#they had like 20 minutes of being a canon couple.

[atlabeth]

dance until we're bones

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem reader

summary: you and hotch both confront a lifetime of things left unsaid when a case forces your past into the light.

a/n: so i started this. two years ago. got 1k in and left it, came back now for some reason, wrote like a freak until it was done. lol. this is quite heavy and different than most things i usually write and it is SO much longer than expected but im very proud of it 🫶 i didn't really pay attention to the canon timeline so just know that reader and hotch were in their early and late 20s in law school (90s) and early and late 30s in present day (early 2000s). title from i lied by lord huron and allison ponthier

wc: 17.2k

warning(s): a lot of angst. typical bau case stuff, murder (familicide), implied/referenced past child abuse, reader and hotch go at it basically the whole time, character death, kidnapping, slight mention of drugging, injuries, mentions of blood. i wouldn’t say a happy ending but a hopeful one

Hotch can barely stay awake. 

He got the call thirty minutes to 4 a.m, and if he hadn’t already been up, he would likely be in a much worse mood. He can only hope that the rest of the team has gotten used to rude awakenings at this point. 

It’s poor planning on his part—he already got out late due to extra paperwork, and once he got home, he found himself staring at the wall, and then staring at the ceiling. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to sleep on the jet. If things go the way they usually do, he won’t be out until their first night in a hotel. 

He started making calls to the team on his way to the office, but to no one’s surprise, he was the first one there. He had time to wash down a shitty office coffee and get started on a second one by the time everyone’s there. 

Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ all have coffees—JJ comes prepared with her own thermos, but Morgan and Prentiss fall victim to the BAU’s supply—Reid is fighting back yawns as he tries to fix a hastily made tie, Garcia is slightly less energetic than normal as she passes out files, and somehow Rossi looks the same as always. 

Hotch just hopes he’s put together enough to make the team feel better about being here at an ungodly hour. 

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Garcia greets, setting down the last folder in front of Reid before taking her spot next to Hotch at the front. “As lovely as it is to see all of you this morning, I’m afraid that we’ve got a grisly one on our hands, hence the hour.” 

“Great,” Prentiss mutters. “How bad is it?” 

“Three married couples have been murdered in St. Louis, Missouri in the past two months, with the most recent one happening yesterday,” Hotch says, and Garcia grimaces as she clicks onto the pictures. “Mom and dad are killed, but the children are spared.”

“Awful lot of similarities between the parents,” Morgan says dryly as he flips through the folder. “Looks like our killer has some family issues.” 

Reid nods. “The unsub likely stalks these families once they see the similarities. I’m guessing he was abused as a child, seeing as they kill the parents but keep the children alive.”

“Probably has a grudge against his father,” Prentiss remarks. “They make it out the worst every time.”

“There’s no method to the torture,” Morgan says. “It looks like he’s just trying to make it hurt as much as possible.” 

“Our guy probably isn’t trained in anything, then,” Rossi says. 

Reid flips to another page in the file. “Serial killers like to see their victims suffer. If he’s not torturing the mom physically, then he’s likely making her watch.”

“He doesn’t kill children, though,” JJ notes. 

“Maybe he thinks he’s doing them a favor,” Reid says. 

“The unsub sees himself in the kids?” Morgan suggests. “He’s doing what he didn’t get the chance to do.” 

“Whatever it is, we have to keep a tight hold on this,” JJ says. “The press eats this stuff up, and the last thing we need is a terrified city making it harder to do our jobs.”

“Especially with families being killed,” Morgan murmurs. 

JJ sighs. “I’ll draft something on the jet and make some calls when we land.” 

Hotch nods and he closes his file. “Wheels up in thirty. I hope you’re all ready for a long day.” 

-

The jet is silent the entire way to Missouri, full of sleeping agents trying to delay the inevitable—save for JJ scribbling down notes on a legal pad for the first thirty minutes, but even she knocks out sooner rather than later. Thankfully, Hotch manages to fit an hour in himself, though it doesn’t do very much for him. He spends the rest of the time reading through the case file. 

The team settles in quickly at the city’s precinct, and Hotch takes charge as usual. The uniforms are just as tired as they are, but he makes it work. Soon enough, JJ is off to work with the local liaison to craft a narrative, Reid has situated himself in an empty conference room to get to work analyzing maps with Garcia, and Hotch and the rest go to check out the crime scene. 

It’s brutal—much too brutal for this early, but Hotch forces the emotions out of it and gets to work questioning the present officers. Morgan follows suit, with Prentiss and Rossi going to investigate the rest of the house. 

They don’t learn much from the officers that they don’t already know. This is the most recent crime scene—George and Marsha Springfield, undeserving of such a grisly fate. Their two kids, 8 and 9, were off visiting their grandparents in Nebraska when it happened, and though they avoided the same fate, they’re going to deal with a lifetime of guilt. 

It’s all Hotch can think about as he examines the first body. The six children left to deal with the carnage, about their past and future marred against their control. 

All he can think about is Jack, and the dreary fate that awaits him if his father falls in the field.  

Hotch swallows his doubt and his guilt all in one and forces every thought out of his mind. He has to be unshakable for the team, for what’s left of these families, for a city on the brink of hysterics. 

They’ll find whoever did this. That’s what gets him through it. 

They spent early morning at the crime scene, collecting evidence and gathering information from the officers and trying to make sense of the killer’s motive. Progress is slow, partially because of the hour, but they make enough that Hotch feels comfortable moving onto the next job.

Their four a.m. start time was too early to go knock on doors and get interviews, but now it’s a more normal 10 in the morning. After a quick stop back at the station to share information with Reid, Garcia, and JJ and down a few cups of coffee, they get right back on the road.  

Hotch and Prentiss take one van and Morgan and Rossi take the other, splitting up to get what they can from interviews. It’s difficult working with kids, especially with such recent trauma, so they hold off on it for now, allowing the local uniforms that have been with them for a bit longer to set things up before the BAU tries anything. 

First they go to a neighbor’s house, then an alleged eye witness. They don’t get much other than personality reads, but it at least gives them the beginnings of a profile. The third place they hit is their earliest idea of a suspect. 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss reads off the file one of the local officers had put together. “Thirty-nine, born and raised in St. Charles, Missouri. High school degree, but never got to college because he was in and out of jail.” 

“What has he been charged for?” 

“Booked a few times for public intoxication and convicted three times for assault. Once was for third-degree assault, Missouri’s version of aggravated assault,” she says. “He got out of jail a little less than a year ago, and it looks like he’s been living in St. Louis for some of that.”

“Assault and drinking is a far cry from serial killing, even aggravated,” Hotch says. “What makes him a suspect?”

“Both parents are dead,” she says. “And from the looks of it, it was not a happy home while they were around. He’s got a sister, so it fits the initial theory of trying to replicate his family.”

Hotch lets out a loose breath and nods. “We’ll start there. Try and get a story from this guy, build a profile, see if it matches the one Morgan and Rossi have made for their guy.”

“And hope we pin something down before more bodies show up,” Prentiss murmurs. 

They’re at their destination soon enough, and Hotch parks in an open spot on the other side of the road. His eyes dart around as they walk up to the front door, filing things away in the back of his mind. 

The house number and last name—1432, Hartford—on the mailbox plagued with rotting wood. What there is of a yard is poorly cut, and a small garden of wilted flowers has their own corner, victims of the winter weather. One car is parked slightly crooked in a small driveway—there’s no garage, so at least he’s probably home. Two potted plants sit on either side of the door, thankfully alive. 

“Remember,” Prentiss says as they come to a stop together, “be nice.” 

“I’m plenty nice,” he murmurs, and she huffs the slightest laugh. 

Hotch knocks on the door as Prentiss fishes around for her ID, and thankfully, they don’t wait long. The door cracks open after a few seconds to reveal a woman—certainly not their unsub, but something a whole lot more surprising. 

You.

Your brows furrow at the sight of him, and Hotch has to hold back his shock. 

You don’t live in St. Louis. And your last name certainly isn’t Hartford. 

“Aaron?” you ask in disbelief, and he doesn’t even have to look at Prentiss to know the questions he’s going to get later.

He says your name, able to control his surprise with only the slightest crease of his brows giving it away, then corrects himself just as quickly. “Miss Hartford. My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner, and this is SSA Emily Prentiss. We’re here with the FBI.” 

Your frown deepens as they show their IDs, and you actually take it from Hotch, skeptical eyes scanning over it for much too long. You glance back at him as you hand it back over. “What is the FBI doing here?” 

Emily clears her throat as she puts her credentials away. “We’re here investigating the latest murders in St. Louis. Can we come in?”

“The murders?” you ask with exasperation. “What— what murders? And what do I have to do with them?” 

Aaron notices the way your grip tightens on the door just the slightest bit, and a shred of sympathy strikes him before he speaks up.

“We’ll be able to explain everything if you let us in,” he says. 

You swallow thickly in your throat, your gaze darting back to Aaron before you finally nod. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

You move and Hotch and Prentiss walk inside, gesturing with a hand towards your living room as you shut and lock the door behind them. “Take a seat. Uh— do you guys need anything? Water, or coffee, or…” 

You trail off, and Prentiss shakes her head. “Thank you, but that’s not needed.” She takes a seat on the sofa, but Hotch can’t stop himself from looking around the house. 

It’s a small place, one story—likely rented, seeing how paintings sit on countertops and mantels rather than hanging on the wall. It has a certain charm to it, but something is off about it all. 

Two styles clash—decorative pillows at odds with a filled and painted-over hole in the wall, an attempt at neutral tones ruined by dark articles of clothing scattered around, one person’s mess barely being held back by another’s cleaning efforts. You lived with someone else. Likely Lucas Hartford, possibly their unsub. 

“Are you gonna sit down, Aaron?” you ask, snapping him out of his profiling haze. “Or do you want to look around some more?” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat as he walks over and sits down in an open chair near Prentiss. “Just curious.” 

“That makes two of us,” you say, and you cross your arms as you look at him. He notices that you don’t sit down yourself, and there’s still a coldness in your eyes. “You’re FBI now?” 

He nods. “I had a change of heart.” 

You huff a laugh. “Thought at least one of us would be a lawyer by now. I guess not.” 

Hotch frowns, but Prentiss takes over before he can continue on that particular thread. “Miss Hartford—”

You interrupt by saying your first name, and it spurns something strange in his chest. It’s been over a decade since he’s heard your voice. “You can skip the formalities.” 

Prentiss nods and repeats your name. “As you know, we’re investigating the murders that have been occuring in the St. Louis area.” 

“And you think I have something to do with it?” you ask, the accusatory edge to your voice not lost on him. 

“Not you,” Hotch says. “Do you know a Lucas Hartford?”

“He’s my brother,” you say, and your frown deepens. “You’re not saying—”

“No,” Prentiss interrupts, “we’re not saying anything. We’re just asking.”

And just like that, your entire stance, your visage, it all changes. Hotch can sense the walls slamming up around you, and he immediately realizes two things: 

Getting information out of you is going to be much harder than planned, and you’re not anywhere near the same person you used to be. 

Hotch doesn’t know what he expects, really. He graduated with the intent to prosecute for at least a decade—now, he’s with the BAU. It’s not fair to assume you’re that same girl he met in law school. 

“My brother is not a murderer,” you state clearly.

“And we aren’t accusing him or you of anything—” she starts. 

“Me?” you interrupt, and you let out a harsh laugh. “I’m a suspect too?”

“If you would allow Agent Prentiss to finish her sentences, you would be less upset,” Hotch says. 

You glower at him, but you stay silent. 

“We aren’t accusing either of you of anything,” Prentiss finishes. “We’re just trying to gather information with what little we know.” 

“I know my rights,” you say, unflinching gaze still meeting Hotch’s. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Prentiss looks at him as well, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “That’s unfortunate to hear, Miss Hartford.”

“You know my name, Aaron. Use it.”

He does, and the letters feel strange on his tongue after so long. “This is a serious matter. This isn’t an accusation—we’re in the early days of this case and we need all the information we can get.” 

“Ask away,” you say. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss starts. “He’s your brother?” 

You nod. “He lives with me.” 

He lives with me, not we live together. Makes him think that you pay for the place, he came knocking, and you didn’t have the heart to turn him away. 

“Why is that?” Hotch asks. 

You look at him, those scrutinizing eyes attempting to peer into his soul the same way they did all those years ago. But Hotch has changed since law school, and he’s much better at guarding his emotions. It seems you are, too. 

“He’s a student,” you finally say. “He goes to community college. I’m giving him a place to live while he gets his associate’s.”  

“Community college and living with his younger sister at 39?” Prentiss is trying to get information out of you, even if it isn’t in the kindest way. Your jaw clenches, and he knows her words have some effect. You’ve probably heard it more than once, the way things are going. 

“He’s getting his life back on track,” you say defensively. “I’m the only one left that can help him, so I am.” 

“What about your parents?” she asks. “Surely they’re a better option than this.” 

“Both dead,” you answer. “And no one else cares enough to help him. Are you here to do anything other than dig up my past?” 

Hotch feels Prentiss’s eyes on him, likely because it’s a step in the right direction for a really shitty reason, but he can’t look away from you. 

“Really?” 

He knows your parents are dead—it was in your brother’s profile, and by extension it applies to you—but it still hits him. 

He met your mother, had countless lunches and dinners with her. Helped her move out of her old house. Spent two Thanksgivings and a Christmas with her. 

And he didn’t even know when she died. 

You shrug and wrap your arms around yourself, and for the first time you look something other than defensive or standoffish. You look— well… sad. 

“Mom went a few years after you graduated,” you say, looking at Hotch. “Dad went last year.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Prentiss says. 

You nod your thanks, the notion a bit numb. 

“You never told me,” Hotch says with a slight frown.

“We haven’t talked in ten years,” you say. “Sorry that I didn’t know you still wanted updates.” 

Hotch tries to think of something to say in response, but Prentiss starts getting a call and she stands up. “Excuse me.” 

His jaw clenches for a moment as Prentiss ducks into a nearby bedroom, but he’s recovered by the time you look at him again. Your arms are crossed, but your expression is even. 

“I take it this was as much of a surprise for you as it is for me.” 

Hotch nods. “We came here looking for your brother.” 

“Does your team know about our history?” you ask simply.

“No.” 

“Do you want them to?” 

“…No.” 

You huff a laugh, your eyes narrowing a bit. “‘Course not. Probably counts as conflict of interest.” 

You wait another beat, then ask another question. “How’s Haley?”

“Good, last I heard,” he says, and then he hesitates. “We’re… divorced.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

He nods. “This job isn’t easy for anyone.”

You look like you want to say more, but once again, Hotch is saved by Prentiss as she walks back in. Her phone is closed in her hand and she looks at him. “Morgan and Rossi have a lead. The chief wants everyone back at the precinct to go over everything we’ve found.” 

Hotch nods again and stands up. Prentiss takes her card out of her pocket and holds it out to you. 

“Thank you for your time, Miss Hartford. If you find out any information, or want to tell us anything else, please give me a call.” 

“Pass that along to your brother, too,” Hotch says. 

You reluctantly take the card, but you don’t look at it. “You can see yourselves out.” 

Prentiss nods. “Thank you again. Have a good day, and stay safe.” 

She leads the way, and Hotch follows after her. He fights the urge to look back before he shuts the door. 

Prentiss looks at him as they walk back to the car, and he can only imagine what is going through her mind. But eventually she just shrugs and pulls out her phone again. 

“Garcia?” Prentiss asks after she picks up. 

“You’ve reached the office of all that is holy.” Penelope’s voice comes out through the speaker, and Hotch can’t help the smallest twitch of his lips. “What’s up?” 

“Dig up everything you can find on Lucas Hartford,” Emily says, and her glance at Hotch does not go unnoticed. “And throw in his sister, too. He’s one of our only suspects, and we need to know if she’s in on it.” 

“On it,” Garcia says. “I’ll call you back when I’m done.” 

“You’re the best,” she says, and then she hangs up. They get back to the car, and it only takes Prentiss all of five seconds after they get in for her to start drilling him.

“Alright,” she says, buckling her seatbelt with a click before she sets her attention on him. “What was that back there? You two know each other?”

Hotch busies himself with his own seatbelt and starting the car, answering as casually as possible as the engine revs to life. “We were friends in law school.”

“Sure,” Prentiss nods. “The way you were around her, that’s not just ‘law school friend’ stuff.”

Hotch is once again reminded of how, sometimes, it was a downfall to constantly be around profilers. It was nearly impossible to keep anything a secret. 

“It’s nothing,” he says as he pulls back onto the road. “We knew each other, we fell apart, we’re here now.”

Emily hums. “Is it too far to ask if you were together?”

“Yes,” he says sternly, maybe a bit too hasty. “It is.”

“Fine,” she says breezily, and she looks out the window. “But that tension was thick.” 

Hotch knows what she’s thinking. Hasn’t he been with Haley since high school, what kind of history did you and him have, were you together, would he be okay to work this case— 

He doesn’t really want to answer any of them. You were a part of his past he hadn’t expected to resurface any time soon—if Hotch is being honest, he didn’t know if he would ever see you again once he graduated. Not after the way he broke things off.  

You’ve changed a lot. So has he. 

And now your brother is a murder suspect, and you could be covering up for him. 

That’s the only thing that should be on his mind. 

-

“For the last time,” you huff as you storm down the stairs, “I don’t want to deal with this.” 

“Because you know that Mia is a lying bitch!” Cleo exclaims, following after you. “I’m sick of you stealing my clothes!”

“I’m not stealing your clothes,” Mia scoffs in your wake, just behind Cleo. “They’re too ugly for me to want anyways. I bet I wouldn’t even fit into them.”

“You are! And you’re stealing my fucking jewelry, too!” she yells. “All of my shit is going missing, and I know it’s not Little Miss Law School, so it’s got to be you!” 

Mia draws out a mirthless laugh. “You are not accusing me of this.” 

“I don’t have anyone else to accuse!” Cleo shouts. 

They both look at you, and Mia says your name. “You have to settle this before I kill her.”

“Oh, I’ll kill you first!” she hisses. “At least I’ll get all my stuff back!”

You clench your jaw as your nails dig into your palms, and you’re about to bite back when the doorbell rings. You don’t even try to hide your sigh of relief. 

“That’s Aaron,” you say as you grab your coat and your bag from the table. “I’m leaving. If you kill each other, don’t get blood on the furniture.”

You don’t give them a chance to say anything before you rush to the door, open it, and shut it behind you. 

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” you breathe. 

“What’s going on in there?” Aaron asks, amused. 

“My roommates are fighting again.” You roll your eyes. “It doesn’t matter. You’re much more interesting.”

“You know this is a study date,” he says wryly, and you cut him off with a kiss. 

“Still a date,” you murmur against his lips. “And something seriously needed.”

Aaron chuckles as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side, and the two of you walk to his car. “You’ve gotta get out of this house, honey.”

“I know,” you grumble. “But I can’t afford a place on my own.”

“Doesn’t have to be on your own,” he says as he opens the door for you. “It just has to be away from the girls that are making you miserable.”

“The lease ends at the end of the semester,” you sigh. “Just have to make it until then.”

“You know,” Aaron boxes you in against the car when you lean against the side of it, smiling softly at you, “I do live alone.”

“Oh yeah?” You ruffle his hair with your fingers and grin. “What are you proposing?”

He shrugs, letting his hands linger on your waist. “Just that you hate your roommates, and you don’t hate me. You could spend your time somewhere else.” 

“Careful,” you warn. “You keep saying things like that and we might not make it to the library.” 

“You keep saying things like that, and I might not mind,” Aaron muses. 

You grin as he leans in and kisses you again, once, twice, three times as your back hits the side of his car and you card your hands through his hair. Mia and Cleo are probably killing each other inside, but you don’t really care at this point. They’ve made your life hell for a semester and a half—they can bother each other for once. 

“Aaron,” you whisper against his lips, and he gets one more in between words, “I’ve got a test on Tuesday.”

“And today’s Sunday.” He nips at your neck and you laugh, your eyes falling shut as you lean your head back. “You’ll be fine, honey.”

“You have one on Monday,” you remind him, and he sighs. You feel his hot breath against your neck. 

“Ruining our fun in the name of schoolwork,” he says. “No wonder all your professors love you.”

“Everyone loves me,” you correct. “Including you.”

You steal one more kiss before you open your door yourself and get in, and Aaron lets out a breathy laugh.

“You’ve got that right.”

He closes your door then gets in the other side, and you’re already rifling through the glove box full of cassettes. You pull out the mixtape you made for him for your six month anniversary and pop it into the player, and Aaron smiles as the first few notes of Stairway to Heaven come on. 

“You’re a threat to my grades, y’know.”

“Maybe it’s all part of my plan,” you say. “Distract you with kisses to make sure I’m a shoe-in for this fellowship.”

“A dastardly plan,” he says with mock austerity. 

“I’ve been told I have to be more of a shark,” you muse. “Consider this me taking down my competition.”

Aaron laughs, and you find yourself smiling just at the sound of it. You love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, how they soften just so, how he acts like himself around you, and not some perfected or stoic image that he thinks he needs. 

Falling in love with Aaron Hotchner has been the easiest thing in the world. 

“Don’t let anyone know,” he says, and he reaches over to intertwine your fingers together. “But I’ll happily fall to you every time.”

“As long as you don’t tell everyone how whipped I am for you,” you tease.

“Looks like we’ve both got reputations to keep up.”

“Looks like it.”

You share a smile, yours just on the edge of a grin as you try to bite it back. You hold hands the rest of the way, just soaking in each other’s presence with songs from bands you introduced to each other floating through the air. 

(It is a goddamn struggle to get any work done at the library with that face across from you the whole time.)

- 

You had sky-high aspirations when you were younger. 

Ones that would make your teachers offer a smile and tell you to shoot a little lower, that would make your friends’ eyes widen, that your father would scoff at and your mother would humor you on just to get you to move past it. 

You didn’t listen. You’ve wanted to be a lawyer since you went on a class field trip to a courthouse in elementary school and saw all the attorneys hustling about, dressed to the nines, making last-minute deals outside the courtroom.  

They were just… so confident. So smart, so stoic, always knowing the answer to everything. The good ones had money, sure, but more importantly they had the power to change lives for the better. And as a kid that had to cover up bruises before the school day, nothing sounded more appealing. 

All you’ve ever wanted to do is help people. 

And as you sit in a cold, empty interrogation room, you can’t help but wonder where the hell you went wrong. 

You don’t want to be here, obviously. But you know the FBI won’t stop bugging you until you give them answers—you know Aaron Hotchner won’t stop bugging you. 

Because god— what are the odds? 

What are the fucking odds of your ex-boyfriend from a decade ago showing up at your door with a badge and an attempted case against your brother? 

It’s ridiculous, and it’s such bad luck that you think it could only happen to you. You’ve thought about Aaron Hotchner more than you’d like to admit over the years, especially when you found your old GW crewnecks, and the box of school supplies you used for a decade, and those photo albums from what should’ve been your golden years. 

It’s not like any of it matters, though. You only agreed to come in and talk because you want them off your back and you don’t want them poking around your house. You saw it in Aaron’s eyes—he was profiling you and your place the entire time. 

If the cops want to invade your privacy even further, they can get a goddamn warrant. 

Your thoughts are interrupted when the door opens, and you hold back a mirthless laugh, because of course it’s Aaron. He greets you with your name, and he has a file in his hands. You wonder if it’s on you or your brother. “Thank you for taking the time out of your day to come in and talk with us.”

“Well, you seem to think my brother is a murderer.” You cross your arms as you sit back. “I’m not really gonna let that stand.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked for a lawyer,” he says as he sits down across from you. 

“I don’t plan to be here for very long,” you respond tartly. “But don’t worry—that can always change. I know my rights.” 

“I’m the last person you need to tell that to.” Hotch sets the file down and looks right at you. Though he’s obviously older—more grizzled, more hardened; harsher, sharper lines that define his face; lips set in a taut, unflinching line—you still see that young man from law school. The passion, the care he puts into everything, the penchant for striped ties. 

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. 

“Your last name wasn’t Hartford when I met you,” he says. “Why is it now?” 

“Not one for small talk,” you remark. 

“I never have been.” 

“I remember.” You hold his gaze. “It’s my mom’s maiden name. I changed it to put some distance between me and everything else.” 

You can practically see the gears of his brain working, neural pathways branching off with every word you say to make sense of it and reason a thousand different meanings from it. Aaron’s always been like that, but it’s tenfold now. 

You suppose one has to be like that, to try and get anywhere with the types of criminals they face. 

“How long have you been living in St. Louis?”

“Seven years. I’ve had that house for three.” 

“Rent or own?”

“Rent,” you scoff. “I don’t make enough for a down payment, and I don’t want a place tying me down.”

“What inspired the move?”

“Close enough to home to be familiar, far enough to not be.” 

“And home is?” 

“St. Charles,” you say, and you purse your lips. “Shouldn’t you already know all this?” You nod at the file in front of him. “It’s either on me or my brother, and we share a lot of the same info.” 

“We prefer to get our information from the source,” he says. 

“Sources can lie.” 

Aaron doesn’t waver. “And we can charge you with obstruction if it harms our investigation.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, not entirely without heart. “Ask your questions, Aaron.” 

He opens the folder and slides the first picture over to you—your brother’s first mugshot, taken when he was only twenty-one. You still remember riding your bike to the station in the sweltering August heat to drop off his bail and pick him up. 

You had to catch the bus home together, you had to pay his fare, and his bail drained everything you’d been saving from your waitress job. But your dad refused to pay it, and you refused to be alone in that house any longer than you already had. 

You swallow the memory. It still tastes as sour as the day it happened. 

“Lucas Hartford is our main suspect,” he says. “He matches our initial profile—in and out of jail since his twenties, his parents are dead and he has an unstable home life, and he’s got a sister.”   

“None of those sound like questions,” you say. 

“Where is your brother?” he asks firmly. He’s given you a bit of leniency, but you can tell he’s getting tired of you. Some things never change, you think to yourself bitterly. 

“I don’t know,” you admit. 

“You don’t know,” he repeats. 

“I let him stay with me, and my only requirement is that he goes to his community college classes and stays out of jail,” you say. “He’s done both, so I stay out of his business.”

“And you’re telling me you haven’t questioned it?”

“I called him the other day after you left,” you say. “He didn’t pick up, and I didn’t get a call back until the next night.” 

Aaron’s eyes sharpen. “What did you say to him?” 

“I called to see where he was,” you say evenly. “I think you all are wrong, but I wanted to make sure he was okay.” 

“You didn’t tell him—” 

“No,” you interrupt, “I didn’t tell him about your investigation. If I think you’re wrong, why would I need to let him know?” 

He still has that look in his eyes, and you know you’re getting on his nerves with the constant interrupting, the constant backtalk. But he probably deals with much, much worse. 

“Good,” he nods. “You could be putting lives in danger if you do—including yours.” 

“Please,” you scoff. “He won’t hurt me. He never has.” 

“Why do you let him stay with you?” Aaron asks. “You’re straight-edge, he’s a borderline alcoholic that’s been in and out of jail for years. You’ve got a law degree, he never made it past high school. You’ve got your life together, his is falling apart.” 

“That’s why I do it,” you say. “Our parents are dead. I’m all he has left, and he’s all I have left. I want him to get better, so I’m trying my best to help him get there. How can Luke put his life back together if he’s got no support?” 

“That’s an awful lot of faith to put in someone who hasn’t earned it.” 

“I’ve gotten good at that over the years,” you reply. 

Aaron stares at you, and you stare back. You let the moment linger. You hope it stings, even fleetingly. 

“And you’re wrong, by the way.” 

“About what?” he asks. Again, unshaken. 

“I don’t have a law degree,” you say. “I dropped out.” 

And for some reason, that is what gets him. He frowns, and you wonder what it means that this is the most unexpected thing he’s gotten out of you. 

“Why? You were only a year out. You had stellar grades.” 

“My mom got cancer,” you say. “Luke was serving his second stint, Dad fucked off to some corner of the country to drink himself to death a couple months before. I was the only one left to take care of her, and I couldn’t do that from DC.” 

“I had no idea.” This is the first time he looks taken aback since you’ve met him again. “And she’s—”

“Dead,” you supply without waiting for an answer. You know he already knows it, but it still seems to have some effect on him. “Went a couple months after I was meant to graduate.” 

“…I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. He’s just repeating what his agent said at your house, but it feels genuine, at least. 

“It’s been a decade,” you say. “I’m just sorry it was her instead of my dad.” 

Aaron’s brows knit together again, and less work goes into covering it up this time. “You seem to have something against your father.” 

You huff a mirthless laugh. “Excellent profiling.” 

“Child abuse is common for serial killers,” Aaron says. “We find it’s typically the root of their problems later in life, or plays a part in their MO.” 

You stare at him again. This isn’t just an interrogation with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner—it’s revealing parts of your past that you never told your ex-boyfriend Aaron. 

“Yeah,” you finally say. “Our dad beat us. Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

“You know th—” 

Aaron cuts himself off before he can finish whatever he wants to say, and he lets out a short sigh with a nod. “It’s valuable information for the profile.” 

The room feels a lot colder all of a sudden. “Sure.” 

He still looks like he wants to say more, but he bites his tongue as he takes the picture back and closes the file. 

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Would you like anything? Water?”

You shake your head and remain silent. He takes the folder and stands up, and you watch him the entire way to the door. Just before he can open it, you find words escaping without you thinking. 

