leran Manev, where he counts sea lilies standing thick as a carpet. And while he counts, no storm can touch the city and the fish are large and plentiful. But the princess of House Rin was granted the life and wisdom of the symbiont for capturing Tesh's luck.

#ask game #@thelongestway #star trek hc #trill #you like lower decks so i can only assume you're an individual of refined tastes #and enjoy unnecessarily elaborate star trek worldbuilding #trick or treat

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purpleyin · 2 years ago

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Stranger Things moodboards: Stoncy - Uncharted AU

When Nancy starts documenting Steve & Jonathan's treasure hunting exploits, Steve introduces Jonathan as the brains of the operation. Jonathan does plenty of documenting of his own kind, taking photos and drawing sketches for reference to go with the research notes in his thick journal. Steve also has his own journal that Nancy spies a few times, full of contact numbers and loose scrawled notes on them. Steve's has the occasional doodle too that makes her curious, though Steve is quick to shut the pages and point out his drawings aren't a patch on Jonathan's or his artist brother, Will.

Steve and Jonathan make an odd pair at first glance but it isn't long before she can see they work well together. Jonathan is smart and knows his history; that combined with how observant he is, spotting clues and making connections where so many would fail to, means they're never at risk of losing the trail. Steve is the linguist of the two and a charmer, good at talking people round, smoothing their way or using his good name when necessary; he always knows someone to help them out when they need it. He's instinctual and quick thinking to back up his brawn as well, saving them from more than one trap or ambush they could have easily fallen prey to.

What Nancy doesn't expect is to get so involved in their quest. She's meant to be a fly-on-the-wall, asking questions simply to move their narrative along and get a better angle on what's happening, but she finds herself getting invested, tied up in the puzzle as much as Jonathan. Watching Steve climb cliff faces and ruins solo, before he throws down a rope for the other two of them, has her heart pumping with adrenaline, worried for him but thrilled at their making progress. When she joins him up there with Jonathan - catching yet another spectacular view and that bit closer to their goal - it isn't hard to understand why they do it, why they risk so much. She hasn't ever felt as alive as she does in those moments.

And when things go south, leaving the trio stranded on an island with more than one set of new enemies after them, she doesn't hesitate to take a gun from Steve, ready to step up and defend them both. Any idea of her detachment is thrown out the window with that and the bizarrely ever increasing stakes. They find themselves slipping naturally into working in tandem under the pressure, as if they always had, and even though she wants to get through this to safety, Nancy doesn't want that particular part of this adventure to end just yet.

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barnibumblr · 3 years ago

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Coffee Run - Part One

Pairing: Ina x Bea

Summary: Tensions are high after Bea is paired with Poppy on a project.

Warnings: Mentions of bullying, but mostly fluff!

Word count: 2045

Tagging: @ikingsley @kaitlynliaofanxx @kwaj115 @sheepmomther-personal @swimmingshoebakerydreamer @domakir @veenast @hellyeah90sbaby

***

“How do I look?”, Bea asked, walking into the common area like it was her own personal catwalk. Arms in the air, the brunette paused ahead of the kitchen island, adding a twirl for flair. Hiding her mouthful, Zoey threw her an exaggerated wink whilst she finished chewing her food. “Twit twoo Babe! You look pure fire!” She reached out to touch Bea, hissing and pulling her hand away at the ‘burn’.

When their laughter died down, Zoey shot a look at her watch “oh shit Bea, you’ve got five minutes to get across campus! And we both know this is a class you do not want to be late for”. Bea ran over to the door, slipping on her shoes and throwing her bag over her shoulder. The girl was right though, every minute Bea was late, was one less minute she could spend observing her beloved professor. As she stood up, Zoey was already holding the door open, half a slice of toast in the other hand. Bea rushed past, stopping to steal the toast with her teeth and leaving before her roommate could stop her.

Zoey stepped out into the corridor behind her, “yeah have my toast Bea, what’s mine is yours!” she called out across the bustling hallway. “Oh and say hi to Ms Candice for me” she added, purposely poking for a reaction. Shaking her head, Bea spun around to blow her second favourite New Yorker a kiss. Still moving with the crowd, she turned again to face the direction she was heading, trying to ignore the somersaults in her stomach as she recalled the impromptu book club reading with Ina. ‘I can’t believe I actually straddled my professor’ she taunted herself, mentally facepalming at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

Bea hurried her steps as she crossed the quad. All jokes aside, she was still desperately trying to impress Ina as her newly appointed TA and being late would not help her case. She was relieved to say the least, when she entered the lecture hall and the Professor was still unpacking her laptop.

The relief was short lived when she glanced around the room and found the only free seat was beside Chloe St James. Bea grunted under her breath, ‘great, just great’ she thought before taking her place next to the blonde. Her behind had barely touched the chair when Chloe threw her first look of disgust, “do you have to Hughes? My day was going just fine”. Bea narrowed her eyes, “it’s not exactly my first choice either Chloe, so how about we both just pretend I’m not really here?”. Along with her retort, she produced the most sarcastic and insincere smile she could summon.

“I’ve got a better idea” Chloe countered, “how about I act like you don’t exist?”. Bea paused, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, all while Chloe stared at her like she was the stupid one.

Ina cleared her throat pointedly and quiet swept across the room, immediately drawing Bea’s attention back to the front. She couldn’t help but think how incredibly sexy it was to watch Ina command the room, how easily she captured everyone’s interest and just kept it.

“Okay, so today we will be heading in a slightly different direction, a bit of a change from the last four weeks. We are going to start covering some elements of linguistic anthropology. I’ve got a short presentation to run through, you’ll have some time to note your key points, and then I would like to open the subject up to debate”.

The professor was just about to continue when a voice called out from the back, “are we going to mass debate Miss Kingsley?”. Ina rolled her eyes good naturedly. “Real smooth Craig. Tell me, how long have you been waiting to use that one?” she challenged. For a guy easily clearing 6ft, Craig almost disappeared in his chair. “Oh and it’s Professor Kingsley, thank you” she added as she launched her powerpoint.

“If everyone could please take out your textbooks and find page 356”, Ina instructed. Whilst everyone started to shuffle and organise themselves, Bea watched how Ina seemed to be searching the room. When her gaze finally settled on Bea, her eyes softened and a small smile graced her lips before she looked away. The eye contact was brief, but long enough for Bea to know Ina had just found what she was looking for.

The class were set to work after the presentation and Bea busied herself, trying her damnedest not to keep staring at the perfect specimen of a woman, currently seated on her desk at the front of the class. Bea’s swooning was cut short when she realised the sniggering she could hear was coming from beside her.

When Ina had finally agreed for Bea to be her TA, it was on the understanding that no drama would be brought into her classroom. It was for that reason Bea inhaled slowly as she turned to the blonde beside her, internally begging for patience. “Can I help you Chloe?” She asked, keeping her tone as neutral as humanly possible. The eye roll she received in reply was already pushing her to the limit, “I don’t know Farmsville, can you?”. Chloe’s tone dripped sarcasm, it took everything Bea had in her not to flip her desk there and then, instead she just calmly replied. “Chloe, if you have something to say, just come out and say it already?”.

Before Chloe could respond, Bea already regretted asking. People in the row in front started to turn their way, aware that it could go off any minute now, some with their phones at the ready.

“Well Bea, I actually wanted to ask you what perfume you were wearing?”, Chloe paused with her hand over her mouth but the brunette wasn’t about to answer. Bea clamped her jaw tightly shut, the muscles twitching in an effort to keep her cool. To make matters worse, Bea could see Ina now watching over her glasses. “Let me guess, is it pig de eurghhh? Chloe laughed excessively, looking over each shoulder to bask in the glory of her own joke.

‘Okay that was actually pretty funny’ Bea thought, taking a moment to appreciate Chloe’s attempt before correcting her. Remembering her voice, she kept it low as she spoke. “I think you meant Eau de Pig, but you know what Chloe… I’m just impressed you came up with that all by yourself!” Bea appraised.

The blonde’s eyes screwed up so tight they almost closed, Bea knew whatever was coming next would be spiteful. Thankfully Ina’s voice rang out across the classroom, “is there a problem ladies?”. Chloe plastered on a well rehearsed smile before responding. “Not now thank you professor, I was just trying to help Bea”, still facing forward her smile dropped to something resembling false pity. “It smells really bad up here, so I was just suggesting she shower more often… To wash away all the pig poo”. As she finished, she gestured at Bea, screwing her nose up.

“That’s quite enough Ms St James. I will absolutely not tolerate any attempt of bullying during my lectures, thank you” Ina reprimanded, her tone much firmer than the class had ever seen. Having Ina defend her should have been everything Bea wanted but instead she covered her face with her hand, trying to hide the embarrassment flooding her cheeks. ‘Oh great’ she thought, ‘ now everyone thinks I’m being bullied’.

Chloe sat back in her seat looking like the cat that got the cream. “See Farmsville, you don’t belong here. Belvoire is a way of life, you can’t just buy your way in and be accepted”. Bea was starting to wonder if Chloe had a point, was she in over her head? “I’m surprised Kingsley even offered you the TA position, I mean what does she even see in you? Maybe she just feels sorry for you, yeah that’s probably it”.

That was the final straw. Bea slammed her laptop closed and started to make her way towards the exit.

“Ms Hughes, is everything okay?” Ina asked, her brows furrowed in concern as Bea raced past her. Bea could only wave her away as the tears prickling her eyes threatened to fall. Ina followed her out into the hall, once she was clear of the classroom she called out to the brunette, who hadn’t even looked back. “Bea? Please stop, are you okay?”.

Ina was relieved when Bea finally halted at the end of the corridor, chasing her across campus would certainly arouse some unwanted attention. Keeping her back to the professor, Bea sighed “I just need to be alone Ina”. And with that she was gone, leaving Ina behind.

Later that afternoon, Bea was still hiding in her bed when her phone pinged.

———————————————————-

1 New Email

From: [email protected]

Afternoon Ms Hughes.

Sorry to contact you on such short notice, however I require your assistance as a matter of urgency. If you are available this evening, please could you stop by my office. My evening lecture will be finished at 19:30, so I can meet you there shortly after.

Best,

Professor Ina Kingsley

————————————————————

By the time Bea needed to leave, the campus was fairly quiet, only the odd student passing here and there. Bea wasn’t sure what she would say when she got to Ina’s office, she just knew she needed to apologise. Although she felt bad for walking away from Ina that morning, the last thing she wanted was for her to see just how much Belvoire was really affecting her.

When she arrived the door was already slightly ajar. Bea peered around it, to find the professor sitting in one of the armchairs. Ina hadn’t noticed her yet, so she took the liberty of just watching her for a moment, absorbing her beauty.

The older woman was sat back in her chair, one hand in her lap, the other propping up her chin on the arm of the chair. She seemed to be deep in thought as she stared out the office window, so Bea approached her slowly. At first Ina appeared perfectly still, but as she got closer, Bea could see her furiously jigging her leg. Ina’s aura of calm was not quite reflected from the waist down.

Despite the slow approach, Ina still startled when her visitor came into view. “Oh, Bea!” she laughed nervously, hand to her chest. Bea awkwardly returned a smile as she took the other seat, “Ina, I…” she started. Ina leant forward to listen, her elbows now resting on her knees. Opening her mouth to talk, Bea didn’t quite know where to begin or how to excuse her behaviour, instead her eyes dropped to the floor.

Sensing Bea’s discomfort, Ina knew it was time to put her plan into action. “Right” she said, standing up and straightening out her skirt. Bea watched her move across the room, waiting for the wholesome stack of quizzes she thought were coming her way. Instead Ina picked up and put on her coat.

“We’ve got a lot to get through, so I was thinking we could go grab a coffee first?” she asked, untucking her hair from the collar.

“Are you sure another date’s a good idea?” Bea questioned with a smirk. Although she was upset, she still had it in her to make the other woman blush and she got exactly the response she was going for. Ina grinned, shaking her head at the floor as the tips of her ears turned red.

Ina paused at the door, openly pondering. “I’m not sure of much when it comes to you Bea, but… What I do know is that coffee is never a bad idea”.

Regardless of how bad her day had been, Bea loved how she could bring Ina’s walls down, even if only temporarily. “You’re not really selling it to me, Ina” she teased.

“Miss Hughes, please will you allow me the pleasure of your company and join me on a brief walk to the coffee shop?”. Despite the flutter she felt in her stomach, Bea laughed at Ina’s formality. She made her way to the door, giggling again as the professor held it open with a bow.

***

#ina kingsley #ina x mc #professor kingsley #bea hughes #zoey wade #chloe st james #queen b #choices queen b #choices qb #playchoices #fanfiction #myfanfiction #fluff

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winterscaptain · 4 years ago

Text

no deal.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: and thus begins the 100 arc! i am so excited to share this with all of you. these are going to include more canon episode moments than my other episode-attached fics because everything builds on itself and the details are key. i promise we’ll still get a lot of added scenes and little changes!

words: 8.4k warnings: canon-typical violence and discussion of violence, language

summary: a case comes back to haunt Aaron in more ways than you can imagine. you’re there to be his shadow, to catch him when he falls.

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | requests closed!

“Hotch?” You poke your head around the door, and you find him at his desk, in a surprising ensemble of khakis and an earthy quarter zip.

Almost whimsical, for him.

He looks up, his eyes softening for a moment before his brows pull in confusion. “You’re still here?”

You gesture to his desk lamp, the only light on in the entire office. “You are, so I figured…” You shrug. “I dunno. Is everything okay?” He looks exhausted, but it’s bone-deep - nothing sleep can fix.

He shakes his head and sighs.

That’s his tell.

But he says, “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

You don’t believe him.

“Are you sure?” You cross the room and lean on his side of the desk, quickly scanning over the documents you find there. He doesn’t mind your nosiness. He's mostly accustomed to it by now.

Most of it is pretty normal - after-action reports, performance evaluations (it looks like you’re doing well), and task force meeting agendas - but there’s one file that sticks out.

Your brow furrows. “The Boston Reaper?”

He shakes his head again. “I’m just reviewing it for an academy lecture about dormant or otherwise inactive serial killers.”

“Ah, I see.” You know he’s still lying. “Anything I can help with?”

A little half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No, thank you.” He looks up at you and you offer him a small smile. There are many things at work behind his brown eyes.

He never keeps things from you without reason, so the lying doesn’t bother you so much as the unease radiating off him in waves.

For now, you decide to let it go and pat his shoulder as you stand. “Alright. Walk me out?” It’s a pointed question - you know he won’t leave if left to his own devices.

He’s about to throw you a denial, but the look on your face leaves no room for it. “Yeah. I’ll just be a minute.” He starts packing up, sorting the files into neat little stacks that will be there waiting for him when he gets back tomorrow. The Reaper case, you notice, goes into his briefcase, decisively snapped shut and taken into his hand before you can process much else.

The walk down to the garage is a quiet one. You take the stairs, happy for the excuse to stretch your legs.

You snag the sleeve of his (very soft) quarter zip before he turns toward his car. “Aaron?”

His eyes snap to yours at the use of his first name.

“Just…” you aren’t sure where you’re going with this, but he’s probably used to that by now, too. “Just, erm...Drive safe, please? Get some sleep when you get home?”

He takes a little breath and nods, his gaze softening. He’s quiet as you release his arm, quiet on the walk to his car, quiet (you imagine) as he drives out of the garage.

You watch him until the echo of his tail lights fall out of your sight.

+++

The next morning, JJ trots up the stairs to Hotch’s office and exchanges a few words with him before he flies out of his office and down the stairs.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the official request? We haven’t been invited.” JJ does her best to keep up with him, trotting down the stairs behind him with a file in her hand.

“We will be.”

You look at her with questions in your eyes and she shrugs. Derek, too, looks at her with confusion. Hotch continues toward the doors.

Is he already headed toward the plane?

She throws her hands up. “Well, it looks like we’re going to Boston.”

+++

When all your things are packed and ready, you settle in beside Aaron in your usual place, on the arm of the couch across from the table.

He walks you all through his work from a decade ago as you all review the files in your hands. "The Reaper is driven by a need to dominate, control, and manipulate."

Emily’s the first to speak up. “So then why would he offer a deal that would stop him from doing that?”

“Well, killing gave him power, but after so many, the payoff began to diminish. So he decided to switch tactics. Offering the deal gave him the ultimate power, better even than killing. He manipulated the police into voluntarily surrendering.”

“He even got it in writing,” Reid adds. He’s looking closely at the letter, likely starting the structure of what would become a linguistic profile.

JJ looks up, a little confused. ”He won. Why start killing again?”

“Because the only person who knew he'd won, the person he made the deal with, just died.” Morgan says, closing the file and tossing it on the table in front of him.

That’s an easy train of thought to jump on. “Narcissistic killers need other people to recognize their power.” With a little smile, you remind her, “That's why they contact the media.”

Emily’s next. “So how did he stop for 10 years?

“In Night of the Reaper, the author suggests he had been arrested for an unrelated crime or died.” Reid pulls the book in question from his bag, placing it on the table. “Perhaps he's trying to correct that misconception.”

“Like BTK,” you offer.

You can see Aaron's eyebrows rise for just a moment in your peripheral vision. Good one.

You purposefully bump his shoulder on your way to steal one of Morgan’s snacks. Thanks.

JJ takes the book, thumbing through. “What has he been doing all this time?

“Well,” you say, “I would imagine he was planning what he would do if he started killing again.” You look at Aaron, who nods with his mouth in a thin, grim line.

Morgan opens the file again, running his finger down the metrics as he speaks. “So, from '95 to '98, he shoots, stabs, and bludgeons twenty-one victims - men, women, all ages, all types, no specific victimology or MO.” He looks up at Hotch. “How did you build a profile from that?”

“We didn't. Shaunessy sent us home before we had a chance.” Aaron takes a breath before his next thought. “BTK, the Zodiac, and the Reaper all have similarities. They're all highly intelligent, disciplined, sadistic killers who name themselves in the press.”

“Highly intelligent may be a bit of an understatement,” Reid says. “The Reaper and The Zodiac Killer have never been arrested. And the BTK killer was only caught after twenty-five years because he went to the press to counter a book that said he'd died, moved away, or been locked up, just like this one.”

“Speaking of the media,” JJ notes, “when this gets out, it's going to be a frenzy. If they get wind of this, they're going to be all over the Boston Police.”

Aaron agrees with a brisk nod. “The longer we can float the copycat story, the better chance we'll have of catching him.”

You sit up straighter. “Meaning, if we keep pushing at his ego, he might take another risk?”

“Exactly,” he says. “Rossi, Prentiss, and Morgan, go to the field office, set up shop, go through everything there.” He assigns himself, you, JJ, and Reid to the crime scene.

You’re happy for the chance to keep an eye on him. There’s still something off about this whole thing, and the fingers on his left hand worrying his pen is only the most obvious clue. You reach out for his sleeve across the aisle when the team breaks, tugging a little, just like you did last night.

He looks over at you, almost startled. “Yeah?”

You don’t say anything. Tell me what you need.

“I’m fine. Just want to get on the ground and get to work.”

Bullshit. Your squint says it all.

He sighs and you release his arm. He’ll talk to you when he’s ready.