“Look, Aaron,” you blurt out. He pauses, and he turns to look at you. “I know this is your thing, and this is your investigation, but I’m telling you—my brother and I don’t play any part in it.” 

“The profile—” 

“I don’t care what your profile says,” you interrupt. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it.” 

“He’s rough around the edges, I know. In and out of jail isn’t good for anyone.” You hold onto the edge of the table as you continue rambling, needing something to do with your hands. “But he’s working to get better, and he is not the kind of person to do something like this. If you believe anything I say, believe that.” 

“I suppose we’ll find out,” he says evenly. 

He leaves the room, and your hands fall into your lap as your nails dig into your palms. You don’t mean to be desperate, but you feel it. You’ve been defending Lucas at every chance, but you’re terrified of being wrong. You’re terrified that Aaron might be right—that he might be behind all of this. 

For his sake—and your sake, honestly, because you think you deserve to be selfish when he’s all you have left—you hope you’re right. 

You have to be right. 

The room feels even colder. 

Your stare drifts to the one-way mirror, where you know his team is watching. You saw the way Agent Prentiss watched Aaron when they came to your house—he said he doesn’t want them to know, but you think they already do. 

You wonder the kind of things they’ve come up with about you and him. 

-

Morgan whistles when Hotch walks out of the interrogation room. 

“She does not like you.” 

“Did you gather anything else?” he asks placidly. He sets your brother’s file down so he can fix his tie. 

“Abusive dad, dead parents, criminal background,” he says. “Lucas is looking like a stronger suspect. Oh— and she really doesn’t like you.” 

“If you don’t want to go back to building a file on your suspect, move on,” Hotch demands. 

Morgan shrugs, clearly unfazed, but he keeps his mouth shut. Reid, meanwhile, is still staring through the glass at you. You haven’t exactly relaxed, but you’re not as tense as you were while talking to Hotch. You pick at a loose strand of thread on your sweater, and when you pull it out, you let it fall to the floor. 

“Her brother feels like a prime suspect,” Reid murmurs. “I feel like I could just figure it all out if I could talk to him.” 

“I told Penelope to keep an eye on him,” Prentiss contributes. “She’s tracking his cards, the car registered in his name, even called the person in charge of the AA meetings he goes to to keep an eye out—everything. We’ll know if she gets anything.”

“Serial killers want to see the damage they’ve done,” Reid says. “Things are falling apart here—the whole city is terrified. He’s gotta be in St. Louis still.” 

“You’re sure that he’s still in the running.” Hotch glances back at you, and he knows he has to at least ask, for your sake. He doesn’t want to put you through anything more than he has to—not after what you’ve told him. 

And Hotch knows your past is your business—he just can’t believe you never told him. 

He’s turned over your relationship in his head just as many times in these past few days as he did the months after he ended things. 

“I’m sure, sir,” Reid says. “I’ve read over both their files, and Lucas matches with our preliminary profile. His stressor could have been his father dying.”

Morgan frowns. “Explain.”

“Family annihilators typically go after their own family for a myriad of reasons,” he says. “Paranoia, to cover up their lies, to free themselves from what they see as oppression, sometimes just pure jealousy.”

“He’s killing the parents but leaving the children alive,” Hotch says. “Sounds like a liberator to me.”

“That’s what I think,” Reid nods. “If Lucas has been banking on killing his father for that attempt at freedom, and then lost the chance?” He shrugs. “That could be why he started going for other families.” 

“Other fathers to take his place,” Morgan realizes, and he nods again. 

“You should talk to her, Spence,” Prentiss says. “You’ve got a handle on the profile, and you’re pretty good at conveying info. She seems like a reasonable person—just can’t accept her brother doing something like this.” 

“It’s typical for someone to deny their family member’s involvement,” Reid says. “No one wants to think their sibling is a murderer.” 

“If you lay it all out for her like that, with facts and the profile, I think she’ll listen.” Prentiss looks at Hotch. “She’s too closed off with you.”

“That’s how she is,” Hotch claims.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, “but it’s much easier to hate you than it is to hate Reid.” 

Hotch glares at her, and Reid clears his throat to insert himself back into the conversation. 

“I’d be happy to talk to her,” he says. “I know what it’s like to be in this kind of position—I can put her at ease, sympathize with her.” 

They all look at Hotch, and he wants to say no. He wants to be the one to get this out of you—some part of him wants as much time with you as possible. But he decides to swallow his ego. 

“Fine.” He nods, and he hands the folder to Reid. “I trust you to handle it.” 

Reid nods too, far too many times, and he takes the file. “Thank you. Uh— sir. I appreciate your trust.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but it has no bite to it, and Reid walks inside. 

He says your name and sits down across from you. “I’m Spencer Reid. I know we’ve already said it, but thank you for talking to us. It may not seem like it, but it goes a long way towards figuring out this case.”

You nod. You already seem more at ease than you were with him, and it makes Hotch… 

Not jealous, because that would be insane. But it makes him upset that he doesn’t understand you the way he used to—that he doesn’t hold that key to you anymore. God, it feels like he doesn’t know you anymore. 

Hotch doesn’t get why a side of his brain still thinks this way about you. 

“They sent a new one in,” you say. 

“You looked like you needed a break from Hotch,” Reid says. “Don’t worry. We all do sometimes.”

You huff a slight laugh and your posture eases, your expression softens just so. Reid was right, as usual. 

“I can imagine.”

He starts talking to you about the case, laying out all the facts, and though you don’t look happy, you don’t cut him off like you cut Hotch off. 

“She’s pretty,” Morgan offers, glancing at Hotch. “And stubborn. I see why you like her.” 

“Shut up, Morgan,” Hotch mutters.

He chuckles and holds his hands up, and focuses back on the interrogation. 

The rest of it passes in silence, save for the occasional input from Prentiss or Morgan to elaborate on a point. You talk much more with Reid than you did with Hotch, and you don’t stare daggers at him the entire time. 

Time doesn’t always heal all wounds, he thinks. 

When Reid is finishing up inside with you, Morgan glances back at Hotch. “You think she’s part of this?”

He shakes his head. “No. She has no reason to kill, nothing to gain. She talks about her past too plainly—it hurt her, obviously, but it hasn’t taken over her life.”

“What about her brother?” Prentiss asks. 

“The more we learn, the more I suspect him,” Morgan says. 

She nods in agreement. “We just have to find him.”

Hotch isn’t sure yet. 

But for your sake, he hopes his gut feeling is wrong. 

-

Spring has finally sprung in DC, and you couldn’t be happier. 

It’s hard to feel down on your walks to class when the birds are singing and the sun is beaming down on you, when you see students sitting on blankets reading and talking and actually enjoying life for once. 

You’re two years into law school, and it feels like you’ve spent 90% of your time studying in either the library or your room. A bit of a sad existence, but it’s made better with Aaron. 

You’re laying down on a blanket—one you crocheted yourself in undergrad—resting your head on Aaron’s chest as he reads a book, the spring sun shining down on you. It feels like the first moment of relaxation either of you have had since classes started, and you chose to spend it together in the University Yard. 

You should probably be studying or doing some kind of homework, but you don’t care. It has been too damn long since you’ve gotten to just sit around and exist with Aaron, and you’ve got at least a couple days until your next quiz. That’s far enough away for you. 

It’s been a rough semester for both of you, between classes and endless homework, between your internship and your endless family issues—Luke is two years in, and his parole was denied, and your dad still insists on being the reason you stay on campus year-round. 

You don’t think you’re pushing it when you say Aaron’s support has been the only reason you’ve gotten through it, your grades—and your mental state—relatively unscathed. 

Aaron says your name, and you hum. 

“Are you listening?” he asks. 

“Of course,” you say. 

“Your eyes are closed.” 

“I don’t need my eyes to listen,” you say wryly. “What’s up?” 

You feel him tense for a moment, feel him adjust his position slightly. 

“I got a call from Haley,” he says carefully. 

Your eyes open and you frown. 

You know the name, but only in the way that you talked a bit about your past relationships while you were still getting to know each other. She was his high school girlfriend, and it was a big deal then, but they broke up before college because they both wanted different things.

It shouldn’t be a big deal now. But he’s treating it like one, and that makes you hesitate. 

“Yeah? What’d she want?”

“…She’s in DC for the weekend,” he says. “Some conference for school. She asked if we could grab a coffee or something and catch up.”

You finally sit up, his hands falling from where he’d been playing with your hair, and you look at him.

“Your high school girlfriend wants to catch up.”

“An old friend wants to catch up,” he corrects. “I haven’t really talked to her since we graduated high school.” 

“…Okay,” you say slowly. “Do you want to see her?” 

He shrugs. “I thought it would be nice.”

“Do you think she thinks it’ll be more than nice?” you ask. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t even know how she got my landline. I think my mom might have given it to her.” 

Your eyebrows rise. “Your mom gave your ex-girlfriend your number?” 

“It’s the only way I can think of her getting it,” Aaron shrugs. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to her since graduation.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to think as you look at Aaron. 

You’ve met his mom a dozen times. You’re insistent that she doesn’t like you, despite Aaron’s assertions towards the opposite—it wouldn’t surprise you if she gave this girl his new number in an effort to push him in a new direction. 

But that train of thought feels a little crazy. You’re confident in your relationship with Aaron—you love him, and he loves you. God, he made an off-handed comment about marriage the other day. You’re not threatened by a girl from his past wanting to catch up. 

“Go for it,” you finally say. 

He frowns, like he was expecting the worst. “Really?” 

“I trust you, Aaron,” you say. “You say she’s just a friend, I believe it.” 

You lean forward to kiss him, your eyes fluttering shut, and it lasts much longer than it should. When you pull away, Aaron’s smiling softly at you. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“‘Course,” you say, tipping a shoulder. “I’m known to be rational from time to time.” 

He chuckles, and you smile as you lay back down on his chest. Soon after, you feel the weight of his hand on your shoulder. 

“I love you,” he says. It feels more like a reminder than anything. 

You entangle your fingers together and press a kiss to the back of his hand. 

Sometimes you need reminders. 

“I love you too.” 

-

“Four more bodies,” Prentiss mutters. “God.” 

“You can say that again,” Morgan murmurs. 

Hotch is silent as he examines the father’s body. They’ve been so busy the past few days trying to nail down the profile, both on their unsub and geographically, that this happening again hadn’t been at the top of their list. There was a month between the first two, and two weeks between the second and third. 

No one expected this to happen so soon. 

The entire family was killed this time, and once again, the parents look similar to the other victims. It’s the work of their unsub, no doubt. 

Hotch and the team had already been at the precinct for an hour going over all the information they’d found when they got the call at 8 in the morning, the bodies discovered by the family’s maid when she arrived for work. 

An entire family, parents and children, senselessly slaughtered for one man’s deranged quest for liberation. 

Hotch has been in this business for a long time, seen things that most people only imagine in nightmares, and he still has to take a step back when children are involved. 

He sees Jack in every single one. He can’t help it. 

Hotch took Prentiss and Morgan with him to the crime scene—JJ has a kid, Rossi had a kid, and he just didn’t want Reid to see it. They’ll all be more valuable working together back there anyways, and it’s imperative that JJ controls the narrative before this can break to the press. 

Again, Prentiss talks to the officers at the scene and Morgan helps him examine the bodies. After all, there are double the amount. 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Morgan says as he stands back up. “Our guy is killing surrogate parents to get back at his own, fine. Dad was tortured again, mom was killed with a bullet. But bringing the kids into it isn’t his thing.” 

He uses a gloved hand to gingerly lift the father’s arm away from his body so he can examine the underarm. “Look at this. He’s been stabbed at least ten times, and his arm’s nearly severed from his body.”

“And his neck,” Morgan mutters. “He’s half decapitated.” 

Hotch sets the arm back down. “The unsub always wants the father to suffer, but this is a new level.” He looks up at Morgan. “I don’t think he has a reason for killing the children. I think he’s getting sloppy—he’s getting overwhelmed by his anger.” 

“You think he’s devolving,” he says, catching on. 

“Something tells me we’re coming to the end of the line,” Hotch says. “Whatever he does next, he’s going out with a bang.” 

-

The mood in the precinct has fallen dramatically since the last hit. The uniforms aren’t happy that they’re working around the clock, the chief isn’t happy that the BAU hasn’t figured everything out yet, and the city isn’t happy that ten murders have been committed with what they think is no end in sight. 

JJ and Rossi have gone out to bring in the suspect that he and Morgan found together for the sake of covering their bases—they still haven’t been able to find Lucas, despite Reid calling you every day to check in and upping police presence around the city. 

The rest of the team sits around a conference table, over a dozen coffees between them, going over everything and racking their brains for information. 

“This just isn’t matching up,” Reid complains. “Lucas has just been at home for the first two, but for the third and the fourth he’s got alibis.” 

“What are they?” Hotch asks. 

“He was on the road all night when the third happened,” Reid says. 

“And how do we know?” Prentiss asks. 

“Garcia picked up his debit card being used a couple times from Des Moines back to St. Louis when the third set of murders happened,” Morgan contributes. “Must’ve been a road trip, because there are stops at a gas station, a restaurant, and a rest stop.” 

“The last one happened during an AA meeting he was supposed to attend,” Prentiss says. “I called the leader and she said he was there.”

“Do we have footage from any of those places?” Hotch asks. “We need to make sure.” 

Reid nods. “I asked her to check it all this morning, including the AA meeting. She must still be going through it—I can’t imagine it’s easy to get all that access.” 

“What about a second unsub?” Morgan suggests. 

Hotch shakes his head. “These are all meant to be personal for liberation—catharsis. Involving someone else would take away from the feeling.” 

“What about your suspect?” Prentiss asks, looking at Morgan. “Could he be the unsub?” 

“Patrick Fenton,” Morgan says, and he shrugs. “He fits it—dead parents, jail time, child of abuse. But he’s got two sisters, and his parents died when he was in his twenties from a car accident. I don’t see why he would start killing almost twenty years later.” 

“Maybe we’ll figure something out in questioning,” Reid says hopefully. 

Morgan’s phone suddenly goes off, and he hits the button to answer. “You’re on speaker, babygirl.” 

“I found the security footage from those three places, the ones that Lucas was at on his supposed road trip when the third family was hit,” Garcia says, voice slightly tinny through the phone.  

“And?” Hotch asks. 

“I was getting there,” she says. “Lucas wasn’t there. He wasn’t on any of the footage—his sister was.” 

Hotch frowns. You? 

“You’re sure?” he asks. 

“I’m always sure,” Garcia responds. “And I don’t know if Spencer is there, but he also wasn’t there at the AA meeting—I combed through the whole meeting, and he didn’t show up at any point. Just another guy that looked like him.” 

“And you’re sure about that, too?” Hotch asks again. 

“What is with this questioning of my abilities?” she asks, offended. “Yes. I’ve stared at so many pictures of Lucas Hartford over these past few days that I’ve got him burned into my brain.” 

“Thanks, babygirl,” Morgan says. “We’ll call back if we need anything.” 

“And you’re always welcome in this house of miracles,” she muses. Morgan chuckles before he hangs up. 

“Lucas gave her his card,” Reid realizes. “It’s an easy alibi, but it falls apart when you look into it even a little bit.” 

“Probably seemed solid to him at the time,” Morgan says. “He doesn’t seem like a detail oriented guy.” 

Prentiss frowns. “That means he’s back on the chopping block. We can put him at the scene of every murder.” 

Hotch leans over the table and grabs Lucas’s file, and he pulls out the page compiling his family. “His father died a year ago from liver failure. Hartford got out of jail nine months ago after a six year stint.” 

“If he’s been plotting some elaborate murder of his father for years, just to get out of jail and find out he drank himself to death?” Morgan shakes his head. “He’d snap. It doesn’t feel like justice.” 

“He thinks he’s saving the kids of these parents that he kills,” Reid says. “He sees himself in them—he can’t look past his own childhood, and he assumes those kids must want their parents dead too.” 

“He’s trying to get back at his dad,” Prentiss says. “We know that.” 

“But that’s not his main goal,” Reid insists. “If his dad died when he was a kid, the abuse would have stopped. His mom wouldn’t be the battered wife anymore, and he wouldn’t be the battered kid.” 

“His goal has always been protection,” Hotch realizes. “Yes, he’s getting his revenge by killing his father over and over, but ultimately, he’s trying to save himself.” 

“But he didn’t anticipate the kids being home this time,” Prentiss says. “He had to kill them too.” 

“If he‘s seeing himself in these children, recreating what he never got to do, then that means that he effectively died in this scenario,” Reid says. 

“He didn’t get what he wanted,” Morgan says. “That’s gonna take a toll on him.”

“He’s coming to the end of the line,” Prentiss nods. 

Hotch’s brain is working overtime as they work information off of each other. They’re so damn close—they just need the last piece of the puzzle. If they find Lucas’s next victim, they find him. 

“His next crime will probably be his last before he goes out himself,” Reid says. 

“You think it’ll be a murder-suicide?” Morgan asks. 

“It’s common with family annihilators,” Reid says. “Hell, it’s common with anyone who sees no future beyond their murders. It’s their way out.” 

And then the answer hits Hotch like a ton of bricks. Reid is still rambling next to him. 

“If his dad was still alive, I’d say he would be the target. But the only one left—”

“—is his sister,” Hotch grits out, and he’s dashing out of the conference room before anyone can stop him. 

“Hotch!” Morgan yells, and he turns to Prentiss with wild eyes. “Where the hell is he going?” 

“The last victim,” she says as she starts following him. “The one person he never managed to save.” 

“Goddammit,” Morgan curses, and he grabs his phone from the table, dialing Garcia as fast as she can while he runs. Reid is close behind him.  

“What’s up, sugar?” she asks. “Got anymore leads?” 

He laughs dryly. “We’ve got a big one, babygirl. Lucas has finally reached the end of the road — he’s going for his sister. I need you to call JJ and Rossi and—” 

“Send them the Hartford address and fill them in on everything?” she interrupted, and he could hear her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Already on it.” 

“What would I do without you?” he asks. 

“Be half the man and twice as sad,” she says. “I’ve got to call JJ. Be safe, my love.” 

“Always,” he responds, and he hangs up. 

Hotch distantly registers Prentiss stopping by the chief to alert him of what’s going on, because he’s in the fog of a rampage. He’s in the driver’s seat before he knows it, starting the car, and he sees Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid running out after him. 

Prentiss takes shotgun and Morgan and Reid file into the back, and they’ve all got Kevlar vests in their hands. He didn’t really think of that through his haze. 

“We’ve got an extra one for you,” Reid says, reading his mind. 

“Thank you. I— I know what you’re all thinking—” Hotch starts, but Prentiss shakes her head.

“Just drive.” Her lips set themselves in a taut line. “We’ve got a murder to stop.”  

And he does. 

-

You sit on the curb, surrounded on either side by a box of your things. Packing up everything made you realize how little you had at his place. You thought you’d integrated yourself into his life fully, but it really just took an afternoon while he was in a lecture to disappear. 

Summer has fully turned to winter, and you’re as morose as the weather. This side of town looks so depressing without the warmer months to pick it up—the sidewalks are lined with dead trees, the grass is shriveled up and yellowing, and you feel like you’re living in grayscale. 

A shiver runs through you, the weather only partly to blame. 

Amy is supposed to pick you up, but as usual, she’s running late. You don’t know if it’s a personal issue or DC traffic has just struck again, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way, you’re stuck here, and your bad luck seems intent on making it worse, because you watch a familiar car pull around the corner. 

It parks a distance away—there’s no space in front of the complex, and he always complained that they didn’t do assigned spots—and you have to hold back a scornful scoff. 

Of course you have to deal with this now. 

Aaron picks up his pace when he gets out of the car, surprise—and what you think is shame—painted on his face. He says your name when he slows down. 

“You’re already packed.” 

You shrug. “I’m nothing if not efficient.” 

“I could’ve helped you with all this,” Aaron says, frowning. 

“Why do you think it’s done already?” you ask. 

His throat bobs and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Let me save you the pain of chivalry,” you say. “I’ve got a friend coming to pick me up. I’ve already found a place. I called your property manager the other day and argued my way out of the lease, but I still paid my next month. You’re welcome.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. 

“You know what they say about a clean break,” you intone.  

“I’m sorry,” Aaron tries again. To his credit, he looks like he means it. Against his credit, it’s about the fiftieth time you’ve heard it from him in the past two weeks. 

“I shouldn’t have let you get that coffee,” you say with a grim smile, “should I?” 

His lips pull into a taut line. “I didn’t cheat on you.” 

“I know,” you say. It’s the one thing you do believe. “I just don’t think you ever fell out of love with her.” 

Mercifully, you see Amy’s car pulling up in the distance. She’s your only friend with an SUV, so at least your boxes will fit. 

“My ride’s here,” you say as you stand up, and you pick up one of your boxes. Amy throws on her hazards and she gets out to open her trunk. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she breathes. “Traffic was awful, and Jake has been so annoying—” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you say with a slight smile as you put your box in the back. “You’re already doing me a huge favor.”  

“I want us to still be friends,” Aaron calls. When you turn back, he has your other box in his hands, his expression shamelessly desperate. Amy glares daggers at him. 

“Why?” you ask innocently. “So I can go without talking to you for ten years, ask you for a coffee when I’m in town, and then get you to leave Haley?” 

“That’s not what happened,” he says, but you’re already shaking your head. 

You take the box from him and smile thinly. 

“Have a good rest of your life, Aaron. I hope it doesn’t involve me ever again.”

-

You let out a noise of frustration as you struggle to get the key into the lock, gritting your teeth as you try to fit it in. It’s always been finicky, but you just don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight. Thankfully, just when you start getting annoyed, you get it open. 

You get a few steps in before your eyebrows rise, the sight of your brother at the kitchen table a surprise. He’s got his head in his hands, and your surprise turns to concern.

“Lucas,” you say with a slight smile, shutting the door behind you, “I didn’t know you were gonna be home tonight.”

His attention shoots to you immediately as he says your name, and he looks slightly out of it. “I was wondering when you were gonna get back.”

“Stole the words right out of my mouth,” you say wryly, and you ruffle his hair with your free hand as you walk past him. He swats your hand away in brotherly protest, and you snort. “This place has been quiet without you. Well— except for the cops. They were pretty loud.” 

“They haven’t been back, have they?” 

You look back at him and notice his leg is bobbing up and down insanely fast, and he keeps scratching at the soft wood of your table with his nail. 

Your smile fades. “Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking.”

“Of course I haven’t,” he insists, but you turn on the kitchen light, then move closer to peer into his eyes against his protests. 

“At least you’re not high,” you murmur, taking one last look before you pull away. “And stop ruining the table. I need it to last for the next ten years.” 

He huffs, and you can practically hear him roll his eyes, but he stops. 

“Did you go to class today?”

“You don’t have to act like Mom,” Lucas says, crossing his arms again with another huff. 

“And you don’t have to act like a child.” You roll your eyes as you set your tote bag on the countertop and begin unpacking the groceries you bought. “I’m asking you about your day—that’s definitely not acting like Mom.”

“Yes,” he mocks. “I went to class.”

“Good.” You glance back at him. “I’m proud of you, Luke. You’ve been making progress.” 

His smile is a bit thin, but he nods. “Thanks. How was work?”

You scoff and shake your head as you put a couple things in the pantry. “Don’t even get me started. I swear, Marie’s going to get me fired someday if she keeps her bullshit up.”

“She’s still on it?” Luke asks, and you can’t help but smile a bit. 

“Don’t act like you know what I’m talking about,” you say. “Just agree with me.” 

“I agree with you,” he says. 

“That’s it,” you muse. 

Your eyes fall back on your bag, and you’re reminded of what you meant to do next time your brother showed up. 

“Oh—” You go back over to the kitchen table for your bag and pull out your wallet. You slide a debit card out and hold it out to your brother. “Thanks for letting me use it while I was up in Des Moines. I finally got my bank to get rid of the freeze on my card.” 

“…Of course,” he says, and he takes it back. “Glad I could help.” 

“I’ll pay you back, obviously,” you say as you get back to your groceries. “I just have to wait to get paid again.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “And uh— you never answered me. Did the cops come by again?” 

You huff a mirthless laugh and shake your head. “You have nothing to worry about, Luke. I think they finally realized they were barking up the wrong tree.”

“…Good,” he says. “I can tell they’ve stressing you out.”

“Like that looks any different than my normal state,” you say wryly. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You recall the shock you felt when you opened the door to Aaron, and how nervous you were on the drive to the precinct. It’s almost been a decade, and yet he still has an effect on you that he has no right to. 

“You remember that guy I dated when I was still in law school? Aaron Hotchner?”

“I think? I was in jail, so.” 

You roll your eyes. “I know I told you about him when I visited you while we were together.” 

“I remember you telling me how he broke your heart,” Luke says. 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Then what are you saying?” 

“That he’s with the FBI now. The BAU,” you enunciate, and you huff. “He’s one of the guys on this case, coincidence that it is. They came here—they even brought me in for an interview.”

He frowns. “What’d you say?”

“The truth.” You pull your cutting board and a knife out of a drawer and get to work washing your vegetables. “That I didn’t know anything, and neither of us are involved in either way.” You shake your head with a sigh. “They must believe it, because they haven’t come back.” 

“What have they said about me?” he asks. 

“I’m not supposed to say.” You roll your eyes. “I think you’re innocent, but I could get charged with obstruction, and I really don’t feel like dealing with that…” 

You trail off into a sigh as you finish washing the peppers and set them on a towel. “I hope they find whoever’s doing it, though. It is freaking me out that there’s a murderer out there.” 

You pick up your knife and start cutting them up—they’re not the freshest, but it’s all Kroger had after work—and you glance back at Luke. “You really shouldn’t be going out so often with this going on, y’know. I don’t want you getting hurt.” 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m careful.” 

“I doubt that,” you say wryly. “Still, though. I worry about you.” 

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” he asks. “I’m your older brother.” 

“I worry about everything,” you say. “It’s my thing.” 

You hear him huff a laugh and you smile a bit to yourself. You get through your first pepper before you remember what’s been nagging at you your whole ride home. 

“Oh— can you get the TV?” you ask. “Channel 8, I think. Marcy is getting interviewed for something with her nonprofit, and I told her I’d record it for her.”

Lucas doesn’t respond, though you hear the scrape of the chair as he gets up. 

“Thank you,” you say. “I think they have a fundraiser coming up or something…” you trail off and shake your head as you scrape the cut peppers onto a plate. “God. I need to start paying attention in the break room.”

Another few seconds pass, and you don’t hear the television switch on. You huff and turn your head slightly. “Luke, I’m making dinner tonight. This is the least you could do.” 

“I’m sorry.”

The words come out as a murmur, but you can tell he’s much closer than he was before. 

You don’t even get the chance to turn around before something crashes against your head and your vision goes dark. You feel yourself fall to the ground, and your head hits the floor hard. 

Then, there’s nothing. 

-

Hotch has been breaking every speeding law there is. 

The station isn’t too far from your house, but it’s still too far. All he can see is your body, crippled and lifeless just like every other victim they’ve had to look at. 

It should never have gotten to this point. Lucas has been a suspect for the first day, but they looked to other suspects, got caught up in statements from neighbors and the kids of the victims. 

If Hotch just found him and booked him on the first day, this wouldn’t be happening. Your life wouldn’t be in danger. 

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. 

“I seriously think we’re looking at a murder-suicide if this gets to play out,” Reid speaks up from the backseat. “This is his way of ending this for both of them—the ultimate protection of his sister.”

“No one can hurt her if she’s dead,” Morgan mutters. 

“Hotch,” Prentiss starts, treading carefully, “are you sure you’re okay to lead this?”

“Yes,” he says, though he wants to say what kind of question is that?

You were together a lifetime ago in law school, yes, and he might still have feelings for you that he didn’t even realize were there, yes—but he’s an agent and a professional before all of that. 

It doesn’t matter that you have history. It doesn’t matter that you likely hate him. 

It doesn’t matter that he thought he was going to marry you one day, and then was watching you drive out of his life after he got back with his high school girlfriend another day.  

Aaron Hotchner is not going to let you die. It’s as simple as that. 

Hotch’s phone rings and he picks it up and flips it open immediately. “Talk to me, Garcia.”

“JJ and Rossi are on their way,” she says. “Are you headed to their place?” 

“Yes,” he says, and he puts it on speaker. “I’ve got Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid with me still.” 

“Do you think there’s anywhere else he could be?” Morgan asks. “If he’s going to kill her, he might not want to do it in this house.” 

“Already a step ahead of you, my love,” she says, and he can hear mouse clicks through the phone. “They grew up in a house in St. Charles—it’s abandoned, from the looks of it, some place on the outskirts. Never got another buyer after the past owners moved out. I’m sending the address to Emily right now.”

Prentiss gets a buzz on her phone and she nods in confirmation after flipping it open. Hotch immediately switches lanes and makes a U-turn, his jaw clenching. 

“Tell me how to get there, Prentiss,” he says. “He’s there.”

“You need to get on I-70,” she says, and then her brow furrows. “How do you know?”

“He’s killed everyone else in their homes because he sees it as the source of it all. His sister’s rented place isn’t personal enough.” Hotch shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t he want to go back to theirs to end it all?”

“Hotch.” Penelope’s voice rings out in the car, and he doesn’t even realize he forgot to hang up. 

“What?”

“Be careful,” she says, and he rushes to turn it off speaker and press it to his ear. “I… I know how important this is to you.”

Hotch’s throat bobs and his eyes burn with the beginnings of tears. He blinks them away—he can’t be weak now. He can’t let his team see him be weak now. “Dare I ask how?”

“I found an article about GW’s mock trial team,” she says. “Kind of went down a rabbit hole from there.”

Somehow, he huffs the slightest laugh. It feels like a lifetime ago—it honestly is, at this point. Before he saw carnage and gore on a daily basis and tried to solve it, when he thought the DA’s office was the endpoint, when he came home to your smiling face every night. 

And now… 

Hotch’s spine somehow stiffens, and he knows the other three in the car are watching him. He can’t decide whether he cares or not. 

“Thank you, Garcia.”

“No problem,” she says, and he can almost hear her blink in the pause. “Uh— for what, exactly?” 

For the memory, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. He can’t, not right now, so he tries his best to snap out of it. 

“Keep a watch on the patrol cars,” he says instead. “Update JJ and Rossi on our plan, but tell them to stay on their path. I’m sure I’m right, but we need to cover our bases.” 

“Of course, sir.” He hears her fingers flying across the keys. “I’ve got yours and the squad cars’ locations up—I’ll call them now.” 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“Good luck, Hotch,” Garcia says softly. 

Hotch hangs up before he gets too emotional. Penelope has a way of bringing that side out of him. 

“We’ll get him,” Prentiss assures. She’s been watching him this whole time, he can feel it—she’s been attuned far too keenly on this entire part of the case involving you and him. “And we’ll save her.” 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, and for once, Hotch can’t find the words. 

-

It feels like your head is slowly being cranked in a vice when you eventually wake up, a dull but insistent pain. Your arm stings too, but you don’t know why. 

You blink a few times as you try to figure out where you are, a low groan slipping out as you fully come back into consciousness, and you move to rub the grogginess out of your eyes. 

Your arms don’t move. You try again, panic spiking your heart for a moment, and that’s when you realize you’re in a chair—tied to a chair, your wrists bound together behind you and your ankles bound to the chair legs. 

Now the panic fully sets in. There’s a murderer in St. Louis, but you don’t fit the victimology from what you’ve seen, but does any of that fucking matter when you’re stuck in something out of a horror movie?

Lucas was the only one there with you. So either he’s in the same situation, or he—

“You’re finally awake,” a voice murmurs. When he comes into view and sits down across from you, your heart stops. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare at your brother with wide eyes. You see the gun in his hand through your peripherals, but you don’t look away from his gaze. 

“I was worried I was too rough,” he says softly. “But you’ve always been resilient.” 

“Lucas,” you breathe. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s finally going to be over,” he says, ignoring your panic. “We’ve been hurting our whole lives because of that bastard of a father, and I can finally make it all stop.” 

Your brother is fucking crazy. He’s fucking crazy, and he’s going to kill you.

You’ve spent two weeks telling Aaron he was crazy and your brother was innocent, and now he’s going to be proven right when he finds your dead body. 

You try to tamp down on your panic. You don’t have a law degree, sure, and you never officially practiced, but you’ve been a good speaker, a persuasive one, all your life. 

And if there’s ever been a fucking time to be persuasive, it’s now. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper. “We— we can talk if you want to talk.” You tug at your ankle restraints. “This is unnecessary.” 

He shakes his head. “I know you. You’d run.” 

“Come on.” You manage as much of a smile as you can. “I’ve always been there for you, Luke. Why would this be any different?” 

“…You’ve always been too nice,” he says, and he sets the gun down on his leg. At least he doesn’t have his finger on the trigger. “Anyone rational would’ve kicked me to the curb when I asked you for help.” 

“You’re my brother,” you whisper. “I— I love you, Lucas. I’d never do that to you.” 

“Family’s supposed to be everything, right?” He shakes his head. “You were the only one of us that understood that. You were there to pick me up every time my sentence was up.” 

“I’ve always believed in you,” you say. 

He huffs a monotone laugh as he stares at the ground. “You’re definitely the only one.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.” 

“Mom didn’t care enough to stop anything,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And Dad wished I was dead every goddamn day. He didn’t have the guts to do it himself, but he definitely tried.” 

You can’t defend your parents. Your dad’s a piece of shit, and your mom didn’t stop anything he did—but you could never find it in yourself to fully hate her because he hurt her too, with more than just bruises. 

“I’ve dreamt of killing our dad every day for twenty years,” Lucas says. “And that old bastard had to fuck me over one last time and die while I was in jail.”

You remember when you got the news. You were next of kin—your mother was dead, and your brother was incarcerated—so you got the call from the hospital. You deliberated for hours before you bought a plane ticket to Montana—apparently that was where he fucked off to drink himself to death—and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt more numb than when you were sitting in some lawyer’s office, listening to him drone on about his will and how his estate would be divided. 

“So you killed all of those people?” you asked. “Because you didn’t get to kill our dad first?” 

“I was saving those kids!” Luke yells, and you shrink in on yourself. “Saving them before their parents could fuck them up like ours did to us!” 

“You don’t have to do this,” you repeat. “You’re just letting Dad win. Proving every shitty thing he said about you.” 

“And that’s the zinger, isn’t it? Luke laughs and shakes his head. “He was right. We’re a whole family of fuck-ups. An alcoholic abuser, a battered wife, a nonstop jailbird, and you…” He shakes his head with a sigh. “You should be out there prosecuting people like me.”

“He ruined us,” Luke murmurs. “And I’m finally going to fix it.” 

All you can do is stare at your brother, wide and teary eyed. You can’t find the words, but you don’t have to. 

Police sirens begin to filter through the air as they get closer, and Luke huffs. “Of course.” He eyes you. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

“I wouldn’t dare,” you say weakly. 

When he leaves to peer out the front door, you take a second to look at your surroundings. It takes a second because they’re so decrepit, but you could never forget. 

Luke brought you back to your childhood home—the place in St. Charles, rotten down to its bones. It’s abandoned by now, but the atmosphere is nothing less than oppressive. There’s a reason you graduated high school a year early, why you never came back once you got to college—except with Aaron, to help your mom move her things out. 

You refuse to die here. Even if you have to claw your way back through the gates of Hell inch by inch—you will not die here. 

You hear footsteps, and when Lucas comes back in, he has a crazed glint in his eye. He shakes his head as his finger returns back to the trigger, and you can’t help but flinch. He won’t. Not now. 

“Looks like your friends the FBI are here,” he drawls. “You said you didn’t tell them anything.” 

“I didn’t,” you insist. “They’re profilers—they figure things out.” 

He shakes his head. “They don’t realize that I have to do this.” Luke kneels down in front of you and takes your chin in an iron grip. “This is the only way to end our pain.” 

He lets go of you then stands up, moving behind you—you want to protest, but you don’t get the chance. He presses his gun to your temple and then the door is broken down. Four agents rush in, guns at the ready. Aaron leads them, and he’s got fire blazing in his eyes.

“FBI,” he barks. “Hands up.”

Lucas doesn’t seem fazed, his breathing staying the same. You stare right at Aaron, unfiltered fear in your eyes, and you feel torn bare. He’s going to watch your brother put a bullet in your head. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says smoothly. “This is a family matter.” 

“Put the gun down, Lucas,” Aaron says. 

“You know my name,” he says. “I know yours too, Aaron Hotchner. My sister told me you were with the feds. She also told me you broke her heart.”

“Put the gun down,” he repeats. 

“I don’t think I will,” Luke says. “You see, I don’t go around just kidnapping people for fun. I have a purpose here.” He tilts his head to the side. “But you know that, don’t you? You’re all profilers.” 

“You’ve been targeting families that look like your own,” he says. “You think that killing them will end the pain inside you, and protect those kids in a way that you never got.” 

“I don’t think it,” he bites, “I know it. If my dad had been shot thirty years ago, we wouldn’t be here right now.” 

“This isn’t going to bring you peace,” Aaron says. “Your sister has been the only person to stay by your side through every part of your life. Do you really want to lose that?” 

“Trust me,” Luke says. “I’m not losing her.” 

He flicks the safety off and you flinch. He’s going to kill you. 

“Put the gun down,” another agent warns. 

“If you all don’t leave right now, I’ll shoot her.” Your whole body stiffens as he presses the gun harder into the side of your head, your breathing going off kilter. “Except you, Aaron Hotchner. You can stay.”

“We’re not doing that,” the woman says. Agent Prentiss, you think. 

“Really?” Luke chuckles. “You think you hold the cards here?” 

“It’s okay,” Aaron says. “Go.” 

Agent Prentiss frowns, and the other two men look different levels of puzzled. They obviously doubt the decision, but they don’t doubt Aaron, because one by one, they leave. 

“Wow,” Luke muses. “They really trust you.” 

“Because I know you don’t want to hurt her,” Aaron says. “Deep down, you know you’re not protecting her. Not by hurting her.” 

“I’m not hurting her,” he says. “She’s always been the one to keep me safe over the years—I’m finally paying the favor back. I’m finally taking her pain away.”

“You were abused as children. Both of you.” Aaron looks at your brother. “Your sister always tried to protect you, but it never worked. It just made it worse for her, and it made you feel worthless. You’re her older brother. You’re the one that was supposed to protect her.”

“My sister said you’re profilers,” he says, and though his tone is lazy, you know your brother. You can tell it’s starting to get to him. “Is that what you’re doing right now? Profiling me?” 

“You would never be good enough for your father, and your mother would never do anything to stop it,” Aaron continues. “All you had was your sister, and even that wasn’t good enough��you hurt her just as much as your dad did. At least your dad didn’t think he was a good person.” 

Luke growls, and he puts a hand on your shoulder to pull you closer to him. “Shut up.” 

“Your sister has told me you can be more than this,” he says. “And I think she’s right. You’re better than this—better than living between the margins and jail.” 

“I’ve had a hole in my chest since I was born,” Luke mutters. “And I’ve tried to stop it, but it’s just grown and grown and grown. This— this aching pit of pain, and he caused it. You’ve got it too— I know it.” 

“I— I do,” you say. And you’re not lying. You’ve had a pit of despair in you for as long as you can remember. The only difference is that you’ve fought every goddamn day of your life to keep it from consuming you. “And it hurts, Luke. Trust me, I know. It took me so long to even be able to deal with it, but I know how to. I can help you—we can both walk out of here.” 

“No,” he whispers. “No—we can’t.”  

“Yes, we can,” you plead. “I love you, Luke. I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life helping you if that’s what it takes to get rid of that hole.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, you think you’ve gotten through to him. Aaron never takes his eyes away from you. 

“I’ve never been able to protect her,” Luke murmurs. “Not from our dad, not from the world, not even from you, Aaron Hotchner.” He presses the gun harder than ever into your head, like he wants to bury the metal in your skull along with the bullet. “But that all ends now.” 

You screw your eyes shut. You don’t want to see Aaron’s face when your brother kills you. 

And then it happens so quickly you barely process it. 

There’s two gunshots, almost at the same time. You scream, first because of the gunshots, then because of the sudden roaring pain in your side. There’s a thud next to you, your eyes shoot open, and you see your brother’s lifeless body fall to the ground. 

You scream again—you can’t even control it, it just rips out of you at the sight of the hole in his head and the blood pooling beneath it—and Aaron drops his gun to rush forward. The rest of his team thunders in after him, all in guns and bulletproof vests, and they’re talking, but you can’t focus on a single goddamn thing because your brother’s dead body is right next to you. 

Aaron pulls out a pocket knife and begins to cut through your restraints, and the instant he finishes you collapse. He catches you without a second thought, and you immediately wrap your arms around him. 

Torrential sobs wrack your entire body as you bury your face in the crook of his shoulder, every part of you shaking as the reality of it all hits with full force. 

Your brother is a serial killer. He killed ten people, he tried to kill you. And now he’s dead. 

The only part you had left of your family—gone, just like that, with four other families ruined in his wake. 

Aaron’s soft voice in your ear is the only thing bringing you back from the edge of hyperventilation, his own hold on you the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs and he shrugs off his windbreaker to wrap it around your arms. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

“He’s gone,” you choke out, voice muffled as you speak into his chest. “He’s gone, and he tried to—”

A fresh round of emotions hit you, unable to get the words out, and you fully break down in Aaron’s arms. 

“I know.”

Aaron’s fingers linger on your side and you feel some dull pain, but you feel his breath still for a moment. 

“You were shot,” he says with your name. “We have to get you to a hospital.” 

You don’t even feel it. God, you don’t feel anything. There’s a distant ringing in your ears, an insistent pain in your skull, and you finally realize Aaron is right when you pull away and see the blood on his fingers. 

But black spots start to fill your vision. You may not feel it, but your body holds the score. The pain intensifies in your side as your adrenaline starts to slow down, and you collapse against Aaron. 

“Get an EMT in here!” he yells, keeping an arm wrapped around you. “We’ve got a GSW— she’s losing blood fast!” 

You can feel Aaron’s rapid heartbeat, can feel his steady arms as he keeps you propped up. You feel the warmth of his body, feel the warmth draining out of yours. 

“Aaron,” you whisper, your strength fading. You don’t think he hears you.

He helps you up and you’re suddenly hoisted onto a stretcher, and he’s beside you as the EMTs run you out of your childhood home. The night is a blurry canvas of red and blue lights, and your eyelids feel like they’re made of concrete. 

“Aaron,” you try again, and you have enough left in you to grasp his cheek. “Thank you.” 

And as the world goes black around you for the second time, you see his lips form your name. 

It’s not a bad thing, you think before darkness overtakes you, for Aaron Hotchner to be the last thing you see before you die. 

-

You wake up in the hospital alone.  

You don’t know what you expect. You have few acquaintances, fewer friends, and the last part of your family is dead after he tried to kill you. 

The real surprise is that you wake up at all. 

Lucas is dead. 

He tried to kill you. You thought he succeeded. 

You let out a slow, even breath, accompanied only by the sounds of beeping machines. It still doesn’t exactly feel real. 

You’ve spent the last two weeks defending your brother against every accusation, and you ended it in the hospital—well and truly alone for the first time in your life. 

You look at the television. Some muted soccer game is playing, and you’re thankful. You were worried that you and your brother would be the topic of the day. 

Who are you kidding? You’re going to be the topic of the year. He killed ten people. He tried to kill you, and you think he nearly did. He shot you, after all. 

You let your head fall back against the pillow. All of your limbs feel insurmountably heavy, your side aches like hell, and you’ve got the worst headache of your life. 

And you can’t stop playing it all over in your mind. 

He was going to kill you. 

Your own brother, your flesh and blood, the only person you had left, tried to kill you and would have killed you had it not been for the BAU. 

Had it not been for Aaron Hotchner. 

The door opens and someone walks through, your eyes following the movement, and when he sees it, he pauses. And so do you—apparently the devil appears even when you think of him. 

“You’re awake,” Aaron says after a moment. It’s the third time he’s sounded surprised since you’ve met him again. Seeing you, finding out your mom is dead, seeing you. 

But there’s relief there, too.

He has a coffee in his hand and his tie is undone, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his forearms. It makes you realize his suit jacket has been slung over the back of the chair near your bedside. 

“How long have you been here?” you ask, your brows furrowing ever so slightly. 

Aaron closes the door and sets his coffee on the table before he answers you. “Three days.” 

“And how long have I been here?” 

“Three days,” he says. “You suffered head trauma, they discovered drugs in your system, and… you were shot. You had to go into emergency surgery.” 

You frown, and he answers before you can ask any of them. “…Your brother. After he knocked you out, he used something to… keep you out. And after I shot him, he still got one off—thankfully, as he was falling. The bullet hit you in the side instead of the head.”

“How bad was it?” you ask. 

Aaron glances away. “You died on the table. They managed to bring you back, but…” 

“I guess Luke did succeed,” you say absentmindedly. Aaron doesn’t laugh, and you glance away too. “Sorry. Bad time for jokes.” 

He shakes his head. “If anyone’s allowed to joke about this, it’s you.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, but then you look back at him as he takes a seat at your bedside again. He looks— god, he just looks tired. Tired and ragged and downtrod, and you can’t imagine you look much better.  

“You were out for two days after,” he explains. “This is the first time you’ve woken up.”

“Why are you here, Aaron?” you ask quietly. “Why have you been here?” 

Aaron frowns. “Where else would I be?”

Your throat feels like it’s closing up, and you feel the telltale pinpricks of tears. You blink them away before they can start. 

“My brother was a serial killer, Aaron.” Your hands clench into fists as you stare at the wall. “He killed ten people while he was living with me and I— and I didn’t even fucking notice.” Your gaze moves back to him. “I went against all of you because I thought I knew him, and look where it got me.” 

“It’s not a crime to want to see the best in people,” he says. “Especially your family.” 

“It’s a crime to fucking murder people,” you huff, and it’s only slightly unhinged. “I— I thought I knew him, and I didn’t. And if I did, maybe none of these people would’ve had to die.”

“Don’t blame this on yourself,” Aaron demands. “Lucas was lost. Mentally ill. He was on a path for revenge, for his deranged idea of protection—nothing you could have said or done would have stopped him.” 

You shake your head. “It might be easy for you to say that, Aaron, but I— I can’t. He’s my brother. I gave him a place to live, I gave him easy access to families— god, I fought with you all for two weeks about his innocence, all while he was planning his next fucking murder!” 

“It is not your fault,” he repeats, slower and enunciating the words. “He was the only member left of your family, and you loved him. You were just stubborn, and that’s nothing new.” 

“I just don’t know what to do.” You’ve had these walls up for so long, especially this past week, and now that everything’s come to a head and you’re in the hospital and your fucking brother is dead, the floodgates have opened. “I have to plan a funeral because I’m the only one left to plan one, but— but does he even deserve one? He’s a serial killer, and he tried to kill me for god’s sake, but he’s my brother and even though he’s gone he’s still all I have left and—” 

You break off as you suck in a huge breath of air, the notion shaky as you clench your hands into fists to keep the rest of your body from doing the same. 

“And I just don’t know what to do,” you repeat, barely a whisper. 

You meet Aaron’s eyes, almost desperately. You feel like you’ll shatter into a million different pieces if you even breathe wrong and he might be the only solid thing in your life. 

“Whatever you do,” he says, “you don’t have to do it alone. Not if you don’t want to.” 

“Aaron,” you start shakily, but he continues. 

“I know what you think, and that’s not what I’m suggesting.” Aaron pauses for a moment, and it’s obvious how carefully he’s crafting his words. “I’ve… always regretted how we left things. And I regret losing touch with you. This isn’t the way I would’ve liked to meet you again. But I’m thankful I have.”

He pulls a card out of his shirt pocket and holds it out to you. You realize it’s his business card, and it’s got his number. 

“I’m sorry for the formality,” he says dryly, “but I don’t exactly go around prepared to give out my number for purposes other than work.” 

You take it without giving yourself the chance to think about it. You run your finger around the sharp edge of the cardstock, pressing the pad of your thumb against the corner. 

“Years ago, you wished me a good life, and that you didn’t want to be involved in it,” he says, still treading carefully. You can’t believe he remembers the last thing you said to him. “But— but a lot has changed since then, and I hope that has as well.” 

“I’d like you to be a part of my life again,” Aaron finally says, “if you want to be a part of mine.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Two and a half years of law school flash behind your eyes—coffee shop dates and endless hours spent studying at the library. Movie nights cuddled on his couch, hauling boxes out of your house at an ungodly hour to get away from your roommates. An unhealthy amount of all-nighters immediately followed by going out to celebrate a miracle of an A on an exam. Getting through every soul-sucking part of earning a J.D. together, falling apart before either of you could make it to the other side, and somehow…

Somehow, you’ve ended up on a completely different side together. 

“My life isn’t going to be easy,” you say faintly. “Especially… moving through this.” 

“My life isn’t easy either,” he says. “I’m divorced with a kid and I try to solve murders every day.” 

“It’s not a contest.” An attempt at a joke, but it falls flat for you. Aaron’s lips still quirk at the edges the slightest bit. 

“Getting through this certainly won’t be easy,” he agrees. “But I have more experience than most in these sorts of things. So if you ever need anything, call. Please.” 

“I imagine you’re pretty busy,” you murmur. “Unit chief and all.” 

Aaron shrugs. “I make time for the things I care about.” 

Thankfully, you don’t have to figure out how to respond to that, because there’s a knock on the door, and a nurse walks in after you call a come in.

“It’s good to finally see you awake, sweetheart,” the nurse says with a smile. It warms you from the inside out. 

“It’s nice to be awake,” you say. Her smile widens and she moves over to the computer in the side of the room—to add some things before she makes her checkup, you assume. 

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Aaron says.

Before he can stand up, you grab his hand. It’s fully on instinct, and he looks just as surprised as you feel.  

“Don’t go,” you plead, and it’s almost a whisper. “I— just— please.” 

Aaron stares at you for a moment, that shock glinting in his eyes before it transforms into something a lot warmer. He nods and sits down. 

“Okay.” 

And he stays. 

This time, he stays.

[bunnliix]

The Invisible Strings that Bind Us - Chapter Two

Chapter Two! We have some good cute fluff because it's gonna start getting angsty after this chapter, so prepare for that. But for now, we have some wholesome interactions between y/n and the boys. For anyone that saw this posted before, no you didn't.

a.k.a., I may have had to make a couple changes to it after it went live that I forgot about haha

Masterlist

word count: 1.8k

warnings: food, canon skz chaos, I think that's it

Y/n woke up slowly, feeling a bit disoriented. She felt whatever was beneath her shifting, before she heard an Aussie accent. 

“Good morning sunshine.” She heard, opening her eyes to see Chan looking down at her.

“Huh? What the fuck? That wasn’t a dream?” She mused out loud, forgetting that she wasn’t thinking about it. She heard laughter coming from across the room, finding Changbin and Han bent over laughing.

“This isn’t a dream, we promise you. Now, do you wanna sit up?” Chan asked her, to which she nodded. With his help, she sat up and moved to sit against the back of the couch. 

“You can stop laughing at me, god dammit. It wasn’t that funny.” She lightly glared at the two men. It really wasn’t that funny, honestly, she was ready to slap them. If only they were in reach of her.

“Guys, chill out, please.” Chan scolds the two members, raising an eyebrow at them. The boys apologized to Y/n, bowing and saying sorry to her. She waved away their apologies, telling them it was fine. She really didn’t mind, but it’s still not fun to get laughed at.

“So, where do we go from here?” Y/n spoke up, wondering what would happen now. It may not have been the ideal soulmate meeting, but obviously fate didn’t care about that. There may not have been a big outward sign that they were, but she had never felt more at ease with anyone else ever. Even prior girlfriends she had, that she almost thought were her soulmates, never made her feel this right as these eight boys were right now.

“Well, seeing as you landed right in our laps, and also Binnie has our initials plus one more set, and once we match yours up with the last initial, I’d say you’re our soulmate. We can figure everything else out from there.” Chan said, taking charge of the situation. 

Y/n told them all her full name, and her initials matched up with the last set on Binnie’s arm. This prompted Felix to come over and hug her, whispering in her ear how much he’s glad to have found their last soulmate. He laid his head on her shoulder, his arms still wrapped around her, not letting go of her now that she’s here.

All of the boys’ phones went off, pushing them to check and see who’s messaging. Hyunjin groaned, “Ugh, we have to head back to dance practice, they’re looking for us.” He told the rest of them. This prompted many complaints and cries, the boys not wanting to leave their newest soulmate yet. 

“How long do you have to practice? I can just stay here, honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. I have my phone and I can entertain myself till you all return.” Y/n said, smiling up at them. She didn’t mind being by herself for a little while, it would give her some time to process everything that’s happened.

“If we’re lucky, an hour? Depends on how much of a hardass Minho-hyung is today.” Hyunjin replied to her, not managing to dodge the slap from the aforementioned person. He rubbed his shoulder, feeling the pain from the hit.

“Yah! I don’t want to be away from our soulmate either, but keep it up like that and I’ll make you practice for hours.” Minho snapped back at Hyunjin, looking annoyed.

“Okay, let’s chill out, okay? No need to get violent.” Chan tried to pacify the situation, and thankfully it worked

The boys begrudgingly packed up, Minho leaning in close to Hyunjin as they left, telling him that he’d make a nice snack after 20 minutes in the airfryer at 180 degrees. Y/n laughed as she watched them leave, before moving to sit against the armrest, getting comfortable. She decided to think about her situation later, and grabbed her phone, opening up tiktok and scrolling the time away.

An hour later…

Y/n hadn’t realized how much time had passed, and when the door to the studio opened, she jumped and threw her phone up into the air, as she panicked. She however, managed to not fall off the couch, but her heart was running a thousand miles a minute as she tried to calm down. She held onto her chest, looking at the door to see the entirety of the group standing in the doorway, a couple of them trying to hold back their laughter, as others looked concerned. 

“Could give a girl a bit of a heads up, yeah?” She said to them, a bit over the panic.

“We didn’t think you’d be that absorbed into whatever you were doing, honestly.” Chan replied to her, moving to grab her phone from where it had been thrown, and bringing it over to her. 

She sat up, letting Chan sit down next to her. “That’s fair. I didn’t realize an hour had passed, to tell you the truth. But that’s because I’m bad at telling how much time has passed.” She explained. She truly had very little concept of time. She could look at the clock and five hours had passed when it only felt like it had maybe been an hour. It was one of her greatest weaknesses.

“Don’t worry, some of them get like that too.” Felix piped up, moving closer and sitting on the arm of the couch. “Chan especially, the man works and zones out while doing so.” He continued.

“Yeah, and the rest of 3racha are the same way.” Hyunjin pointed out, to which Han hit his arm. 

“Yah, we’re not that bad!” He shouted, pouting afterwards. His little quokka cheeks made an appearance as he did that.

“I don’t think I believe that.” Y/n told Han. 

He continued pouting, even his newest soulmate was being so mean. He couldn’t believe it, and there were giggles from his other soulmates, showing that they were on her side, not his.

“Well now that you’re all back, and I assume free from idol duties for a little while, I’d like to talk about where we go from here, now that we’ve confirmed I’m your last soulmate.” Y/n spoke up, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

“Well, I think the first thing to discuss is how prepared you are to be the soulmate of eight other people, who I assume live very far away from where you are from?” Felix asked her.

“Well, considering that I’m from Canada, that’s not horribly far, but still a bit farther than I think is reasonable. So I think I’d be moving here, and not the other way round.” She told them, starting to think about the logistics of moving here.

“Ah, yeah. You’d have to move here, but we can help you with every step you need to take. We wouldn’t leave you to do it all alone.” Chan turned to look at her. “We’d have to move into a bigger place too, unless you’d want your own space?” He continued.

“I wouldn’t mind either option, really.”

“Okay, that’s fine, we can sit down with management and get that figured out. They can also help us look for a place for you as well, just as an option.” Chan said.

Y/n nodded, fine with that. She wasn’t picky, it really wasn’t a big deal to her where she’d be living. She’d just be happy to be near her soulmates, honestly.

Everyone went silent as Y/n’s stomach grumbled, the girl herself curling in on herself to try and hide. 

“And maybe now is a good time for food.” Felix said.

“I’m hungry!” Changbin shouted, making a couple of the boys chuckle.

Chan stood up, holding a hand out to Y/n, who took it as she stood up as well. He pulled her along as they followed the rest of the boys towards the JYPE cafeteria, as it was the easiest place to get actual food. It thankfully wasn’t that packed when they arrived, and the boys quickly picked out their food, while Chan helped her decide on what she wanted. She went for some tteokbokki, and the other boys decided that they didn’t mind sharing bites of what they chose, so that nothing was wasted if she didn’t like it

Y/n tried bites of everyone’s food, and enjoyed most of it, with a couple exceptions. Despite that, everyone enjoyed their lunch, and after everyone finished and cleaned up the table, they all headed back up to their practice room, deciding it was a better place to talk than squeezing into the studio.

“So, obviously we have to tell management about this, and also figure out how long you can stay here before heading back to pack up your stuff.” Minho spoke up, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, and I have to talk to my university and try and get that figured out as well. I’m almost finished with my degree, so I’d like to actually finish it off fully.” Y/n told them.

Wows came from a couple of the younger boys, and Y/n blushed a bit. 

“What do you study?” Seungmin asked her.

“History is my major in university.” She told them, proceeding to tell them some of the subjects she’s studied within history. She talked more about her favorite periods or topics to study, after the boys asked some questions about what in history she enjoyed and why she decided to study it as a degree.

The group continued talking about their own hobbies and other things they’d like to do in life, as Chan moved to check his and the others schedules, as well as notifying management that they needed to have a meeting. He found their schedules to have been cleared for the day, after he got a response from management that they could have the meeting in 30 minutes. 

“Well, good news and maybe good news?” Chan piped up, everyone else going silent, waiting to hear the news. “So, we now have a free schedule for the remainder of the day, but we also have a meeting with management in 30 minutes.” He finished. 

A round of groans commenced at Chan’s announcement, as the boys dreaded the meeting with the managers. Y/n looked around in confusion, wondering why they were reacting this way. 

“What’s so bad about the meeting?” She asked, tilting her head slightly in confusion.

“They’re not fans of the bureaucracy of being an idol, so they dread meetings with our managers and team.” Chan explained, rolling his eyes at the boys’ antics.

“Ohhh.” She understood now, it made sense that the whole bureaucracy of being an idol would be boring. She herself didn’t enjoy those things either, let alone how much of this administrative stuff goes on in the background of idol agencies.

The boys decided to go change into something a little less casual for their meeting, and thankfully, the boys had something that she could fit into. It wasn’t much, but it fit and didn’t look horrible on her, so that was what counted. They just joked around and the boys fought playfully until about five minutes till the meeting, when they all headed up to where the meeting was to take place, where they arrived just in time. Chan did a head count, before he pushed and held the door open for all of us to enter.