He always does.

+++

You and JJ stand off Aaron's shoulder as he introduces the three of you to the local police authorities. Hotch is already on edge.

An odd exchange between Hotch and one of the veteran cops leaves you with the entire department at your disposal. How he manages to do that every time is beyond you.

Reid, the case file in his hand, walks you all through the preliminary findings. “Nina Hale, ninteen, and Evan Harvey, twenty-three. Nina's throat was slashed, she was stabbed forty-six times. Evan was bludgeoned and then shot. No shell casings were found.”

“A revolver, maybe?” You ask, in-step with Aaron, whose gears are turning as he examines the inside and outside of the car.

“He preferred revolvers, .44 magnum.” If he weren’t so focused, you were sure he’d be impressed by your observation. “The younger the female victim, the more time he spends with them, usually with a knife.”

You point at one of the photos of the female victim. “Tan line on her wrist. Probably wearing a watch of some sort.”

Aaron’s on the other side of the car now, leaning close to the driver’s side window, looking at a photo of the male victim. “Do we have his wallet?” At your questioning glance, he adds, “The Reaper took items from each victim and placed them on the next, so as to make sure we knew it was him.”

“That’s quite the signature,” you muse, straightening.

One of the crime scene techs hands him the wallet in question. After a quick examination: “No corrective lens requirement.”

Your brow furrows and you look over at him. “The glasses aren't his?”

“He only took glasses from one victim--the ninth.” He looks increasingly agitated as he speaks and the crease in your brow deepens to match his. “We should have found them on the tenth, and we didn't. They were never found.”

How does he know which victim was the ninth? How does he remember?

“What was so special about the ninth victim?”

Aaron levels you with a look that sends cold wriggling up your spine. “He survived.”

Oh.

+++

JJ and Dave take the second car back, intending to make a few stops on their way back to the precinct. You sit shotgun, staring out the window, while Aaron drives. His fingers tap arrythmically on the steering wheel.

He’s restless. Fidgety. It’s weird.

“What are you thinking about over there?” You ask.

He shakes his head, just a little. “It’s not a copycat.”

Your brow furrows. “We knew that, though.”

“Right.”

Oh.

It must be surreal to have a case come back to life like this. “Wasn’t this one of your first cases? You joined the BAU in ‘98, right?”

When I was a sophomore in high school…

Oh, shut up.

You snap back to the audible conversation as he nods. “It was my first case as lead profiler, so I’d been on the team a couple of months. Gideon thought, well...I don’t know what he thought. He gave me point on this one for some reason or another.”

“Look at you, hotshot.” You reach out and shove lightly against his shoulder and you’re rewarded with a huff. “Only on the team a few months and you get assigned your very own case.”

He rolls his eyes. “I did it with you.”

It’s true - he did. Spencer may have saved the day in the end, but you polished, delivered, and implemented the profile throughout the investigation. As scared as you were for the professional leap (and the personal one, given the nature of your teams’ closeness), it paid off.

“That doesn’t count.”

He glances at you before returning his eyes to the road. “Why not?”

You shrug. “We’re kind of…” You clam up, for some reason, a little embarrassed.

Don’t be stupid.

“...I don’t know? Friends?”

You get a real smile from him this time and you match it. “Well, ‘kind-of-I-don’t-know friends’ seems like a stretch, don’t you think?” He looks over at you and holds your gaze a little longer than he should, considering he’s driving a little more than eighty miles per hour.

You’re an idiot, your eyes say, an amused chuff leaving your nose.

His eyebrows bounce before he looks out at the road again. And?

+++

“George Foyet, 28, was the ninth victim and the only one to survive The Reaper.” Aaron passes you files as he speaks, clearly not needing any notes or other aids to regurgitate the details of the case, verbatim.

Dave snorts. “Not for lack of trying.”

Hotch walks you all through the Foyet attack, outlining the oddities and patterns that collectively create The Reaper’s signature. His good mood from the car has either entirely evaporated or been smothered by his focus on the case, leaving him with his normal operational stoicism. “The Reaper always uses some sort of ruse to get close to and spend time with his victims.”

“So, how did Foyet survive?” You ask.

It’s weird he’s not summarizing it for you all, but then again, this case is odd in its obvious, meticulous execution. It’s probably best to let it speak for itself.

Hotch wordlessly starts the recording.

“911. What's your emergency?”

“I just murdered two more.” The voice is distorted, ominous.

“Excuse me, sir, did you say you murdered someone?”

“Victims eight and nine, by a silver Toyota on Riverton past the Tyson Quarry.”

Reid fills you in. “That call was made from a payphone about a mile from the crime scene. EMTs arrived fifteen minutes later. Bertrand was DOA, Foyet barely breathing.”

“So,” you ask, looking over the case. “The Reaper made one of these calls after each of his killings telling the police where to find the bodies?”

Aaron nods. “Until this one, the ninth. If he hadn't made this call, Foyet wouldn't have been found in time. The call saved him.”

You look up from the file. “Can I guess that the Reaper didn't make any 911 calls after this one?”

Aaron’s brows raise for a moment. Exactly.

“There's a reason he left Foyet's glasses at the last crime scene.” Aaron looks grim as he presents the glasses again.

Morgan pulls his phone out of his pocket, likely for access to Penelope. “Foyet could be in danger.”

“Uh, Hotch,” JJ pops her head into the room, looking more than a little confused. “There's a reporter outside insisting on speaking with you.” At Aaron's questioning look, she adds, “Roy Colson. He says he knows you.”

You watch him leave and exchange words with the reporter, your lower lip planted firmly between your teeth. JJ hangs at your side while Derek comes up behind you, putting his hands on your shoulders.

“Is Hotch okay?” He asks. Spencer, Dave, Emily, and JJ also look to you for an answer.

You shake your head the barest amount and when you speak, it’s almost a whisper. “I don’t know.” You clear your throat and try again. “I don’t know.”

+++

Dave peers into the car. “Another couple. Much older this time. One shot and one stabbed.”

“No reason to stop out here.” You’re just off Aaron's shoulder, following the line of his flashlight.

Dave sounds resigned, tired. “His license and registration are out of his wallet.”

You squint. “Looks like he used a cop ruse."

“Good spot, isolated, few drivers.”

Hotch sighs, coming in close to something with his flashlight. “He left Nina Hale's watch."

"Okay," Dave says. "So what'd he take?"

“His wedding ring.” You note the tan line on the man’s fourth finger - a dead giveaway.

Pardon the pun...

A local officer is quick to give you the victim information, approaching Aaron with a file. “Arthur and Diane Lanessa. Weymouth. Married 32 years. They were coming home from the Elks, where they played bingo twice a week.” He looks over at the press, rapidly arriving at the perimeter. “I gotta go make notification.”

You refocus on the crime scene, anticipating Aaron's wandering eyes and shining the light where he needs it most.

“Looks like he went through her purse,” he says.

You hover over his shoulder again. “Any idea what he was looking for?”

Hotch shakes his head, moving on.

A photo falls out of the drop-down mirror during Hotch’s cursory check. It depicts the victims and who you assume are members of their family. In blood, FATE? is scrawled across the front of the photo. Aaron straightens, leaving the car and crossing to Dave. You, of course, follow.

When you both reach Dave, you finally have an opportunity to take a look at the photo. “The question mark is new.”

“It's for us.” Aaron doesn’t need further examination for his assessment. “He's saying it's not fate. He's saying we had ten years to save them and that these latest ones are on us.”

“You got all that from one question mark. That's impressive.” Dave’s compliment is only a little undercut by his sarcasm. You can’t help but agree with the implication.

Aaron sighs, copping to it. “I may know him better than I've let on.”

“What does that mean?” You step closer to him, your brow furrowed.

He levels you with a somewhat guilty look. “It means that there is a profile on The Reaper.”

Dave frowns. “I thought we were called off before we had one.”

“We were. I had just started the profile, and then he stopped killing, so officially we were done. But this case…”

“It stuck with you,” you finish for him. Your brows drop lower over your eyes, finally understanding the stakes at play.

“I kept coming back to it over the years, and I worked on it alone.”

The exhaustion in his voice, gravelly and low, worries you more than you’d like to let on. “So you never shared it with anyone.”

“I know I'm always preaching that profiling is a collaborative effort, but this one wasn't. I don't know, maybe if -” he sighs. “If I was wrong, I was gonna head us in the wrong direction.” The doubt in Aaron's voice breaks your heart a little.

“Now you think you're right.” Dave, of course, has the brief words to coax the thought out of Aaron. You’re thankful he’s here. Between the two of you, you’ll get more out of your unit chief in twenty minutes than anyone else would get in three days.

“The more I see, the more accurate I think it may be.”

“Okay,” you say, “then we need to hear it.”

+++

It’s decided that Aaron will deliver the profile solo, with only a little input from Dave. It’s odd to see him up there all by himself while the rest of you stand off to the side. You’re students just as much as the local police, this time.

You tune into Aaron, whose eyes are bouncing all over the room, from person to person, holding and keeping their attention. His eyes meet yours and you hope the respect and pride overflowing in your chest is visible on your face.

“The Reaper fits a profile we refer to as an omnivore. Unlike most serial killers, an omnivore doesn't target a specific victim type. Although he tends to focus on his younger female victims with his knife, he essentially is a predator who will kill anyone.”

One of the local cops has a decent question (for once). “Why is he so democratic?”

“Because his kills aren't just about his victims. He needs recognition. He needs us to know.”

Dave chimes in. “The symbols, the placement of prior victims' possessions on subsequent victims--it's all for us.”

“Why?”

“Power,” Aaron answers simply. “The Shaunessy letter is the clearest example of this. He manipulated Tom Shaunessy into literally surrendering to him.”

It reminds you of the first time you saw him - alone, in front of a room of people focused only on him. It was one of your first lectures at the academy, your favorite, and the one that inspired you to ask for a placement with the BAU when Jenny told you to take a running leap.

How far you’ve come.

Without permission, your mind wanders to a few things that haven’t changed in the last year and a half. Aaron is still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen - capable, worthy of deep admiration and respect. His voice is the same - demanding respect and carrying the weight of the world in it.

Anything that won’t condemn you to a life of unrealistic expectations of men?

No. Maybe you’re a better shot?

Great. That’s useful.

“Like BTK killer Dennis Rader,” Aaron continues, “The Reaper is extremely disciplined. In his everyday life, this will very likely make him so inflexible, he can't keep close relationships or work closely with others.

“I believe our killer has another interest that may give us the best opportunity to catch him.” You’re glad Dave is there to help, his seasoned expertise coming in handy once again. “The Reaper's last victim was an older woman. He killed her quickly, with a single shot. The prior, younger victim, he spent more time with and stabbed forty-six times.”

Yet another “Why?” from one of the local officers.

Curious group, it seems.

Aaron answers. “He pays special attention to his younger female victims, and his weapon of choice with them is the knife, a substitute instrument for bodily penetration.”

Dave, again, has something else for you all. “The younger the victim, the more time and effort he spends. I think our guy is a hebephile.”

“Hebephile?” Naturally, that particular proclivity is not a familiar one to the layman.

Reid lends an assist. “A hebephile is someone who's attracted to adolescent post-pubescent children. Teenagers.”

“Look for men with access and authority -” Aaron assumes command again, “- high school teachers, counselors, coaches--and anyone who's been charged with sex crimes against teenage girls in the last ten years.” He checks in with you, and you nod. “That's all for now. Thank you.”

+++

You look up as Aaron walks into the room, Derek ready with bad news. “Garcia can’t find George Foyet.” You stand and resume your post as his shadow, beside Emily.

Morgan holds the phone toward Hotch. “I’ve got nothing, sir,” comes Garcia’s voice from the speaker.

“What do you mean?

“I mean, he’s gone. He’s completely off the grid. He’s gone.”

“How is that possible?” You tap Aaron's shoulder with the back of your hand as his tone grows sharper with Penelope.

Be nice.

He shakes you off and you clench your jaw, looking over at Derek as Aaron tries to wiggle more information out of Penelope. It doesn’t work. “Garcia, we don’t have much time.”

“I know, sir.”

You huff. “I mean, how would you even drop off the grid like that? There has to be someone he talked to.”

Aaron wordlessly dials a number, shooting you a somewhat grateful, if not a little rueful, look. “Roy, Aaron Hotchner. I need a favor.”

+++

“That’s him.”

Aaron shuts the back door of the car behind you and out of habit, you take quick stock of him while he does the same for you.

You spot the man you’re looking for skittering across the street and toward the apartment. “George Foyet?” He’s visibly skeptical, and Aaron pulls his credentials. “It’s okay. We're FBI.” He introduces you and Rossi while you flash your credentials for good measure. “I'm Agent Hotchner. We met once before. Do you remember?”

"Yeah, I remember.” He’s agitated, his eyes jumping to every moving person on the near-empty street. “Would you mind if we get off the street, please?

You follow Dave and Aaron into the cramped apartment, noting the clutter and general feeling of paranoia permeating the space. Everything looks rushed - half-lived in and half-finished.

When you reach the kitchen, Foyet collapses into a coughing fit and Dave immediately supplies him with a glass of water.

“Thank you.” He takes another decent gulp. “How'd you guys find me?”

“Roy Colson,” Aaron says. He’s focused on Foyet, but you can tell he’s keyed into the peripherals, just in case.

“Oh.” He seems disappointed, though in what you’re not sure. “Well, is this gonna take long? 'Cause I really can't be late for work.”

“What do you do?” You ask.

“I'm a freelance computer specialist with the city.”

Dave steps forward. “We're sorry to bother you. We'll make it as quick as possible.”

Aaron pulls the evidence bag containing the glasses out of his breast pocket. “This yours?”

“I knew it wasn't a copycat.”

You pull a chair for Foyet as he coughs again, feeling only a little odd about taking care of this man in his own house.

“Thank you.” He takes another sip of water. “I'm sorry.” He pauses, remembering. “I was gonna propose to her that night...At the restaurant, but I got cold feet. The ring was still in my pocket when he approached us. He said he was lost. He had one of those sightseeing booklets. I was looking at it when he stabbed me. Yeah...Perfect timi-”

You interrupt him, attempting to stem his agitation. “Mr. Foyet, you don't need to go through this again.” Nevertheless, he continues, increasingly distraught.

“I couldn't move. I just sat there, bleeding. I watched him kill Mandy. He stabbed her sixty-seven times. Do you know how long it takes to stab somebody sixty-seven times? ...I never found the ring.”

For some reason, your mind drifts to the man beside you, the horrifying thought of seeing him stabbed, the life leaving his body. You shake it off with a little shudder.

Why, brain? Why? That’s a fucking awful thought.

And yet the image sticks with you, forcing you to manually lock it away. Aaron looks at you, almost like he can read your mind.

That’s nightmare fodder.

The smallest flex of his brow asks, Are you okay?

Fine. You offer him a tight twitch of your lips. It’s not a smile, but you’d be thankful for at least a mockery of one right now.

With a little bit of a squint, Aaron turns back to Foyet. “He should have left your glasses on his next victim, but he didn't. He held on to them all this time.”

“What, you think he's got some special interest in me?” He almost laughs. “I've been living with that possibility for the past eleven years.”

“Have you received any strange letters or calls? Hang-ups?” Dave asks.

“I keep residences under different names. I move between them randomly. He likes to get you in the car, so I take the bus. Believe me, I've gone through great lengths to make sure that none of the things you've just mentioned ever happened.”

What a terrifying, sad existence.

Dave offers George his notebook and a pen. “We'll need your other names and residences so we can reach you.”

“We can take you someplace safe until this is over.” Aaron’s brow is knit in concern - it’s a look you’ve seen many times, but it never fails to inspire a little flicker of warmth in your chest.

Quit, would you?

“No. Boston is my home. It's the one thing I promised I would never let him take from me.”

Aaron insists, pushing. “Then we'll protect you here.”

“You can't protect me. Nobody can.” He frantically writes in the notebook for a moment before handing it back to Dave. “Please be careful with this. Please.”

Dave assures him, “It's safe with us.”

“He's just a man, nothing more.” You hope it’s the right thing to say. You feel Aaron take a breath, and you almost feel bad. It’s a line he’s said before, one you borrow when necessary.

Don’t mean to steal his thunder.

Instead of looking at you, he looks at Aaron. “Then why can't you catch him?”

“We will.”

+++

You’re both sitting in Aaron's hotel room, the photos from each of the crime scenes spread out all around you. It’s far later than you’d like, but the time spent is worth it if it gets you one step closer to this sick, scary bastard.

“What was it like? The original case?”

Aaron sighs, pulling a hand down his face. “Frustrating. Exhausting. Like this.” He shakes his head. “Every day was another dead end, and then another pair of bodies every few weeks. Then…they just stopped.” He holds up the note. “Now I know why.”

You tip your head to the side, studying him. “What would you do?”

“What, you mean about the deal?”

“Yeah. What if -”

The phone rings, cutting you off, and you rise to answer. You’re stopped by a hand on your wrist as Aaron passes you and picks it up. “Hotchner.”

You plant yourself back on the bed, legs folded underneath you. It’s probably one of the team, given the hour and -

“Who is this?” His voice is low, almost angry.

You scramble to the edge of the bed, giving Aaron space while remaining completely keyed into him.

“...You think I’d take that?...I’ve misjudged you. I thought you were smarter than this...Then you’ve misjudged me...I don’t make deals.”

Oh my god. It’s The Reaper.

No. It can't be.

You pull out your cell and fire off a text as quickly as you can to Penelope.

3:42am trace call to ah’s room stat

She doesn’t disappoint.

3:42am on it.

“I’m the guy who hunts guys like you..." Aaron laughs, dark and humorless. "You all think that...I’ll see you soon.” He slams the phone down and starts to pace, his hand over his mouth.

“What’s going on?” You stand, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “Hotch. Who was that?”

He stares down the phone like it’s a living thing, but doesn’t breathe a word. After a moment, he jumps back into action, sitting heavily on the bed and going over everything with a renewed, almost frantic, focus.

You watch him for a moment before you pull out your phone. A text message from six hours ago blinks up at you.

Haley Brooks-Hotchner

9:13pm when you get a chance, can you have aaron give me a call? no rush. just school paperwork for j. he’s not picking up his phone. thanks xx

You answer her, praying she didn’t leave her ringer on. The hour alone will reveal the extent of the team’s attention on this case and you can only hope she understands.

3:48am can do. this one’s bad. might be a minute.

Aaron looks up at you, a question in his eyes.

You shake your head with a little smile. It’s nothing.

+++

“Six bodies, not including the driver. He put 'em down with the gun--or more likely guns--and finished them off with his knife.” Dave looks around while Aaron stands stock still near the driver, slumped over the wheel.

The scene inside the bus is macabre - bodies and blood everywhere. The numbers on the window send shivers up your spine.

“There;s Arthur Lanessa's wedding ring.” You peer over Aaron's shoulder. “What'd he take?”

He scoffs. “Does it matter?”

He straightens quickly, shoving past you and getting off the bus. You get out of his way, letting him go with a frown. Dave meets your eyes and tips his head. You follow him out as he goes after Aaron, giving them just a little bit of distance

Dave catches up to him. “Hey. What's goin' on with you?”