Prev | Next

Taglist: @queen-thiccness

[ciaomarie]

Part 1: What then?

Some seemingly innocent, but truly mind-altering information is shared in a staff meeting.

Short fan fic. Low-key Sydcarmy/The Bear fluff. Post-season 2. Canon-compliant.

Location: The Bear

Time: 10:05 a.m.

The restaurant had closed lunch service on a Tuesday for a "Development Day". The Bear had been open for 5 months and had a 2 month wait list! After Family and Friends when they had all banded together the Bear crew had gotten tighter than ever. Carmen had been a outsider in his own restaurant for a couple weeks, but soon the dust settled. Even Sydney came around after 3 weeks of his patient groveling. The duo was good and soon The Bear had become one of Chicago Tribune's "Best New Restaurants." However, with success The Bear was changing fast. They had hired more full-time front and kitchen staff, which was great. The downside was that "respectful communication" and "customer complaint management" was waning a little. Things were not terrible, but Richie for whom Ever set the bar in hospitality, The Bear should always be improving, not sliding backwards. Natalie, Carmen and Sydney agreed. They also wanted to discuss new menu changes and a to-go system they would be testing soon.

"Okay, people! Let's get started" Natalie said beckoning everyone to take a seat at the front of house.

Richie stood next her "casually dressed" in a button down blue dress shirt and dark grey slacks.

He began, "As you know The Bear is on track to paying off the loan and we're the freakin' toast of the town right now, but this is not the time to take a nap. We gotta keep our eyes on the prize. So first, up facial regulation as known as RBF awareness."

Natalie tapped his shoulder and whispered, "Richie, I love your enthusiasm, but I thought we might start with an ice breaker?"

He shrugged and continued, "But Nat, has a ice breaker. Take it away".

Natalie resumed.

"So, first we want to thank each of you for being part of this dream and making it fun, rewarding, and successful. As you know The Bear is a family business and since there's new faces here we'd like to get to know you better and vice versa. We'll start with a quick round of "Best and Worst". Just pick a question out of the cup and answer it. Please keep your answers to 2 minutes."

The first question went to Randall, a young man in his early 20's with dark curly hair and thick glasses that frequently fogged in the humid kitchen. He was the new assistant pastry chef.

"What was the best place I ever lived? Hm…Guam. My dad, Army, was stationed on the base and I lived there from age 9-11. I had like 12 friends just on my block and we were always playing soccer, swimming, or riding our bikes. It was awesome."

"Thanks Randall!" Natalie chirped.

The next went to Tina.

"Ok…what is worst advice I've ever been given? Keep your head down and do what you know. That's the advice I used to give myself. Thankfully I didn't listen because now I'm a sous chef!"

Sydney who was sitting near the front between Gary and Carmy, beamed at Tina who returned the smile with a little moisture in her eyes.

The next question went to Marcus.

"Best moment in the last year? It was training at Noma, in Copenhagen. It was my first international trip. I got to stay in a houseboat, explore the city, meet cool people, and figure out that I wanted to do this maybe forever."

The last several months had been really hard due to Marcus's mom's passing. He had returned to work after a week of mourning citing that he knew she wouldn't want him to sit at home now that she was no longer sick. Despite that he was getting better every day and had come up with several new popular dessert specials. Tina was seated next to him and patted his arm.

The next few questions went to new dishwasher, Chris, Fak, and then Gary.

Sydney drew the next question and winced upon reading it. It wouldn't be possible to lie because Marcus already knew the truth.

"What was my best meal ever? Well…it was this pork confit with onions and rhubarb. Then after I had this dish called Milk and Honey."

She kept her eyes plastered on the tiny strip of paper while she spoke. In her peripheral field she could see Carm turning slightly towards her, his cornflower blue eyes boring two holes into the side of her head.

"Sounds grand. Ok, Carmy pick a question" Richie ordered wanting to get down to business by 10:30am.

Carmy didn't seem to hear him. He was on another planet.

"Yo cuz, pick a question!"

He startled and drew a question.

"Uh ok. Best part of my day? Hmmm. Closing up."

It was now Sydney's soul's turn to exit her body. Every night, with few exceptions, she and Carmy ended the night in his office to debrief on the day, perform last checks, and close together.

After a moment she felt his eyes still glancing at her. Without turning she whispered, "Later." The last thing she needed was to look at him, and forget how much time was passing, giving Richie yet another reason to tease them. Not long ago he gave them matching copies of a workplace relationship etiquette tip sheet stapled to an OSHA industrial hygiene handout before leaving them to close.

She sighed, trying to compose herself. It was no big deal. So what that Carm knew he was responsible for the best thing she ever ate? Also, they're partner-friends so it's totally normal that his favorite time of day when is they are together…alone. Right?

UH OH.

[noceurstars]

”Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

Rupert Giles x Witch! Younger! Reader

You and the Scoobies try to have a normal Thanksgiving. Try, anyway.

[ w — age gap (20+ years), older man/younger woman, injured! reader, assumed unrequited love, short story, tv show-compliant only, slight canon divergence ]

— divider cred: @/inklore

Living above the Hellmouth meant that nothing would ever be normal. No holidays, no birthdays would ever be like the average person’s.

Thanksgiving and Christmas was the same. Monsters and creatures of the dark never took days off, not with their insatiable need to be evil.

Buffy sighed as she staked what was probably the 20th vampire of the night. Thanksgiving was a time to sit down with friends and family, having a lovely, large dinner and being thankful for the people in your life and the things you had.

But not for the Scoobies.

You huffed, rolling your sore shoulder. A vampire had taken a good chunk out of of your neck, but the second he tasted your blood, he instantly revolted, and you took a stake to his heart.

“You good?” Buffy asks, eyeballing your shoulder.

“Yeah.” But you hiss a little as pain flares through it. “It’s just gonna take a minute to heal. I’ll put some bandaids on it when we get back.”

Buffy cheerily and knowingly chips in a, “I’m sure Giles would disapprove.” That prompts you to give her a deadpan look.

“You know that he doesn’t like me like that,” you reply. You shove your hands into your pockets. “It’s a one-way street. Can we talk about something else?”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

The two of you walked side by side out of the graveyard. Buffy sighs, tilting her head down.

“I really wish Christmas could be normal,” she admits. “I miss it, from when I was a kid. It’s so much different from now.”

“Not as involved with monsters, you mean?” you say, and Buffy nods in confirmation. “Yeah, me too. I feel so… apathetic about it anymore. It doesn’t feel as important, as fun as it used to be.”

“Cons of being apart of the supernatural world,” she adds.

“Truly.” You laugh. “Not to mention—” A scream rips from your throat. Cold heat washes through you and up your spine, all the way up to your skull. Your head jolts back at the pain, and the cold heat leaves as the wooden stake leaves your body, now replaced by odd, liquid warmth.

Oh, you’re bleeding. Bleeding out, perhaps.

You heard the slaps and thuds of fighting as you fall to the ground. You try to have some semblance of control as you collapse in pain, but it doesn’t work. You bump your head into a headstone and more liquid oozes down your skin.

You hear the familiar hissing sound of dust. Buffy’s won. Now you see her over you, terror and fear written all over her features.

“[Name]? [Name]? You with me?”

You gulp, attempting to focus and swallow down the pain. “Kinda,” you hiss.

“Healing magic? Can it fix this?” she inquires hurriedly.

“Probably,” you reply, becoming more and more breathless.

“I’m gonna put pressure on it, okay? The second you feel any sort of clarity, start chanting.”

You let out a loud cry of pain, more blood coming out and staining your shirt. The pain signals the adrenaline in your body. It takes you a couple seconds longer than what you hope before you start chanting in Latin.

It feels strange, your body stitching itself back together. The strange feeling of blood coming out of your body disappears. You huff, the chant ending a minute later. Buffy takes her hands off the wound and you watch her examine it.

“How’s it look?”

“Looks good, head wound is gone, too,” she says. “But we need to get you back to the Magic Box. Giles and Willow might have something they can help you brew up to get you fully healed.”

You lean up using your elbows and hands. You take Buffy’s hand and let out groan of pain as you get to your feet. You two walk out of the graveyard and head to the Magic Box. You thank God it’s dark and no one can see you and your best friend walk through the streets of Sunnydale with her holding you up.

The Magic Box comes into sight not ten minutes later. Buffy uses her key to open the door, but neither of you expect to see the floor of the Magic Box completely cleared out, with a large, decorated table filled to the brim with food and drinks.

Xander is the first to turn his head up and see you and Buffy.

“Happy Thanksgiving, you guys!” he says.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Xander,” you speak breathlessly. And that’s when he knows something is wrong. His eyes trail down to your bloodied shirt and widen drastically.

“Oh, crap.”

“Oh, crap is right.” Buffy sets you down in one of the nearest chairs. “Get the others and tell them [Name] needs a healing potion… or some sort of healing magic. The wound isn’t as bad as it looks, but she needs help crossing the finish line.”

“On it.”

Xander heads to the back to get the others, who come rushing in not a moment after he gets them.

Unfortunately for you, all you can focus on through one eye (the other squinted in pain) is Giles, and the look of worry and concern on his face.

“She’s very pale,” Giles says. His voice is clearly worried. It almost seems borderline… terrified?

“Blood loss,” you say in a shakily exhale. “Healed, yes. Blood back inside the body? Not so much.”

“Can you do anything, Giles?” Buffy asks.

“Let me see the wound and we’ll see.”

You raise your shirt, showing off the nasty scar. It’s not fully healed, maybe three-quarters. You look away, eyes meeting Buffy’s, who’s expression is borderline teasing and full of amusement. You roll yours in return.

“Nothing out of my capabilities I can’t heal,” Giles says. He looks up at you and adds, “But I do have to touch it to heal it.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” The second Giles places his hand on the injury though, a large wave of nausea makes you shudder and groan.

“She looks like she needs a trash can,” Xander pipes.

“I’ll get one,” Anya offers, disappearing behind the counter momentarily to grab one. She places it next to you and you thank her.

Giles’ warm hand leaves your lower torso. The wound is completely healed, although you still feel faint from the blood loss. He looks at you again, scanning over your sick expression.

“I’ll be fine in a bit,” you tell, a smile appearing on your face. “I think some food in my stomach would do me some good. Thank you, Giles.”

“You are most welcome,” he replies, standing. “And I think you are absolutely correct. Shall we eat?”

Buffy nods and speaks for everyone’s hungry stomachs. “We shall.”

Dawn sits between you and Buffy. Xander, Anya, and Dawn are on the other side of the table. At the head of the table, between Xander and Buffy, is Giles. Just like a father should be, you think, humored.

“So… What happened? How’d you get such a wound?” Willow asks.

You and Buffy answer in unison: “Vampires.”

“Thought we were done and one caught us by surprise with one of the stakes,” Buffy explains. “[Name] used her magic, but she couldn’t heal it all the way.”

“Glad you both made it back,” Xander said happily. “This Thanksgiving dinner we put together would’ve been a total bust.”

Everyone laughs in agreement and digs into the food. Unknowingly to you, Giles can barely keep his eyes off of you, only looking away to take a bite of food off of his plate. Though he does try to it make it obvious.

Indeed, he’s glad you made it back. He’s glad he’s able to heal your injuries. Life would certainly be a lot more dull without you around.

But as Anya hands you the gravy, you catch Giles staring at you out of your peripheral vision. There’s a look on his face, one you know well, because it’s the same one Spike gives Buffy when she’s not looking.

You smile and raise your glass in a toast. “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

Everyone raises their glass cheerily, downing a swig.

You thank this Thanksgiving for giving you hope. Even if it doesn’t last.

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is:  deadratz/@munsonkitten! They have 32 works in the Stranger Things fandom on AO3 and 31 of those are in the Steddie tag!

Our anonymous nominator recommends the following works by @munsonkitten:

the sound of silence

float among the wreckage

share the same space for a minute or two

you make me feel like i am whole again

sugar on my tongue

"In a fandom with over 20 thousand fics, it's hard to find fics that stand out, and Grim has so many that feel like a breath of fresh air for the characters. His specialty is exploring Eddie's trauma, past and present, and being patient with letting him heal in a messy, realistic way that tears your heart out and puts it back. Grim takes on topics that can be difficult to explain, like trauma and gender exploration, and puts them into words so perfectly. His fics are entertaining and heartfelt and always hot, no matter which one you open, you're in for a treat and he has some hidden gems! Regardless of what's popular, Grim stays true to the characters and it's easy to trust him with them, and that's something to appreciate!" -- anonymous

Below the cut, @munsonkitten answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

When Season 4 came out, I had lost all motivation in my old fandoms. I hadn’t written anything in months, but then I saw Eddie and fell in love instantly. As I was watching, I started to have this little thought like “is anyone else seeing this?” when I saw Steve and Eddie interact, and I ended up on AO3, reading through anything that looked good out of the 300 fics that came out in those first couple of days, and then I kept reading, and I was completely inspired. I was pulled in, and I tried to write something between volumes 1&2 that didn’t go anywhere, but I didn’t want to give up on them because there was just this pull that kept me thinking of them, and then, of course, we saw Eddie’s fate and I immediately had to rectify that in my own way. I love writing Steve and Eddie because they come from very different worlds, but as a queer punk who also played sports in high school, I know firsthand how those worlds can collide and I can relate to both Steve and Eddie and how they fit into their places as the freak/jock. There’s also just a certain coziness that comes with writing Steddie for me, like they’re familiar and something I can find safety in. They’re both complex characters with traumatic experiences and there’s comfort in that and there’s comfort in being able to process my own life through the perspective of the two of them and apply different things to their canon personalities and backstories. It really comes down to, like, even though they’ve fought monsters, they’re really just regular guys, too. They’re relatable and accessible because their lives are pretty average without the monster stuff. I don’t find myself wasting time doing tons of research about certain jobs or lifestyles as I have with other pairings in the past. Steddie has just given me a lot of freedom to do what I want.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

There are so many tropes that I love. I think a lot of them depend on how they’re written, of course, so even tropes I don’t typically like to read can end up being really good to me. My go-to answer for this is usually pre-dating sharing a bed/only one bed, whether they’re sharing because they get paired up together on a trip; they’re laying low at Steve’s and Steve needs to keep an eye on Eddie while he’s healing; nightmares bringing them to each other in the middle of the night; or one of them just crashing in the other’s bed. I think there’s something so intimate about the way these scenes can be written, something very vulnerable that I just love. There’s a lot of trust that goes into being comfortable enough sleeping near someone else, and I think it’s a really good way to start Steve and Eddie’s relationship. I also love, love like any kind of friends with benefits situation where they’re obviously pining for each other and completely in love but try to pretend the things they do together is just “helping a friend out,” while mutually being in denial of feelings. It serves for great tension and there’s always really good pay off when they start dating.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

My answer for this is really similar to the last one. First and foremost, I write what I want to read. I’m just very drawn to these kinds of fics with pre-relationship intimacy that turns into something solid between them. So I love writing only one bed and pining/fwb/friends to lovers fics as much as I love reading them.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

It’s hard to choose just one favorite after almost two years of reading Steddie fics, but some real stand out fics for me that I’ve read fairly recently have been Trouble Looks Good on You by indelicate, Metamorphoses by fastcardotmp3, Play it Right by stereobone, and Doing Nothing with You by redoaktree. All of these give such nice depth to the characters and their situations and have stuck with me. “Trouble” is still ongoing, but I trust Rue (indelicate) with these characters so much that I can say it’s one of my favorites without having the entire fic yet. It just hits so many of my boxes for Steddie, has all the right factors for a phenomenal fic, and stays so true to the characters in my opinion.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I have so many plans for upcoming fics, but one I’ve been trying to find time to write for over a year now deals with a lot of grief/mourning of a loved one and includes rockstar!Eddie with a good slooow burn. It’s all things I’ve somewhat explored, but want to really expand upon with this one. I feel like I haven’t written a proper slow burn, either, because I tend to do fwb situations with slow burns on the emotional aspects and admitting feelings part of their relationship, and I want to do a full slowburn in more aspects of their relationship. 

What is your writing process like?

Usually I’m inspired by something, whether it’s a situation that happens to me or something I see on TV, and I think about what kinds of stories could be told with those elements. Sometimes I take one trope and try to build a fic around it, sometimes I see a tiktok or a scene in a show and decide I need to use that in something. Other times, I just have a sentence in my head that I have to write down and it turns into a whole page and then suddenly I have 5k words. A lot of my process is spent brainstorming with friends, talking through scenarios and seeing what kinds of responses they get, other times I have an idea and I run with it and don’t tell anyone until it’s done. There are some fics I’ve fully outlined and then gone in completely different directions, and there are some fics I never wrote down a single note for. I’ve had a few fics that started as just single sentences and turned into paragraphs and merged them with other ideas in other documents. My process is kind of chaotic and always changes, if I’m being honest, but it works for me. I think it entirely depends on the mood of the fic I’m trying to write, how much research goes into it, and how long it’s going to be, and all of that. Sometimes I’ll sit down to write something fully knowing it won’t go anywhere just to get me into a writing mood. I’m really all over the place with my process.

Do you have any writing quirks?

I don’t know if this is really a quirk, but I’m the type of person who will go weeks without writing anything and then suddenly have an entire chapter or oneshot finished in two days. I procrastinate until I realize I need to do something or until inspiration really hits me and then I just lock it in and write nonstop until it’s done.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

This is kind of fic-dependent. If I know for sure that I have the time and motivation for a story, I post as soon as I get chapters finished. If I know I don’t have the capacity for another long form fic, I’ll write out the first chapter and leave it in my drafts until I get a bit further on it, just working when I’m between other projects or stumped on something else. I wouldn’t exactly say I post on a schedule because it’s nowhere near consistent, but I’ve never finished a full multi-chaptered fic before I start posting. I do write a lot of oneshots and two chapter shorter fics, though, so those two chaptered ones are usually close to finished before I post them.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Hands down, the sound of silence. They’re not done yet, but ‘you make me feel like i am whole again,’ and ‘sugar on my tongue’ are also up there with ‘sound of silence.’ It’s my longest fic in this fandom (currently) and my second longest fic I’ve ever written. I put so much of myself into this fic and I’m just really proud of myself for it. There were some definite challenges with this one, with one character in the main pairing barely having any dialogue for the first half of the fic, with the other half of the pairing navigating his newfound sexuality and his life being turned upside down yet again, and I also have a few outsider POVs like Wayne, El, Robin and Hopper sprinkled in there, which is always difficult to work in for me. I’m proud of myself for doing all of that and finishing it.

How did you get the idea for the sound of silence?

This fic started as two separate documents, just unconnected pieces of different stories, both of them hitting dead ends with no hope for continuation. I had started with just a simple idea of Wayne and Steve meeting after the events of season 4 put Eddie in the hospital, and I wanted to show the way Wayne cares for the people who love Eddie, and that ended up becoming the beginning of the fic once I put all the pieces together. The other document I had started around the same time was a short Wayne POV about living with Eddie after S4 and the person he turned into after losing so much of himself. I wanted to explore the idea of someone as loud as Eddie going non-verbal for weeks to months at a time (something I explored in a different fandom, so that sort of inspired me to write SOS too), and when I finally put those together, it just felt like everything was so clear to me and I took off with these ideas.

When writing float among the wreckage, what was something you didn’t expect?

Oh boy. This one was actually difficult for me because I wanted it to be a hate sex fic, and I realized I’m just incapable of making Steve and Eddie hate each other at all. I did something like that one other time earlier when the fandom was still pretty new, but wreckage came to me nearly a year into writing them and I’d really cemented the idea of these characters in my head, and it was just… Very unexpected that I struggled to tap into that tension and hatred. It ended up being less about hating each other and more about misplaced/misidentified feelings in the end.

What inspired share the same space for a minute or two?

I think my friend Teddy actually gave me the main idea for this one. An end of the world “I’m going to die a virgin” apocalypse setting during “season 5.” From that, I just started writing and saw where it took me, and I’m happy with where I took it. Sometimes all I need is one sentence and then I have 11k words written in just a few days, and that fic was one of those times.

What was your favorite part to write from sugar on my tongue?

This is a really hard question because I love so much of this fic and it’s still ongoing so I might still write something I love even more than any previous parts. Without giving too much away, it’s probably a tie between their first smut scene in chapter 1, their club night in chapter 2, and the part in chapter 3 where Eddie’s walking down the road after he runs out of gas and has a lot of introspection about his life and how he finds safety in Steve. One of my close friends told me the writing in that last part was beautiful and I’ve since decided it’s one of my favorite things I’ve written.

How do/did you feel writing the sound of silence?

Sound of Silence was very cathartic for me. I’m so proud of this fic and it deals with so much I rarely see in fanfiction – some of the topics are unsexy and there are a lot of symptoms of mental illness that are highly stigmatized that people just might not want to read in a story. But I knew it was the story I needed to tell for Eddie, mostly, but for Steve, too, and for myself. It’s not always happy, but it’s real to me. Life can be ugly and people can be volatile and traumatized and struggle with sexual function and have undesirable compulsions, and writing that whole fic felt like a release in a way because it’s stuff I relate to and stuff my best friends have also gone through. And the comments on this fic have made me feel seen and less alone in the things I struggle with that I had Steve and Eddie struggle with, as well. I think it’s just really important to have those fics that give at least one reader some comfort in their own situations.

What was the most difficult part of writing you make me feel like i am whole again?

This fic is about gender identity and pregnancy and love and all sorts of stuff that can be hard to put into words. I’ve never experienced a pregnancy, so there’s a lot of research that goes into that, a lot of reading firsthand accounts and finding out all sorts of things that weren’t taught in sex-ed classes. It’s also been a very vulnerable fic for me because Steve and Eddie both experience gender in ways that I do, too. Every time I write about identity and dysphoria through them, I’m putting parts of myself on display for others, and that can be hard, especially when people don’t always understand. I’m very protective over this fic, and I’ve had to defend aspects of it from people who can’t always accept other people’s experiences with gender identity and queerness. That’s been difficult, even well meaning comments can come across as criticism when the writing is so close to home, and it’s been a struggle to keep my head on straight with this one. But as difficult as that may be, the pros outweigh the cons with this fic. It’s so rewarding when people DO relate to the things I write about, and it’s been validating for my own identity and I’ve been told so many times the fic has felt validating to others, too. So as difficult as it can be, I wouldn’t change anything. 

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

I mentioned this bit of sugar on my tongue earlier and I think it’s my current favorite, but I have so many scenes and lines from other fics I’d consider my favorites: The sun beats down on his face and arms. He’s burning, red skin and hot tears. He feels like he needs to crawl out of his own skin. To leave it on the ground and walk away someone else.  Someone who doesn’t have to deal with Al Munson, doesn’t have to deal with a town that hates him for things he didn’t do. He wants to be someone who doesn’t have to be Eddie Munson at all. He just wants to be someone else, to feel safe in the skin he wears.  He thinks Steve might be the only person who makes him feel that way, even if it’s only for a glimpse, a small fraction of his life. Even if it’s just in the quiet hours of the morning when they’re curled up in Eddie’s bed, or when they’re just two boys kissing in a bar where no one knows their names. He wants to feel like that again. Safe. 

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

I’m helping with a Sub Eddie Week event in April, so if anyone wants to do a fic or art for that event, you can find all info @subeddieweek. Most of my upcoming work is going to be made for this event, so stay tuned.

Thank you to our author, @munsonkitten, and our anonymous nominator! See more of deadratz works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[lemotmo]

https://www.tumblr.com/lemotmo/751241780793622528

I’m confused by the timing of it. Like if it was to move momentum forward you’d think it would have been after episode 4 or 5.

To announce a hey we’re going to be giving more focus on this relationship next season, it be after the finale.

But now it’s just…. it’s airing before the episode airs tonight so like…. They already have very little to talk about relationship wise, and removing episode 9 and anything that happens in it from being able to talk about gives them even less lol. And it’s also happening after Tommy hasn’t even been seen or mentioned once by anyone in the last two episodes?

I know we keep saying Tommy is a plot device but I wonder if Lou is “plot devicing” here, by which I mean it’s mostly going to be about bucks bi journey itself (which is what Tim and Oliver and hell sometimes Ryan oddly enough lol, keep focusing on) and since Tommy is currently part of it, Lou has to be there as well.

Ah Nonny! You speak my language well!

I was just thinking about this. The timing is off. Something is going on. What an odd moment to do promo for a couple that barely had 20 minutes of screentime. You would think they would do promo after the finale, assuming they would have had more scenes together and they would be more established.

I think there are two things that could be at play here:

It's good promo for more people to watch the penultimate episode. The bisexual Buck storyline has garnered some new viewers and since Tommy is part of his storyline (as a plot device to make him realise he is actually bisexual) he has to be there.

Something might actually happen between them that won't be so positive at all. Their relationship might take a hit or even a fall. So, they won't be established by the finale and they won't be able to do any promo for them anymore.

Personally I think it'll be a combination of both of the above. I could be wrong of course, but the way the promo of this season has been going (mostly Buddie-related) and the way Oliver refuses to promote Buck/Tommy (which is something he has done before because he doesn't want to lead the fans on) I have a pretty good feeling about this.

If I'm wrong about this? Well, there is always next season. I'm convinced that Buddie is in the works. Everything in the episodes and the way they portray Buck/Eddie and Tommy in their scenes, to the promo, to the strange social media postings (Vertigo poster), to the way Ryan talks about Eddie pressing a refresh button and the audience will get to know an unexplored side of Eddie? Yeah, I'm sorry, but I'm firmly seated on my Buddie-train. I've got a strong feeling that we're riding the Endgame Express at this point.

Sorry, not sorry. 🤷‍♀️

PS: Oh and Buddie peeps, don't let anyone tell you that you are delusional. We've been here for 6 seasons. We've seen it all. But this is different now. Buck is canonically bisexual. This is no more delusion or clown noses/clown cars situations anymore. Buck is bi and all the possibilities are open now. So yes, Buddie is definitely a viable and valid option. This is something that can happen. No more clown make-up for us!

[carrie-tate]

*Rewatched Cinderella (1950), a cartoon I loved as a child.*

This is going to be a love post for the character of Cinderella because she is amazing. That is, she literally lost her mother, father, was raised under the oppression of her stepmother and sisters, and still looked for opportunities and remained positive and kind.

She was not angry with the whole world, but even showed concern for smaller creatures (animals). She did not despair finally.

And despite being brought up as a servant (again from early childhood), she was still able to show her stepmother that she also had the right to go to the ball, as a girl living in this kingdom.

If you think about it, the first 20 minutes, that is, until the Fairy Godmother appears, the film shows all her good qualities and perseverance. Which essentially... Makes the "magic problem solving" situation a completely legitimate reward. A chance, even.

A chance to just go out into the world, to break away and be free from responsibilities at least until midnight. For me, the scene after the ball is very important, where Cinderella, already in rags again, is still grateful

And I like that after that, having learned about the possibility of breaking out of this life once and for all, she clings to it. And again, the fact that this happens not without the help of her little friends is also justified. After all, she was kind to them and they responded in kind.

I'm a little sad that the prince (even with two sequels) doesn't have a definitive canon name. In fact, in the original first cartoon he doesn't need this name, because obviously he and Cinderella didn't have time to get to know each other. And technically the story is not about their love at all, but about Cinderella herself. But it's still sad that I couldn't find his name.

But even despite this moment, I love them as a couple (it’s quite possible to allow a fairy tale of love at first sight, right?) And vaguely remembering the events of "A twist of time", I like that the creators went a little deeper and showed that there really is a connection between them

ohhh, I love this story so much

[doe-writes-stuff]

Rick finds reader camping in the woods and, over time, convinces her to join Alexandria. Happy, lovey (optional smutty) ending please!

A/N - Thank you very much for the request! ^_^ Your comments and reblogs always touch my heart <3 I'm glad you're enjoying my stuff.

WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence, blood, injury, strong language. Reader has trust issues. Set during the time-jump between seasons 8 and 9. This will likely have a second part with smut to come >.>

The first time you meet him, he scares you.

You hadn't anticipated meeting anyone out here in the wilderness, let alone someone who didn't intend to kill you. But there he was, stumbling out from the thicket of trees you'd camped within, gun held loosely in his hand, seeming just as startled as you that he'd found someone out here. The pure shock of it had left you both silent, staring

There were so few of you left, and often the people you did have the misfortune of encountering were something less than human nowadays. It was better--safer--to assume he was no different. But rather than lift the weapon to shoot you then and there, he held up his hands in a placating gesture, backing away when you'd stood to prepare yourself for a fight.

"Hey, hey...'m not gonna hurt you. Let's not do anythin' we can't take back, now." He reassured, one palm facing you and the other slowly lowering his gun back into his holster to show he meant the words. Your eyes are riveted on the weapon, your hand grasping the hilt of your knife with a white-knuckle grip.

There's little it could do for you at range against his gun, but still, holding onto it made you feel better.

"My name is Rick Grimes." He watches you carefully, his hand still stretched out to try calming you. "And I ain't lookin' for violence. Just out scavengin'."

You say nothing at the introduction, not trusting anything he had to say. You shift uneasily on your feet, eyes flicking away to the surrounding tree line to look for anyone else hidden from your view. Surely a man like this wasn't alone-

"It's just me out here." He seems to understand what's on your mind, settling into a more relaxed standing position in an effort to get you to do the same. "Just us."

Still, you say nothing. Whatever his true motivation for being out here, you know better than to believe what people tell you at face value. It was a big factor as to why you'd lived this long.