Aaron stops in the alley a little ways away from the bus. “He called me tonight and offered me the deal.”

So that’s what happened.

You thought as much, but the thought alone was too much to consider. It’s never been less satisfying to be right.

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him, and then he does this.” Aaron gestures to the crime scene, NO DEAL staring you all in the face, along with all those numbers.

The idea of The Reaper torturing Aaron like this is horrifying. Plenty of unsubs have made your skin crawl in the past, but this is a new kind of awful. You’ve never seen him like this.

“So, you think this is your fault?”

“It is,” he insists. You’re shocked to see tears in his eyes when he looks back up at Dave. There’s a part of you that wants to reach out, but something keeps you back.

Dave pulls his gun and releases the safety, turning the grip toward Aaron.

What the fuck?

“Well, here, use mine. You convinced me.”

Aaron waves him off with one hand while he pinches the bridge of his nose with the other.

Of all the things you would have thought of at this moment, pulling a gun on SSA Aaron Hotchner wouldn’t have made the list. You watch, ready to jump between them at a moment’s notice. They’ve never gone after each other before, but you’ve seen more worrisome behavior from Aaron in the last forty-eight hours than in the preceding eighteen months.

Even at the height of the divorce proceedings, he was steadier than this.

“No, no, you hung up on him.” Dave pushes the gun at him, trying to wrangle it into Aaron's hand. “You practically killed them yourself. Go ahead, get it over with. Don't worry about us.” He gestures to you and Aaron's eyes flicker to yours. You have no idea what you look like right now. “We'll get this guy without you.”

Dave is a genius.

He blinks, tears wetting his cheeks. It’s certainly one of the more alarming things you’ve ever seen. He’s audibly frustrated, his hand flexing at his side as he talks. “Dave, I had 10 years to do something about it.”

That’s not fair.

When has Aaron ever been fair, or even kind, to himself?

Well, shit.

That’s why you’re here. Do your job.

You step forward, keeping your voice down. Approaching him like a cornered animal seemed the best tactic at the moment. “Shaunessy made the deal. The killing stopped, as promised. He closed the case and sent you away, Hotch.” Your eyes beg for his as you continue. “You moved on. You worked on other cases, active cases. You saved lives in that time. It wasn’t wasted.”

Aaron huffs, clearly frustrated. “But I kept coming back to this one. I kept coming back to this profile.” There’s something desperate in his voice and you know he’s trying to get you to understand something he can’t articulate.

Dave takes over again. “Hey. I was retired. Should I blame myself for every victim who got killed while I was on my book tour? Look, if you want to end up like Shaunessy, like Gideon, blaming yourself for everything, you go ahead.”

Damn. Good point.

Aaron’s eyes meet yours for just a moment before looking away again. You keep your face soft, neutral.

Safe.

“But that voice in your head,” Dave says, “it's not your conscience. It's your ego. This isn't about us, Aaron. It's about the bad guys. That's why we profile them. It's their fault. We're just guys doing a job. And when we stop doing it, someone else will. Trust me. I know.”

Aaron checks in with you for a moment and you nod. It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay.

He wipes at his eyes before leveling Dave with something that looks almost like his classic glare, gesturing to the offered gun at his chest. “You can put that away.”

With a cheeky smile, Dave says, “You sure?”

“It's a little dramatic, don't you think?” You ask, stepping up and clapping Dave on the shoulder.

“My wife always said I had a flair for the dramatic.” Dave’s deeply chuffed pleased that he was able to bring Aaron back to his senses. He holsters his weapon, throwing the safety back on.

“Which one?” Aaron asks. You’re relieved to hear a little bit of humor in his voice.

“All of 'em.”

The three of you share a little smile before you walk back to the crime scene.

Aaron’s thanks is so quiet you’re almost certain you made it up.

You’re only sure it happened at all when Dave replies, “Anytime.”

+++

“He knows where Foyet lives. We’ll split up and cover each address. Go.”

You rise and somehow end up with Derek. Though not your intention, it’s probably for the best. For good measure, you take Jameson, a seasoned SWAT agent. The three of you had the biggest of Foyet’s properties on lock.

Derek speeds to the house, flooring it with sirens blaring.

“I’ll take front,” Derek says, nearly shouting over the siren.

You’re locked and loaded, ready to go in your vest as soon as the car stops. “I’ll take the back.” You twist in your seat to look in the back. “Jameson, you good on my six?”

“I’ve gotcha.”

You’re clearing the house, kicking in the back door. There’s a thump behind you and you turn. Before you can do anything, something makes contact with the back of your head, sending you straight to the ground. You hit something else on your way down, and you’re done.

Fuck.

You’re knocked out cold, but come to only a few minutes later. You stumble to your feet as lights and sirens round the corner. Bringing a hand to your head, you feel the blood on your forehead. There’s probably a decent cut near your hairline and when you look down, you find an alarming amount of blood on your vest.

Head wounds bleed. You’re fine.

Oh.

Oh no.

Derek.

You brace yourself on the wall as you rise, checking your service weapon. It’s not in your holster, but you find it nearby on the floor.

Why didn’t he take it?

Kicking it under the table, you draw your secondary weapon. The thought of leaning down to reach for the gun on the floor is too much and your only aim is to get to Derek, then Jameson.

Blinking blood out of your eyes, you do your best to clear the rest of the house before finding the mess in the living room and front yard. Without much of a thought, you haul yourself over the broken window sill, getting a nice slice in your arm for your trouble, and land hard at Derek's side. With a groan, you roll over onto your knees, crawling toward your prone teammate.

You look up as headlights hit you, shading your eyes with one of your hands. The other rests on Derek's chest. To your relief, you can feel his breath under his vest. He’s alive. He’s okay.

With the intensity of the lights shining on you, you can’t see Hotch as he lifts you to your feet by your upper arms. He shields you from the light with his body, his brows drawn and concerned. You’re dizzy in the extreme, your right eye almost unable to open with all the blood caked down the side of your face.

He takes you under his arm and brings you to one of the ambulances posted on the street. The paramedic takes your vitals, but Aaron keeps a hold on your other hand. You’re not sure he realizes he’s still got you, but you’re not about to let go.

“What happened?” He asks, quiet and tense.

You shake your head even though it only increases your dizziness. Blinking a couple of times, you answer, “I don’t know. He came out of nowhere. I had the side of the house, Jameson had the back, Morgan the front. We were clearing room by room and he just…” your eyes float to the front of the house, where Emily has Derek with a paramedic. “He appeared and I didn’t have time before he hit me with...Something. I was out before I could blink. I think I hit the table on the way down.”

Hotch sighs and to your dismay, you see the coroner approaching the back of the house with a gurney. Jameson’s dead.

Why aren’t you?

“He didn’t take my service weapon. It’s under the table in the kitchen now, but it was next to me when I came to. I don’t -” you swallow, still dazed. “I don’t know why he left us alive.”

You can see Aaron's teeth grinding as he collects himself. “He’s trying to get in your head. Don’t let him.”

“What, like you?” You know your functioning isn’t at one hundred percent - you’d never make a jab at him like that, even weak as it was, at a moment like this if you were clear-headed.

He sighs as your eyes flutter shut, leaning on the inside of the ambulance. You hear the paramedic tell him you’re concussed and need to be kept awake for the next ten hours. Hotch gets the details on your other injuries before squeezing your hand once and leaving you.

After another few minutes, EMS releases you with a packet of concussion information (which you immediately crumple and shove into a passing crime scene tech’s jacket pocket). Far too quickly, you make your way across the yard and into the house, avoiding Jameson's body and the coroner’s staff.

You find Derek and Emily sitting together on the back of the couch as he, too, is patched up.

“You okay, kid?” He asks.

You nod. “Just concussed, a couple of lacerations. I’m fine. Are you okay?” There’s a compulsion to fuss over him, but you resist.

He nods, bringing a pristine .44 caliber bullet into your eye line. “He left this.”

A shiver runs down your spine. “Sadistic bastard.”

Emily raises her eyebrows and cants her head, agreeing with your brief assessment.

You look outside to where Hotch stands in the middle of the yard, with his arms crossed, looking over the damage to both the house and his team.

Eventually, he returns to the house with Spencer in tow. You follow them, moving slow.

Reid points to evidence as he talks. “Jameson was clearly killed outside. This is someone else. There are signs of a struggle and a lot of blood."

"But no body,” you note.

What the hell happened here?

Reid nods. "Just the drag marks. The human body holds 5 quarts of blood. I'd say there's a little more than half that here. Whoever the bleeder was, they lost too much to survive."

It begs the question, so you ask. "Foyet?”

“It was his worst fear, that the Reaper would come back and finish the job,” Dave says, appearing out of nowhere and leaning on the door jamb to the kitchen.

With a firm conviction, Aaron says, “We offered him protection. He refused. It was his choice.”

+++

JJ’s brow crumples as she looks over the files again. "Why is he so focused on Foyet? What's so special about him?"

Aaron, of course, answers her. "He was his only surviving victim, the only one he couldn't defeat."

“But he's not a threat. Defeating him would be no great accomplishment. There's something there that we're missing.” You thumb through the case again, certain the answers are there for you to find.

JJ’s persistent. “What about the girlfriend, Amanda Bertrand? Wh-what do we know about her?”

“Nineteen. A freshman. She came here from Michigan to go to school. Foyet was a teacher's assistant in one of Amanda's courses.”

“Michigan. Where The Reaper had Shaunessy post the personal ad.”

“That can't be a coincidence.”

“He told us she was the love of his life, that he was gonna propose. But she just got here from Michigan. They only met when the class started.”

“How long had she been in the class?” You ask

There’s an incredulous laugh in Emily’s voice. “Four weeks.”

“So it was either love at first sight or what?”

Derek picks up JJ’s thought. “Foyet was lying?”

“He's a 28-year-old teacher's assistant in freshman classes.” Hotch immediately starts dialing a number, and you’re sure you know which one. As you suspected, he gets Penelope on the phone.

“What are Foyet's aliases?” Quickly, you hand him Dave’s notebook, the rest of your body coiled for action. He bows his body over the phone, rattling off instructions. “I want you to look up in Boston city records Kevin Baskin, Miles Holden, and William Parker. Try the Department of Education.”

“Well played, sir.” You hear her keyboard in the background. “They all work for the Department of Education, they're all substitute teachers, and they all teach computer science.” She pauses. “Oops. Scratch that. They're not all working for the Department of Education.”

“They're not?” Aaron’s head tilts, listening.

“No. William Parker was fired for alleged inappropriate behavior with his female students.”

Something clicks. You watch the gears turn and turn and turn, Aaron’s eyes flickering over the photos, the file, back and forth as he puts pieces together.

“Hotch?” Your hand hovers over his shoulder, but he pays you no mind.

“Roy Colson went to see Foyet.” He begins to stand, his voice rising as he gets farther from the phone. “Garcia, I need you to trace Roy Colson's cell phone. George Foyet is The Reaper.”

Garcia gives you the address and the rest of you chase Aaron out to the car. The headache pushing behind your eyes is the least of your worries. “What? What do you mean George Foyet is the Reaper?” It’s almost comical, the efforts you take to keep pace with him down the stairs and to the car.

Aaron communicates all the details he put together in the conference room, taking you step-by-step through his process. “He stabbed Amanda Bertrand to death, he drove a mile, he called 911, he went back, and he inflicted those wounds on himself.”

You’ve already caught up, the pieces clicking in before he can repeat them. “He knew EMS would get there in time to save him.”

“And between the phone call and the severity of his wounds, we never considered him as a suspect.” There’s frustration in his tone, but you know it goes deeper than that. It’s his pride.

“Hotch, you couldn’t have -”

Derek cuts you off. “Why would he do it?”

“It put him at the core of the investigation. Everything we had came from him.”

Talk about inserting yourself...

Derek is right there with him. “He left his own glasses at the crime scene, he pointed us right back in his direction, and still, we didn't see it.”

Aaron nods, his jaw tighter than you’ve ever seen it.

Don’t blame yourself.

Hotch rolls up to the house, no lights or sirens, and you surround the house, on his six. You quietly breach the back door, clearing the kitchen and the hallway.

“It's over.” Aaron’s tone leaves no room for argument as he levels his gun at Foyet’s head.

There’s a strange smile on Foyet’s face as he speaks. “I'll kill him.”

“You need him to write your story.”

“I'm taking him with me. I'll let him go as soon as I'm safe.”

You step to the side, trying to get a better shot, but Aaron stops you with the smallest turn of his head as Foyet redirects his attention to you.

“I said I'll kill him.”

Aaron pulls his focus again. “You kill him, I kill you.”

“You think I'm afraid to die?”

“You're not afraid.” Aaron sneers. He’s aiming to hurt and it’s a good idea. “You're greedy and narcissistic. You want the recognition that's gonna come from the book that he's gonna write. You want the fame that's gonna come from the media. It's gonna be like Bundy.”

“I'm gonna be bigger than Bundy.”

“Well, you can't enjoy it if you're dead.”

You’ve got him there, Aaron.

“If you know me so well, how come some many had to die to bring you here?”

You can almost feel the lance of shame and guilt that shoots through Aaron. He almost flinches. Between you and Emily, if looks could kill, Foyet would be long dead.

You fucking asshole.

It takes everything in you not to leap on him and pummel him into the floorboards. You’d love nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off his face.

“That's your choice, not mine. You're the serial killer.” To your ears, it sounds like Aaron's convincing himself as much as telling Foyet.

“That's right.” He turns, smirking. "Hello, Derek.”

He drops his gun and Derek pounces on him, restraining him. "Where's my badge?” He jerks Foyet’s head back by the hair. “Where is it, you son of a bitch?”

He doesn’t answer Derek's question, but shifts his icy gaze to you. “How’s your head?” He gives you an imitation of a pout, and anger sears through your chest. “You took quite a spill last night, Agent. Probably had your unit chief very worried.”

You squint at him, but don’t respond. Aaron steps a little to the side and you’re not even sure he realizes it, but he’s made himself a barrier between you and Foyet.

The bastard notices, though, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “I'm gonna be more famous than you even realize.”

The look he gives Hotch makes you shudder.

+++

Only an hour or so after you land back at Quantico, JJ jogs from her office to Hotch’s. Your heart sinks.

That’s never good.

“Foyet escaped.”

You grab the remote and stand from your desk, turning the volume up on the TV.

She chases Hotch down the stairs as he joins the rest of you, surrounding Derek's desk. “Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing. They rushed him to the prison hospital.”

“Get me the U.S. Marshals office.” He turns, but she stops him.

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance. He said they'd call us if they needed it.”

Aaron doesn’t stop moving until he’s at your side. Your search for his eyes and he meets your gaze after a moment.

What do we do?

His jaw clenches. I don’t know. Then, a huff. Fuck.

You shake your head a little. It makes you feel a little dizzy. Fuck, indeed.

“How’s your head?” He asks.

Of all the things to worry about…

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Just then, Emily returns, a file in her hand. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet's house. They're schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.”

You take it from her, looking it over before looking at Hotch. “He had the schematics. And not just for Woburn. For every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And 10 years to plan,” Dave adds.

"They're gonna find him, right?" Penelope’s voice is small, and you can’t blame her for it. Derek’s at her side, staring at the news footage with a grim look on his face.

Aaron’s eyes are trained on the television when he answers. “No, they're not.”

Derek turns to you before looking at every member of the team individually. “He said he'd be more famous than we knew, and he was right.”

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @wandaswitxh @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @gublergirls @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @ogmilkis @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @whoreforhotch @pinkdiamond1016 @pan-pride-12 @lee-rin-ah @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @nohalohoseok @giveusbackourbucky @writerxinthedark @bauslut @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @buckybau @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @violentvulgarvolatile @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @garcia-reid-lovechild @cevanswhre @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321 @zizzlekwum @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @this-broken-band-girl @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @winqhster

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fiadorable · 2 years ago

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74 Great Things in Memento Mori

Strange New Worlds season one episode four... it's the Gorn 😱

La'An's memento box has her memorial pin from the Puget Sound, her cadet badge, her diploma from graduating Starfleet Academy, two bracelets (I think), a shiny rock, a plastic yellow cassette looking thing, a ring holding a blue marble, a starfish, and a stylus

Pike's Starfleet Remembrance Day speech

La'An has the messiest quarters we've seen so far and I am here for it (It's still not that messy but she's got clothes thrown about on her bed and couch and it's the only place that looks lived in)

Grumpy Hemmer and Ray of Sunshine Uhura are always a win

Uhura comparing linguistics to engineering and Hemmer being impressed despite himself and despite assurances to the contrary

Big sister Una making sure little sister La'An is okay on this day of remembrance

The tension as they arrive at Finibus Three and try to figure out what's going on is really well done

Everyone changes into their commando gear for the away mission which I like. We don't really get a good look at it until Serene Squall, but I dig the light combat armor

The music in this episode is fantastic and keeps putting me on edge

Pike immediately beaming the away team up when the hidden ship appears

Pike's puzzled face

Jealous of how Number One had that fantastic pony tail for the away mission and now has her hair back down without any sign it had been up

Number One and La'An troubleshooting!

I like Fig and that is a shame because that means she's toast

La'An actually does a good job with Fig here - I like that she isn't dismissed as just another kid who can't help

Pike listening to his security chief immediately and trying to raise shields

Pike's soft "Oh, no." oh my god it gets me every time

The Gorn ship's movements make me want to throw up, but good job highlighting how different they are from "normal" ships we usually see Starfleet interacting with

Number One trying to snap La'An out of her PTSD to get her to move and then grabbing her when she sees she's frozen

Okay, the transport tube was not near sickbay that I could see from earlier, so that means Una probably dragged La'An's unconscious body from where they were up to Sickbay while dealing with severe abdominal trauma and notifying Pike that La'An suspects its the Gorn… holy shirtballs the women in this series are so tough

Number One not telling La'An how badly she's injured so that the younger officer isn't worried about her while advising the captain

La'An forgetting her place while trying to convince Pike they can't fight the Gorn and then rallying to deliver her evidence in a clear, succinct manner that convinces him she's right

Ortegas asking a valid question about the nearby black hole and Pike being like "One problem at a time" 😂

Bridge troubleshooting!

Ortegas mouthing off as her defense mechanism and Pike just being like, Really, Erica? but not calling her on it because, again, defense mechanism

Uhura moving that huge container off of Hemmer 💪🏼

Ready room troubleshooting!

Should have been deeply worried the first time I saw this and heard M'Benga say Una was on her way in to Sickbay when we last saw her right outside Sickbay using the bulkhead to prop her self up and a significant amount of time seems to have passed

Chapel replying "Aces" when asked how her sewing is 😂

"We have only one photon torpedo?" You need the Voyager torpedo bay that respawns them when it's most dramatically appropriate

La'An's speech about the Gorn is chilling

Pike pep talk for what's left of the senior staff

Pike giving La'An a lesson on how to be a first officer and then guiding her through it the rest of the episode

La'An's arc this season is really beautiful and probably my favorite

Hemmer and Uhura troubleshooting!

Hemmer claiming he hates teams but then guiding Uhura through what sounds to be a very complex engineering thing in a way that she is able to quickly understand and work with in a short amount of time

Spock reinventing radar

oh my god i was so nervous when they first saw the gorn on the radar

Pike nodding to La'An to keep Ortegas in check when she started to panic

Dropping the photon torpedo on the Gorn ship is such a cool sequence

The Gorn mothership is terrifying, like if the Borg lost their love of geometry and let a little chaos into their order

"That is not what I suggested" 🤣

Every time someone says a Really Bad Thing on the bridge Pike says Fantastic, Let's Do It

A starship should NOT make those sounds - extreme kudos to M'Benga for keeping a steady hand as he stitches up Una

The submarine dive sequence is so compelling, I am captivated every time I watch

Chief Kyle's friend saving him, sacrificing his own life

Pike and Spock's conversation about valuing life after hearing about the casualty on Deck 22

Pike looking like he's gonna throw up when Spock says the Gorn ship has been destroyed so they won't have to fight hand to hand or be taken prisoner and then turning around with the command mask back on

Chapel encouraging another nurse

Chapel being a fucking weirdo with that comment about sepsis and Number One giving her the same look she gave Hemmer in the last episode and M'Benga just being like what am I going to do with you 😂

Number One ordering them to give Ensign Christina the plasma instead of her 🥺 and M'Benga's respect for her growing

La'An and Spock suicide misison road trip

You're right, Spock, the Gorn light show communication is fascinating

"The mind meld is not a shortcut for dealing with mental trauma" You're right and you should say it, Spock

Spock asking La'An if she wants to stop when he can feel her mind resisting

La'An's brother sacrificing himself for her, ultimately saving her life and by extension the lives of everyone on the Enterprise years later

Vulcan mindmelds go both ways, I forgot about that - nice crossover with Discovery there

They both look like they've been through the ringer after that meld (and they have) but yikes

"…Our mind meld reminded me of risks taken and their value to those that survive"

Hemmer wanted to be a botanist… I bet his quarters are filled with plants

"Space really wants us dead"

"Hemmer, you and cadet have access to EV suits?" "We do sir, though I hesitate to ask why" 😂😂😂

"Erica, if anyone can surf a wave on a black hole it's you"

Hemmer committing the air filter to the cosmos

Hemmer comforting Uhura when she's scared out of her mind

"To fix what is broken" is such a beautiful, simple purpose. I love it so much. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Pike's speech as they get ready to execute the Pike Maneuver

Forcefields around the biobeds in sickbay!

Holy forking shirtballs surfing the black hole sequence

The engineers at dry dock hate Pike for bringing the Enterprise back like this oh my god it looks like they've been through a shredder

The absolute devastation on Pike's face when he thinks Hemmer and Uhura died when the bay was vented and then his relief when Uhura is able to respond. I love the depth of feeling we get with Pike, it's really great that they make a point to show us that he feels things deeply

Seriously how is the ship even flying at this point 😂

Okay okay okay, we need to talk about M'Benga giving Una his blood/plasma/whatever because we learned in the last episode that mixing human and Illyrian blood is expressly forbidden. While I think the rule is meant to be more no putting Illyrian blood into human blood, it is still a risk for him to do it. When rules and laws are made on the basis of prejudice there often isn't room for niceties in the ways they are enforced. This is the moment they become friends.

La'An wearing her remembrance day pin 😭

#st:snw #star trek strange new worlds #memento mori #this is a really good if really intense episode #and surprisingly gory with una's injuries #although i did appreciate that they let people get dirty and stay dirty #ignore me #snw great things

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gallickingun · 4 years ago

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reassurance || oikawa tooru

SUMMARY: You and Oikawa Tooru have become close after spending weeks partnered together in your college course. You have an unspoken relationship, nothing exclusive, but Oikawa plans to change that once he realizes a toll his other female fanatics have on you and your confidence.

PAIRING: Oikawa x Fem!Reader RATINGS: T+ WARNINGS: language, negative feelings, anxiety, etc. WORD COUNT: 3.8k+

Author’s Note: This is my very first Haikyuu!! piece. I’m not sure how it ended up being Oikawa, but here we are! In the future, if you guys want, I’ll definitely do more Oikawa but also Sugawara, Kuroo, Bokuto, and Kageyama!

The jersey sits heavy on your shoulders – as if Atlas himself had bestowed the burden of carrying the weight of the world to you personally. Your back aches but you stand when the set is thrown across the court anyway, hands held close together in preparation of a clap.

He always gives you a reason to redden your hands in praise.

When the ball slams onto the court, his eyes turn to you – dark and playful, the lilt of a smirk on his lips. His left eye drops in a wink and as you bring your hand up to wave, your body tenses at the sound of screams from just behind your position in the bleachers.

“Oikawa!” They drag out each syllable of his name for an excessive amount of time, and the flirtatious drawl of their voices makes your skin crawl. They giggle in unison, a flurry of voices trying to be louder than the last, their laughter echoing off the gym walls, “Great serve!”

Your hands wring together in your lap as you find your seat again, eyes downcast so you cannot make out the frustrated expression on his face when you back down from them. He grits his teeth and curls his fists, but anyone looking on and unaware would believe he was just pushing himself to newer limits, a higher level to achieve. He is not known for his tendency to stagnate, especially not in a game where there are newscasters and reporters present, scouts for national level teams scattered in the stands.

“I heard he’s seeing someone,” a higher-pitched voice chimes in, just across your shoulder. Before you can turn your body to defend yourself, or the girl in question can continue, another one further to the left butts in, “Yeah, but I heard it’s not exclusive. Which basically means he’s still fair game.”

“He’s not a piece of meat, guys.”

You’re thankful for whichever third voice of reason pipes up, but the sheer number of girls giggling behind you does little to quell your spiraling nerves. The pit of your stomach is in shambles, your arms wrapped around your torso in an attempt to hold yourself together while the last set of the game winds down.

They’re not wrong, per say. You and Oikawa aren’t exclusively dating, not really calling one another pet names, or holding hands across campus. At most, you’re comfortable, your bodies walking in synch from building to building, finding it easy to fill the otherwise awkward silence with talk, or comfortable just basking in the quiet. He will throw an arm around your shoulders and kiss your temple, but the actual affection is saved for when he walks you to your car or you spend the evening studying in his dorm.

The two of you started off as lab partners, forced to spend extra time outside of class together to study and put together a project that’s worth a decent amount of your semester grade. In that time, you’d grown to enjoy his company, and he started inviting you out with his teammates and their friends after practice and to parties, and even to study together for other subjects outside of the lab class you were taking.

It was not long before your mouths found one another and your hearts grew to become intertwined.

And now, here you are, stood in the stands, your body on the edge of your seat as he twirls the ball in his palms, blowing a breath through his teeth as he steps to the edge of the court. He toes the white line, as if mentally marking the spot, the start of a smirk on his lips as he grows more confident with each passing second. Your heart stalls within your chest, just as it always does, when the ball is thrown into midair, spinning so quickly you can hardly see the multi-colored stripes, rather each piece blurring together to create one dark hue.

Oikawa manages to throw another service ace, bringing the game to match point in favor of your school’s team. As the ball is rolled back underneath the net, he turns to look at you, undoubtedly gazing directly into your eyes, tilting his head in your direction and blowing a kiss from the center of his palm.

You reach your palm out into midair, stretching your digits so your hand is wide open. It is a silly thing, something the both of you started when you had to be across campus from one another, unable to meet up for lunch or coffee or studying. After a moment, your fingers wrap around your empty palm, grabbing his intangible kiss from the space between you. He watches intently as you press your digits against your lips, the ghost of his kiss on the ridges of your fingerprints. As your mouth curls upward in a smile, Oikawa’s expression lilts to match your own, the faintest hint of dimples dipping into his cheeks on either side.

“If you think that was for you, then you’re delusional,” the tinny-voiced girl from before leans down to whisper in your ear, her hand menacingly placed on your shoulder, like a weight meant to sink you to the bottom of the ocean. “It was obviously for me. I have my linguistics course with ‘kawa, and he and I were partnered up for a project this past week. He’s so totally into me, even offered to carry my books.”

Her heels look pointed enough that she could pierce your throat or your eye with the tip, so you merely shove her hand off of your shoulder and turn around, clapping as Oikawa tosses his next serve up in the air. You rally with the rest of the crowd, whooping and hollering when his hand hits the ball, a loud echo from the slap making you wince.

When you look up, the ball is in play, volleying back and forth from one side to the next. Oikawa’s face is flushed, hands at the ready as he takes his position. After a few more moments, a perfect set from Oikawa to your team’s ace lands them the final point they need to win the set.

The entire crowd goes ecstatic, everyone standing to their feet, ringing their bells and blaring their horns, clapping their hands as the boys on the court jump up and down and hug one another. Oikawa has his arm around the ace, tugging him to tell him something close in his ear, but his eyes wander to the crowd, finding you in an instant, dropping his left lid down in a wink. You can’t help the way your heart constricts within your ribs, like a caged dove desperate to fly free. Your hand are over your face as the teams both line up to thank one another for the game, and once they are released to the locker rooms, you start to gather your things.

You hear a snicker from above you, and when you turn your head, a thin, beautiful brunette with blue eyes is glaring down at you, a smirk tugging upward on her thin, peachy lips. She cackles, crossing her arms over her ample chest to multiply the appearance of her size, “I hope you’re not waiting around for ‘Kawa. Prepare to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed in what?”

The familiar, smooth voice in your ear sends your whole body into a stupor. You look over your shoulder, but he’s already so close to you that you can feel the heat of him against your side. Oikawa’s palm slides into the back pocket of your jeans and your tongue lolls back in your throat, near choked on the organ as you watch him sidle his attention to the girls stood behind you on the next row of bleachers, an unassuming expression aligning his features.

Your body flushes with heat, face warm to the touch and your backside where his hand is currently placed is practically throbbing at the attention. Oikawa pulls you in tighter, your body tucked into his side, and he smiles, eyes near-sparkling underneath the fluorescent gym lighting.

“Hey pretty girl,” he kisses the crown of your head, squeezing you with his elbow that is around your back as best he can, “did you enjoy the game?”

Glancing up at him, you make eye contact and it floods your body with a familiar warmth, your stomach doing flips and your heart pattering within your chest, “Yes, you did so well! That’s two more service aces than last game!”

“That’s my girl.” Another kiss is pressed to your temple, his lips warm and smooth against your skin. You note that he’s being even more affectionate than normal, and you have to wonder if it’s in response to seeing those girls encroaching on your space. “Now what was this about being disappointed? Not in my game, was it? I know I screwed up a couple of times, but I think I redeemed myself alright!”

You turn to the girls stood in the bleachers, their faces paling in color as their jaws hang open just slightly, his words doing little to reign them in. The expression on your face has morphed into one of self-satisfaction and smugness, lips quirked into a smirk, one brow cocked upward, “No, ‘Ru, I think you did great. These girls were just worried you weren’t paying attention during the sets, is all.”

Oikawa stifles a laugh before it can break through the aloof expression he is wearing, eyes wide as he narrows his gaze to the group of college girls now stammering and blushing in regret for sticking around this long. He reaches behind his head to rest his palm on his neck, cocking his jaw slightly to the side to relay even more of an innocent appearance. You turn your body closer to him, his chest pressed against yours from the side, your arms circled around his waist. Now his hand in your pocket is on full display, thumb jutted out from the fabric, but the other four fingers are perfectly slotted against your backside.

“I’ll admit I was a little distracted,” he scrunches his nose, eyes crinkling at the edges as he does so. He turns from them to you, sliding his other hand down your ribs to your free pocket, aligning the fronts of your bodies so your chests are flush. Oikawa’s honeyed gaze is lingering on you, and for the moment you feel like there is a spotlight on the two of you, center stage as he brushes the tip of his nose against the bridge of your face.

“I knew you were coming to the game, all decked out in my jersey. I couldn’t help but stare at you between sets.” Your cheeks burn as he kisses your forehead, but you can’t help the uneasiness that you feel swirling in your stomach, dripping down your throat like acid. You wonder if his intentions are pure – is he truly claiming you as his in front of this crowd, or is he merely trying to throw them off of his scent, using you as bait?

Oikawa tugs on the hem of the jersey adorning your torso, something akin to pride shining in his warm irises, quelling the turmoil in your belly for just a moment. “You look adorable in my clothes.”

The shrill one out of the three speaks up, pushing herself onto her tip-toes to appear taller, looming down over you both, “B-But I thought you guys weren’t allowed to let other people wear their jerseys?”

“Oh yeah,” Oikawa waves his hand in midair, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, “I got special permission from the coach, he said since I was the one who closed our last few games with those service aces, he’d let me loan the jersey out to my girl.”

At the mention of my girl, Oikawa turns to kiss you on the forehead, tucking your head beneath his chin as he holds you closer. He smiles over the top of you at the group of girls, a smug tone seeping into his words, in spite of his innocent expression, “Are you girls here for someone?”

They all begin to stutter in jumbled tones before scrambling down the bleachers, apologizing and taking their leave. The door to the gymnasium has hardly shut before Oikawa bursts into a fit of laughter, holding you by the arms as he takes in your bashful expression. He leans down, trying to remain close despite the noisy crowds maneuvering their way through the gym, “You wanna grab something to eat? Coach gave us tomorrow off from practice, so I don’t have to head back to the dorms just yet.”

“Yeah,” you nod, your hands pressing flat to his chest, jersey stuck to his skin with sweat. You scrunch your nose in response, shaking your head and forcing a disgusted sound from the back of your throat, “You better shower first though, Tooru, cause I’m not going anywhere with your stink.”

Oikawa squeezes your backside gently with his limited grip, hands still stuffed in your pockets, “I’ll be out of the locker room in a few minutes. You can wait for me in the car, okay?”

Your hand finds his keys, jingling as you move your hip, the lanyard weighing heavy on your beltloop, “Yeah, okay.”

His eyes find you instantaneously, your tone dropped an octave as you loop your index finger through the o-ring that his car key is attached to, your knuckle crooked around the cool metal, as if you were keeping it safe from harm. Oikawa pulls you forward with a gentle tug against your backside, your body enraptured with his as he looks down at you, his nose brushing your forehead.

“Thank you for coming,” Oikawa’s lips are against the dip in your brows, running down the bridge of your nose, “I think you’re my favorite good luck charm.”

You can’t help but chuckle sarcastically, your fists curling around his jersey, “As if you need any good luck, ‘Ru.”

Oikawa withdraws his hands from your pockets, but pats your ass gently, causing you to stumble into him until your bodies are flush. He laughs into your hair, kissing the crown of your head affectionately before releasing you.

He’s walking away, but he makes sure to call over his shoulder, “Of course I don’t, I’ve got you!”

You’re trying to contain your blush all the way back to his car, wringing your hands in front of your body, twirling his car keys between your knuckles. You play with the fob attached, his name embroidered with his number and the school’s logo – a gift you bought for him a few months into the semester. He pulled you into his lap when he made out what it was, his hands cupped around your thighs as your knees settled on either side of his hips, gentle words parting his lips: “How is it you already know me so well?”

You are alone in the car for a good twenty minutes, and you pass the time by listening to the radio and scrolling through several of your social media accounts and checking your emails from various professors. Before you know it, he’s startling you when he opens the driver’s side door. You press your hand over your heart, eyes widening as he slips into the front seat, long legs slotting beneath the steering wheel.

Oikawa reaches across the console to press his palm to your thigh, squeezing the fleshiest expanse of skin gently, “Hey, pretty girl. What’s got you thinking so hard?”

Your palm finds his knuckles, a soft smile upturning your features at the gentleness of his mannerisms. Oikawa’s thumb brushes back and forth against the inner seam of your jeans, leaning his torso closer so he can nudge his nose against your cheek in a teasing motion. His smile can be felt against your skin, the corners of his lips upturned along your jawline.

“You.”

The answer is nothing short of truthful. He does not have to know in what capacity you’re thinking of him, only that you’ve given him the real reason as to why your brow is crinkled and your gaze is far-off rather than focused on him. Your heart twinges within your chest and your stomach grows sour the longer you think about those girls and what they had to say, how quickly they disregarded you.

“You’re adorable,” his mouth finds your cheek in a chaste kiss before he settles into the driver’s seat and shifts the car into reverse. Oikawa’s hand never leaves your thigh, pinned there by the immovable force of gravity, held in place by sheer will. Even as he orders at the drive-thru and maneuvers the car to the nearby park, his palm does not waver. It spreads a contagious heat, like a virus pricking at your veins, begging to be let in to devour you whole until you are nothing but a shell left behind by his affections.

Before you know it, the car is parked and Tooru is helping you out of your side of the vehicle. His hand is on yours and you almost stumble on your way to the meadow-like section of the boardwalk. You toe off your shoes and kick them to the side, sat in the grass as he straightens out a blanket he keeps in his car for times like these.

You are quiet as you nibble on your food, playing with the wrapper in between bites. Oikawa lets you stew in your own thoughts for a few minutes before he is breaking the silence, leaning his body into your personal space to shatter the box you’ve built around yourself.

“Is everything okay?” Oikawa’s hand is on your knee now, searing into your skin with the ridges of his fingertips, “You’ve been rather quiet since we left the gym.”

Immediately, your mind is thrown back to the scene you witness just before leaving. The group of girls all ganged up against you, sneering and snickering at your excitement at Oikawa’s success, as well as his affections towards you. Doubt crawls up your spine like a shadow, clutches it’s spiny claws into your shoulders and latches onto your skin, an itching starting that you know cannot be quelled with words alone.

“Wh-What did you think of those girls at the end of the game?”

You are taking a chance, stepping out onto a tightrope with no net underneath to catch you if you fall. Oikawa owes you nothing – there is no commitment, no promise that the two of you have made to one another. Is that not what the girls were saying? That you were not exclusive to one another, and therefore you have no claim to him.

The entirety of your body grows heavy as he speaks his next words, those golden brown eyes finding something off in the distance to focus on, “They were pretty, I guess. Not really my type, how about you?”

It is meant to be a joke, you think.

Oikawa is using his typical flat tone that he has to channel for when he is being overly sarcastic and must mask it before his façade falls into a fit of giggles. And still, the twitching of his lip, the telltale sign of his impending grin, does nothing to force your fear to the side. Rather, it multiplies at his false confession, building to a crescendo of acid within your belly, lapping at the innermost parts of you until you’re broken in the worst ways.

“Hey, I’m just teasing-”

A palm brushes your cheek but you are too numb to notice. Your eyes are lost, focused in on one blade of grass near your feet, trying to count the shades of green that reflect off the moonlight up above. The air surrounding you is like a balm, but you wish it were a salve; anything to help soothe the burning of your soul.

The charred ashes within your stomach start to suffocate you, floating up your esophagus until they burn the base of your throat and choke your tongue from the inside out. Tears simmer against your lashes and your face flushes with the threat of emotion taking over you like an apparition.

The feel of a knuckle against the underside of your chin, the fleshiest part, is what breaks you from your downward spiral, Oikawa’s voice quick to follow, “You can talk to me, you know.”