"Can I ask your name?" Perhaps discouraged that you still hadn't responded to his words, his head tilts in a reassuring way, and he takes a step forward, hesitantly.

"Got nothing to say." You gripe, throat tight with anxiety. You match his step back, taking care not to stumble over the log you'd been sitting on mere moments before he'd arrived. "Just wanna be left alone. Best be on your way."

"Maybe we can help each other-"

"Leave."

It's so obvious that he wants to say more, wants to try convincing you he was harmless, but the hair on the back of your neck is standing straight up and you can't bring yourself to care. Your hand takes a better grip of your knife meaningfully, and Rick seems to get the message, once more holding his hands up and slowly backing away the direction he'd come from.

"I'll leave you be, then."

You stay standing, waiting, for at least 20 minutes after he disappears and the sound of his footsteps fade away in the sounds of the forest. You can't trust that he won't turn around and try killing you when your guard was most lowered.

Eventually, your hackles lower. And with a somber glance around at the cozy little campsite you'd occupied for the past couple months, you sigh. You supposed it was time to move on.

The second time you meet, you nearly kill him.

The little cabin in the woods you'd discovered after packing up camp had clearly seen better days, but over the course of the few weeks you'd been staying there, it felt a little more like a home. Some reinforcing wood planks to keep the door from caving in case the infected got wind of you, and a bit of cleaning to get the worst of the bloodstains off from the floor saw the inside looking downright cosy.

It wasn't exactly your apartment from back in the day, but hey, one couldn't be picky.

The sound of shuffling feet outside has you glancing up from your book and sighing, annoyed that an infected or two had wandered their way close to your shelter. It was strange that they so frequently seemed to wander by this deep into the woods. You hadn't seen that pattern at your old campsite, but here it was almost routine.

You dog-ear the page you were on and set it on the side table, next to the burning candle providing you with the light. Grabbing your improvised spear leaning in the corner of the main living space, you rise and peer out the window to out into the darkening evening.

You freeze, pulling yourself out of the window's sight. A stuttered breath escapes you.

Two men. Not infected. Shit.

Backing away and crouching down below the sill of the window, you scramble as quietly as you can towards where you kept your small bag of weapons on the nearby counter. One hand reaches up into it, ears perked up for any sign that the men had reached your doorstep, and blindly closes around the handle of your 9mm pistol.

Thank fuck you always kept it loaded.

You catch snippets of the two talking outside, the distance and the walls in between you making the words indistinguishable, but their closeness had your heart pounding a little faster in your chest. Your eyes scan the room, looking for a hiding spot or a vantage point that would protect you from possible harm. And suddenly the cabin doesn't seem all that great anymore, seeing nothing to aid you and nowhere to hide.

With a snarl, you curse your own shitty luck. This might get ugly.

Drawing the knife from your hip into your other hand, you crouch to the right of the front doorway, back to the wall. At least it should shield you when they initially entered your little home. Maybe it would buy you a little time, but you didn't hold out hope you could hide from them completely. Not with two of them...

Heavy boots on the steps to your cabin alert you to their impending entrance. With a moment to close your eyes and focus, you adjust the gun's grip in your hand, opening them again when you hear mumbling and hesitation from the two intruders. Their voices are low, gruff.

A spike shoots through your heart when the door bursts open, swinging towards you on its squeaking hinges. Just as planned, it shields you from their initial entrance. They step inside, systematically checking the room. You get ready on your toes, prepared to spring out at a moment's notice.

You get your chance as the door begins to close, the man doing so with their back to you, talking to their companion in a hushed tone. And while the crossbow-wielding companion widens his eyes as he spots you, the other that you'd set your sights on is too late to react as you gun is held to his temple and the knife rests upon his neck. He tenses with a curse under his breath, and smartly doesn't try to resist.

"Hey!" Your captive's companion shouts, eyes hard. "Let 'im go."

"Hell if I'm gonna just let you bastards walk in and take what you want." You say with as much steadiness as you can manage in your voice. "Y'all're trespassing in my home. I got every right to defend myself."

He practically growls back. "Ain't gonna be anyone's if you don't get those outta his face."

The crossbowman shifts on his feet, trying to figure out what to do, given his friends is currently in such a precarious spot between your weapons. It surely doesn't help your own nerves seeing him so antsy. You find yourself pressing the knife just a little bit more against your hostage's skin, not enough to actually cut, but at least so he doesn't get any stupid ideas while you have control.

"Tell your friend to put the crossbow down." You mutter into the man's ear, ignoring the feeling that you somehow...recognized him. You hadn't gotten a great look at his face before holding him captive, but something about him felt...familiar.

"Daryl, easy." The man in front of you says, one hand coming up to try placating the other. "Put it down. We'll talk."

One of the crossbow bolts is leveled straight at you, but you're careful to keep most of your body hidden behind the man you were currently holding hostage. If he was smart, he wouldn't try taking his chances with shooting the small portion of you that was visible. Besides, even if he got a shot off, there was no telling if you'd accidentally pull the trigger or slice his neck on the way down. And that doubt was exactly what you needed.

You can see him--Daryl, supposedly-- glancing between you and his friend, but eventually the crossbow is lowered to a more non-threatening state. Wasn't all that happy about it, either. He still hadn't put it onto his back, ready to bring it up and shoot you at a moment's notice, but at least you weren't staring down the business end of an arrow.

"Say your piece." Daryl spits.

"All I want is to be left alone." You demand, keeping the knife to your captive's neck, but pointing the gun at Daryl. You flick it quickly towards the open door behind you. "Leave, and I'll send your friend a few minutes after when I'm satisfied you're not nearby."

Clearly unhappy with that demand, Daryl takes a step forward, but your gun returns to his companion's head for emphasis. "Don't have to like it, but if you don't want him hurt, then do as I ask."

"Like hell I'll-"

"Do what she says."

Daryl's jaw sets. "Rick, I ain't leavin' you with-"

"Like she said, it's her home."

Before you can fully mask it, your brows twitch upwards in recognition. That name...

"Askin' me to trust her..." Chewing on his bottle lip with worry, Daryl looks back to you with a glare. "What's to say you won't kill him the moment I walk out that door?"

"All you got is my word that I won't." You admit, knowing that promises meant so little nowadays. Your answer doesn't inspire any reassurance in the bowman, who scoffs and shakes his head. "I just want you away from me, and I'd prefer not to kill anyone to do it. But I will if you make me."

Rick nods as much as your knife allows him to towards the open door. "Go on. I'll catch up with you."

It takes several seconds, and no doubt some unspoken conversation between Rick and Daryl, but eventually the crossbowman takes one step and then another towards the door. You shift and lead Rick so that your back is never to Daryl as he goes, the gun and knife staying right where they are just in case he tries anything stupid.

You watch, adrenaline quickening your breath, as Daryl does as he's told and steps down onto the grass, finally disappearing into the trees beyond after some minutes. And even still, it takes another minute before you're completely comfortable that he's left.

Now, to deal with your hostage...

You release the knife and push him away from you harshly, gun leveled squarely on his head. Rick recovers, turning to see that while he was no longer in your hostile grip, he wasn't fully in the clear either.

"Told you once already Rick." You say, immediately recognizing the man and his scruffy facial hair. From the scrunch of his eyes and furrowed brow, clearly he'd also been wondering why you sounded so familiar too. "I just wanna be left alone."

"Didn't know it was you." He says, reaching up to rub at his neck, checking for cuts. But there was nothing. "Far as I knew, you were still campin' somewhere in the woods. If I'da known, wouldn't have come out here."

"Well..." You give a sigh, feeling a sudden sensation of fatigue. All this had thoroughly exhausted you. "Doesn't matter now. What's done is done."

He looks at you silently, appearing very relaxed for still having the gun aimed at him. Perhaps he didn't believe you'd really shoot. And unfortunately for you, it was growing more and more likely you wouldn't.

With a glance towards the door--there was no sign of Daryl, still--you gesture to it with your knife. "Go on. Don't come back. I'll be gone by the time you might come looking anyway."

Rick gives one last look, before slowly walking to the open door. But, he stops just as he gets to the threshold, turning back to you again with a thoughtful expression.

"You don't have to be alone." His voice is soft, gentle, and yet still holds onto that confidence and certainty you'd heard when you'd first met. "Daryl and I...we come from a community. Dozens of people. Good people."

You only stare, making it clear what your answer was with the hardness of your expression. Even still, it doesn't stop him from trying one more time.

"It ain't safe out here on your own anymore. People have always needed each other, even before, but that's more true now than it ever was. Can't you see that?"

At the very least, you spare him a few moments of thought, before you gesture towards the door with your gun without a word. Rick looks down, accepting that he hadn't convinced you. Then, you see a little amused smile lift the corners of his mouth, head shaking slightly.

"I still don't even know your name."

You match his smile, though it lacks the amusement.

"It's better that way."

Hmm, well, they say the third time's the charm.

Out of breath, heart beating the drums of adrenaline and survival instinct through you, your eyes whipped around the forest for any sign of your pursuers. The rain wasn't making it easy at all, pouring down through the canopy of leaves above and making everything much too noisy to hear if anyone was closing in.

You'd lost a lot of blood, and you'd no doubt lose a lot more unless you managed to get a decent bandage on your wound. The first had already fallen off, sopping wet from the rain and doing nothing whatsoever to staunch the blood from seeping out of your side. Whatever caliber round the person with the rifle was using was terrifying, and you doubted another shot would miss its mark quite like the first did.

Fatigue was dangerously close to descending on your muscles and limbs, and already you could feel the impending weakness from not enough blood pumping through your veins. You didn't have much time. But your only option was to run.

Blindly. Frantically. No destination in mind, and no one to help you. Was this how you died? Were all those years making ends meet, killing and scavenging and surviving just to bleed out like this? Like a wounded animal in the middle of nowhere? It all felt so unbelievably unfair.

Teeth grit against both the searing pain of your wound and the tired muscles in your legs, you rise from against the tree with a gasp and limp as fast as you were able through the dark grey forest.

Paranoia had you hearing the crunch of leaves behind you every few feet, but no matter how many times you'd whip your head around to face the incoming threat, there was no one there. The rain deafened everything else, and it was then that you realized you needed to have a better sense of the direction you were running. All of this wouldn't be helped by running face-first into the jaws of a hungry infected.

Wiping the rain from your eyes as best you can, squinting into the gloom, you make your way in one set direction. The forest all looked the same, no matter where you swept your gaze. For all you knew, you could be running in circles-

The distant bang somewhere behind you wasn't what caused your body to jolt painfully in place, but the splintering of the tree trunk from the bullet's impact right beside you certainly did. With a yelp of surprise and fear, you take off with renewed vigor, pushing past your already screaming lungs and shaking limbs.

You would not die out here. You swore it.

Now making a zig-zagging path through the forest, hopeful that the unpredictable path would discourage further shots from your would-be killer, you keep going. Your own sense of dread rises the more you feel yourself becoming dizzy. Whether it was from pushing yourself too hard, running for too long, or simply the loss of blood, you can't be sure.

And suddenly you're breaking through the trees and onto an empty road. And while you're surprised by the unexpected change of scenery, you don't have time to properly stop and process it.

That's why, seeing something that looked manmade at the end of the road up ahead--too far to make out properly, but clearly a construction of some kind--you immediately make your way towards it. The thought that someone might be inside didn't even cross your mind. Perhaps it would give you the shelter or place to hide that you needed. That was the plan, anyway.

Black dots edge at your vision, and you slow, chest heaving with the need for oxygen. Which, in turn, only further worsens your body's need for blood to distribute it.

No, no, no no no!

You'd reached your limit, and barely 100 meters from the walls you'd been running towards, you collapse in a heap in the rain. The impact upon the pavement doesn't register until moments later, and by then you swear you're hearing things because...over the sound of the pounding rain, you swear you hear voices.

Stay with me.

Don't close your eyes.

Self-preservation tells you that something is nearby, and a figure takes up the small window of vision you still have left, but everything is much too blurry to make out. The disorientation of being on the brink of passing out is terrifying.

This is the end, you think, cursing everything and everyone you can think of in your last moments, quickly losing the ability to even care as blood loss seeps you of strength. How completely unfair.

Consciousness eludes you, and everything goes black.

No matter how many days you heard it, some part of you believed you'd never get used to the sound; the laughter of children. Sing-songy voices as they played chalk games and tag in some nearby yard. When was the last time you'd heard such...such joy?

You'd cried when you realized you could no longer remember. The doctor attending to you--Siddiq as you'd learned his name to be later on--was quite concerned upon seeing you with red, watery eyes when he'd returned. It had taken quite a lot to convince him you were fine. It had taken all afternoon to truly accept the fact that you weren't dreaming and this was indeed real life. Without even having to explain your feelings, he'd seemed to just know, and understand.

There was little else to do but sleep and think when stuck in an infirmary bed for days on end. It had only taken you until that first afternoon to inspect your room with suspicion. The decorative trinkets and knick-knacks almost felt offensive. You'd nearly just died, and they'd stuck your ass in a room that looked right at home in one of those interior design magazines from way back when.

Rick had visited you that first evening. Came to check on you and see if you were recovering ok. Past the basic small talk, and the most superficial of answers to deeper questions, the conversation had been brief. And then he'd left, promising to come back another time when you were feeling more up to talking.

After that, there'd been more hours of staring up at a ceiling. More bouts of short naps that, admittedly, were very much needed. You hadn't slept as long or so comfortably in...hell, you couldn't recall. Unable to lift yourself from the bed, there was little else to do but wait, bide your time and recover.

And it unfortunately wouldn't be quick.

For the most part, you were left alone. From what you had surmised, they'd stuck you in a room separate to the rest of the infirmary, perhaps for safety. You didn't mind the distance. It gave you plenty of time to listen, to observe, to get an idea of what Rick had talked about in that cabins all those weeks ago. His words had meant so little back then, but now...?

Rick and his people truly had it lucky. All this...normality. People forgetting about the world out there, if even for a moment. Such luxury you'd never been able to afford. Slipping up for even a moment could very literally be a death sentence--hell, it nearly had been, even when you'd stayed vigilant--but these people...they didn't live every waking moment wondering if the next would be their last. They didn't sleep with a knife in their hands, ready to strike against anything that felt out of place. They didn't need walls around their hearts and minds because they'd built them from metal to protects their homes and their families. Large sheets, tall and sturdy.

These people...they laughed, they loved, they danced and sang. They ate dinners together around a table as a family. They gossiped with their neighbors, worried about if you were comfortable or if you needed another pillow behind your head. They cared, damnit. They felt safe.

They lived, so fully and freely.

Could you say the same for yourself?

If asked, you didn't think you'd be able to describe the feelings being in a place like this was invoking. Some mix between disbelief and...hope, perhaps. Something once thought unattainable, or lost forever, was right here in front of your eyes. And suddenly you thought you understood the difference between living and just surviving. Or, at the very least, began to grasp at the concept.

Your wound was still tender. It would be for another week still. But after several days of bed rest you could finally stand and walk around without much difficulty now. You wouldn't be running marathons anytime soon, but it was better than being confined. Although, Siddiq kept you from leaving the infirmary and getting some fresh air, which indicated that someone had put you on some sort of house arrest.

Made sense. You weren't much more than a stranger to any of these people. No one would let someone like that run amuck in their home.

You heard the footsteps leading up to your door before it actually opened. Turning away from the window you'd been looking out of, Rick enters almost cautiously. You meet his gaze, searching for any hint of deception, or bad intentions, but find none. He was comfortable in his surroundings.

He even felt safe enough to offer you a smile.

"Good to see you on your feet." He says evenly, leaning one elbow against a shelf on the opposite end of the room. His thumb slots into his jean pockets with the other. "Siddiq wasn't sure if you'd pull through that first night."

"Yeah, well..." You shrug, not sure what else to say, arms crossing over your chest. "Tougher than I look, I guess."

"That you are."

There's a lull, neither of you really sure what to say. Your gaze returned out the window of your infirmary room, tracking a group of children running after one another playing some sort of game. You couldn't tell exactly what the objective was, watching from afar.

After several moments of watching them, your lip twitches upwards a little. "This all...still feels a bit like a dream. Like I'll wake up at any second and be hit with reality."

You hear him huff an amused breath, steps coming closer. And while you once might have tensed and put more distance between the two of you, it seems illogical that he'd drag you into his home to save your life just to take it now. The reassurance that Rick didn't mean you harm meant you didn't flinch when he came up beside you to peer out the window as well.

"Felt that way for us, too, when we first came." He says with an understanding nod. "Feelin' like the floor's 'bout to give way from underneath you, somethin' like that?"

You nod, then something he'd said makes your brow raise. "You weren't here from the start?"

"My people came later. Much later, actually. We spent weeks on the road just...survivin.' Searchin' for somethin' we didn't know was there or not. And this,'" he gestures out the window, "is what we find at the end of it all. All I could tell myself is 'there must be somethin'. There had to be somethin'...wrong about it. Nothin's that easy. Not anymore."

"And was there? Something wrong?" You can't help but ask, unable to help but get invested in his little story.

"Nothing a harsh wake-up call couldn't fix. They weren't prepared for it, what's out there. Didn't realize how bad it could actually be." Another gesture, this time to the wall you could see in between the gaps of two houses further down. "But they're still here, and that's gotta say something about this place."

You look to him with a side eye. "That they're lucky?"

"That they're capable." Rick's head shakes, meeting your gaze. "See, that's what I missed the first time. I didn't see what they could make themselves to be. It may look like the old world, might have a few fancy amenities, but they've been through more than you think to still be here. And we did it together. For one another."

It's silent as you take in what he'd told you, eyes flicking back to the kids outside. "Tryin' to convince me to stay?" You ask, the humor evident in your tone.

Rick chuckles, that same smile gracing his expression. It still amazed you how at ease he could be in a stranger's presence. "Is it workin'?"

"Not sure yet." You say honestly, a lot of things on your mind.

"I'll take 'not sure' over 'hell no.'" Rick surmises with an accepting nod, not pushing it any further than that. "Siddiq expects you to need awhile longer to recover, so...gives you plenty of time to think on it."

"Maybe..." A thought suddenly comes to mind, and your own smile comes out. "I doubt your friend would appreciate me stayin'."

"Who, Daryl?" Rick's hand dismisses it with a wave. "He'll come around. We were the ones breakin' into your home, after all. Can't blame how you went about defendin' it."

You only shake your head, not truly believing him. Daryl, as you recall, had been ready to skewer you with one of his crossbow bolts. You weren't altogether convinced he still wouldn't the next time you met face to face.

"I'll let you rest." Rick says, pushing away from the window and laying his hand on your shoulder briefly, before turning to leave. "And if you do come to a decision, let me know."

Chewing on your bottom lip in thought, you nod, and he takes his leave of your room, the door closing shut behind him. Your stare remains on the wood for several minutes after, before eventually returning to the window. The children had disappeared from sight, perhaps off to get something to eat. It felt around lunch time anyway.

You had a lot to think about...

[rozcdust]

Mockingbird

Pairing: Shinichiro Sano x F!Reader

Genre: Crack, fluff, lil angst

Word count: 1.6K

Warnings: Canon divergent, OOC, profanity, mentioned panic attacks, non-graphic mentions of a snake eating

You were born rotten, but he had a chance.

pt. 1 | previous | playlist

Shinichiro nervously checked his watch, the numbers 7:32 flashing back at him like a slap in the face.

He arrived at the meeting spot at 6:50, not wanting to be late a second, fixing his hair and lighting a cigarette to calm his nerves, first only thinking you’ll be a couple of minutes late, no biggie.

But soon 7 p.m. turned into 7:10, then 7:20, and by that point, he was sure you just weren’t gonna show up, that it was just a way to mock him a little more, maybe to decimate his self-esteem entirely.

He already considered throwing the flowers Izana, Mikey and Emma picked for you into the trash and just going to get drunk with Takeomi, already imaging the mocking look on his friend’s face, but he decided to wait a little more, maybe until 8, then he will go wallow in self misery and alcohol and regretting every single life choice he has ever made.

Well, this has been soul-crushing, goodbye any and all self-respect.

“Hey! Lover boy!”

He of all things did not expect to look up and see you running, stopping right in front of him to bend at the waist and hold your side, taking deep, heavy breaths, looking like you’ll collapse.

“Fuck, I am so, so incredibly sorry, I had to drop my brother off at his friend’s but then he got a panic attack and I couldn’t just leave him like that and then there was traffic and-“

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, no worries,” Carefully patting your back, Shinichiro could not hide the way he perked up like a dog being promised a treat, “Is your brother okay? Do you need to go back?”

You came after all!

Shaking your head as you plopped down next to the water fountain, you buried your face in your hands, trying to steady your heartbeat, politely thanking Shinichiro when he handed you a water bottle.

“No, no, I asked him if he wants me to stay but he said to get my ass here, so yeah, he’s fine now, I went to drop him off at 5 so I’d be on time, couldn’t leave him alone, but some* motherfucker in the building was yelling and that set him off and-“

“It’s fine,” Smiling, Shinichiro sat down next to you, carefully settling the flowers by his side, “No need to explain yourself, don’t worry, just catch your breath.”

Nodding as you looked up at him with a smile, your eyes widened as you caught sight of his face, arm instinctively reaching out to ruffle his hair.

“Hey, you left your hair down!” Grinning, you ignored the way his ears flushed, “Also, you look nice. That shirt really suits you.”

“Well, you said I looked cute that way.” He shrugged, trying to play it off cool, as if you hadn’t already made him eat concrete, “And thanks, my little brother bullied me into wearing it- Oh, also, um- These are for you. My siblings helped pick them out.”

Carefully handing the flowers over to you, he felt his soul only slightly die at your confused face.

“Oh, thank you? Sorry, kinda awkward, never received flowers that weren’t from my brother before- Is it okay if I put them in my bag so I don’t lose them?“

Never mind, he suddenly got the desire to live again when you smiled shyly, a finger passing over the petal of one of the tiger lilies in the bouquet.

“Sure, I planned for us to go to an aquarium if that’s okay? I mean, that’s kinda childish now that I think about it, if you wanna go somewhere else that’s totally fine-”

A teasing grin spreading on your face made him stop his speech, his ears to flush a bright pink again as you pulled him up to his feet, standing so close he could feel your breath on his face.

“I would fucking love going to the aquarium and look at some fish.”

“Shin, this one kinda looks like you.”

Shinichiro’s eyes narrowed as he leaned down the observe the fish you were pointing at.

“It looks stupid and confused.”

You flashed him a mischievous grin.

“Exactly!”

“Wow. I’m feeling bullied right now.”

“You should. I am bullying you.”

“Mean. Come on, let’s go see the snakes.” Rolling his eyes, Shinichiro linked his arm with yours, dragging you towards the exhibit.

He half expected you to recoil and scowl at the sight of a large boa, apparently in the middle of a meal, but your eyes lit up like a little kid’s, clearly fascinated as you got a touch too close to the glass.

“You are a little too into watching that snake swallow a mouse alive.” Teasingly, Shin elbowed you, but you swatted at him, finally looking up at him, and he suddenly knew an aquarium was a good choice.

“I live with an 11-year-old kid, of course I think a snake eating a mouse alive is cool.” Sticking your tongue out to him, you let out a short laugh at his scandalised look.

“Oh yeah, been meaning to ask you, you said you had to leave him at a friend’s because no one could watch him?”

Shinichiro saw the way you tensed, slowly turning to face him fully, but he pushed on.

“Are your parents not in town or?”

You scratched the back of your neck, avoiding his gaze as you stared at the snake, deep in thought.

“We don’t live with our parents. They were kinda shitty so I took my brother and left.”

Shinichiro knew a nerve when he touched one. He tried to backtrack, but it seemed a little too late for that now.

“Oh! Oh my God, I’m so sorry-“

You shook your head, smiling softly.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.“

A beat of silence passed.

“Wanna go see the alligators so we can break this awkwardness?”

“Yes, yes, God, please.”

Laughing, you took his hand into yours, starting to talk about how you hoped they were feeding the alligators too, and for a second, he couldn’t help but grin at your childish glee.

“I swear to God, you seem like you never went to an aquarium before.”

Turning your head slightly to give him a look, your smile turned only a touch regretful.

Only a touch angry.

“I actually never did, so this is seriously an excellent date.”

“Ah. I’m glad.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one walking you home?”

“Respectfully, I think I can handle myself more than you can.”

Shinichiro nodded with a small smile as the two of you stopped in front of his house.

“I really had fun today,” Taking a deep, long breath, Shinichiro nervously played with the lighter in his pocket, “I’d like it if we could do this again someday?”

Your smile was gentle as you nodded, opening your mouth to respond, but something caught your eye.

You raised an eyebrow, looking at the tan, white-haired teenager observing you through the window, a younger, blonde child tightly tucked into his arms as the other, equally young and blond child was perched atop his shoulders, all three staring, eyes narrowed.

For a second, you could swear you saw a fourth kid clinging to the teen’s back, but he was gone before you could really process it.

Raising an arm to wave, Shinichiro followed your line of sight, but the teen yanked the curtain closed before he could spot them.

He let out a groan, his hand running through his hair in frustration.

“Sorry, those are my siblings, little menaces. They were half convinced I made up I have a date.”

“Huh, tracks. Were you adopted? They’re all blond.”

Shinichiro gave you a look of utmost betrayal.

“Wow. I’d get it if this was coming from them, they gang up on me all the time anyway, but you? Seriously?”

You raised your arms up in defeat, allowing just a crack of a teasing smile to slip.

“Hey, just saying.”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“I should probably go in, they’ll have so many questions.”

“Oh, sure!” Leaning down to quickly kiss his cheek, right at the corner of his mouth, you grinned at the way his face flushed, “I had a good time too. See you soon, Sano Shinichiro!”

He waved back, waiting on you to turn a corner before storming into the house, on his way to find the little monsters and perhaps tell them off just a little.

And he did, caught them red fucking handed, innocently pretending to do anything but stalking him, Mikey still sat atop Izana’s shoulder as Emma at least tried to pretend to be asleep, face buried into Izana’s neck, but an eye peeking open betraying her.

Sighing, Shinichiro glared.

“Are you all done?”

“We weren’t sure that you weren’t hallucinating.” Izana had the audacity to shrug, Mikey nodding along.

“Or that it wasn’t just Wakasa in a wig.”

“I hate this house.”

Izana rolled his eyes.

“Oh come on, you love us.”

Shinichiro let out a long, theatrical sigh, before ruffling the teen’s hair.

“I, unfortunately, really do.” Shinichiro’s eyes narrowed for just a second as he caught a flash of blue peeking from behind his brother, “Izana. Turn around.”

The teen did as asked, and as expected, Haruchiyo was there, holding onto Izana’s back like his life depended on it as he awkwardly turned his head to send Shin an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, Shin-nii.”

“It’s okay, Haru. I imagine they dragged you into this.”

“We did not!” Mikey complained, but Izana’s muttered ‘We did’ in no way helped his cause.

. . . next

🔖Taglist (open):

@1818cigarettes @nana-phobia @dilf-city @wakasa-wifey @rinsie @kisekihany @missarabellla @bajifairyy @cryszus @r-xochitl @levistiddies @sanzucide @touyasghost @graythecoffeebean @yukihime-mikeys-girl @mukounisuru-gashadokuro @sunahyejin @crybabylisa @yamaguccitadashi @minoozi @trashmemebitch @frogtits1 @sup-zfam @whydohumansss @xashiui @bontens-whore @nqctre @lumi-does-some-stuff @hana-patata @hxked @erza-uzumaki @sh4nn @sisnot @soushswag @kneeapartman @anahryal @reiners-milkbiddies @satsuri3su @aretheea @bluerskiees @galactict3a @bontensbabygirl @somniari-94 @astropheia @rgtgt @bubble-dream-inc @princesshaitani @luvjiro

a/n: won’t be able to update tomorrow bc i’ll be busy aS FUCK so posting early now to get it off my schedule, plus i really liked writing this chapter 🤧

[queertwilight]

Under threat from my sister @awkwardlysarah I have been forced to return to this hellsite in the middle of a delirious long day to post what she has informed me is the best idea she has ever had. please share and show her some love so that she thinks i’m a cool older sister and not just a tired grad student with a nostalgic affection for this series. Seriously she’s really excited about this post and I love her so make her happy or else :) Without further ado:

The Cullens as Different K-Pop Fans

Disclaimer: this is all my @awkwardlysarah head canons not my sister’s @queertwilight. I decided to combine my love for K-pop with my sister’s love for twilight. My qualifications are that I’ve been listening to K-pop for 6 years, so I kinda know a lot. Also no hate to any of the artists mentioned, you can have your own opinions and I’ll have mine. Silly little post enjoy!

Edward:

-exclusively listens to K-drama OST’s

-mainly for the instrumental and piano

-listens to the Best KDRAMA OST: of all time playlist and ranks them by instrumental

-secretly does watch K-dramas but claims its to help “appreciate” the music, has cried to almost every drama he’s seen

-Does not understand the appeal of K-Pop groups, prefers what he believes to be the classics

-Though, Alice once showed him RM’s album Mono and is now his biggest fan

-“No, you don’t understand guys if I met Namjoon we would get along perfectly. We could go on a museum date together and talk about life.”

-Loves RM’s newest release Indigo and locked himself in his room to reflect on the lyrics in the album.