Your hands seek out his proximity, palms curling around his sweatshirt as the temptation to ask your questions sits on your tongue. The acid drips down the muscle to the back of your throat to meet the ashes, your jaw locked as you try to speak. Oikawa’s hand expands along your neck, thumb brushing against your jugular to coax the words from the base of your throat.

“Do you like me?”

A silence stretches between the two of you for a short moment before his fit of giggles breaks through it. Oikawa slots his hand into your hair and nuzzles your nose with his own, “Do you really think I would ask coach to break the jersey rules for me if I didn’t like you?”

You begin to babble, stuttering syllables crossing your lips as you try your best to defend yourself. Your hands go clammy and your tongue feels thick in your throat, eyes flitting across his face while you attempt to compose your emotions. Before you can force a full sentence from between your teeth, Oikawa has captured your lips in a kiss.

His mouth against yours melds your thoughts together until your mind is mush, unwilling and unable to create coherent thoughts. Your fingers shake against the fibers of his sweatshirt, shaking with the need to have him closer. He feels your desperation and smiles into the kiss, his own hands curling around your frame. He wants you closer now, as if the non-verbal confession has created something new between the two of you, a fresh bloom to admire and showcase.

As he pulls away, Tooru is still grinning, “I didn’t want to rush you, but I want you. Whatever that means for you. Relationship or not.”

“Relationship,” you are quick to answer, eager as you push yourself up on your knees, closer to his face. Your lips find his again, arms wound around his shoulders so you can be flush against his torso, fingertips brushing through his hair. He encourages you onto his lap, hands flat along your shoulders to steady you as you find your balance.

Oikawa’s nose nudges down your cheek and jaw, nipping kisses creating tiny red, aggravated marks against your skin that fade within moments of their origin, “You have nothing to be jealous of, princess. I promise.”

Your cheeks burn at his recall of your earlier admission, the insecurities eating away at your innards even through his affirmations. Oikawa licks his tongue along the column of your throat, forcing a shiver up your spine, and successfully redirecting your attention from your throttling thoughts to his warm mouth.

“If you still don’t believe me,” his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, eyes full of mirth as he gazes up at you through thick lashes, “then let me show you.”

---

not gonna lie..... this is NOT my favorite piece so if you made it this far thank you! if you’d like a second piece, one a little more spicy in nature, please let me know!!! or if you have any drabble/thirst requests i’d love to answer them!!!!!

bokuto is my next victim so be on the lookout for that! hopefully we’ll have lots more haikyuu posts in the future!

#oikawa tooru #hq oikawa #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #haikyuu x reader #morgan writes hq #my writing

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stillness-in-green · 4 years ago

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Ahistorical, Absurd, and Unsustainable (Part Four and Conclusion)

An Examination of the Mass Arrest of the Paranormal Liberation Front Introduction and Part One Part Two Part Three

PART FOUR: Thematic Problems

For all that portions of the Western fandom look at the MLA and see Evil Quirk Eugenicists and Hypocritical Ultra-Rich, they had legitimate complaints, and their goals, while overly radical if taken to their logical extremes—see Geten[51]—still offer a way to address a huge number of the problems this society faces. Locking them up and throwing away the key is shutting off one of the most prominent angles on addressing those issues. Consider:

The Problem of Heroics

Quirk-based prejudice is real, and a huge amount of it is based in the hero/villain dichotomy. This isn’t surprising; when you set up a group of people as “heroes,” it follows logically, linguistically, naturally that the people they fight must be villains. Villains are bad, are evil, are black-and-white figures with no motivation worth considering. Toss them in jail; who cares? They earned being in there with their Bad Actions. But that kind of thinking is insidious—it spreads.

If someone looks like a villain, if someone has a bad quirk, they may well be a Bad Seed. And if they aren’t, well, the responsibility is on them to rise above that prejudice, to become better than the people around them think they can be—but no one asks the people around them to maybe stop being so damn prejudicial all the time.

A horrifyingly stark example shows up in Chapter 310, in which a woman is being attacked by a group of three men for no reason save that they think she looks like a villain, so they assume she must be a villain. Her obvious villain trait? She’s a heteromorph—unusually tall, with a vulpine face. That’s it. She’s not dressed in a threatening or antisocial style; she’s not aggressive or angry. She’s just a heteromorph who didn’t go to a shelter right away because she thought things would calm down if she waited it out.

Love Midoriya following this up with, “I bet they were just scared too.” Way to chase an aggression with a micro-aggression there, hero. (Chapter 310)

Of course, tensions are running high right now, higher than would ever be the case under normal circumstances, but even in “normal circumstances,” this uncomfortable bias persists. Consider Class 1-A’s Shoji: Shoji wears a mask because he's a gentle soul who doesn’t want to scare small children, but maybe instead, people should be teaching their kids not to judge by appearances? Then maybe their kids wouldn’t grow up to be the kinds of people who attack others for looking a little scary and not going to sufficient pains to hide it?

As far as bad quirks go, meanwhile, Shinsou is the classic example on the hero side. He was told by classmates, laughingly, that he had a good quirk for a villain; he carries himself at all times like he’s got something to prove. I suspect the only reason he’s at U.A. and not running with the League of Villains is a supportive home life,[52] but either way, people are all too ready to apply a villain label to him based on an ability that was nothing but genetic lottery, and that’s because the existence of heroes defines itself by the existence of villains.

Of course, the otherization of villains and people-who-kind-of-seem-like-they-might-be-villains is only part of the problem. The other and frankly larger issue is the effect that limiting quirk use to heroes-only has on the cultural mindset—heroes, villains, and civilians alike.

Japan in real life fosters a sense of community support so profound that children as young as four can be sent on small errands[53] around the neighborhood, safe in the knowledge that if they need help, they will be able to get that help. It’s far more common for young children to walk or take public transit to school than it is in the U.S. Another example is the country’s enthusiastic embrace of publicly available AED machines, complete with easy-to-understand printed and audio instructions about how to use them on people suffering heart attacks, a movement that has saved the lives of many who might not have otherwise survived long enough for an ambulance to arrive.

In My Hero Academia’s Japan, though?

You wind up with people who don't even particularly want to become heroes enrolling in hero schools anyway because it's the only way they can imagine contributing to society. Uraraka and Gran Torino are obvious examples—Uraraka becoming a hero less because she felt a calling to and more because it seemed like the best way to ameliorate her family’s hardscrabble lot in life; Torino getting a hero license not because he cared about being a hero at all, but because he was in on the One For All situation and needed to be able to use his quirk freely to help fight that secret war.

An even more telling case is that of the main character himself. Midoriya desperately wanted to “save” people, and from all the evidence we have in the early manga, as far as he was concerned, the only way for him to do that was to become a hero. He never even considered e.g. signing up for any volunteer programs around his neighborhood or joining the police. It’s like he never even considered the possibility of helping people via other channels.

And this is a consistent issue! People who don't think that they can become heroes train themselves (and are trained by society) into believing that they are powerless, that it isn’t their responsibility to help when they see trouble, leading to things like Shimura Tenko's “long walk,” where countless people look at a child of five, bloody and alone, and then make the conscious decision to look away, because “a hero will help.”

Hell, it even spills over onto actual heroes, who in the first chapter stand around like chumps waiting for “someone with a better quirk” to come and do something about the sludge villain, because they don’t have the perfect quirk to solve the problem themselves, so they don’t even try.

Of course, even if they did try, it might not be welcomed. Consider cases where people wanted to do good, like Gentle Criminal or Vigilantes' Koichi, but had their road to heroism blocked—this led them to villainy or vigilantism, which in turn can lead to arrest and possible prison time, with all the attendant stigma.

Restricting quirk use to heroes-only has impacts beyond just how it distorts people’s desire to help, too. Evidence in the manga suggests that some people feel a stronger biological drive to use their quirks than others. What options do those people have, then, if their quirks—or their personalities—don’t seem naturally cut out for heroism?

In Tamaki Amajiki’s flashback in Chapter 140, a teacher tells his class, “People make fine use of their quirks at any number of jobs. Being a hero’s not the only option. How will you be useful to society in the future? That’s what we’re here to explore in quirk training.” This is the scene in the manga that most explicitly tells us that other avenues for quirk use exist, but we’re never once shown what those avenues might be. At best, this suggests that those avenues are drastically limited (e.g. only available to those whose quirks are deemed “useful to society”) and/or poorly explained to people in-universe—else why would Uraraka have chosen heroism despite her lack of interest in it if she could have just gotten some kind of job license for her quirk? At worst, it’s an example of Horikoshi throwing in a line that contradicts the surrounding canon. Either way, we’re left with people who feel a strong drive to use their quirks being pressured into heroism or straying into villainy for lack of other acceptable outlets.

All of these issues could be mitigated by less draconian restrictions on quirks—which Destro's followers are the only characters in the manga we've actively seen pushing for, rather than just heard about second-hand—and by not using an ideologically charged word like “heroes” to describe a glorified independent police force. Allowing people to freely use their quirks[54] means fewer people being pushed into a heroics job they're unsuited for, means fewer people being pushed into villainy, means a more rounded view on how quirks can be used, leading to less quirk-based prejudice and less—well, let’s talk some about false dichotomies.

All For Nothing, Nothing For All

Shigaraki stands as a fundamental accusation of the way the hero/civilian dynamic exacerbates the Bystander Effect, making people think of themselves as powerless, while at the same time putting untenable pressure on heroes to be perfect victory machines who don't experience pain or doubt or weakness. He further attests that this dynamic pushes out people who don't fit either category—victim or hero—making them villains. This is one of the fundamental thematic conflicts of the series—is one hero enough? Are heroes themselves enough? What are heroes, what do they fight, and what should they be fighting? Who deserves to be “saved” and what does it mean, anyway, to “save” someone? What happens to the people who aren’t saved? How will the world grapple with the consequences, the resentment, that stem from that failure?

In his work Underground, written to grapple with and criticize the way Japanese media covered the sarin gas attacks, author Murakami Haruki talked about the response to the incident being to call the members of Aum Shinrikyo evil, insane, diseased, other. They were spoken of as a monstrous fringe that could not have been predicted, about which nothing could have been done, rather than examined as bright, well-educated young people who by all accounts ought to have had good futures ahead of them but instead spiraled down into a doomsday cult. Murakami asserted that, because the Japanese public was unwilling to ask how and why that happened, was unwilling to self-examine, the country was locking itself into a repeating cycle. Memorably, he wrote, “Most Japanese seem ready to pack up the whole incident in a trunk labeled THINGS OVER AND DONE WITH,” to describe this resolute incuriosity, the strong aversion to looking into the face of evil and trying to find the humanity within it.

In this post and its follow-up, tumblr user @robotlesbianjavert discusses the problems that stem from that exact tendency as portrayed in My Hero Academia. She says, “Only making decisions that benefit the greater good is not the real solution that the narrative is rooting for. Not so long as it fails to recognize and address the needs of the victims that still come of it.” Hero Society will never stop creating its own villains so long as, every time it fails people, it does nothing but shrug and write off the victims as unavoidable, inevitable sacrifices for the greater good.

I would also like to highlight her point—which I hope she one day posts her own full essay on—about the way All For One and One For All serve as two extreme poles of equally unsustainable visions for society. This dynamic is all over the manga.

There are the characters of AFO and his younger brother themselves, each forever locked in battle to prove the correctness of his own way of thinking, and forever talking past the other even when they’re face to face.

There’s the contrast of heroes, giving their all to help strangers even when it hurts the people they love, with villains, giving their all to help the people they love even when it hurts strangers.

The flaws in the One For All model can be seen in the multilayered ravages it inflicted on All Might physically, emotionally, and socially. Thus, one for all is not always ideal.

The strengths of the All For One model can be seen in a team of heroes and police combining their efforts and will to help one single person—Eri. Nighteye even highlights this with his speech about everyone’s efforts coalescing into Midoriya and helping him to “twist fate.” Thus, all for one is not always about selfishness.

Once you start looking for it, this duality shows up everywhere, and I think—I hope—it’s an angle Horikoshi is conscious of. The obvious solution is that the extremes of this society are all undesirable—that total selflessness and total selfishness are equally unsustainable, and both are, ultimately, damaging. A more holistic approach is needed, yet if a holistic approach is what the manga ultimately proves to be seeking, it makes the mass arrest of the PLF particularly problematic, if it’s allowed to stand unchallenged. You cannot just choose not to see 115,000 dissatisfied people—some way or another, you have to reckon with them, and if you don’t do it in a way that actually helps them address whatever their core problem is, you’re just setting yourself up for more of the same further down the line.

The MLA believed that they were fighting for a just cause, for freedom, for the future. They absolutely had issues—Geten’s words indicate that much—but they were issues that would have been much better addressed by actually challenging them openly, rather than suppressing them. If they couldn’t get society to agree right away that the use of one’s quirk should be as unregulated as the use of one’s hands, maybe they would have accepted a tiered license approach to quirk use as a good starting compromise. If they wanted totally unhindered quirk use, such that people could murder with impunity? Well, that would never have gotten past the House of Representatives, but maybe a bill declaring that crimes committed by quirks should be treated no differently than crimes committed via any other means would have. A weeklong debate on the Diet floor would have stood a much greater chance of e.g. addressing the needs of the quirkless than the MLA alone would have bothered with.

The MLA didn’t get to have that kind of debate. Instead, they ran headfirst into Shigaraki Tomura, who made them far more dangerous. And yet… For all that Shigaraki twisted them, he didn’t change them so much that Re-Destro couldn’t still see the light of his ideals within them. Furthermore, even though the PLF didn’t win the battle we call the War Arc, it may be that they’re well on their way to winning the actual war.

“The Seeds Are Already Sown”

So what did the PLF actually want? Well, we have a few sources on that—Shigaraki’s desire to destroy “everything,” the cloned Re-Destro’s vision of liberation through “order without order,” and so forth. But a very instructive place to look is Hawks’ doomsaying in Chapter 258. While the PLF is a bit too scattered or imprisoned to appreciate it, a shocking number of the things Hawks laid out for the audience have actually come about, even if they didn’t happen exactly as the PLF planned. Consider:

Bring down the status quo by annihilating all heroes. Heroes—a number of whom died the day of the raid—are retiring in mass numbers. As the manga describes it, they are “being put through a sieve.” They certainly haven’t all been annihilated, but the ones remaining are having to do the work with little in the way of thanks or glory—the false heroes Stain spoke of have left the table.

They plan to attack all major cities at once throughout the nation. Gigantomachia stampeded over more than twenty cities in the space of less than an hour. A bunch of them were surely not major cities, but all the same, it was a rampage that caught the heroes almost completely off-guard (because they were all tied up arresting the PLF and didn’t think Machia would be an issue), leading to massive collateral damage and unspeakable loss of life.

With society brought to a lawless standstill… Thanks to AFO’s prison breaks, a bunch of villains are now out there raising hell to their hearts’ content, and there aren’t enough heroes around to always respond in a timely fashion. They’re having to open up schools as shelter zones, evacuating entire cities, which the common people respond to predictably poorly, leading to groups of people who were not previously villainous deciding to take the law into their own hands.

…Re-Destro and the Hearts & Minds Party will storm the political world. In Chapter 297, the less openly fascist guard worries that the remaining factions of the HMP[55] will still be stirring up trouble on the political front, especially given the enormous wave of brand-new complaints about human rights violations that he doubtlessly figured were incoming.

They will distribute weapons and extol the virtues of self-defense, calling it true freedom. Whether Detnerat picked up the pace of its black-market support goods sales, bankrolled Giran doing the same, or some other groups—yakuza, perhaps—stepped up, we already know that there are weapons and support goods circulating throughout society, and that people are using them for self-defense.

These people will throw the world into chaos and enthrone Shigaraki atop the rubble. The second coming of All For One. Far more so than anyone in the PLF would have wanted, this one has come horribly true with the AFO vestige’s possession of Shigaraki.[56]

While it is perhaps karmic that the PLF is in no position to enjoy the fruits of their villainous efforts, it’s striking how much of what they wanted has come about anyway. And how much of this can really be undone or wound back? Complete societal breakdown isn’t the kind of genie you can easily rebottle, and this, I think, is particularly illustrated by the civilians Yo and Tatami encounter in Chapter 307.

I’d like to wind this essay down by zooming in on that encounter somewhat.

The group of people the Ketsubutsu pair encounter in 307 are not nice, but neither are they violent. Having, like so many others, lost faith in heroes to protect them, they want only to protect their hometown and for heroes to leave them be. They’ve fended off a few small-time villain attacks and are bluntly uninterested in cooperating with condescending heroes (an impression Yo is not helping to mitigate) who have done nothing but disappoint them.

The spokesman in particular feels to me like someone who’s suffered a significant personal loss. The shadow over his eyes here is telling. (Chapter 307)

When Muscular shows up, they are 100% ready to put their lives where their mouths are. They are all in the process of charging outside, first to stop their town from suffering more damage, then to back up a hero kid they just got done telling to buzz off. And you know? It’s possible—probable, even!—that Muscular would have murdered every last one of them, and them charging in to fight him would have led to a horrific tragedy, one more to stack atop the pile.

And yet, while the narrative doesn’t allow them to actually assist,[57] neither does it entirely rebuke them, in the end. When all is said and done, the civilians agree to hear Tatami and Yo out, and they help Tatami get Yo inside for medical attention. The leader is a little abashed, but he doesn’t bow his head and admit to being wrong; his group doesn’t meekly submit to being herded to shelter. And that’s because the narrative is—wisely—unwilling to say that they’re wrong.

After all, how could it?

Midoriya Izuku and the jaded civilian's instincts. (Chapters 1 and 307)

For a last comparison, remember that in the first chapter, Midoriya Izuku—quirkless, untrained Midoriya Izuku—dove into a fight he had no way of winning, no way of even affecting. All he was doing was endangering himself and making the sludge villain even harder to target. Still, All Might and the narrative alike praised him for his action, because it was driven by a “desire to save.” In Chapter 307, a group of undertrained civilians witnesses a high school boy being attacked by the highest tier of villain their society knows, a Tartarus escapee, a gleeful and unrepentant serial killer with a devastatingly powerful quirk. Their response is to gather up their weapons and numbers and dive in to try and help. Regardless of the weakness of their quirks, regardless of their lack of training, regardless of the danger to their lives, their instinct is the same as Midoriya’s was back then—“the desire to save.”

How could the narrative possibly tell us that they're wrong?

And if they aren’t wrong, this group of people who are so very close to the vision the PLF had for the world after their revolution, the narrative simply cannot expect to retain the slightest hint of credibility if it tries to tell us that the PLF are worth nothing more than an authorial handwave and the slamming of a cell door.

Conclusion

What we are seeing in the manga now is a society that is fumbling towards a new way. It isn’t perfect; it has a lot of wrinkles to iron out. Yet in some ways, if this is a society that has gone back in time, it is also a society that has a chance to chart a different path forward than it did before, a more inclusive path, a more balanced one. Heroes can still exist in the same way that surgeons and emergency responders exist, but that doesn't mean people throw their first aid kits in the garbage.