-He too, mourns the loss (of what would have been) his 20’s

Rosalie:

-she is such a baddie with her K-pop taste

-mainly a 2nd gen girl group stan, but dips her toes in 4th gen (mainly AESPA) because Emmett showed her a couple groups

-also loves soloists-mainly IU and BIBI and DPR

-BIGGEST 2NE1 and 4minute stan there is (prays on YG and Cube’s downfall)

-if the songs are about being bad bitches then Rosalie is listening to them

-she can low key body any rap by CL

-has her more mellow moments when listening to Girl’s Generation and IU

-overall supports her girlies

-will fight trolls online that try to discredit any of the girls’ careers (

-has made multiple accounts deactivate because she proved them so wrong they could not show their faces online again

Emmett:

-OH BOY

-when Emmett discovered K-pop it was like opening up a portal that could no longer be closed

-he had casually stanned 3rd gen groups (since Alice listened to them)

-but then he found LOONA and other girl groups

-Rosalie low key curses this day btw

-became the biggest Orbit and Chuu stan

-“Emmett we have to go save Bella, she’s in danger.”

“Idk, maybe if she stanned LOONA this wouldn’t have happened.”

-is a photo card collector (Rosalie put a stop to this after he spent 3K on a Chuu broadcast photo card and getting scammed trying to buy other pcs)

-when I tell you he was so devastated that Chuu was kicked out of LOONA

-he didn’t have the strength to go hunting for DAYS

-helped boycott BlockBerry Creative #freeLOONA

-he does also dabble in boy groups; mainly Enhypen because he thinks they are actual vampires. (No one tell him it is just a concept it would break his heart, he streamed Bite Me for days because he felt SO seen).

Alice:

-MY MULTISTAN QUEEN!!!

-she knows everything about every group (obvi) and knows which groups are unproblematic

-runs an undercover KPOPpredictions twitter account where all her visions go

-Loves groups mainly for lore/storyline purposes

-like TXT, BTS, ENHYPEN, ATEEZ, EXO, etc. she LOVES a good storyline

-does theories on her main stan blogs about what she believes the MVs mean for the overall story

-always has people commenting on her theories about how right she is.

-is also a K-pop dance/lifestlye influencer

-give her 10 minutes and she WILL know the entire dance-will upload and edit it almost instantly

-has been featured in KCON dream stages and has been able to dance alongside some of her fav groups

-love planning her outfits for concerts and giving people inspiration on her social media platforms

“You need help coming up with vampire themed outfits for Enhypen’s upcoming concert, say no more I’ve got just the looks for you!”

Jasper:

-some of y’all may be a bit mad about this one…

-he’s the problematic K-pop stan

-like his playlist is CONTROVERSIAL

-liked sticker when it first released (believed the flute is what tied it together)

-low key a Jay Park stan on main

-…and a super junior apologist

(what did you expect he literally was a confederate solider)

-If a group has a cowboy concept he will be all over it tho, “takes me back to my roots.”

-will start shit online because he knows in the end he can control their emotions

-loves those unpopular k-pop opinion videos

-Alice does try to get him away from the problematic side of K-pop and it does kinda work, but like quitting human blood it takes him some time

-not a big stan, he’s kinda in it for the drama and to be an instigator

[thelastofharrington]

the hard with the soft

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

A/N: hello! this is my first joel fic that i've ever written! i'm really excited about it and made this whole blog just to post it lol. there is plenty of smut in this so mdni! let me know what you think :)

summary: Falling in love with Joel Miller was something that happened to you little by little, and then all at once. To say the chemistry was immediate would be a complete lie. At first, you couldn’t even tell if he wanted you around, let alone wanted you in his bed. No, when he rescued you that day from one of Bill’s well-laid traps, you were certain he would never see you as anything other than a nuisance. A pest he had to take care of. 

Oh how wrong you were.

tags: praise, porn with context, slow burn, mutual pining, joel is soft on the inside, reader is down bad fr, non-canonical, rip bill and frank, takes place a year/two years after the show starts, love in the midst of an apocalypse is beautiful y'all

word count: 7k

i hope you enjoy!!!

Part 1: The Stumble, 1 Year Ago

You were hungry. Starving, even. You had been left behind from your group of outcasts three days ago (or had it been four? You were too exhausted to keep track of the time) when you twisted your ankle and couldn’t keep up the pace. You weren’t overly friendly with your most recent pack of ragtag survivors, mostly seeing them and each other as a mere means of survival rather than company. You hadn’t known friendliness or love from your packs since your parents got bit five years ago. Your parents couldn’t have known that three years after they brought you into the world it would fall apart, nor did they know they would both die protecting you from that same world they blindly brought you into. It’s been hard, but you’ve made it through and it actually was your birthday this week, the big 24. What a way to celebrate – being abandoned by the only thing keeping you safe and becoming walking bait for any clickers nearby. But still, you had fairly good spirits all things considered. Until you fell into an eight foot hole. 

It was in this hole that you realized a couple of things:

You’ve stumbled upon a domesticated piece of land. Someone somewhere near had the time, safety, and resources to dig an eight foot hole. 

If your ankle wasn’t sprained before, it was definitely sprained now considering how you landed on it.

You might have just fallen into your grave.

It was a series of progressively worse realizations, to say the least. 

Time had already felt like a concept out of your grasp for the last 20 years, but now there was truly no way of knowing if you had been down there 20 minutes or two hours when a shadow was cast on you. A man-shaped shadow. A man-shaped shadow with a gun. 

The gun was pointed right at you, the sun casting a halo around this giant man’s head. He towered over you as he held his stance firm and still. No one said anything as you both stood, unwavering. 

“I come in peace?” You finally choke out, unsure of what you could possibly say to save your own life right now. 

He doesn’t move, just croaks “How’d you find this place?” You notice the fragments of a Southern accent, nearly lost to the wear and tear of an apocalypse. 

You clear your throat and try to muster up the courage to speak with conviction. “My group abandoned me when I twisted my ankle early this week. I’ve just been aimlessly wandering.” You pause, unsure of if the next sentence will be your last, “This ankle of mine really hurts by the way. Your hole here isn’t really helping, considering I landed on it.”

You see him move his head out from behind the gun and look down at you slightly, then he moves back to position. “Are you armed?”

“No, I’m barely legged.”

He does not laugh.

“That’s something we call a joke, you know, since I can barely walk and all.”

His weight shifts again and he finally puts down the gun. “I’m going to help you out, but after that you better see yourself out of here. I don’t want any more of this and I don’t want any of your friends wandering this way either.”

“I don’t have any friends. I don’t have any family. I’m just me.”

He scoffs, “Sure, kid.”

“I’m also not a kid. I’m 24 years old and I’m hungry and my ankle hurts and why do you even have this hole anyway?!” You notice yourself turning hysterical but you don’t even care. You’re unarmed and you’re hungry and you’re all alone for the first time in a very, very long time. This man holds all of the power to help you and you’re not going to give up until he does. 

He doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does it’s in the form of him reaching down into his utility belt and pulling out a rope, and throwing you the other end. “You get one meal.”

You didn’t even know a meal was on the table, so you hobbled your way behind him as fast as you could. You ended up at a white, well-kept house behind an industrial strength gate. “How the hell did you find this place?”

He doesn’t answer right away, making you worried that you said the wrong thing somehow. Finally, when you’ve reached the front door, he huffs “It belonged to a friend.”

================================================

Part 2: The Fall, 6 Months Ago

That one meal turned into two days which turned into a week which turned a month which turned into six. You owe most of your thanks to Joel’s 14-year-old companion (contraband?), Ellie. She was instrumental in convincing Joel to allow for you to stay. If it weren’t for her, the first dinner would have easily been your last. But she was so taken with you and excited to have another girl let alone someone under 30 hanging out with them. Not that she didn’t adore Joel, or him her in his own little ways. But you were just such a breath of fresh air to her that Joel couldn’t help but allow for you to stay. 

Your role in their little group wasn’t quite clear. Joel did all of the hunting and patrolling necessary to keep this little slice of paradise exactly that, paradise. Ellie’s only job was to stay safe, and you decided to pick up the slack wherever you could. Dishes, clothing repairs, cooking dinner. Ellie didn’t need a nanny by any means, but you basically became a live-in housewife. With none of the perks, despite your daydreaming.

The last six months had been tumultuous for you to say the least. The presence of Joel constantly by your side made a lot of things very difficult. Like focusing, or keeping the weakness out of your knees, or the heat out of your dreams. He was hot, there was no denying it. If he hadn’t been waving a gun in your face the moment you met, it probably wouldn’t have taken you until the end of your first dinner to realize this. But not only was he hot, he was stoic. He was still and firm, a guiding light in this uncertain world you and Ellie both came of age in. He had a cold exterior, but judging by the way he treated Ellie, and eventually you, you knew there was some warmth bubbling beneath the surface. You knew he carried immeasurable hurt on his back, Ellie had told you about his daughter, Tess, Bill and Frank, and that was only the things Ellie knew. Who knew what was in the even further past of this sturdy man. The big, beautiful, brooding man who took care of you and Ellie despite his best instincts. 

You had only very recently gotten over your sprained ankle, taking a full 12 weeks to heal from the severe sprain. This was another saving grace for you in the beginning. Joel liked to pretend that he was heartless, but he still didn’t have the heart to send you on your merry way with only ¼ of your appendages working to their full capacity. He tried to kick you out after your first dinner despite Ellie’s whining, only to be able to only stomach three of your hobbling paces out the door. 

“Oh for God’s sake get back in here why don’t ‘ya,” You remember him sighing.

He took such good care of your ankle, at night when you’re all alone you can still feel the way his calloused fingertips massing you so gently. The hard with the soft; the essence of Joel Miller. 

“Does this hurt?” He asked four weeks in, as you sat for your nightly ankle exam. Starting your very first night, after dinner he would take your foot into his lap and exam it and massage it carefully for upwards of 15 minutes. You weren’t a doctor, but you knew enough to know that a nightly exam was excessive and unnecessary. But even at the very beginning you knew this was his way of showing you that he cared, that he wanted you safe. It was around this time that you realized that Joel had a soft spot for stragglers, for the outcasts who just needed somebody. Between you and Ellie, that much was clear, and it just made you fall faster for him than you thought possible. 

This realization and the true weight of it didn’t come to a head until one day where you decided to go out and try and collect some berries from the woods on the other side of the gate for a pie you wanted to make Joel for his birthday. You had seen him do it a million times, you thought you could get away with it. Until you heard that sound. 

Everything was fine, you had collected your blueberries and you were on your way, and then you heard it. You hear it before you see it, but soon enough you see it all the same. You had your gun with you, but your reaction time was nowhere near as fast as Joel’s was. The clicker starts stalking your way when you lose yourself to your impulses and just start running. You know better than to scream, but you get close. You run and you run and you’re looking back to make sure you’re not going to get caught when you smack into something six foot and massive. Joel’s chest. After you make eye contact you look up and make eye contact with him. He’s silently fuming, fists white knuckling around his gun. 

You go to speak when he stops you, “Don’t.” He whispers right before he shoots the clicker dead with no hesitation or struggle. The walk back to the house is silent, and not because he’s afraid of being found by the clickers. 

The slam of the front door is the first sound you’ve heard in minutes. He whips around and you swear you can see smoke coming out of his ears. “What the hell was that?!”

“I-” You start.

“You know what? I don’t want to know. I can’t hear from you right now.”

You say nothing.

“That was so completely careless! Do you not understand how we do things around here? You stay, I go. It’s as simple as that.” He’s pacing at this point, waving his hands wildly as he works through his anger with you. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

You pause, “I thought you didn’t want to hear from me.”

He stops pacing and looks at you, “Ha ha ha very funny. You’re a real smartass, you know that? If I hadn’t been there God knows what would have happened. You could have gotten killed!”

You look down at your feet, trying to hold back tears before you look back up. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

He sighs, physically decompressing. “Well you went about it all the wrong way. I don’t need anything nice from you, you do enough around the house and with Ellie anyway,” He pauses, “I don’t know what I would have done with myself if you had gotten hurt.” He says this last part in a whisper under his breath, barely able to look at you.

“But it’s your birthday!” You choke out a sob. You’re so mad at yourself for putting yourself in danger and upsetting the man who saved your life six months ago. 

“What? No it’s not.” He says, confused.

Then, a lightbulb goes off for both of you as your jaws drop and you yell in unison, “ELLIE!”

Turns out, Ellie just wanted some pie.

================================================

Part 3: The Catch, Present Day

A lot can change in six months. But also, a lot can stay the same. You’ve grown very accustomed to the life you live here, in this big beautiful house, with your small makeshift family. Ellie is 17 now and makes Joel take her on test drives in Bill’s old truck around town. Joel has definitely gotten used to having you around, and even converted Frank’s old studio into a bedroom for you a couple of months ago. A real upgrade from living on the couch for the first eight months. 

Life is pretty standard, all things considered. You’ve heard more stories about the men who ran the house before you and you think they’d be happy to have people like you living a life like this in the home they built together. It’s a beautiful thing, to have some normalcy in a world fallen apart. 

You spend a lot of time with Ellie, who has developed a crush on one of the QZ traders. She’s tall and lean and tougher than all hell, you can see what Ellie sees in her even if you’re personally afraid of her. This realization on Ellie’s part has prompted a lot of impromptu sleepovers in your art studio turned bedroom, almost all of which are ended by Joel standing in the doorway going on about keeping quiet out of respect for your elders. You have to remind him every time that you too are an elder.

It’s also the summer time which means there’s lots to do outside. You never really learned how to tend to a garden so Joel’s been teaching you how to take care of the one Frank started all those years ago. You two keep it up with the seeds you get from trading with those select few still at the QZ, and it’s been a really special time between the two of you. It also doesn’t hurt that he prefers to work in the garden shirtless. 

“Hello? Hello? Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” 

You snap out of the trance you were in from watching him hoe or row or whatever it is he’s doing with that gardening tool that makes his arms and back look like that. “What? Sorry, I zoned out.”

“You’re never going to learn if you keep daydreamin’ like that.” He gruffs before starting his spiel on strawberries all over again. 

You really can’t get a read on him. Sometimes he treats you as an equal, someone who has a shared interest in their work and in the safety of Ellie, but other times he treats you like you’re a toddler that can’t help but knock their head on the corner of a coffee table. He claims it’s because he doesn’t want you hurt, which you admit gives you butterflies, but if anything between you is ever going to transpire (like you desperately need it to), he can’t see you as just some kid. You’re turning 25 next week, dammit. You deserve some respect. But you’re just not sure how to get it, how to make him see you as a true equal. Someone he can rely on, put his faith into, and even care about on a deeper level. 

The opportunity of a lifetime presents itself one day in the form of something actually rather unfortunate. Joel finally gets hurt.

It’s a pretty normal day until then. You and Ellie practice driving, you journal, listen to some old records. It’s too hot to spend too much time outside, but you definitely make sure to check on the strawberries considering the lecture you got from Joel last week. It’s midafternoon when he comes straggling in, clutching his left arm in his hand and seething through the pain.

You immediately jump up from the couch, “Oh my God, what happened?”

He sinks down on the chair next to the piano, not looking at you. “Nothing, just go get the first aid kit.”

That answer is nowhere near good enough, but you go and get it anyway. Ellie is out in the backyard and doesn’t hear the commotion. When you return with the first aid kit you press on, “You have to tell me what happened so I can know how to treat you.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as you kneel in front of him, opening the kit. “It’s nothing, just gonna need a couple stitches.”

You pry his right hand off his arm and see a deep gash on the bottom of his forearm. It’s not too long, but it sure is deep. “Jesus Joel, what the hell happened?”

He shifts and sighs once more, whispering something under his breath that you can barely hear.

“What was that?” You ask earnestly.

He whispers again, slightly louder this time, but he’s talking too fast to make out what he said. 

“Joel, come on. What happened?” You’re tending to his wound now anyway, but you really do need to know. 

He sighs, bringing his free hand up to pinch between his eyes. Avoiding eye contact with you he finally says, “I was walking back from trading when I saw a flower. I wanted to get that flower for you for your birthday. With my shears in one hand, I leaned down to get it, and I lost my balance and I tripped and I fell on top of the shears and they stabbed me.” He pauses, “There,  you happy? Now that I’ve humiliated myself…” He trails off. 

You’re too stunned to speak. You just keep staring at him, unmoving.

“If you’re not going to fix this up, give me the kit so I can do it myself,” He huffs at you.

You swallow and smile at him, trying to find the words. “Joel Miller, you secret softie. You maimed yourself in the pursuit of trying to do something nice for me, the girl you claim not to want around.”

He locks eyes with you for the first time during this conversation, “I never claimed that.”

Silence hangs in the air for a moment until you clear your throat and turn your attention to the wound at hand (or should you say, at arm?). “Let’s get this stitched up, ok?”

“If Ellie asks, tell her I did something super manly and tough to get these stitches, ok?”

You let out a laugh and nod, “Sir, yes sir.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been three days since Joel hurt himself trying to do something nice for you and it has not left your mind even for a moment. You’re laying in bed wide awake, tossing and turning wondering what this could mean. I never claimed that he said so earnestly to you. I never claimed that. The four words echo in your brain like a megaphone. It’s been torture being around him as if nothing has changed. As if you haven’t changed on a molecular level after those four words rearranged every fiber of your being. It may be nothing, but it also could be something. It could be the that takes what you’ve been craving for almost a year to leave your daydreams and become a reality. Maybe he meant it in a friendly way, maybe even in reference to your working relationship of raising Ellie and keeping her safe. But if that were the case, why did it feel like all of the air in the room stood still? Why did he look to you like he was a puzzle that only you could solve? 

Cordiality be damned, you had to know the answer. 

You sneak out of bed and up the stairs, careful not to wake Ellie in her room on the first floor. Joel may be modest, but he still took the primary bedroom upstairs when they moved in. You avoid the creaking steps up the stairs artfully and end up at his door. It is only at this point you realize how crazy this is. You’re standing outside his door in the middle of the night with no plan and, frankly, no pants on. This is a recipe for disaster that you’ve quickly talked yourself out of. You go to turn around when the door swings open, Joel looking alert. His body visibly relaxes when he sees that it’s just you, and then tenses once more as his eyes trail down our body to the long length of your bare legs. 

“What are you-” “Sorry I was just-” You say at the same time.

You laugh, trying to break the tension. “Sorry, I was just leaving.”

“What are you doing up here, Y/N?” His body was pressed up against the side of the doorway, blocking it almost entirely with his broad stature. Shoulders resting on the side of the doorway, arms and feet crossed, he looked in no hurry to get you out of there. 

“It doesn’t really matter, I answered my own question. I’ll just head back downstairs,” You go to walk away when he grabs your arm lightly, turning you back to face him.

“Must’ve been some curiosity if it’s keeping you up at night.” You’ve never heard him talk like this. Not just the words he was saying but how he was saying them, they were smooth and slow and rich like molasses. It instantly made your mouth dry up and your knees weaker.

“I um, I was just wondering-”

“Yes?” He prompted, his hand still on your arm. Had he ever touched you before this? Surely you would have remembered the heat. 

You look him in the eyes and see a glint, even in the darkness. This spark of something gives you the courage to move along. “I was just wondering what you meant by saying you never claimed you didn’t want me around.”

His hand drops from your arm and the heat is replaced by an instant rush of cold in his absence. He looks away from you and doesn’t speak. 

Fearing you said the wrong thing you cower and turn to walk away once more. How could you have been so stupid? This isn’t just a matter of personal politics, this is a matter of survival. You have no one besides Joel and Ellie and if you get kicked out for bringing feelings into what is a basic need for shelter, food, and water, you will never forgive yourself.

You’re almost to the stairs when you hear him rumble, “I just meant that I have always wanted you around.” You whip around and see him looking at you, his gaze trailing down your body and then all the way back up again. “I want you here. Always have.”

Not moving towards him you speak, “Then why do you act like I’m some sort of helpless child? Why do I not have any real responsibilities? I could be out there, with you, trading and gathering intel. But instead I get, what, strawberries?”

“You don’t get it.” He looks down and shakes his head.

You walk back over to him, softly, so as not to spook him again. “Then help me understand.”

He looks at you with a softer gaze this time, “I keep you here, away from all of that, because I can’t risk you getting hurt,” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “It would kill me.”

You’re stunned. “Joel,” You start before he lifts a hand and cuts you off. 

“And I give you things like strawberries because I want you to have a chance at a good life, a simple life. One I can’t promise you forever but can promise you for right now. One I know you don’t even remember having.”

Your heart is beating immeasurably fast inside your chest. You never considered that these menial tasks were actually normal, and good. Cleaning up after dinner, growing strawberries, talking about crushes with Ellie. In the midst of wanting to prove yourself, you completely forgot to take stock of all that Joel had given you already. All the things people dream about in this day and age. 

You reach a hand up to touch his face, “Thank you. Thank you for giving me something good,” You pause, “I wish I could give you something good in return.”

He leans his head into your hand and closes his eyes, letting out a contented sigh. He turns his head to kiss the palm of your hand, “You are my something good,” he says so low you almost miss it. 

But you don’t miss it. You hear it loud and clear. You hear him loud and clear for probably the first time since you’ve met him. He is stoic and strong and brooding and brave, but he is also caring and thoughtful and safe. He is the hard with the soft, and he’s been giving you both all this time right under your nose. 

You decide to do something risky. You lean in for a kiss. You put your hopes for survival at the back of your mind and for the first time in forever you prioritize living.

It doesn’t take more than two seconds for Joel to pick up on what you’re doing and reciprocate. His arms immediately move from crossed over his chest to around your waist, pulling you deeper into the kiss. He pulls you so deep you cross the threshold of his bedroom, kicking the door shut on your way in. 

“Be quiet or you’ll wake Ellie!” You half scold, half giggle as you make your way towards the bed. 

“Sorry!” He giggles back. Joel Miller. The Joel Miller giggled into your lips. You could hardly believe your ears. 

If his words were like molasses, his kiss was just as sweet. Not too pushy, but with enough force to let you know that he was in charge. He guides you to the mattress with his body and his mouth, making you feel like you’re flying. You’re sprawled out with your legs over the edge of the bed when he finally pulls away and stands before you. 

You look up at him with hooded eyes and heavy breaths, “Why’d you stop?”

He runs his hands through his hair, “I just never want to forget this.” And he dives back down to you, not giving you a moment to respond. 

When he comes back his kiss is still sweet, but with a heat you’ve never experienced before. Granted, all of your past experiences were minimal, probably in the back of an abandoned, decaying car, and in the midst of an apocalypse, but you knew enough to know that it didn’t normally feel like this. 

You part your legs so he can insert his body between them, propping his arms on either side of your head as he kisses you deeply. You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer to you, needing as much of him on you as possible. 

“Somebody’s eager, huh?” He asks you between kisses.

Your resolve is officially broken, you’re laying it all out on the table. “You just have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

He pulls back to look at you, “Oh, I think I have an idea. You tend to have a staring problem, darlin’”

Your face flushes instantly. He lowers his lips to your ears and whispers, “I do too, I’m just a little more subtle with it.” He places kisses on your neck and then trails back up to your ear, “Your body drives me crazy, baby.”

Suddenly his hands are everywhere. One is up by your head so he keeps his balance while the other is trailing up and down your chest, your stomach, your neck. He’s everywhere all at once and it still isn’t enough. Your legs are still wrapped around his waist so you buck up to create even more friction than there already was. 

“Easy there, baby, I’ve been waiting an awful long time for this, I want to take it slow with you. Gotta treat you right.” He pins your waist down to the mattress with one hand. “Let me take care of you, baby.” His look is so sincere all you can do is nod. “Good girl.” 

With that, he takes his hand pinning you down and runs the tips of his fingertips along the waistline of your underwear, teasing you. You whine.

“Patience baby,” A kiss on the cheek, “It will be worth it, I promise,” A kiss on the other cheek. Then his fingers are tugging them down inch by inch until you’re completely bare to him from the waist down. “So pretty,” He says, almost to himself. 

Before you have time to acknowledge what he’s said, the same gentle fingertips that were teasing you a moment ago land on your most sensitive spot, creating a feeling of pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your body somehow tenses and melts into the mattress at once as he works you slowly but surely. 

“How does that feel, baby?” His voice is rough around the edges but soft at its center, he genuinely wants to gauge your reaction, as if your whines and body language weren’t enough. 

“Itfeelssogood” You slur out, hands gripping the sheets on either side of you. 

He kisses your neck, “Good. Now,” He moves his finger to your center and thrusts it in, moving his thumb back to your clit. “How does that feel?”

He’s working you up so good, you feel like you’re floating. His pace is the perfect mix between rough and conscious, never taking his eyes off you for even a second. You can tell he’s loving this as much as you are, and not just because you can feel his erection through his boxers. 

You moan as he works you before answering, “Joel it feels so good.”

“Such a good girl for me, so wet and ready. Is this what you were thinking about when you couldn’t sleep?” He whispers in your ear as he picks up the pace. 

You can feel something building deep inside of you, something you haven’t felt in a long time, and never at this magnitude. It’s coming on strong and fast, you can almost reach it. “Yes, this is what I was thinking about. I was thinking about your hands on me.”

“Mmmm that’s what I like to hear baby, what else were you thinking about?” He grabs one of your hands and brings it to his boxers, “Were you thinking about this?”

You moan and nod your head, he’s continuing to pick up his pace and you’re getting closer and closer. 

“I want you to cum for me, gorgeous. Please cum for me.”

You throw your head back and moan again, “I want to cum for you.”

“Just focus on how good it feels baby, you’re so close I can feel it. Be a good girl for me.”

And just like magic, you’re there. It hits you like a freight train and your whole body is consumed. You’re tensing and writhing and it definitely isn’t normally like this, but you’re just so overcome with emotions for this man and pleasure and all of the things that drive a girl crazy. 

He coaxes you through it with lots of reassurances and hair pets, and then finally you’ve come down. “Thank you,” You say as he brushes some hair out of your face.

“Don’t thank me yet darlin’, I’m not done with you yet.” And with that, he hauls your body up to the head of the bed, making sure your head is all settled on the pillows. He sits back on his knees and takes off his shirt, nodding at you to do  the same. You’re left completely bare and he in his boxers alone. You’re mesmerized by his body. Age normally should have broken him down, but for him he seems to have only been built up. You had seen him in the garden but this, this was something entirely different. He was raw here, with you. 

“This is what I meant by you needing to be more subtle. You don’t need to undress me with your eyes, baby, you just gotta ask.” He stands up and drops his boxers, revealing himself to you fully for the first time. He’s big. Like, real big. And thick. You don’t let yourself dwell on the mechanics for more than a moment, but you do wonder how it’s going to fit.

He gets back in bed and hovers over you once more, “Are you sure about this? We can stop at any time.”

You nod your head, “I’m sure. Never been more sure about anything, actually.”

He gives you one more kiss, a firm one with the promise of a good time. You run your fingers through his hair and tug slightly. He moans into your mouth. “You sure are an eager one, aren’tcha?”

He grabs his member and lines it up with your center, teasing you slightly. You wince at the sensitivity from your previous orgasm. “You ok?” He asks gently.

“Yeah, just a little sensitive. But I’m ready. Please fuck me, Joel.” The words even surprise yourself as you say them. You’re not the best at being direct about what you want, but right now all you can do is rely on pure instinct. 

He chuckles darkly before lining himself up once again, “Your wish is my command, sweetheart.”

And just like that, he’s fucking you. Long, hard strokes that never feel like too much too fast. Just right. You feel the fullness of him immediately and it’s so divine you can’t help but arch into him and moan. Your fingers fly back into his hair as he thrusts into you with such precision, he hits your G-spot every time.

“Is that good for you, baby? Tell me how it feels.” He grunts as he pounds into you expertly.

“I love it, baby. I love it,” You’re breathless as you try to find the words to describe the way he’s making you feel.

He takes one of your legs and rests your ankle on his shoulder, opening you up even more than you thought possible and deepening the angle of his already deep thrusts. You try not to scream, so you grab a pillow and put it over your face.

He rips it off almost immediately, “Oh no, sweetheart. No hiding from me. I want to see your pretty face when I make you cum on my cock.” 

You’re so incoherent you can’t even respond to his filthy words. You just moan in response and grab the sheets on either side of you.

He changes his pace a couple of times, switching from slow and long to fast and shallow, but it never feels out of place or off rhythm. He is just somehow so in tune with your body that he knows exactly what you need when you need it. 

You’re whining and moaning when he lowers your leg and gets his face up next to yours. His hand moves down to  your clit and he starts massaging it while he continues to thrust into you. “You’ve been such a good girl tonight baby,” He says through his own labored breathing. “Coming up here in your little panties practically begging to get fucked. Such a good girl.” You moan so loud he covers your mouth with his other hand, “I love hearing those moans baby but you gotta keep it quiet if you want me to keep going. And I know you want me to keep going.” 

You nod and he removes his hand from your mouth and sits back again, watching you from above. “Play with your tits while I make you cum.” You do as you're told, loving the feeling of his eyes fixed on you while you do exactly what he says. 

Once again, you feel something building inside of you. The combination of him inside you, his fingers working their magic, and his eyes on you makes it nearly impossible to resist the feelings as they come on strong. 

“I’m gonna cum,” You whine. 

“Do it baby, cum for me” He picks up his pace and you can tell he’s getting close himself, can tell he’s chasing something. 

It only takes a couple more seconds before you finish in an explosion of pleasure. You’re so out of it as you come down you barely register him pulling out and grabbing a tissue from the side table. What a gentleman. 

You’re both laying there in silence when the gravity of what just happened finally hits you. You just had sex with the one person that stands between you and certain death. This could ruin everything. You move to get up and go back to your room when you feel an arm on you, pulling you back down. 