People protest that untrained civilians using their quirks leads to collateral damage, and that's true. The same would be true, however, if a nation that relied solely on public transit suddenly faced the total breakdown of that system and found that, if they wanted to get anywhere farther than walking distance, they had to get behind the wheel of a car and drive there themselves with no previous experience handling a motor vehicle. With some basic training, or perhaps a test and associated license that is as ubiquitous as a driver's license, how much of the collateral damage caused by civilians fighting might be reduced? How might people feel more empowered to act when necessary?

I very much want to see that future in the manga. It will feel terribly bitter, however, if the people who always believed in that future the most don’t get to see it themselves.

Bit characters are bit characters, I know. Terrorists in fiction don’t typically get to walk away scot-free. But numbers aren’t just numbers, even in fiction, even when they’re villains. If all Horikoshi wanted was a sufficiently large, scary threat to throw his heroes up against, he should have stuck with mindless Noumu or maniacal robots. He didn’t. He chose to make that threat human. He cannot now choose to dehumanize the threat, just because those humans are no longer convenient to his story.

Or at least, he can’t make me look at his doing so as anything other than appalling—ahistorical, absurd, and unsustainable.

Come back next time for sources and further reading.

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

[51] And yes, as always, I do think that Geten-whose-name-means-Apocrypha is a radical, not a reliable barometer for the MLA norm.

[52] Contrasting Toga, the standard-bearer for bad quirks on the villain side.

[53] We don’t know if that practice—so widespread it became the subject of a long-running TV program—survived the Advent and raised crime rate, but if it didn’t, that only further suggests that kids wandering the streets unattended are probably in need of assistance.

[54] Within the same bounds other freedoms exist, e.g. they’re not unduly burdening others.

[55] Small political parties in Japan merge and fragment all the time, particularly in times of crisis, so it’s not surprising that the HMP has some sub-groups. I am somewhat surprised that these factions themselves weren’t dissolved as well, given the heavy-handedness on display everywhere else. This is about the only thing that suggests that the arrests might not be as totally over-the-top as is otherwise implied, though really, if that’s the case, it just brings us back to the problem of all the people who probably slipped the net if the HPSC did opt to undercompensate.

[56] Another enormous thematic issue I have with tossing away the PLF like this is that it renders Shigaraki and the League’s hard-fought victories in My Villain Academia all but meaningless—worse than meaningless, since settling into the villa instead of staying on the run or bunking up with Ujiko wound up losing them Twice—but that’s more a problem with the writing of Shigaraki’s arc than the themes of the series as a whole. Certainly, fumbling Shigaraki’s arc will have a nigh-incomparable impact on the themes of the series as a whole, but there’s time to salvage his situation yet, so I’m crossing my fingers and reserving judgement on that for now.

[57] It should have.

#bnha analysis #bnha meta #paranormal liberation front #meta liberation army #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha #bnha spoilers #my writing #plf arrests #stillness has salt

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taetaespeaches · 4 years ago

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“I’m so sorry I dared you to do that, caroling looks humiliating.”

namjoon x reader (oc) genre: fluff word count: 1.6K

a/n: Hi lovelies! So this may be one of the most random fics I’ve ever written lol. Idk where I was going with it, but I think that’s why I kind of like it. It’s Joon and Daisy/reader hanging out on a December night and conversation leads to more random conversation and Joon ends up doing some caroling. You know, normal things... I hope you all enjoy and thank you for reading! :))

HE was animated and glowing as he told you the story of the time he burned Santa’s cookies on Christmas Eve when he was a young boy. He sat next to you on the sofa, a bottle of beer in one hand as his other moved in accordance to his story as if he was conducting it like a musical arrangement.

His skin was bright and golden in the Christmas tree light, his bare face as stunning as ever, the dimples in his cheeks drawing you into the story even more as he laughed at himself. And you were laughing too. Gasping for air, you clutched your stomach as he continued talking, his inflections moving up and down melodically. If you were a linguist, you would study his cadences in pure fascination, the rhythm of his story flexing the skills he’s made a career with.

“My mom came in,” he paused, his eyes wide. “I’m sitting there in the chair in front of the oven, my nose in the comic book, I don’t even know she’s there yet,” he edges you on, you hanging on his words as he led into the climax of the story. “And she scolds sharply, ‘Kim Namjoon!’”

Jumping slightly at his sudden exclamation, you put your hand over your mouth to conceal your giggles.

“And I look up at her in shock. She’s pissed,” he emphasized.

The smile on your face slowly grew wider as he continued with the hilarious tragedy of that fateful Christmas Eve. “And she goes, ‘why does it smell like burning food in here?’ and my heart dropped into my stomach,” he reveals, you breathing out, shaking your head.

“You forgot the cookies,” you spoke, Namjoon nodding slowly.

“I forgot the cookies,” he repeated your words in confirmation, you snorting in laughter. “I got so distracted by the comic that I completely forgot I was supposed to take them out after a certain amount of time.”

“I’m picturing your mom right now, and I’m terrified,” you giggled, Namjoon’s lips spreading into a wide smile, dimples on full display for your eyes only.

“One of the scariest moments of my life,” he admitted through a chuckle. “But anyway, I ruined Christmas because Santa didn’t get any cookies.”

Your jaw dropping, you stared at him. “Did he even bring you presents?”

“Well, you see, he already bought the presents,” he told you through a smirk, causing you to laugh. “And my parents-I mean, Santa,” he corrected, you nodding at him with a smile, “weren’t going to go through the hassle of returning them, so yeah, we got the presents,” he chuckled. “My sister was worried though, my dad told us that Santa wouldn’t leave gifts without cookies.”

“He’s kind of a greedy old bastard,” you said just before taking a sip of your own beer. Swallowing the drink, your eyes widened. “Santa,” you clarified, “not your dad.”

Squeezing his eyes shut in amusement, Namjoon put his hand over his mouth as he laughed at you.

“Fuck, not your dad,” you continued through a bashful giggle. “Santa, because he expects cookies,” you overexplained, as Namjoon leaned forward and placed his beer on the coffee table. “That’s greedy, just leave the gifts dude,” you continued as you watched Namjoon turn toward you, coming closer to you. “It’s your job,” you finished your rant, just as Namjoon placed a hand to the side of your face, bringing his lips to yours. The kiss was sweet and slow, his lips lingering before he pulled away just enough to look at you.

“Santa is a greedy old bastard,” he agreed, you giggling as you leaned forward to kiss him once more. Pulling away once again, you watched as his smile widened, the expression stunning.

“Have you ever been caroling?” You asked, Namjoon’s eyes popping wide open for a moment as he looked at you curiously. You weren’t sure where the question came from, but Namjoon didn’t seem to mind the randomness.

“I never have, no,” he replied fondly. “Have you?”

Thinking for a moment, you shook your head. “No,” you said simply.

“I always wanted to though,” he told you, his hand finding your knee. “I thought it looked fun when I was a kid.”

“You should do it,” you encouraged, the man shooting you a questioning look. “Right now,” you added with a smirk.

“You want me to go caroling right now?” He asked.

“Just outside my apartment door,” you said, already giggling at your idea. “I dare you,” you added with a teasing whisper, Namjoon sighing.

“You know you can’t just dare people to do things and expect them to do it,” he argued, you groaning in response.

“Come on, please,” you pouted. “I’ve never had a Christmas caroler serenade me before,” you said in feigned sadness.

Namjoon stared at you for a moment before standing up and heading to your front door without an ounce of hesitation. “Joon,” you giggled, watching him stride across your apartment, “I was kidding.”

“No, I’m gonna do it,” he called back to you before turning around to look at you. “Because you deserve to be serenaded.”

His expression was sweet, his eyes soft and kind, full of love. “Oh, babe, you’re drunker than I thought,” you told him, holding back a smile as he chuckled.

“Well,” he thought for a moment, “Maybe,” he confirmed, you both laughing. “But drunk or not, I’m singing for you,” he told you before turning back to the door and opening it quickly, disappearing outside as he closed it behind him.

Jumping up from the couch, you quickly jogged to the door, opening it just as he started belting ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! using his entire frame to sing the song. He even had a little bit of choreography to go along with the song in the form of hip thrusts, wiggles, and twinkly fingers.

Smiling fondly at him, you leaned against the door frame as you watched him. The longer his act when on, the more in love you felt, your chest swollen with affection as you admired this gorgeous man singing for you, simply because he thought you should be serenaded and he wanted to make you happy. Who even does that?

“I only know the chorus,” he called out just before circling right back into the chorus on the song, causing you to laugh loudly at his antics. Your focus on the man was only broken when your neighbor, an older woman who had a bit of a distaste for you ever since you picked some of the daisies from her garden, stepped out onto her porch to inspect the noise coming from your boyfriend.

“Joon,” you called out to him in a hushed tone, fighting back a smile. His eyes widened as he stopped singing for a moment, looking to you curiously as you nodded toward your neighbor.

“Oh,” he said in realization, an adorably bashful smile overtaking his face as he laughed at himself. However, instead of stopping under her glare, he slowly worked back into the song and choreography, continuing his performance for you.

Throwing your head back in laughter, you covered your mouth with your hands as you watched your boyfriend sing and dance. You snuck one more glance at your neighbor, just as she was shaking her head in disapproval before returning back inside, closing the door on your boyfriend’s disturbance.

You didn’t even have time to process your neighbor’s reaction as Namjoon cleared his throat dramatically. “Are you ready, Daisy the Menace?” He suddenly asked, slowing his dancing into a hip sway. “That song was for your entertainment, be now, it’s time for you to be serenaded.”

Cocking your head at him, you pouted as soon as he started singing ‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’.

Namjoon would tell anyone that he couldn’t sing, but you loved his voice. And you appreciated the effort he was putting into his impromptu vocal performance of Christmas songs just for you.

Giving him your undivided attention as he sang about letting your heart be light and your troubles being out of sight, you didn’t realize your emotions were bubbling until a tear slid down your cheek, Namjoon’s eyes catching it at the same time you felt it. Wiping it away as Namjoon bounded up your steps to get to you quickly, you giggled at yourself.

“Are you ok?” He asked in concern, his hands meeting the sides of your face as he peered at your features intently.

“I’m fine,” you laughed, though more tears welled up in your eyes. “I just love you so much,” you whined, Namjoon smiling softly as he breathed out a sigh of relief. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest, his body rumbling in an amused laughter.

“You’re drunker than I thought too,” he teased, causing you to laugh against his body.

“Shush,” you sassed through a chuckle. “I’m so sorry I dared you to do that,” you apologized, “caroling looks humiliating.”

“It wasn’t my proudest moment,” he confirmed, both of you laughing. “I’d do it again though. For you,” he added cheesily, you scrunching your nose as you pulled away from his body slightly to look at him.

“I don’t think our friend next door appreciated it too much,” you commented, Namjoon looking to the woman’s apartment.

“Yeah, I would say it definitely didn’t help us win her over at all, that’s for sure,” he smiled, you feigning a pout to express your pretend disappointment. “I love you,” he told you sincerely.

The comment took you by surprise, but you accepted the confession easily. “That’s very obvious,” you told him with a smile, Namjoon squeezing his eyes shut as he chuckled lightly. “I love you more, Joon.”

And fuck, you did. More than anything.

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word-scribbless · 4 years ago

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Smile Again Part 1

Note: This is part one of my new Hotch series!!!! There is a whole lot of just back story in this one and setting the scene! More cuteness to come! A lot of slow burn fluff and some hurt comfort not really full blown angst!

X female reader

Summary: JJ’s cousin Y/N has been through a lot in her 37 years of life. She’s moved to Virginia to start to move on with her life,until meeting Aaron Hotchner throws a wrench in her plans in the best way.

Masterlist ——— Series masterlist

———————-

Y/N Y/L/N had just moved to Virginia to be closer to her best friend and cousin, Jennifer Jareau. If she were being honest this isn't how she'd imagined her life at 37 would be when she was younger. If you asked her then she'd have told you that she saw herself married with kid number 2 or 3 on the way, not a widow running from her past. Life has its own ideas for the way our lives will go though doesn't it. Y/N had a few things on her side however, she had her dream job as a translator for a publishing company where she worked remotely. She also had a loving, if not overbearing family to lean on, and lean she did. For the past three years Y/N was living and helping out on her parent's farm in Pennsylvania. She recently decided it was time to move to be closer to JJ, and the publishing company she worked for. She loved all the help and support her family gave her but she also needed to start over fresh and she knew that meant moving on physically as well. It wouldn't hurt to also get away from her family treating her like glass and closer to her cousin that, while just as overbearing at times, knew she was capable of more than grieving the death of her husband, and her hopes for the future.

She knew after the first week of living in Virginia near JJ that she made the right move, she finally started to feel like a human again. Y/N loved living in an apartment not far from her favorite cousin and her family. She especially loved that she now got to watch and hang out with her favorite little kids, Henry and Micheal, whenever JJ and Will both had to work. That morning Y/N was woken up at 4:30 in the morning to the ring tone she saved for JJ, Spice World, at top volume.

"Ugh, I never thought I'd say this but it's too early for spice girls." she grunted as she picked up the phone.

JJ chuckled and said "Sorry my dear. Wil is away for training and we just got a case that they need me on do you think..."

"I'm on my way" Y/N cut her off "I'll stop for coffee and bagels"

"You're my favorite person," she says.

Y/N rushed to get ready and grab her go bag. She learned quickly to keep one after she moved to Virginia and picked up more munchkin sitting duties, as she calls them. She headed to JJ’s favorite coffee shop, which was quickly becoming hers too. She arrived at the Jereau-Lemontague house quickly and was getting settled in on the couch when she heard JJ’s phone ring.

“Jayje, a handsome man named Hotch is calling” she whisper-yelled into the kitchen looking at the photo icon of Hotch on her cousin’s screen.

“That’d be my boss, He’s single by the way” she winked as she took the phone.

“Shut up” Y/N replied with an eye roll.

“Hey Hotch” JJ answered.

Y/N could make out most of the conversation from where she was perched drinking her coffee. She could tell that JJ’s boss was telling her that he was running behind because someone named Jessica had an emergency and couldn’t watch Jack. She assumed Jack was his Son as she heard JJ respond that Will was away too so he couldn’t watch him.

“Psst” Y/N called trying to get JJ’s attention without being rude. “Jack is Henry’s best friend right?”

JJ nodded.

“Tell him to bring him over, I’ll watch him. The more the merrier right?”

“Hang on Hotch” JJ said, turning to Y/N “you’re sure? He’s a great kid, you'll love him, but that’s a whole other human.”

“I’m sure! Tell him” she gestured to the phone.

“Hey Hotch. My cousin,Y/N, is watching the boys. She's amazing with them and she says Jack is welcome to join the party.” After a bit of convincing Hotch agreed with many ‘thank you’s. Before she knew it the very handsome man (who was even more handsome than his picture) showed up at the door with a very sleepy little boy in his arms.

“Hi I’m Y/N, JJ is just grabbing her bags, I’ll show you to Henry’s room.” she smiled.

Hotch got jack settled on the un-used bunk of Henry’s bunk beds and kissed him on the head. Y/N led him out of the room and turned to him.

“I know you don’t have much time but do you have anything specific you need to tell me?” She said handing him a note with her full name and phone number on it.

“Thanks. He’s pretty easy going but I wrote down some basics that I usually give to baby sitters. JJ trusts you though, so I do too.”

“Thank you. Call whenever you want okay? Be safe, and keep my Jayjee safe too.” She smiled.

“Always” he nodded.

Hotch and JJ decided to carpool to Quantico for the briefing.

“Y/N seems nice.” Hotch says as he drives, face serious as usual but JJ can see the softness. She knew Y/N and Hotch would get along. They had more in commen than most people knew, but unfortunately that included a big lose and both Being very closed off to new relationships. However she had hope.

“Yeah, she’s my very best friend. She’s amazing with kids too so Jack is in very good hands.” She smiled.

“I can tell” he replied.

“I’ve missed her, she was back in PA for the last few years but before that she lived in Maryland so it wasn’t too bad of a drive. Still this is way better."

“Does she work with children for a living?” he asked, trying to seem his normal nonchalant self, but not truly caring because he knew JJ saw straight through him anyway.

“No she is a translator for a publishing company. She translates books to and from other languages. She studied linguistics and Languages in college and has her PHD. She’s basically the whole package!" She said with a wink, causing Hotch to chuckle.

“Why so many questions? You interested boss?” she asked jokingly.

“wh-, I-, she’s watching my kid, I was just...” Hotch stumbled in a way he prided himself on not doing often.

“It’s okay, I think she’s interested too.” She said quietly.

“What?”

“She had the look after you talked” she laughed at Hotch’s confused face.” It’s a look I’ve only seen a few times but it means she’s interested so do what you will with that just be careful with her. She’s been through a lot.”

“JJ” Hotch warned firmly.

“I know I know, I’m dropping it!” she said and stuck to her word, changing the conversation to their kids and their adorable antics.

Throughout the case JJ and Hotch each called Y/N every night to check on their little ones. JJ made sure to check on Y/N too while Hotch usually kept their chats short but couldn't deny he enjoyed talking to her. She found herself looking forward to his call each night, she knew it was stupid but she let herself enjoy the butterflies a little bit anyway.

She had also been enjoying her time with not only 'her boys' but also Jack. Jack is a sweet kid and she loved talking to him about school, and soccer, and his family. One night before bed, after Michael and Henry fell asleep, Jack asked Y/N if she had any favorite stories.

“Of course I do, my mom used to tell me a story about fairies every night before bed.” Y/N replied.

“My Daddy says that my Momma used to sing me special songs before bed.” Jack said with a sad smile. “Daddy sings them sometimes but they make him a little sad, I wish he had someone to make him happy.”

“He has you sweet boy” Y/N cooed and kissed his head.

“I know but I mean besides me” Jack said.

“You don’t have to worry Jack, because I like to think that no matter how much someone hurts, there is always someone else out there that will make them smile again.” She assured him and smiled as he cocked his head to look up at her. “I lost someone who made me smile too, but I still find new people who make my life happy. My cousin and her family, you…” she smiled

“My daddy?” Jack asked.

She smiled and said, "Yeah your Daddy too, I don’t know him very well but he has to be great to have a kid like you!” she chuckled.

“He’s the best.” He said as he snuggled into her side, “You lost some one you love, like how daddy and I lost my momma?”

“I did” she nodded. "His name was Connor, he made me very happy but I know he looks over me and keeps me safe. Just like your Momma does for you and your Daddy.”

Jack looked up at her and smiled as he started to tell Y/N all about what he remembers about Hailey and how he feels. Y/N snuggled up close to him, listening and adding in here in there until he falls sound asleep.

She knew that when Aaron and JJ come back she’ll have to talk to him about this but for now she’s just happy that that that sweet little boy feels comfortable enough to open up to her. Their conversation however had her begin to think about Connor, and the day her whole life got turned upside-down. Hearing Jack talk all about his mom made her almost want to open up about her own feelings about her late husband after all this time, but for now she’s just curl up with some tea and JJ’s Netflix account.

————————-

Thank you to @winterscaptain for the encouragement and help.