“Stay,” He pauses, “Please stay with me.”

You smile softly at him and lay back down, but this time he wraps you up in his arms and spoons you. You can feel his breathing on the back of your neck and his calluses on your arms as he holds you. He starts tracing little circles on your skin with his thumb while he hums. 

“That was amazing,” You say, finally breaking the silence.

“Yeah, um, sorry if I came on too strong,” He pauses, “Haven’t done that in awhile.”

You turn around to face him and you rest a palm on his cheek, “It was perfect. You were perfect. I um, I just hope this doesn’t change anything?” You nervously finish.

He looks startled. He quits rubbing circles on your skin and moves back. “Yeah, no. No, it doesn't have to change anything.”

Clearly, you’ve struck a chord and you don’t know why or how. But you do know that you need to fix it. 

“I just, I know we’re in a precarious situation and I don’t want you to feel like our relationship has changed at all.” You begin.

He sits up fully with his back against the headboard, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Joel?” You join him up against the headboard, covering yourself with the blanket.

He sighs but doesn’t look at you, “If I had thought everything would stay the same I wouldn’t have done what I just did. I wouldn’t have opened the door and I certainly wouldn’t have let you in.”

You’re stunned and you’re scared, having no idea what he’s talking about. “What are you saying?”

Finally, he looks at you. “Dammit Y/N what if I want things to change?” He doesn’t raise his voice at all, but his tone is stern enough to send you aback. 

“What?”

Another sigh, “What if I want things to change? What if I want somebody who is going to be there for me at the end of the day in my bed? This world isn’t permanent and I can’t promise you forever but I can promise you for now. For now, I want this. For now, I want you. And I’m gonna keep wanting you until the thing that stands in the way of me and death itself disappears.” He pauses, “So yeah, maybe you don’t want things to change but I do. Sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear.” He looks away from you again. 

“Joel, I-”

“I don’t want your pity. I get it, I’m just some old man with a 17 year old basket case trailing behind me and you’re young and beautiful and just had an itch to scratch. We’ll continue with business as usual in the morning. Good night.” He flips over onto his side away from you. 

You huff. This is ridiculous, you think to yourself. You tap him on the shoulder.

“You should probably go back to your room, Y/N.”

You tap him on the shoulder again. 

He flips around to look at you, “What more could you possibly want from me?”

You cross your arms over your blanket covered chest, “What makes you think I wanted things to stay the same?”

“Gee, I don’t know, probably the part where you said ‘things don’t have to change’?” He says sarcastically as he sits back up to face you. “Wonder where I got that crazy idea.”

“I was just saying that in case you didn’t want anything to change! I’m totally at your mercy with everything, including my survival here, so sorry for being cautious.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his mouth does fall open in shock a little bit. 

“Joel, trust me when I say I’m not taking pity on you when I say I want this too. I can’t promise you forever but I can promise you for now, and for tomorrow, and for the next day and the day after that. I choose you and I choose Ellie and I want this. I want you. I want to be the one that is there for you at the end of the day.” You smile at him and grab his hand, “You’re my good thing too.”

His face softens and he grabs your joined hands with his other one and leans over to kiss you on the cheek. You lean into it and giggle as he begins peppering a bunch of kisses all over your face. The hard with the soft, that’s Joel Miller.

“Let’s go to bed, shall we?” You ask him as he leans over you, caressing your face.

“Yeah, let’s go to bed.” He gives you one last kiss on the cheek and spoons you once more.

That night you dream of strawberries. Just fields and fields of strawberries. 

[karuuhnia]

Okay, I doubt anyone’s ever gonna read this, but I just need to write down my thoughts on Good Omens Season 2. (Beware of spoilers) 

The Characters

First of all, I love, love, LOVE the writing and especially the acting of everyone involved! Both Michael Sheen and David Tennant (and everyone else) gave absolutely stunning performances! I also like that the main cast was a lot smaller than in season 1, so everyone had more time to shine. Great choice! (I did however kinda miss God’s narration and meta commentary).

My favourite new character is Muriel by far. She is like Aziraphale's cute, naive, dorky little sister or niece and I had the biggest smile on my face whenever she was on screen! I hope to see more of her in season 3 (which we probably will since she now runs the bookshop).

What I also liked was that Nina and Maggie don’t just magically fall in love in the end. I mean, they barely know each other and Nina is still in a relationship for most of the season. I liked that they even call out Crowley and Aziraphale for trying to force a romance between them instead of treating them like real humans with free will. (Was that a slight call-out to shippers in fandoms? Who knows lol) I hope they'll find love along the way, but I'm glad they were portrayed as realistic human beings.

Gabriel goes from smug, condescending asshole everyone loved to hate to adorkable himbo and I'm all for it! lol I wasn't in the fandom back in the day, but apparently Gabriel x Beelzebub was a popular ship and I can only imagine how happy the fans must be now that it became canon! I didn't see it coming at all, but it played out really well and didn't come across as forced. I just found it a bit funny and sad that these two fell in love and decided to break away from Heaven and Hell to be together in only a couple of years whereas Crowley and Aziraphale haven't managed to do that in more than 6000 years.

Which brings me to...

The Last Episode

We all know the last 20 minutes of episode 6 were absolutely heart-wrenching, but I wouldn't have it any other way! It was the perfect ending/cliffhanger in all regards and both their decisions make perfect sense. I wouldn't have wanted Crowley and Aziraphale to get their happy end at this point in the story because they're simply not there yet, character-wise. 

Also, then a huge plot point and conflict would miss from the final 3rd season. I live for the angst and the drama and I can't wait for satisfying character development and the ultimate, heartfelt conclusion. (Please, Neil! ;__;)

Character Analysis

Crowley: 

The most interesting things for me were the several hints that Crowley used to be a very high-ranking and powerful angel before he fell (maybe Gabriel’s predecessor?). 

In S2-1 Aziraphale already knows who Angel Crowley is and looks at him with awe and admiration. (In German we have the great expression "jemanden anhimmeln" - roughly meaning sth like "to admire someone as if they came from heaven")

Crowley was part of the designer team of the universe and worked together closely with the higher-ups. He was also entrusted with starting the engine of a quadrant.

He is a creator and visionary who loves the stars, the planets, the whole universe and sees the big picture. He also uses critical thinking and encourages others to do the same.

The miracle he performs with Aziraphale to hide Gabriel’s identity is so strong that Heaven thinks the most powerful of Archangels must have done it. Since Aziraphale hides Gabriel from Hell and Crowley hides him from Heaven, but the alarm only goes off in Heaven, we can assume that Crowley had a bigger part in the miracle.

He can somehow deceive other angels from recognizing him as a demon: Gabriel, Michael & Co. in the Ijob episode and later Muriel when she first comes to observe Aziraphale. 

He can change the weather and cause fire or lightning at will.

He still has access to classified files for dominions or above.

He literally brings the guy who was killed by the demon horde back to life like it's nothing.  Short update: Neil recently said that Mr. Brown wasn't actually dead but only held captive during the battle. Well, Crowley at least healed Mr. Brown's injuries and removed his traumatic memories.

He is the only one in a room full of high-ranking angels who recognizes Metatron as what he is.

But it’s also implied that Crowley may have memory loss after he was kicked out of heaven because the angels did to him something similar to what they want to do to Gabriel now.

He doesn't remember working on the universe with Saraqael.

He remembers being in the Great War, but not battling right beside Furfur.

He vaguely remembers discussing gravity with the other angels, but he doesn’t remember why it was a good idea.

He seems to know exactly what the amnestic Gabriel is going through (the empty house metaphor, the physical pain of trying to remember etc.)

Crowley is hiding a huge trauma and it becomes really obvious how hurt and lonely he really is. 

In S1-5 we learn Crowley was tortured by being thrown into a pool of boiling sulfur, just because he dared to ask a few questions and make suggestions. Heaven is cruel beyond all measure! (But because of their chronic lack of communication I doubt Aziraphale knows exactly how much Crowley suffered both physically and mentally.)

At the end of the Ijob episode in season 2 he laughs at the distraught Aziraphale because he knows what it’s really like to have fallen. The thought of someone like Aziraphale going to Hell is ridiculous to him. And he wouldn’t wish something so terrible on anybody anyway, especially not Aziraphale. He knows first hand what Heaven does to “traitors”.

He’s been tortured and kicked out of Heaven, but he doesn’t resent creation itself like the other demons do, quite the contrary. He often goes out of his way to help humans, even if it means punishment from Hell. 

Because both Heaven and Hell are cruel and toxic, he decides he doesn’t want to be on any side in this eternal and pointless conflict. This, of course, leads him on a very, very lonely road.

Maybe this is why he (consciously or unconsciously) latches onto Aziraphale so much: He notices Aziraphale’s own doubts about the heavenly plan really early on. So he constantly encourages him to question his beliefs and own morals. 

I don’t think he does it for overly selfish reasons, he just wants to show someone else that not everything is black and white and that Heaven’s plans are not always as good as they want to come across. But of course he also doesn’t want to be all alone anymore.

Aziraphale:

Aziraphale is, first and foremost, a guardian, a protector. But we can’t forget he is also a warrior and a leader. 

In the beginning he was wielding a flaming sword, in S1-5 he is supposed to lead the heavenly troops into battle, in 1941 we learn he owns and knows how to use a gun. In S1-6 he is willing to shoot the Antichrist (who is in the body of a child I might add!!), but Madame Tracey stops him.

He likes spending his time helping others and indulging in his quirky little hobbies, but if he needs to, he steps up and becomes a leader (e.g. the stand-off in S2-6 when the demons and angels shout at each other and he takes control of the situation).

Aziraphale embodies many positive core values: Love, loyalty, politeness, kindness, forgiveness - which sometimes lets him come across as naive. He is also a big people pleaser. 

In Season 2 we once again see how much Aziraphale values and loves humanity (more than we deserve tbh). His heart is so big and full of love for them. He is his best self when he can do good for humans and he thrives off it. The thought of innocent people, especially children dying is really the only thing that ever convinces him to go against Heaven’s rules/orders (seen in the entirety of season 1 and in season 2 in the Ijob and graverobber episodes). 

But because of these core values he sometimes acts pretty holier-than-thou and hypocritical: He tends to try to make others do the dirty work so that he can wash his hands of responsibility.

We also learn that he sometimes abuses his heavenly powers to get what he wants. I mean, organizing a ball itself is a very wholesome idea, but he literally manipulates everyone’s clothes, feelings and behaviours, making them do or feel things they wouldn’t normally do in this situation. Nina is the one affected by this the most: She just got dumped and is sad and angry, but Aziraphale’s magic doesn’t allow her to feel those very valid emotions. He only means to do good, but ultimately he forces his will on the participants of the ball. And he doesn’t even realize it! This is not okay. 

There is this one very meaningful line in Season 1 where Aziraphale says: "You go too fast for me, Crowley". And it really shows in every aspect of his personality and character design. 

Aziraphale always wears similar, familiar clothes and barely changes his hairstyle over the centuries. Crowley on the other hand looks completely different in each time period we see him. Crowley lives in the present, goes with the time, Aziraphale lives in the past, can’t catch up. 

No matter how often Heaven disappoints and mistreats him, he still desperately clings to the idea that their plans and institution are good at their core. Even after more than 6000 years Aziraphale is still so obsessed with the idea of good vs. evil, Heaven vs. Hell and to an extent even Aziraphale vs. Crowley. Yes, the two have become visibly closer and more familiar with each other since season 1, but Aziraphale still thinks in the good side vs. the bad side ("my people" vs. "your people", “Of course you said no to Hell, you [not “THEY”!!] are the bad guys!”) absolute, whereas Crowley has distanced himself from both sides long ago and only wants to be with Aziraphale.

Besides their lack of communication this is their biggest problem: Aziraphale can’t accept Crowley for what he is - or is not anymore. 

First there is some sort of resentment and caution towards this fallen angel, of course. But Aziraphale wouldn’t be Aziraphale if his big loving heart held onto those feelings for long. He quickly sees that Crowley isn’t purely evil as demons are supposed to be. He likes and WANTS to see the good in everything and everyone.

Aziraphale begins to enjoy Crowley’s company over the centuries and eventually trusts him completely. But due to his indoctrination by Heaven he still unconsciously believes that Crowley, as an evil demon, is beneath him, Aziraphale, who is a righteous and morally superior angel. And while he has compassion and sympathy for Crowley and his terrible fate - he also somewhat pities him. (And being pitied is certainly nothing Crowley wants.)

This is the reason he is so incredibly happy about the thought that he could give Crowley his angel status back. As sad as it is to see how little Aziraphale understands Crowley after all those millenia, it feels completely in-character why he wants Crowley to be an angel again. He sees that there is still so much good left of the former angel he admired so much. He witnessed how brilliant Crowley used to be, an angel who loved creating and gazed at the universe with such exaltation. How happy he was, how bright, how enthusiastic in what he was doing! 

This plays right into Metatron’s hands in the last episode. 

Early in the season Crowley is offered a huge promotion in Hell if he finds Gabriel. And Crowley doesn’t even consider it for a single second - even though he hates Gabriel (He still clearly remembers the "Shut your stupid mouth and die" and all the other horrible things). When Aziraphale is offered the new position as Supreme Archangel he hesitates at first, but as soon as Metatron suggests reinstating Crowley to angelic status, he agrees in delight. Aziraphale thinks now they wouldn't have to be separated, they could even be together officially and it wouldn’t be reprehensible anymore because they’d now both be angels, both on the “good” side. They’d finally be equals and could even do good together, change the system.

So of course, from Aziraphale’s perspective, making Crowley an angel again would solve all of their problems (or what he perceives as problems). He, Aziraphale, wouldn't have to have a bad conscience anymore for spending time with someone who should be a mortal enemy. He could finally “fix” Crowley, make him truly good again. But of course it backfires horribly.

Their relationship:

As much as I loved the funny banter, the wholesome and adorable slice-of-life moments, this season made one thing really obvious to me: There is a big power-imbalance (for the lack of a better word) between them in their relationship. 

As far as we've seen, Crowley is almost always the one who gives, Aziraphale is almost always the one who takes. When Aziraphale wants something (e.g. protect Gabriel, take the Bentley to Edinburgh, have Crowley take care of the bookshop in his absence, organize a dance etc.), Crowley initially refuses - but in the end always gives in to what Aziraphale wants. 

Aziraphale is very outgoing, has a whole little community with the vendors in his street, actively mingles with humans and has hobbies (reading, collecting books, eating at fine restaurants, listening to music, practicing magic, going on little detective adventures etc.). What I’m saying is: Aziraphale has a life for himself, even after becoming a persona-non-grata in Heaven.

Crowley on the other hand... He either goes along with what Aziraphale does/wants or sleeps in his car (and takes care of his plants I guess). That's pretty much it. He doesn’t get any new tasks from Hell and only communicates with Shax on occasion when she brings him his mail or random news. He is so isolated from Hell, Heaven and Earth that literally his only reason for existing at this point seems to be Aziraphale. He practically has no ambitions or life of his own. Aziraphale always lets Crowley be his rescuer because it makes Crowley happy. But isn’t it sad that Crowley is only ever happy when he can protect and be around Aziraphale? Crowley’s whole life revolves around him and nothing else. This is not healthy!

Think back to season 1 when the bookshop burns down and Crowley thinks he’s lost Aziraphale forever. He is a mess, he screams and cries and breaks down. It was only for a couple of hours, but he’s experienced what a life without his one true friend is like and the loss hits him so hard, it hurts even us as an audience! 

And the worst thing: I don't think either of them really notice all that - because they don't TALK! Nina and Maggie were so right: The two idiots never really talk to each other about their true thoughts and feelings. 

There is so much miscommunication and misunderstanding of each other's needs because of that:

Aziraphale is internally conflicted about what he wants (be a good angel of Heaven vs. be with the enemy, an "evil" demon).

Crowley knows exactly what he wants (to be with and ONLY with Aziraphale), but he can’t muster up the courage to say it. After all, the last time he spoke freely about his thoughts, he was branded a traitor, tortured and cast out by Heaven.

So they constantly fail to find a solution that both of them are happy with:

Both in Season 1 and 2 Crowley asks Aziraphale to leave everything behind and run away with him, not acknowledging Aziraphale's undying love for and loyalty to humankind. And he gets rejected for it both times.

In S2-6 Aziraphale asks Crowley to come to Heaven with him, not acknowledging how Heaven has hurt Crowley, not accepting him for who he is. Instead he wants to fix him. Over the years he has also become so used to Crowley always being there for him, he takes his help for granted. So when Crowley actually stands his ground for once and refuses to do what Aziraphale wants, it shocks Aziraphale to his core. He’s never been rejected like that.

They aren’t humans, they are both ageless, sex- and genderless, asexual, otherworldly beings, so human relationship standards don’t apply to them. We can also see that in Gabriel’s and Beelzebubs relationship. Their love is something emotional, not physical. They don’t kiss or even hug, they just look at each other and sing "Everyday" - their personal love song - before they go off together. 

Crowley and Aziraphale have spent so much time away from Heaven and Hell and lead almost human-like lives on Earth. So in a desperate, last ditch effort Crowley chooses to show his emotions in a very physical, human way, a way that beings like them wouldn’t normally do. But it’s his very last chance to make Aziraphale understand. So he kisses him. It’s an angry, sad, messy, utterly unpleasant kiss, it’s painful to look at. 

Aziraphale doesn’t kiss back, his hands are erratic. He is so torn. His heart and his brain tell him two different things. He needs Crowley, but Crowley refuses to come to Heaven with him. 

And what is the first thing that comes to Aziraphale’s mind after the kiss? “I forgive you!” Because that’s what he’s good at, right? Forgiveness. He told Maggie that in the first episode of the season. I don’t know what exactly he wants to forgive and I’m not sure he knows himself. 

When they part they’re both in emotional agony, they both feel betrayed. Crowley storms out, but still waits outside his car. He still has this tiny bit of hope left that Aziraphale will come with him after all. He only gets in and drives off once he sees the doors to Heaven close behind Aziraphale and Metatron.

Metatron’s plan

I read some theories that Metatron poisoned Aziraphale’s coffee, but I really, REALLY hope that this isn’t true. It would take away all the gravity of Aziraphale’s decision if he is just drugged to go along with Metatron and comes to his senses once the drug wears off. That would be boring and lame!

I also don’t think that Crowley and Aziraphale switch appearances again as they did in Season 1: Clearly Metatron would be able to see through the disguise, he is much more powerful than the angels after all.

No, I think Metatron cleverly manipulates Aziraphale by giving him the opportunity (or rather the illusion thereof) to make changes in Heaven with Crowley at his side. Aziraphale is so convinced that Crowley would be full of joy and gratitude at the prospect of becoming an angel again. He once again fails to understand that this is the exact opposite of what Crowley wants.

Metatron on the other hand appears to know Crowley much better in that regard. He remembers how powerful Crowley is and how far he fell for asking the wrong questions. He loathes Crowley and would never want him in a position of power in Heaven ever again. So from the outset Metatron knows that Crowley would not agree to become an angel again, that’s why he makes that specific offer to Aziraphale in the first place. It’s his clever way to make the two fall out with each other, to separate them and still win Aziraphale over for his plan.

I just wonder what his real goal is here. Michael or Uriel seem like a much more logical choice for Supreme Archangel if he really only wants to go through with the next Armageddon. That can’t be everything, right? He knows that Aziraphale actively worked on preventing the first Armageddon. Why would he think Aziraphale would now be on board for the second one? Metatron can’t underestimate Aziraphale that much, right? He’s way too cunning to believe that Aziraphale is weak-minded and gullible.

I mean, I’m not too versed in religious mythology, but doesn’t the Second Coming of Christ mean Judgement Day and that God’s kingdom takes over the world after smiting all enemies? That doesn’t sound like something Aziraphale wants (especially the smiting of all enemies which would include Crowley). So why does he still agree to go with Metatron after learning about this??? 

Does Aziraphale think he can outsmart Metatron and all the other high-ranking angels and avert the end of the world when he’s in a position of power? I mean, he is intelligent, he must have a plan after hearing about the Second Coming, right? That would at least somewhat explain his very weird and uncanny smile during the credit roll. I just don’t know what to think about all this.

My best guess is that Aziraphale will first try to undermine Metatron and speak to the Almighty Themselves (something he already wanted to do in season 1 but was denied), and also to make positive reforms in Heaven. But Metatron sees this coming of course. To make Aziraphale his obedient puppet he will simply threaten to erase Crowley from the Book of Life should Aziraphale ever dare to step out of line.

Crowley never told Aziraphale about what he and Muriel found out in Heaven - that Michael & Co. were actively planning Armageddon 2.0 before Gabriel went renegade. But now Crowley can’t do anything to help prevent it because he knows that Aziraphale is completely at Metatron’s mercy.

I’m dying to see how this will all play out, but at this moment I’m just confused and unsure about all of this. 

So what do I want/expect from season 3?

I want Crowley to overcome his trauma, his pain, his trust issues, all the rejection and loss he faced. I want him to be able to be himself: Free, loved, respected, cared for, accepted. I want him to live a happy life with, but not live FOR Aziraphale. I want him to make other meaningful connections. Maybe with Muriel? She is the only other kind and good-hearted angel we see in the show and a friendship would benefit both of them greatly in my opinion. 

I want Aziraphale to fight for Crowley, to protect him for once. When they meet again I want him to do the stupid apology dance for three hours. I want him to finally accept Crowley as his best friend, his soulmate, his true love, his equal. I want him to take Crowley’s glasses off, look him in the eyes and then be the one to lean in for a kiss. A kiss that isn’t forceful and desperate, but heartfelt and genuine.

As for the plot of season 3… I’d really like to see a flashback of the often mentioned Great War between the angels and soon-to-be-demons. I’d also like characters from season 1 to make a cameo appearance if possible. Apart from that I don’t have any predictions or big ideas (as I said before, still very confused about Metatron’s plan). 

I will put my faith in Neil Gaiman and Wait and See (TM) what he ultimately comes up with. :’)

[aliteralsemicolon]

Hey there,

I totally get where you're coming from about Spencer being a fictional character open to interpretation. Fiction gives us the freedom to explore characters in new and unique ways, and it's part of what makes writing fanfiction so fun and fulfilling.

The beauty of fanfiction is that it allows us to explore different facets of a character that we don't always get to see on screen. That said, I do believe there’s a line between creative interpretation and taking a character so far from their established traits that they become unrecognizable.

Yes, the show has inconsistencies, and no character is written perfectly at all times, but there’s a difference between exploring new dimensions of a character and ignoring their fundamental nature. Just like any well-crafted character, Spencer has a set of core traits that make him who he is, and deviating too far from those can sometimes feel off-putting for readers who love him for those exact reasons.

Writers should absolutely have the freedom to explore and reinterpret characters, but it’s also fair for readers to expect some level of consistency with the established canon, especially with such a well-defined character like Spencer Reid.

Hi lovely, while I agree with you to a certain extent I think you also have to keep in mind and be honest to yourself about what those traits are. Here are Reid's canon established traits that don't change throughout the show and a long ramble (let me know if I missed anything):

IQ of 187

eidetic memory

can read 20 000 words per minute

carries a brown satchel everywhere

loves: reading, play chess, excessive sugar in coffee

can count cards (banned from ever casino in Vegas)

tendency to ramble / go on tangents

socially awkward (this decreases as the show progresses, also circumstantial to the situation he's in)

technophobe

germaphobe (inconsistent, Mathew shakes hands on camera when Reid normally wouldn't. also changes slightly after the prison arc)

Fear of being perceived as mentally ill, having schizophrenia especially.

Those are the one's I can think of right now, but the list for established (as in set in stone, these traits don't change at all throughout the show) traits is pretty short. Anything else you associate to him changes throughout the show and depends on the season.

They're not very defining in terms of Reid as a whole human being, because like I said, people are complex. The traits above do not explain how he would behave in every aspect of his life.

For example: I get anxious in social settings with large groups even when everybody in that group is my friend but I'm very confident when the friend groups become smaller. And I don't behave the same way with any partner I have as I do with my friends. A lot of the traits my friends associate with me aren't there when I'm with my partner.

Anything traits outside of those mentioned traits (minus a couple I may have missed) can't be counted as "established" traits because they're either fan associated or change with the season of Reid (S2 and S5 Reid are not the same). Expect consistency, by all means, but also be realistic about your expectations for that character.

The conversation here is about the random hate and unhelpful criticism towards fanfic writers because certain readers don't agree with the writer's portrayal. It's unnecessary and a waste of everyone's time when they could just not read that writers work. And really entitled behaviour considering this is content they're getting for free.

Now I'm not going to go and reply to every single reblog on the original post I made (every single one had such a valid point and I agree with them all), but I will quote the genius @/lavenderspence (she takes after our husband Reid, look at those stats)

"As of today, there are 4497 fics under the Spencer Reid/Reader tag on AO3, 1509 fics under the Aaron Hotchner/Reader tag, and ONLY 236 fics under the Derek Morgan/Reader tag. There's more than enough fanfics out there for you all to find the right one FOR YOU, without BASHING SOMEONE ELSE'S representation of the character."

That's it from me about this topic, I think I've said everything I've needed to.

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

Thank you, angel...

What -- Following the events of S02's Chupacabra, you give Daryl a massage. The story begins with some discussion of post-concussive protocol for the poor guy to prep the stage for the chapter after his very bad day.

Relationships -- slow burn, canon-compliant Reader x Daryl and the two of you being closed off about possibly like-liking somebody. I mean, he doesn't even eat peanut butter!

Perspective -- You + Him

Pronouns - neutral

TWs -- some crude language

Length -- 6,000 words (15-20 minutes)

When -- a couple hours after "fondness" LOL. It starts off like nothing serious, then gets more tender, sort of like Daryl's muscles after careening down all those rocks.

Which chapters will provide more context? -- it's always good to check out the most recent chronological chapter, in this case "fondness" LOL. Spell your last name, please would be fun to read alongside this one, too. As well, I recommend reading Invisible tugging strings, Part 2 (also Part 1) and souls stripped bare if you like a bit of confused yearning.

Masterlist? -- Shiny and Official one here and Chronological one here

Him

The door opened, waking him up—the hell, where was he? How long had he been asleep?

“Hey,” the familiar voice he liked said, and his muscled relaxed.

Sure enough, there came Y/N into view, giving him a little wave as they walked around the bed. “Remember where you are?”

His memory came back to him quickly as he blinked the sleep away. He was in the farmhouse. 

Still, his sarcastic croak of a response, “In bed,” earned him a tiny huff and a dry “So funny,” from his friend, who carried along a big-ass book. 

Ugh, his stomach didn’t feel too hot. He’d, um, half-woken up a little earlier and saw crackers on a plate near him. And he’d been so damned hungry he’d just reached out, grabbed some, and slammed them into his mouth.

That there'd been peanut butter in between them had been a nasty surprise, except he’d already chewed and started to swallow by the time the taste hit him, he was that hungry. He was so hungry that he’d gone and grabbed more, too…dumb sumbitch.

Now the taste was all up in his nose and mouth. He curled up a little tighter, as much as his stiff joints and muscles and the new hole in his side let him. Daryl just wanted to sleep and for his stomach to stop messing with him, he felt ready to puke…

The old man’s voice met his ears next as he came around the bed, too. “I apologize. You have something of an audience. Carol and Y/N will be keeping an eye on you tonight, they’re in here now, as is Patricia.” 

Y/N frowned into their massive textbook, flip-flipping through the pages as if looking for a specific section. Carol sat across from the bed on the footstool thing and smiled in her sad way. 

Then, the nice twangy blonde lady (he knows her name, it's Patricia) started saying something and helping him sit up, but he wasn’t hearing a damn thing, because he w—he was—no, no, no, he was gonna upchuck—

____________________________

You

Daryl doesn’t look too g—oh, no! 

“Carol, hand me that thingy, please!” you squeak, standing up as the book clatters to the floor while you frantically point to the emesis basin on the dresser beside her.

You zip to the bedside and cradle the back of Daryl’s neck with one hand, the small container in the other, and not a moment too soon. 

“Whoakay, there you go, buddy,” you coo as the poor guy gets sick.

“Pat, please retrieve the oxygen tank from the boy’s room,” you hear Hershel murmur, and Pat is already up and moving. 

They have an oxygen tank?! That, that should’ve been administered an hour and a half ago when he stumbled back onto the farm!

With a final spit into the bowl, Daryl makes a slight groan and exhales. He grunts an apology, gags again.

You lower the basin so it won’t be too near his mouth (and nose), but wait remain for a minute or so with him just in case he’s not done. Lightly, you run your fingers across the back of his neck and up the back of his head as you wait. And not because you have taken a shiney fondness to him, Dale, you would do this for anyone, especially a friend who had a day like this one did. 

When he mumbles that he’s fine, you tell him you’ll be right back, and tuck the sheet over his back for him. You then excuse yourself to clean up, being mindful to hold your breath and not look at the basin so you won’t gag or need to use it yourself. Carol follows you into the hall but slips out the front door.

You empty and wash the basin in the downstairs bathroom and scrub your hands and forearms, and find some bleach spray to clean the sink.

Scrubbed good, you're ready to carry the cleaned container back into the room in time to see Patricia accessorizing Daryl with an oxygen mask. The ever-growing dread in your gut sprouts a new branch.

“Miss Patricia, Mr. Greene, what do we do next?” 

You hope it didn’t sound nearly as worried as you think it sounded. The first pre-hospital guideline for suspected traumatic brain injury is being put on O2.