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner x imagine #aaron hotchnerx reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #hotch x female reader #fem!reader #female!reader

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etherrealoblivion · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter Four: Supper

Table Of Contents

Fic summary: Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. came with its fair share of downsides. You never thought that being the target of a serial killer would be one of them. Luckily, a nice FBI agent by the name of Spencer Reid is assigned to watch over you. What's the worst that could happen?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Words: 1,748

MASTERLIST

A sudden loud beep had you shooting upright in bed. You leapt up and put your ear to the door. Rather than sinister noises, you heard the faint humming of a very familiar theme song.

You cracked open the bedroom door, peeking into the kitchen where Spencer was bustling around with a frying pan and a spatula with a focused expression on his face, humming the theme music to Doctor Who under his breath.

It was actually kind of adorable. You pushed open the bedroom door further to get a better look, but the door creaked and Spencer spun around, withdrawing his gun and pointing it square in your face.

“I’m sorry!” you squealed, throwing your hands up in surrender.

He quickly holstered his gun and ran over to you. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” you tried to laugh. “A little shaken but I’m okay. Really!” you added after a doubtful look from him.

His eyes were a deep hazel that seemed to peer into your soul. His hands felt good on your shoulders, clutching you tightly in comfort. It had been a while since you’d had, well, any physical contact. He was so tall he had to lean down to level his face with yours.

Suddenly, he seemed to realize how close the two of you were and stepped back, clearing his throat.

“I was, uh, trying to make dinner.”

“I can see that,” you said playfully, with a glance at the kitchen in disarray.

“Yeah. I’m not the best cook. I can memorize thousands of recipes in minutes but i’ve never seemed to master the execution.”

You hesitated.

“Thousands of recipes in minutes? What are you a genius?” you laughed.

“Scientifically, yes. An I.Q. score over 160 classifies someone as a genius.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You’re kidding?”

He shook his head, slipping his hands into his pockets and shrugging.

“Nope.”

“Wait so you can read like, a thousand words per minute?”

“Twenty-thousand,” he corrected, stepping back into the kitchen to continue cooking.

“Twenty-thousand!? That’s impossible!”

“Actually, the unconscious brain can process up to eleven million bits of information per second. It’s just a matter of being able to—“

“—to access the information from your subconscious,” you said, cutting him off. “Wow. That’s impressive.”

He looked at you in shock.

“What’s even more impressive is that you finished a sentence for me.”

“Sorry,” you blushed.

“No! No, I mean, not a lot of people can, erm, keep up. When you start college at fourteen, not many people expect you to be smarter than them. Then when they find out how smart you really are, it can be intimidating.”

Your mouth twitched up into a smile. Spencer was impressive, for sure, but he was also entertaining. Not in a make-fun-of kind of way, but he made you laugh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Supper’s ready!”

You stifled a laugh.

“Supper?”

“What?” he looked over at you, reaching up to get two plates.

“Who says supper? Are you eighty?” you teased.

“I’m twenty-six!” he said indignantly.

You froze.

“Wait, really?” He nodded. “You’re only twenty-six and you’re a prominent FBI agent? How?”

“Genius I.Q, three Ph.D.’s, and my irresistible charm,” he said, giving a goofy smile.

“Three PhDs? How? I’m getting a PhD and I can barely keep up with the workload!”

“You‘re getting a Ph.D.? That wasn’t in your police report. What’s it in?” he asked as he filled your plates.

“Actually, I’m working on two.”

“Two!?”

You nodded, happy that you’d been able to shock him.

“Yep. Linguistics and Philosophy. I like Philosophy better but Linguistics is more challenging. The library won't let you into the section with the really good language books without a certain clearance. But I've actually nearly finished my thesis for it. What?” you added, noticing him staring at you.

“You’re working on two doctorates simultaneously?”

“Surprised you’re not the only genius?” you joked, taking your plate from him, then, upon seeing what he’d made, bursting out into laughter.

“What?” he looked genuinely confused, which only made you laugh harder.

“Bacon?” you said through gasps. “Bacon and pancakes? You are aware it’s—“ you glanced at the clock, “—nine forty at night?”

“Gimme a break!” he said defensively. “It’s the only thing I can cook. The word ‘cook‘ being a generous descriptor.”

It was better than Doritos and bourbon for dinner, your go to meal. You were just glad you’d had the stuff to make dinner. It would be very awkward trying to explain your unhealthy eating habits to Spencer.

You didn’t have a dining table. Anyway, you usually ate on the couch and watched something on TV. That was normal nowadays right? Whatever. Spencer didn’t seem to mind which was good enough for you.

“So, um,” he said nervously, pulling out a pad of paper and pencil. “There’s a few things I need to go over with you.”

You nodded, remembering the situation you were in.

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have shown a sort of stalking behavior before? They’d be unreliable, constantly late, not being able to stick to a schedule?”

“The only person I know like that is Claire, one of my co-workers, but she’s not a stalker, she's just always late to work. Honestly, the only people I really know are my co-workers, some people from school, and Steve, my friend.”

“The FBI is going to need a list of people you see frequently. If you could put that together as soon as you’re ready. Also, all your credit card information will have to be analyzed, everywhere it’s been used. Whoever accesses your card, even for something as small as a stick of gum, has the opportunity to use that information to find your name, your address, your workplace—”

“Ok. I get it. People I see frequently and my credit card info. Gotta warn you, there’s not much I buy with it other than books and coffee. Then again, there’s the occasional splurge at the mall.”

“Well, the FBI needs all of it.”

You nodded softly, staring at the bacon on your plate. He hadn’t said I need he’d said The FBI needs. You weren’t sure what that meant exactly.

“Do you want to watch something?” he said, gesturing toward the TV. “It might be a good distraction?”

“Yeah,” you put your plate on the coffee table, noticing that you’d barely eaten. “Yeah that sounds good. Could you just put something on? I don’t wanna choose.”

He nodded and picked up the remote.

The only thing he really knew you liked was Doctor Who so he put on a random episode. You let the TV become background noise to your thoughts as you stared off into space.

Spencer was comforting to be around. He helped take your mind off the situation you were in. You looked over at him on the couch, long legs crossed under him. He had taken off his tie and shoes and changed into more casual clothes: a jumper and some jeans. He was absentmindedly fiddling with the throw blanket between you on the couch.

His hands are so long, you thought. Wait, why were you thinking that? You shouldn’t be thinking about his hands. Or how long they were. Or what they could—

“Are you alright?”

You felt yourself twitch, startled by his sudden acknowledgment. Even more embarrassing, you were sure he’d seen you staring at his hands.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Hey,” he moved closer on the couch, “you don’t have to be sorry. It’s alright to not be okay.”

They were just words, they didn’t help. What did help was the care behind them. He wasn’t just saying it to comfort you, he actually meant it. To him, it really was ok to not be okay.

“Thank you Spencer, that actually helps.”

You glanced at the clock. It was 10:26.

“I should do some schoolwork,” you said, cringing afterward. You didn’t want him to think of you as some school kid.

“Okay!” he chirped happily, standing as you stood like a proper gentleman. “I’ll just be out here. Is it okay if I keep watching?” The episode played on, The Doctor dangling from a rope above London. “I really like this episode,” he said sheepishly.

“Sure,” you chuckled. “I’ll be in my room and please let me know if you need anything, seriously.”

He nodded assent, but you weren’t sure if he actually would. He seemed a little withdrawn, comforting you when you needed but keeping his distance when possible. It’s his job to keep you safe, you reminded yourself. Don’t get excited.

An hour later your eyes watered from the strain of keeping them open. But you were almost done with this paper. Sure, it was due next week but you were on a roll. Using an allusion to the Holocaust to support the point that Hollywood writing is riddled with antisemitism. In the morning, it might not sound as clever, but to your sleep-deprived brain, it was poetry.

A light knock on your door startled you.

“Come in,” you croaked.

Spencer peeked into your room, squinting.

“It’s pitch black in here,” he said, reaching for the light.

You shrieked as the light filled the room, blinding you.

“TOO BRIGHT!” you yelled, slamming your computer shut and throwing your arms over your eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he fumbled with the switch and clicked it off. The room was now shrouded in darkness, neither of you able to see yet.

“Are you there, Spencer?”

“Yeah.”

You were both whispering. Why was it that people whispered in the dark?

“You should try and get some sleep,” Spencer said. He was becoming more visible as your eyes adjusted to the light. He had changed into a blue set of pajamas. The fabric looked so soft.

“Yeah,” you muttered, moving toward the bed, “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

Your bed felt scratchy and cold. Just last night getting in bed had been such a relaxing experience. So much had changed in a day.

“I’ll be right in the next room if you need anything,”

“Hmm,” you hummed.

Spencer padded back out of your room.

The moment before the door closed you thought you heard a very faint, “Good night, Y/N.” But before you could wonder if it had happened or not, you were dropping off into a deep sleep. Knowing that you were safe with Spencer in the next room.

Taglist: @aperrywilliams @mjloveskids666 @dolanfivsosxox @criesinreid @fanficsrmylife @racerparker @sammypotato67 @lukeskisses @reidcrimes @you-had-me-at-hello-dear @l0ve-0f-my-life @thatsonezesty13

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid gifs #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert

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riversofmars · 3 years ago

Text

Happy December 12th, can't believe we're halfway already!!

All I Want For Christmas (12/25)

“It really is very beautiful,“ Helen commented as they strolled along, past the stables and towards what looked like rose gardens, though it was difficult to make out in the snow.

“It is,“ Liv agreed as they walked along a row of hedges, past plants that had lost their leaves but the snow had given them its own set of blossoms in the shape of ice crystals. “Too beautiful to be true perhaps…“

“Are you turning cynical as well now, we trust River, remember?“ Helen interjected. She let her eyes wander and the distance, they could just about make out two figures on horseback, crossing the white landscape.

“You do,“ the med-tech retorted as she struggled to keep her feelings of jealousy in check. River had the Doctor, why did she have to continue flirting with Helen too?

“What’s brought this on?“ The linguist asked with a frown.

“Nothing, just… nothing…“ Liv huffed and carried on walking through the gardens.

“Don’t walk away like that!“ Helen turned away from watching the Doctor and River, only to find that Liv was halfway down the garden path already. She grabbed a pile of snow from a statue nearby. “Oi!“ She called and hurled the snowball right at Liv.

“Helen!“ The med-tech exclaimed when the snow collided with her back. She spun around, and just in time to duck another snowball flying her way.

“Stop being such a spoilsport, let go for once!“ Helen demanded as she gathered more snow in her hands, readying for another attack.

“Stop throwing snow at me, it’s cold and wet and…“ Liv only narrowly avoided another throw.

“Please just try to enjoy yourself while we’re here! We always manage to have fun - even in the most dire of circumstances - why can’t you manage it now?“ Helen called and this time, her snowball struck Liv right in the face.

“HELEN!“ She shouted as she wiped her cheeks and rubbed her eyes.

“It’s called a snowball fight, defend yourself!“ The linguist grinned.

“Alright… fine, just you wait!“ Liv grabbed a handful of snow and chucked it in Helen’s direction. The linguist grinned, launching her own attack again. It turned out, despite Liv’s lack of experience, she quickly gained the upper hand through sheer determination, spite or a need to prove herself. Helen couldn’t be sure which it was but Liv dumped a whole load of snow on her head.

“Ah!“ Helen squealed and Liv took the opportunity, she playfully pushed the linguist over, into a large pile of snow that had been gathered at the side of the path. Laughing, Helen fought back and they ended up rolling down the pile onto the ground beside it.

“You asked for it!“ Liv grinned and she ended up on top of Helen and pinned her down.

“Liv!“ The linguist laughed, her voice breathless.

“Does that mean I win? Is there a winner?“ Liv certainly felt like a winner looking down at Helen who was breathing heavily, her gaze somewhat hazy.

“You win, you win,“ Helen admitted, taking a deep breath and Liv ginned as she let go of her hands.

“Do I get a prize?“ She smirked but before she knew it, Helen had grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it down her neck inside her coat. “AHH! HELEN!“ Liv yelled, trying desperately to get the snow out of the back of her coat that was horrible and wet and running down her back.

“Serves you right for letting your guard down,“ Helen grinned and took the opportunity to flip them around and gain the upper hand.

“I give up!“ Liv exclaimed, shielding her face from renewed attacks. “I surrender!“

“And don’t you forget it,“ Helen smirked triumphantly but instead of getting up, she rolled off her and lay in the snow beside her as they both caught their breaths. She looked up at the grey sky as snowflakes fell around them and into their faces. She reached out and took hold of Liv’s hand.

Liv glanced over to her and forgot all about complaining about her wet clothes. She watched the content smile on Helen’s face as she looked up to the sky, enjoying the quiet around them. Liv wondered if she could hear the quick beating of her heart…

“I’m so happy to be here with you all,“ Helen said and glanced over to her with a smile. “Sometimes I just… can’t believe how lucky I am.“

“Likewise,“ Liv gave a weak smile, struggling not to let her emotions overwhelm her. “I’m sorry if I’m not being much fun, you know what I’m like… I’m trying,“ she mumbled, embarrassed. She should be making more of an effort for her. Being here seemed to mean an awful lot to her friend.

“I know,“ Helen smiled. “Here, let me show you something…“ To Liv’s great disappointment, she let go of her hand but it was only so she could move her arms up and down. She moved her legs in and out as well and prompted Liv to mirror her motions. The med-tech felt incredibly silly but she did as she was told. “Now, let’s get up.“ Helen grinned and they did. “Snow angels,” she explained as they looked back at the indents they had left in the snow.

“It is a rather versatile medium, isn’t it,“ Liv chuckled and she couldn’t believe how much a simple thing could bring so much joy.

“Come on, let’s carry on, no more snow fights,“ Helen promised and looped her arm around Liv’s.

“Alright,“ Liv hummed softly, delighting in her feeling of having her so close as they carried on through the gardens.

Not long after they reached a large basin with a fountain in the middle. The water was completely frozen, it looked as smooth as a mirror with little dunes of snow gathering and being blown about by the mild wind.

“I take it you’ve never been ice skating?“ Helen asked as they reached the edge of the fountain.

“Afraid not…“ Liv admitted with a weak smile.

“We used to go skating in Hyde Park,“ the linguist carried on. “Apparently back in the day, around this era, even the Themes would freeze over but I’ve never seen that happen.“

“I imagine that’s quite something,“ Liv said and watched curiously as Helen let go of her and climbed over the basin wall.

“Maybe we can convince River into a day trip to London,“ Helen grinned and held out her hand to Liv. “Won’t be as good as actual skates but… still fun?“ She smiled hopefully.

“Probably good for starters, I’d fall flat on my arse if you made me get on skates,“ Liv chuckled and followed her invitation.

The ice was smooth and slippery under their boots. Helen pushed herself off and slid forward by a few meters. With any luck, River would have ice skates inside the manor, she seemed to have planned for everything so there was every chance. Liv, too, took a few tentative steps but she slipped. Unceremoniously, she fell onto her backside with a squeal.

“Looks like it doesn’t take skates to make you fall over!“ Helen snickered but came to her aid.

“Very funny!“ Liv huffed annoyed and turned over, putting her hands down on the ice to push herself up. She yelped in shock and recoiled, startled.

“What’s wrong?“ Helen asked, concerned.

“There were… hands… right there! Like they were reaching from underneath the ice!“ Liv exclaimed, thoroughly freaked out.

“Maybe it was a reflection of your own hands?“ Helen suggested as she helped her up.

“No, no, I know what I saw, it was definitely…“ There was no further need for Liv to justify herself because suddenly, the hands were back. They seemed to be reaching out of the depth, a fist knocking against the ice from below, as if trying to break through. “Get away from it!“ Liv pulled Helen along with her, off the ice and back onto the path.

“Okay, I hate to say it but the Doctor is right. Something weird is really going on here!“ Helen stated, her voice shaky. The ice lay undisturbed again, nothing to indicate anything else was going on but they both knew what they had seen.

“We need to go and find the Doctor and River.“ Liv decided.

#Doctor Who #fanfiction #river song #eighth doctor #liv chenka #helen sinclair #christmas fluff #advent calendar #eight x river #liv x helen

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asmileyoucouldbottle · 4 years ago

Text

Pink in the Night- Catradora

Word Count: 4491

Catradora high school AU. Best friends to lovers. Adora is the ever oblivious captain of the school's football team, The Horde, and Catra is just a gay panic crushing mess who's in love with her best friend.

***

“Hey Adora.”

Adora spun around, her hand still on the towel she’d just slung around her neck.

“Catra!” She beamed, and Catra felt a little stir in her chest. Adora was decked in her football attire, exposed arms accentuating her muscle definition. Refusing to get caught staring, Catra twisted her lips into a smirk, shifting her gaze up to Adora’s eyes as a blush began to blossom.

“How was practice?” She asked, shifting her weight and placing one hand on her hip. A defensive pose. Though the only enemy is my traitorous heart. Catra thought with poetic annoyance.

“Great! Though I might have a little bruise forming from a ball Lonnie didn’t aim too well, but it’ll be fine.”

“Let me see.” Catra stepped forward, and Adora brushed her off.

“I’ll get some ice if it swells anymore.” She promised, and Catra rolled her eyes.

“Any more? ” She repeated dryly, eyes roving for a raised spot.

“Catra I swear I’m fine!” Adora’s words were exasperated, but her eyes were fond when she met her friend’s gaze. Catra felt herself begin to soften as well, and an unbidden smile rising.

A heartsick pang only Catra could feel ruptured the peace, and she leaned back against the locker beside her, faking relaxation. “If you say so.” She lifted one corner of her mouth to prove she wasn’t actually mad, and Adora moved to take off her jersey.

Catra whipped out her phone to give her somewhere else to look, but she couldn’t help but peer over the edge as Adora stripped down to her sports bra and threw on a tshirt with the lettering “Etherian Horde.” The cheesy design wasn’t flattering on anyone, so why couldn’t Catra tear her eyes away?

Face practically on fire, Catra ducked her head, hoping to at least somewhat hide her cheeks.

Catra cursed Adora for having this effect on her, scrolling aimlessly through her instagram with her thoughts only on the girl in front of her. The stupid blonde with stupid mucles and a stupid adorable smile.

Actually, Catra had to admit that her own hormones were probably partially at fault too. They were also stupid.

“Ready to go?” Adora called her attention, helmet under one arm and gym bag in the other hand. Catra shrugged her own backpack, and reached forward to grab the water bottle from the blonde’s hands. Their fingers bumped, and Catra jerked back like shocked. After her mini gay panic attack at the lockers, physical contact was not optimal for recovery. And she was nothing if not dramatic.

“Catra? Are you okay?”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck- “Yeah of course I am, I just uh… muscle spasm.”

Adora gave her a funny look, and Catra shoved her shoulder. “Oh cut it out.” She scowled, and Adora burst out laughing.

“Muscle spasm?” She repeated in between giggles, and Catra felt her ears heating as she forced down a small giggle of her own with a frown.

“Yes! Now stop that.” Her voice bordered on whining, but Adora was merely set off again.

Groaning, Catra slid a hand down her face, peering at Adora through the space between her fingers. The slightly annoyed girl cleared her throat, and Adora gathered herself.

“If you’ve finished,” Catra started with emphasis, “want to go get a shake or something? I just got my paycheck yesterday, so I have money for the first time in two weeks.” Despite the fact that she hadn’t had spending money in two weeks, Catra didn’t regret anything. She had spent her last paycheck getting them both matching rune tattoos that read “Promise.”

To Adora it was probably some sweet nod to their promise of friendship as kids, but Catra held the vow close to her chest with an iron grip. Maybe she’d never be able to have this girl the way she dreamt of, but the word reassured her that Adora still wanted her… even if it wasn’t the same way that Catra wanted her .

No one except an obsessive linguistics nerd would be able to tell what they said, so Catra was safe from rumors as well. It was bad enough she’d had to survive them all throughout middle school, after one time a kid saw them holding hands. It hadn’t, and didn’t, stop Adora and Catra from holding each other close whenever they needed the other. With or without a crowd.

Even so, that was middle school. Middle schoolers were nasty little toes and always looking for someone to throw under the bus. Most of the highschool students were mature enough not to care, and if they were homophobic pricks, they knew not to mess with Adora. Not because she was threatening, rather, she was liked by everyone. But as the best athlete in this school, between both the boy’s and girl’s team, she practically had celebrity status.

That said, she also did have very big muscles.

Before she would do something stupid like loose all sense and stare at said muscles, Catra turned and stalked out the door, combat boots smacking the wooden floor. “Come on!” She called, and Adora hurried after her. It only took a moment for the blonde’s track shoes to line up with Catra’s own footsteps, so they were walking in sync. A smile came to Catra’s lips as she recalled memories of skipping together down the sidewalks, arm around each other’s shoulders while they struggled to match each jump exactly to the other’s.

As if on queue, Adora brought her arm to rest on Catra’s shoulder. The brunette scowled, as she did whenever Adora flexed the inches she had on Catra. Instead of shrugging it off, she saw her opportunity and jabbed her elbow, half playfully, into Adora’s side instead. Caught off guard, Adora yelped and stumbled before tripping and going heads over heels over a bench.

Catra peeped over to see her sprawled on the ground, head having landed on her backpack and feet sticking up in the air. Adora glared at her, disheveled but eyes bright. Laughing freely, Catra had to lean on the bench to support herself.

“Don’t just stand there, help me up!” Adora reached her hand up, a lock of hair hanging in front of her eyes that escaped her ponytail.

“Just give me a minute.” The sight of her messy hair unreasonably set her off again, and Catra held up a hand as she continued struggling to catch her breath.

Through her laughter, Catra hadn’t noticed the sound of footsteps before they were too late.

“Adora, what on Earth are you doing down there?”

“Shadow Weaver!” Adora sputtered and attempted to straighten, instead managing to hit her head again on the locker. “I was just uh, I tripped.” Catra muffled another laugh with a cough.

“You tripped.” The coach repeated, disdain filling her voice as she looked over at Catra. Despite herself, Catra felt herself stand a bit taller. Eyes narrowing, she continued, “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself just as the season is starting to peak.”

It was clear Shadow Weaver knew Catra was to blame, and also that she had no sense of jest. That, plus Catra had the strange sense that Shadow Weaver just hated her. She suspected it had something to do with the lesbian flag in her locker.

“Of course not!” Adora’s breathy response drew both of their gazes to her, and Catra took pity, snorting again. Extending a hand, she ignored her jumping heartbeat and clasped the blonde’s grip in hers. She had a nice view of Adora flexing her arm to pull herself up, and despite struggling with the physical contact, Catra couldn’t complain.

Shadow Weaver glowered at Catra as if she could read her thoughts. It was all she could do not to stick her tongue out at the Head Coach.

“We’re going to be on our way.” Not relinquishing her hold on Adora’s hand, Catra pulled the football player behind her and away.

“Bye Shadow Weaver!” Adora managed to call before Catra made a sharp turn out of her sight.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Adora hissed, “Catra, what was that all about?”

“She was rubbing me the wrong way.” Catra huffed, continuing to march on.

“You were rubbed the wrong way? I was literally on my back the entire conversation!” Adora exclaimed, and Catra cackled.

“Oh how I wish I got a picture.” She paused to laugh, “and then when Shadow Weaver came and I didn’t help you up you should have seen your face. It was all like “ah no! Betrayal. ” Catra lifted her free hand up and dramatically twisted her face.

Adora sighed, her face melting from annoyance to a bemused smile at Catra’s reenactment. Her curved lips kicked off something in Catra’s chest, and she thought she would do anything to keep Adora smiling.

This time Adora tugged her hand as she continued her walk, and Catra looked down at their pressed palms with slight shock. She’d forgotten about taking Adora’s hand, they had fit together so naturally. Now it came rushing back, and she was frozen with not knowing if she should tear it away or let it be.

Settling for not doing anything and letting Adora take the lead, Catra knew she looked like an overenthusiastic kindergartener had taken a red stamp to her face. That is to say, a red flustered mess.

Taking an extra large step, Catra came up along Adora’s side. Adora fished around in her pocket for a moment, before retrieving her phone. Before Catra realized what she was doing, Adora had angled the camera at their joined hands and snapped a picture.

Ripping her hand away, Catra jumped back, cheeks burning. “What are you doing?!” She spat, and Adora looked at her with slight reproach, though if Catra wasn’t mistaking, she looked a bit flustered herself.

“I was trying to take a picture of our tattoos!” She stuttered out. Catra felt a pang of guilt. I must’ve freaked her out. Again.

“Well we don’t need to be holding hands to do it.” She grumbled, secretly wondering how she could get that picture. Hand feeling cold suddenly, she shoved them both in her pocket with a glower at the traitorous limb.

Catra looked up at Adora, an awkward silence stretching. Adora’s ears were pink as she looked at her phone, and Catra tapped her shoulder.“Sorry, I just…” There were a million ways to finish the sentence, but none that wouldn’t make this any more awkward. Opting to leave it open ended, Catra didn’t finish, instead stepping forward to push open the door with her shoulder.

“Ummm… did I tell you about how Kyle let the frogs loose in the science lab yesterday?”

The momentary tension dissipated as Catra continued her story, animated with grand gestures and facial expressions. She warmed as Adora laughed, the late afternoon sun making her face glow.

***

Catra kicked open the door of Mystacor Cafe, and made her way to their typical table in the window.

“Adora,” Catra turned her head, and frowned when her blonde wasn’t beside her.

“Adora?” She turned completely around, and wasn’t entirely surprised to see the athlete exchanging high fives and greetings with groups at other tables as she passed.

Glimmer waved in her direction. “Adora! I saw the pictures you sent me, I take it Operation Get the Cat-” Her face went stricken when she caught Catra’s eye, and the rest of the sentence was finished also as a mumble, “is going well.”

Completely confused, Catra looked over to see Adora glaring at Glimmer, cheeks flaming red. She was refusing to look back at Catra.

Operation get the Cat?

Adora still wouldn’t look at her, and went back to talking to the cheerleaders, who were beginning to look a little too flirty for comfort. Trying to shake off any tangles of jealousy, Catra sighed, dropping her bag as she slid into her chair. Propping her feet up on the table, she considered the rips in her jeans, deciding that they would look even better with another a little further up her thigh.

Tilting her head, Catra studied Adora. She would look good with a few rips in the sleeves of her jacket… just to spice things up.

“Hey, Brain-Damaged!” Adora turned her head, and Catra burst out in laughter, almost falling out of her chair.

“Did you actually just respond to ‘brain-damaged?” Catra wheezed. The group of cheerleaders who Adora had been talking with looked over at her with curiosity, and Adora crossed her arms, pink tinging her cheeks. “Well, you were talking to me weren’t you?”

“Yes, but still. ” Catra hopped up onto the table as Adora rolled her eyes. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve called me that.” She grumbled, and the brunette smirked.

“I think it suits you.” She announced, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. Adora seemed to be seriously considering marching over and pushing her off the table. Both to aggravate her further, and make sure Adora couldn’t literally shove her over, Catra stretched out so she was lying on her stomach. Head propped in her elbows and feet kicking, she concluded “along with idiot” with a wink.

“HEY CATRA!”

Catra started, making a noise akin to a hiss.

“GET OFF THE TABLES!” Glimmer called from behind the counter, where she was working.

“Oh, can it Sparkles!” Hopping off the table, Catra turned to acknowledge her friend with a stuck out tongue. She returned it before turning back to the coffee machine.

“Are you done tormenting Glimmer?” Adora sat down across from her, and Catra looked up at her. Bits of hair were falling out of her ponytail and sticking to her forehead, and there were a halo of flyaways. It looked damnably attractive.

“I wasn’t tormenting her.” Catra emphasized. “Actually, I was trying to bother you. She just had to spoil my fun.”

“I think she was more concerned about doing her job than ‘spoiling your fun.’”

“Whatever. By the way, I was thinking about customizing your sports jacket…”

Adora gave her a wary look, ““What exactly did you have in mind?” In response, Catra held up her long black painted nails with a wicked grin.

“Absolutely not.”

“ Ughh fine, you’re so boring.” She squinted, tilting her head. “It would look good with two little rips on each arm…” Leaning forward suddenly, she was about to slice, but Adora grabbed her wrist.

“ Catra.” Adora looked down at her sternly. “We are not ripping up my team jacket.”

Catra held her gaze defiantly for a few moments, and there was a shift in the air between them. She couldn’t say what it was, but suddenly she wasn’t looking at Adora’s eyes, but rather… in them. Her heart fluttered and her wrist went weak. The moment stretched, and they were only inches apart…

Adora blinked, and the spell was broken. She dropped Catra’s wrist in a rush, her eyes darting away as color bloomed across her cheeks. Catra felt her mouth fall open slightly in shock, though she didn’t know if it was belated shock from the moment or the fact that it had ended. Blood rushed to her cheeks as sat back, still in temporary mental paralysis.

Adora had just looked into her eyes, and then blushed.

But… she had also pulled away.

The mixed signals made Catra want to scream, but was there a possibility?

Adora stood up suddenly and gestured with her arm, turning her face away. “Come on, let’s go order.”

They went to the counter, ordering their usual milkshakes, chocolate for Catra and strawberry for Adora. Mere seconds after they’d sat down, Catra reached over and snatched Adora’s shake, holding it out of her reach as she “taste tested.”

Catra held it up and behind her head, leaning as far back as she dared while Adora reached over the table. “You- you pest!” Adora shrieked, and Catra laughed two times harder.

“ Pest?” She repeated, teasingly mocking. “Who says pest?!”

“Glimmer said it yesterday.” Adora huffed, continuing to reach.

“Actually, that is a very Glimmer thing to say, but not something I’d expect you to repeat.”

In a last ditch effort, Adora jumped out of her seat and lunged. Catra’s chair tipped back, and suddenly she was falling as the blonde reached forward to try and stop it.

It was like slow motion. Adora, moving in an attempt to stop Catra from tipped completely backward, stepped forward and onto a forgotten gatorade. The bottle rolled and her foot slipped out from under her, and then she was going down as well. Falling forward towards Catra while she backwards, Adora threw out her arms to stop herself from face planting into the other girl. Catra landed on her back with a shock, but whatever breath was left in her body left her lungs when she opened her eyes to see Adora’s face millimeters from her own.

A deep blush spread across Adora’s face, starting at her nose and working its way until the entirety of her cheeks and forehead were reminiscent of a cherry.

Neither of them made a move, and Catra’s heartbeat was beating so erratically she was certain she was seconds from a heart attack.

That would be a fun gravestone. “Cause of death: Gay panic induced heart failure.”

Her eyes traced Adora’s eyelashes, dark and full despite her blonde hair. The grey-blue of her eyes locked into hers, and Catra inhaled sharply.

Was there a heterosexual explanation for the way she was looking at her?

Blood rushing through her head, Catra froze as Adora’s face moved minimally closer to hers, lips tingling with anticipation, and thoughts whirring into white noise-

“Hey! Catra, Adora!”

Like a shaken soda pop, Catra jolted backwards, and Adora stood up so fast it seemed impossible. Breathing heavily, Catra tried to make up for the lack of oxygen intake from the last, what- minute? Five minutes? Ten? How long had Adora been there, face in front of hers, inching closer….

“Uh…. sorry.” Adora gave her a hand, and Catra pulled herself up. They were inches away again, and the brunette took a jittery step back. Her hand tingled from the contact, and she shoved them in her pockets, unable to look Adora in the eye.

Bow was looking between them, an unreadable look on his face.

“We fell.” Adora explained, breathless. Catra sneaked a look at her, and saw the pink was refusing to fade.

The possibility that Adora could ever like her back seemed so absurd mere week ago, even an hour, but now… Catra didn’t know.

Ridiculous.

But… was it?

Overwhelmed with thoughts and shaky nerves, she crouched to pick up the strawberry smoothie. It’s contents were all over the floor, and Catra was about to stand up again to get napkins when Adora crouched down.

“I’ve got it.” She started to clean up, paper napkins in hand. Their shoulders were touching, the blonde’s ponytail brushing her cheek.

“Uh, thanks.” Adora turned to Catra, and once again their faces were far too close.

Knees weak, Catra stood up and stumbled into her seat. Bow had turned it upright, and he was now leaning against the table.

“Sooooo…” He looked at her again, one eyebrow raised. Catra gave him a glare, and he raised his hands.

“So.” Adora plopped in her chair, her cheeks still stained slightly pink. Catra thought of the pink contents of the strawberry milkshake spilled on the floor, and Adora’s eyes meeting her own…

It was all too much to take in.

“I just remembered I have… uh… extra, er, calc homework. But I will catch up with you later!” Not even waiting to see their reactions, Catra slung her backpack over her shoulder and tried not to run out the door.

***

Scaling the tree alongside the house with ease, Catra came level with the second floor window and knocked.

She didn’t even have to wait a full two seconds before the curtain was pushed aside. Adora was wearing a black tank top and sweatpants, her hair up in it’s classic ponytail, though it was messy, as if she hadn’t bothered to redo it since this morning. Catra tried to ignore how the tips of her ears felt slightly warmer.

The window opened with barely any complaint, and Adora poked her head out. “What’s up?”

“I’m heading up to the roof if you want to join me.” Catra let go of the branch with one hand, so she was leaning out precariously.

“Show-off.” Adora mumbled, and Catra winked. The blond’s gaze immediately flicked away, and Catra felt a little jump in her chest. Adora turned to grab a blanket before starting to crawl out of the window with some difficulty, despite having done this regularly since they were kids. Catra leapt up the branches until the top of the house, where she transferred to the roof with ease. Adora came in her own time, and settled beside the brunette, shoulders touching as their legs dangled over the edge. The sun had just set, and a hazy dusk was settling over the town as they looked out.

They didn’t speak for a while, just sat with each other. For years they’d been doing this, and they had gotten to the point where silence spoke just as much as words.

But now, the silence was charged, and Catra’s mind was full. Full of Adora. The girl beside her, who had always been beside her. She who had bangaded scraped knees, laughed off mean spirited teasing, taught her how to ride a bike, sat with her when no one else would… all the way up until their relationship now. The person who was always there for her, whether it was to do something small like make fun of Shadow Weaver’s pretentious dresses, or provide a place to stay when her parent’s fighting got too loud.

Fueled by these emotions, Catra moved her hand to settle on top of Adora’s.

Adora started. Catra kept her hand there, frozen as she waited for Adora to make a move, waiting for rejection. Though the action itself was miniscule, Catra could feel how everything shifted.

Her hesitation was brief, but the time it took almost killed Catra. Instead of moving away, she flipped her own hand palm up and intertwined their fingers.

She felt a flutter as her breath caught. Feeling almost above her body, Catra turned to look at Adora. A moment later, the blonde turned her face as well.

The space between them was practically nothing, and the rest of the twilight fell away as she caught Adora’s eyes. There was something there, a wanting, as they searched Catra’s own.

Adora leaned forward, and Catra did the same.

The twilight fell away, as did her stomach. The kiss was tentative, and lasted only a moment, as if they were both uncertain. When they met each other’s eyes again, Catra moved back the tiniest amount.

“Do you really want this?” She asked, her heart and voice trembling with anxiety. This was the chance for Adora to back out and pretend it hadn’t happened, or admit that it was spur of the moment and unwarranted. She could end all of this with a single word. Dread slithered through Catra, but she remained firm. She wouldn’t take advantage of this if it wasn’t okay with both of them.

Adora took both of Catra’s hands in hers, and gave her a wide smile, one that sent Catra’s stomach whooshing and her heart floating. “Absolutely.”

Catra beamed back, full of light. This time, there was no hesitation. She brought her lips to meet Adora’s again, and put all that she had, years of yearning and wishing, into it. Though her emotions hit her with all the power of a comet, the kiss was tender. Sweet. Loving.

When they parted, Adora grinned, looking practically starstruck.

“Wow.” Her voice had taken on this sort of… dorky… quality, and Catra couldn’t help but giggle.

“You dummy.” She rested her forehead against Adora’s. “I love you.”

The words, spoken with sudden bravery, seemed maybe a little too heavy for someone who she had only kissed twice. Or was it once? Did it count as two?

Either way, Catra knew it was true. She’d known it was true for years, but she had no idea if they would ruin this beautiful thing they’d just created. So she tensed, waiting for the fall.

“You love me?” Adora repeated with slight disbelief, but not repulsed.

Catra laughed lightly. “You are such an idiot.”

“I love you too.” Catra turned to look up at Adora, her turn to be shocked. After the kissing, she was expecting her to like her at least, maybe a lot, but…

Love?

Adora’s eyes said it all, and feeling close to bursting, Catra responded by closing the gap once more.

With the knowledge that this actually meant something, it was even better. Catra brought her other hand around Adora’s waist, and they leaned into each other fully. A warm feeling spread throughout her, and Catra thought about how long she’d wanted this. To love Adora, and be loved back.

Adora leaned forward a little more, and every thought left her head besides Adora’s lips.

It was messy and warm, just like the two of them. Darkness was coming in on them rapidly, but Catra never wanted to leave this roof. Not if it meant she got to have Adora.

Breaking apart, Catra remembered that Adora was wearing a tank top, and she wasn’t too warm either with her fishnet sleeves. With slight disappointment, she reached over and grabbed the blanket that Adora had carried up. Adora took one side, and threw her arm over Catra’s shoulder, bringing her in close. Catra tucked herself into Adora’s side, contentment washing over her.

The sky was a shade of blue that couldn’t be described as light nor dark. It was dusky, and Catra noticed the first star. Nudging Adora slightly, she pointed. “Look.”

There was a moment of silence, before Adora asked, “What did you wish for?”

Since they were kids, they’d always come up here to watch for the first star and make wishes. And of course they’d always share their wish with each other, because the “bestest of friends” bypassed the rule about your wish not coming true. Instead, they had declared, if we told each other, the wish would be twice as strong. Because if Catra wanted something, Adora wanted her to have it, and visa versa.

Catra didn’t have to think too hard before finding a simple truth. “More nights like this.” She decided, looking up at Adora.

Her face melted into another smile. “Wish granted.” She declared, resting her head on top of Catra’s.

“What about you?”

Adora considered. “I actually think I have everything I want right now.”

“You sap.” Catra whined, but her words had no effect once she started kissing Adora again.

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