Granted, ‘suspected’ encompasses pretty much any head bump for safety’s sake—but the man had a very serious fall twice. 

The reality that he’s not necessarily in the clear is now sinking in. 

How would you fix whatever Daryl did to his skull, if he did something? Drill a hole in his head or something? There’s no possibility of getting proper imaging, y'all don’t even have more sterile gloves.

Daryl’s leaning back, now propped against some pillows in addition to sporting the oxygen mask. He looks miserable. You kneel beside him and place your free hand on the bed. Carol joins you. 

“Oxygen will only benefit him, at the moment, even if there’s nothing more serious going on,” Hershel mildly puts it, cool as a cucumber with your EMT textbook open to the head trauma section. But then again, Mr. Greene had the skill to keep himself cool as a refrigerated cucumber while Carl was actively decompensating and dying. “The good thing is, Daryl is negative for any other indication of severe concussion, even moderate, which is surprising in the best way possible. Way I see it, it’s yet another medical miracle among your group.”

Next to you, Carol holds out one of her small tins and shyly says to Daryl, “Ginger?”

The way his eyes got all big like a kid’s was unexpected and rather cute. She pulls the mask away far enough to pop a ginger mint into his mouth. With a grunt, he closes his eyes in acknowledgment and gratitude.

“How do we know he ain’t—” oops, you mean to only use elegant grammar around Mr. Greene. Except, you don’t have a preset sentence in your head so it still comes out messy, but you do use the phrase Mr. Greene used yesterday. “How do we know that it isn’t, um, that h-his concussion isn’t a bigger cause for concern?” 

“Pupils are good, blood pressure is good, reflexes are good, and upon examinin' his skull, there are no irregularities beyond two what Hersh and I both would call goose eggs,” Patricia answers first, as chill as Hershel is. “He’s gotta be kept under watch for the next couple days, of course, but that's more a precaution.”

Mr. Greene nods. “Any more vomiting—”

“—I only hurled ’cause of the peanut butter,” Daryl muffles through the mask.

Because of the…

You squint. “How would peanut butter make you sick? You aren’t allergic.”

“Don’t like it.”

Doesn’t like…what? “Dude, you don’t like peanut butter?”

“Don’t even like the smell.” 

WHAT. 

Mr. Greene resumes what he was saying before you can continue the interrogation. “Do you have an appetite.” It somehow sounded less like a question the way he asked it.

Daryl hums in response.

“Good. Finish up what’s on this plate and we’ll see if you’re able to keep non-peanut related foods down.” Was Mr. Greene trying to make a joke? Well, at any rate, he’s removing the cracker sandwiches to leave just the eggs and spam. Daryl accepts the plate and whips his mask off, prompting you to turn the O2 off for now. A relieved groan follows his first bite and he eagerly digs in to get another forkful. Carol must be pleased.

Mr. Greene nods in thanks that you turned off the oxygen flow. “To answer your question: if there is any more vomiting, a bad headache, changes to his pupillary response or his blood pressure as well as any alteration to his speech and cognitive function, that would be a cause for concern.”

“And we won’t want him to go unchecked too long a stretch, so I brought y’all our egg timer," Patricia adds. "It’s digital, so it ain’t too loud.”

“Should we wake him every hour?” Carol asks, nodding and clasping her hands in her lap.

“Naw, that’s more myth. Although,” Patricia reconsiders. Sighs. “It ain’t like we have him hooked to a monitor in a ward staffed with nurses breezing in and out. Hersh, what’s your take?”

“You’re the nurse, I’m just the vet,” he reminds her. “It’s your call. What were you going to have them do?”

She sighs again but nods. “Might as well be over-cautious, then. Let’s do every hour and a half to check, but don't wake him. He needs rest.” Patricia breathes deeply, then gives the instructions.

“If you stick the egg timer under your pillow, it should wake you but not him. Sit up and make sure he’s breathin’ normally. If, uh, if he’s awake, ask him his pain level for his head, listen to his speech, see if it sounds normal, check his temp with your wrist. Acetaminophen, that’s Tylenol, that’s the only painkiller he can have right now."

Just Tylenol, got it.

"Ask him a basic question or two, check his eyes like Hershel said. Maybe have him tap his fingers together. And if his BP changes much in either direction, or especially if his headache gets worse than it feels now, which isn’t too bad so he claimed,” a pointed look at Daryl, “wake me. I’m in on the top floor, room to the center-left.”

“Do I gotta wear this to bed?” the man himself grates, his mouth full even while scooping in the last bite off his plate. The guy's definitely hungry, which is usually a good sign.

And the look he earns back from Patricia is enough to make you sit straighter and lower your head despite not being on the receiving end of it. 

Daryl stops chewing. 

“You do and you will,” she states. It wasn’t done in a controlling way, it sounded to you like simple tough love. “Might well save your hide if you’ve got a bleed, Daryl.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbles. 

Annoyingly, the way he displayed a healthy serving of shame/deference seems to have awoken some of the irrational butterflies in your stomach. The little creeps.

Hershel speaks to Patricia. “You know, I believe I still have a nasal cannula from when my mother was still living. It will be less obstructive to sleep—Pat, will the cannula be adequate?”

“Would be great—but how old is it? Your mama passed over a decade ago.”

“Then it’s well over a decade old,” he answers, and quits the room in such a way that strongly suggests he was eager to do so.

____________________________

Him

Putting him in the nose thing cancer people or old dudes with emphysema have to wear seemed over-the-top, but if Patricia said he had to, he guess he had to. The nose thing was more comfy than the mask. Daryl made sure to thank Patricia and Dr. Farmer—um, Hershel—for all their help.

He’d glanced at Y/N, whose head was just about glued to the pages of the big-ass medical book, and had been scribbling stuff down on a sheet of paper while asking Patricia question after question after question.

“Was supper okay?” Carol peeped when she picked up his empty plate for him.

Supper was more than just okay, it was damned tasty. “You make it?”

“The spam and eggs.”

Yo, he couldn’t inhale the stuff she made fast enough, the woman cooked some mean-ass grub. “Ain’t eaten that good in a while. It was delicious.” Not since the breakfast at the CDC that T-Dog cooked up. 

When he looked up at Carol, her cheeks looked pinker. Like, red. 

For a second, he almost thought it was because he told her her food was good. But nah, must’ve been getting stuffy in the room. He wouldn’t have minded if it got warmer in there, he felt kinda clammy. Probably because he’d lost blood a decent chunk of blood or whatever. So long as he was able to get back to sleep soon, he didn’t care. 

He wriggled his shoulders to get more comfortable on the pillows, and felt his eyelids start to sink.

“Can I use it on him if he needs it tonight?” Y/N checked with Patricia.

...Huh? Use what? 

“Just don’t go settin’ it too high, you shouldn’t see any muscle movement. Now, you know not to use it on his head, yes?”

Daryl opened his eyes again in time to see Y/N’s lips press together, then twist slightly to the side. “Oh, I was gonna put it right smack on his head then draw him a bath with it on, ma’am, for relaxation and such.”

“Never use a—oh, goodness, you had me goin’ there a moment!” The lady chuckled when she realized Y/N was joking, then lightly swatted at his friend’s arm. “I had to make sure you knew. Some people would try using them units for head pain.” 

Grinning the way they do when they’ve acted like a goof, Y/N nodded and raised their hands as if surrendering. “You were doin’ your due diligence.” 

“I told you, Hersh, I really want to keep this one,” the woman next said, playful smile on her face. 

Daryl couldn’t help but watch how that comment made Y/N’s eyes get all—he wasn’t sure the right describe-y word to call it, but his cat would get that look when he’d be gone awhile then would come back. Y/N’s eyes did just that, but they also looked sad at the same time. 

Then, his friend politely smiled and waved in the direction of the door, same direction as whatever that new dragging noise was.

How many damn people were gonna come in? He just wanted to sleep.

Patricia stood up and pulled her shirt down in the back, calling, “Thank you, sweetpea,” at the same time the old man asked, “James, what’s this?” 

“Couldn’t have them sleepin’ on the floor. Jimmy filled up the air mattress.”

Daryl had neither the strength nor desire nor any fucks to give to bother looking over to see the action. He needed some shut-eye.

“How’s your stomach, Daryl?” Patricia spoke soft, just to him. 

He...felt less annoyed. Eyes still closed, he raised his thumbs from where his hands were holding the sheet up. He wished he could act more grateful, but his tank was below E and he wanted to scream and cuss or just plain cry.

“Very good! Righty, we’ll get out of your hair, now.”

He did force himself to grunt back, “G’night,” in hopes it conveyed at least a little bit of gratitude.

“Y/N will be in here the first half of the night, alright? You’ll be in good hands. Sweet dreams.”

____________________________

You

Sources were true, Dale’s book is kinda ick. Even the title, The Case of the Missing Man, it’s just a bit lame. Hand under your pillow, you thumbed at the prayer beads you’d taken from the family’s house earlier today. You gave Carol a pair, too, you know she used to use them. Today felt like a week, it was so up and down and all arou—what are you doing? Don’t think about today anymore. 

If you’re so darn tired that you can’t sleep, thinking certainly won’t help.

Listening to Daryl’s even, soft snores, you take a few sips of water. It’s really chilly tonight. Maybe you should go grab your other blanket and your hoodie.

You peek at the egg timer, looks like you have 70 minutes until it’s time to check him officially. Gonna be a long night. After Sophia comes home tomorrow, or….at least after you check the highway shelter and do a sweep for her, then do the shooting practice thing, oh, and maybe after another pharmacy run—oh, and then chores, you need to help with chores. But after all that, maybe you can have a nap.

It really is nippy tonight. If you’re cold, poor Daryl likely is, too, the man lost a lot of blood today.

Your side and shoulder pinch and burn as you scooch upright. Quietly as you can, you move to peek out the window, trying to gauge if you’ll be able to walk to your tent without Shane noticing.

It’s gotten chilly enough that there’s condensation on the windows.

____________________________

Him

He woke up for some reason. Thought he heard a creak. 

The room felt colder than a metal toilet seat in winter. He had the sheets bundled around him as much as he could get them. He knew if he stayed still enough he’d feel warmer and not notice the cold as much, but, shit, he felt so miserable. 

He didn’t even bring Sophia back yet, all he found was her doll! like, his dumb bitch ass couldn’t even climb right. Even monkeys know how to climb.

Yeah no, instead of finally bringing that little girl home safe, he flopped his way down the ridge twice and got a bolt hole in him.

And yet, the same people he’d stolen a horse from to get it done faster legit set him up in a room and patched him up.

As he was wallowing and moping about all the day's shit, feeling like a useless nobody, something warm—a blanket?—was pulled over him and tucked in gently around his shoulders. 

The angel? person who placed it on him rested their hand on his upper arm a sec, and he felt their thumb rub back and forth once. His chest and stomach felt a little funny when he recognized the minty smell of whoever just gave him the blanket. The muscle-rub Y/N had on. 

There was another creak in the direction of the door behind him, but he fell asleep too fast after the blanket was placed on him to mumble “thank you, angel.”

____________________________

You

Glenn had stayed late playing board games with the others, he was still on the porch. He and Jimmy are playing cards, probably spit judging by the thunk you just heard on the table along with some muffled laughter. Beth is barely awake, but she waves when she sees you. Maggie is dozing.

Andrea is awake, too, and once seeing you, she rushes over to ask after Daryl again. You assure her that he’s fine, took down his dinner well, and no, she should get rest instead of staying awake just in case. Shane’s in his tent, and you go to yours without incident. At least he knows to stay away right now. 

Blanket now in-hand and hoodie on, you head back inside after remembering to grab the icy-hot rub you’d left in your tent, too. Shoot, you’d also meant to borrow Shane’s sweatpants, but he brought his stuff with him. T-Dog has a pair, but he wears them to bed…Daryl can borrow yours, they’re baggy with a drawstring, anyone could wear them.

Tiptoeing and avoiding the creaky spot by the door, you listen carefully and can hear that Daryl’s still sound asleep. You’d been worried you would either disturb or even frighten him when you pulled the comforter over him, but to your delight, he’d begun snoring.

It is strange seeing him so helpless. Dude literally chews on bark sometimes, he’s a survivor down to his bones. Him getting all the help must feel very humbling to say the least, you know he likes to keep to himself. After seeing the scars on his back, you imagine he might feel unworthy of help or care, too.

With a prayer, you hunker down onto the air mattress and hope for dreamless sleep.

____________________________

Him

Y/N and he were sitting in the dirt because the horse bucked them off. They’d just buried Sophia. 

The old Mexican lady from the house was holding those prayer beads and sitting in a rocking chair outside, chickens pecking at the grass near her. Carol was crying somewhere but he couldn’t see where.

Y/N rested their head against him and squeezed his hand tight, apologizing that they had to get the bolt out of his side. 

Stuck to his chest, there was a thick, twiney string that connected to Y/N’s. It was getting in the way and pulling whenever he moved. When he went to tuck it over his shoulder, it was the plastic tubing from the oxygen tank.

Merle sat across from the two of them, holding a sponge and telling him to get up. 

He tried to. He kept trying to get up and follow his brother, but when he did, he started to fall down the ridge again to where the geeks were waiting to gnaw his feet off.

Y/N’s voice called for him from the walkie, and when he looked up, he saw them ripping their sling off to help him despite them bleeding through their shirt again.

____________________________

You

The timer went off, so you move in order to see him. His breathing pattern is normal and regular.

You can tell he’s dreaming, the way his eyes are moving under his closed lids. Hopefully, it’s a good dream. Best not wake him if he’s still sleeping. 

____________________________

one hour later

____________________________

Him

“Baby, is your head worse, too?”

“No, it’s—” he hissed when he breathed too deeply and it hurt his ribs. “It’s goddamned everythin’ else.”

Y/N had heard him when he accidentally groaned, so then started to do a check-up thing. All he’d been trying to do was move to try to make it hurt less and he could get back to sleep. It’d hurt worse, instead, and he yelped like a little fox kit. Pansy-ass little Darylina. No wonder they just called you ‘baby’ again.

“I’m going to check your pupils again, bear with me.” Y/N spoke softly as their hand made a wall between his two eyes again. “Spell my last name, please.”

“D-I-X-O—oh wait, no, that’s…” They’d asked for their last name, not his. 

“Ballsy offer,” they joked. The little flashlight shone in one eye, then the other. Y/N was trying not to crack up. “It’s good you caught the mix-up, real good sign. Okay, you can rest your eyes now if you want, but please stay sittin’ up, okay?”

He did shut his eyes, and tried to call to mind what Y/N’s last name was…

Got it, Sophia called Shane either ‘Mr. Walsh’ or “Welsh” a few times. “W, um, W-A-L-S-H?”

“Yes, well remembered.” There was the rattle of a pill bottle. “What year is it and what’s the next season we’ll be in?” 

“2010. It’s, uh, it’s gettin’ to the end of summer. Gonna be fall.”

“Mind’s still sharp. Here, you can have one more acetaminophen. I got you some water. Take, swallow.”

He opened his eyes to see them holding out a single, white cylindrical pill and their water bottle.

“Are you able to tip your head back,” they checked, “or might should we use the cup with the straw?”

The warmth from their hand lightly supporting the back of his head felt nice even though they were acting as if he would fall apart like a china doll at any second. 

After he took the one, dinky little painkiller, Y/N gently moved his arms around, then had him wiggle his toes and fingers and turn his head as much as he could. Halfway through is when he noticed the sheet was tucked all the way over his shoulders and thighs where he sat. 

Y/N had been making sure it stayed covering him as he moved?

The strange feeling of unbearable closeness came back and he didn’t know what to do with it.

It was something so little and stupid but so damn big at the same time, to make a point to keep his, what, his modesty? When there were so many other things to worry about?

A lump formed in his throat. 

Y/N looked uncertain after doing something with his left arm again. “Daryl, have you had broken ribs or a broken collarbone before?” they asked him quietly.

He swallowed down the lump so he could answer. “Yeah.”

“Does it feel like that might could’ve happened again?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh buddy,” they sighed. “We’ll have Miss Patricia check tomorrow. What a day you’ve had.” 

“It was somethin’ else,” he grit. He just wanted to lay down again, but laying down hurt too much. Everything hurt too much.

Y/N brought over a pair of sweatpants. They helped him put them on, too.

“Can stand on my own,” he had to snip, mainly because of the way his body started reacting to having them so close to him. He was only human—half their chest went up against his again as they helped, all warm and soft and—yeah, he needed them to stop. He was in just his boxers, first off, second, he didn’t want to be a creep. And third, he could damn well stand on his own.

When he had pants on again and sat back down, he felt the heat from his friend’s hand hover around the back of his neck and shoulders. “I’m gonna put the TENS unit on first, then I’ll do my thing starting up here, okay?”

Not knowing what that meant, he hummed by way of an answer and shut his eyes. He figured it was for another check-up thing, so steeled himself to get through it.

Their footsteps sounded around the bed, and they ended up behind him. 

The mattress dipped when they knelt down on it. This time, the heat from their body warmed his whole back, but the closeness felt okay.

Then there was the sound of a container clicking open, and two, three, four soft things were pressed to his muscles on the uppermost part of this shoulders.

“These are electrodes. Tell me when you feel a tingly or prickly sensation.”

When he felt it, he inhaled in surprise.

“Now tell me just as the feelin’ goes away. These things are supposed to disrupt the nerve signals and reduce pain. I ain’ sure if it’s immediate or over time, but…”

The next part is what threw him.

And Y/N did it just so damn gently that he didn’t flinch at being touched, the way they cupped one hand over his forehead, and with the other, gently brushed their fingers along the back of his neck. They directed him to let his head and neck into their hand.

The angel Y/N next began to apply light pressure in circular motions, starting in between his shoulders and up to the base of his head. “Let me know if what I’m doin’ worsens it, or if it gets to be too much, okay?”

Best Daryl could do was hum in the affirmative; he couldn’t speak at that moment. The damned lump in his throat had bulged up again and then some. 

It was the first time something like this was done for him, and he felt…he didn’t know how or exactly what he felt except that the pain was lessening. 

So why in the hell was he about to cry?

The neck rub soon turned into a shoulder rub. And try as he might, tears started spilling out of his damn eyes. He was grateful Y/N couldn’t see them. 

After however long it was that they eased his pain in silence, his friend then began to quietly give him the summary of what went on while he’d been conked out.

It was something, that Y/N cared enough to share boring stuff with him. He wanted them to didn’t mind hearing them yammer on and was grateful they  

Apparently, the next prayer service thing was gonna happen tomorrow morning. “Maybe the Greenes will come, that would be nice. Patricia and Jimmy are comin’, I know that much.”

Carol wanted to cook dinner for everyone, maybe tomorrow or the next day. “Tomorrow, if Sophia’s back tomorrow, maybe the day after if she comes back the day after. W-We’ll see,” they told him. 

A mixture of guilt and worry fought for dominance in his brain when Y/N snorted and shared, “Dude, not only did we both get stitched today, we both fainted. High-five for fainting twins! I forgot to drink enough water, can you believe?” They hummed and figured, “You prolly can.”

Y/N next told him how them, Glenn, the teenage boy Jimmy, the short-haired chick Maggie, and Baby Spice Beth played some board games together before heading off to sleep. “Beth won at Scrabble, she killed it. Babygirl knew how to use them tiles.” 

During this part, they used both hands to do a swirling motion at his neck, and it was all he could do to not let out a sob of relief. “I did win the highest word score, though,” they sighed. “I kinda had to. Glenn started, um, earlier he decided he’d charge a quarter for whenever I talk too ‘hillbilly,’ so I felt like I had to prove a point.”

He was told that there were some new toothbrushes and shit from the pharmacy run the other day. “I cracked mine open today, ohh a new toothbrush feels so nice. Nothin’ like clean, flossed teeth.” Naturally, they next worried: “Dude, did somebody bring you your toothbrush? I’ll grab it for you tomorrow morning, just tell me where it is. I’m sorry, honey, you’re at our mercy and we forgot the basics. Wait, we gave you clean boxers, right?”

He was able to snort at that, hiding the fact that he was still blubbering like a colicky newborn.

Somehow, their talking about toothpaste veered into peanut butter, and Y/N, of course, made sure to knock him for not liking the stuff. 

“That means you don’t eat peanut butter tomato sandwiches, Dary-bear. What on earth did you eat in the summertime if not those?” Which sounded like the nastiest combo, but their voice and their little chuckle was so goddamn soothing and warm. This was right when they’d started to use that minty muscle rub stuff and it felt so damned nice. 

But when Y/N next hit the spot in between his shoulder blades that had been killing him, he finally and most definitely accidentally let out a sob like the little sissy lil bitch Darylina he was. 

Y/N gasped and immediately stopped rubbing his shoulders, then bent around to look at his profile. “Hey,” they soothed.

“M’fine,” he croaked back, sniffling and wiping his eyes as he accidentally knocked off the oxygen tube.

He really didn’t know why he was crying. It was just a lot of touch he wasn’t used to, and a lot of…for fuck’s sake, he had friends who worried that much about him, went the extra mile, who goddamn massaged him now, prayed for him and all that? Even after he again didn’t find the girl today, after he’d made things worse by stealing and losing borrowing a horse without asking first. After he’d flat-out yelled at them earlier, scared them when they were injured and hurting.

The world had ended, yet here he was being treated better than when it was up and running. 

It was a lot to take in, it was…fucking weird, for one thing. 

Not that it was a…bad kind of weird, though, not at all. It was a good kind of weird, and it made the lump in his throat get even bigger. 

When Y/N moved to get off the bed, he was urged to blurt out, “Don’t—please!” The feeling from earlier, the one where he felt naked, came back. But because Y/N felt safe, it didn’t stop him from all but begging, “Stay just for a little longer. Please. What you were, w-what you were doin’ helped.” 

Please, angel.

It took several long moments of quiet before Y/N, sounding nervous, asked, “The spot between your shoulder blades, that was helpin’?”

“Mmhm,” he gulped.

They stayed quiet for several long moments, tucking the oxygen tubing behind his ears for him once he got the nose part back in. “Do you want quiet,” they hesitated, “or, um, f-for me to keep talking?”

 Please talk, I like it when you talk. “Talk.”

____________________________

You

You adjust the sheet so it makes a U shape on his back, giving you access to the spot between his shoulders without uncovering his whole back. Just because you’ve seen it before doesn’t mean he’ll want you seeing it again.

With a little more muscle balm, you press both your thumbs on either side of his spine and fan them out. Up and down the edge of his shoulder blades you rub, then down and around the curvature of his ribs.

The trick is not straining your injured shoulder, so the angle has to be just right as you’re using it (or sticking to only using your good side). This was worth it, that mangy hick went against death way too many times for him to be left alone and in pain, awake by himself.

“I read in some article once how massages and stretches and stuff can release ‘buried emotion,’ they called it. I reckon it’s more the atypical stimuli, maybe some endorphins. Probably the simple relief of tension gettin’ undone, too.”

The intimacy of this is not lost on you, even is there’s nothing sexual about it. You are kneeling on a bed, giving a shoulder and neck massage to somebody shirtless. A somebody who, earlier today, made your stomach flutter and your chest tug in his direction. You’re also very aware of the warmth coming off his body and how physically near he is, but then again, this is a new experience for you, being so close to a guy like this. You’re gonna react more to the unfamiliar and the new.

But this is innocent, and it is helping him, so you’ll help.

____________________________

Him

The spot they just hit was so sore, a groan escaped his mouth before he could choke it down.

“The stuff I’m about to use on that area is peppermint oil, it’s different than the muscle balm,” Y/N murmured.

The small noise of a cap being twisted off came before the strong minty smell of it, and the spot that was so damn sore was slowly replaced by a smooth cooling sensation that eased the worst of the pain. 

He sniffed as his tears finally began drying up. The soft lulling of Y/N’s voice telling him about a book calmed his thoughts, helped him zone out. Soon, his muscles began to feel heavy and tired instead of exhausted and aching. Y/N gently bent his head forward to stretch his neck muscles, slightly turning his head side to side.

And by the time his friend began to tell the story about how they learned to ride on their best friend’s motorcycle, Daryl was nodding off even though it was funny and he wanted to hear more.

Next thing he knew, the squishy things were being pulled off his shoulders and the mattress lightly jolted because Y/N had got off and was walking back around the bed. He heard them fussing with his pillows, and his chest tugged again.

First, they asked him if he needed the bathroom. He didn’t, so Y/N started to help him recline back, but that just made him freeze. “Gonna hurt yourself worse,” he muttered, eyeing Y/N’s upper arm wrapped to their torso. He tried settling backward by himself.

“Careful, careful,” Y/N hushed, using their good side to cradle his head and neck. The warmth from their body hovered over his chest when they laid him propped against the pillows. Especially warm was where his fingertips had grazed his friend’s forearm and waist as they helped him lay back and get comfortable.

After drinking water at their bidding, the sheet and quilt were pulled back over him. Almost immediately, his body grew heavy and his eyelids drooped.

____________________________

You

Daryl fell asleep faster than a milk drunk newborn after you pulled the comforter on him. It’s been so chilly all night, yet now you’re warm enough that you’ve unzipped your hoodie.

Massaging him was a small workout in itself so that warmed you up comfortably. But it was when you’d, y’know, supported him with your good arm to lay him back that you got a very warm flush. Now, it’s as if you can still feel the spots where his fingers bumped against you. Your forearm, your waist. It was unfamiliar touch, is all…well, it warmed you up, now you can sleep easier. A long night ain't so bad if one's warm and cozy.

Even if your mind is unnecessarily mulling over the veins in his arms, but maybe that’s just the phlebotomist in you. He has very…patent veins.

You tiptoe to your sleeping bag to check the timer under your pillow. 

There’s another hour until it will go off again, meaning two and a half hours until you’ll switch with Carol. 

You look back at Daryl. His breathing is regular and steady. It’s sweet, he’s got a foot sticking out of the bed. Though, you don’t have to look hard to make out a purple bruise on his big toe in what light there is in the room. You consider something: if your own feet are tired after today, imagine how his must be after climbing the ridge, falling, and climbing again. 

And it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do, you’re not gonna fall asleep anytime soon…

So, you take the peppermint oil and carefully sit yourself once more on the edge of the mattress. He stirs, but doesn’t wake. With some of the oil on your hands, you take his foot and begin to massage it.

He stirs again, and you’re thinking he’s about to protest. 

It’s not what you’re expecting at all to hear him mumble, “Thank you, angel...” before promptly drifting back asleep.

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[areseebee]

i love hearing about the derry girls ‘someday’ fic universe. please can i ask more about your original character faye? how did you come up with the character and also what is her relationship like with the other derry girls besides claire and james? 🤗

yes, you definitely can! so for a quick primer on faye (which i pulled from this maybe-kinda-outdated maybe someday masterlist that i put together in 2023):

- faye appears/is mentioned in this short piece of writing and also this one. i also explain some bits about her in this post and this post. - and here's some lovely faye art by @imstressedx

the character originated in collaboration with @derrygirlstrash when we were talking about the maybe someday fic universe back in july 2022 just as i was finishing smoke break. i had just started to think through what the premise of someday would be and was explaining to derrygirlstrash that i saw james as having less-than-serious relationships after smoke break, while i saw erin having one long, very serious relationship. about 20 minutes later derrygirlstrash offered up the idea of faye as one of james's short-term relationships. i loved the idea of faye immediately as i had already been thinking through how erin would feel about the first person that james dates post-smoke break. from there we developed her into a foil to erin - and therefore someone that erin is insecure about because she can't help but compare herself and see all the ways in which they are very not alike.

i think i talk about this in some of the posts i linked to above, but as faye is the person that james moved onto right after the events of smoke break while also being someone who comes across as effortlessly cool, really affable, and is well-liked by their friends/fits in, erin was initially pretty cold to her and they didn't get off on the right foot. by the time someday starts, all that is really in the past and erin really wants to get on with faye like everyone else does, but their dynamic is a little too entrenched and it's hard to move beyond it. which segues into michelle and orla, who love faye! michelle mostly can't understand how james pulled someone like faye (because she's just so obviously out of his league, just look at her) and both her and orla were sad when james and faye broke up in uni, but happy when faye and clare got together ~5ish years later. i know this is still a little vague about michelle and orla, but with faye finally, properly appearing in the next couple of chapters of someday, it'll be clearer how she functions within the group.

thanks so much for asking! i definitely didn't get into absolutely everything about faye here, but i love getting the chance to talk about my fic and will always answer questions about it. all of this has lived up inside my head for so long and i've talked it through with derrygirlstrash so much that i do sometimes have trouble keeping track of what is or isn't known about this whole world, but i love to share when asked. i really would love to write both a michelle/rafael fic and clare/faye fic, both of which would illuminate more about the characters and about the eight years in between smoke break and someday. it's definitely a goal to get it all "canonized" into proper stories for anyone interested in reading more.

[dxppercxdxver]

tagged in '20 questions for fic writers' by my good pal @chiropteracupola! ty friend :3 (i think much of this will be similar to the last one of these i did. Oh Whale.)

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

29!

2. what’s your total ao3 word count?

145,559

3. what fandoms do you write for?

i have never written for one fandom Consistently but i suppose at the moment the fandom occupying most of my time is the old Team Fortress 2. but like mine and @chiropteracupola's Old Timey version (shoutout to you flintlock fortress <3). but i also have been somewhat plugging away at an rls kidnapped fic so

4. what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Out Of the Blue (detroit: become human/detroit evolution)

Take it From the Top (detroit: become human/detroit evolution)

Cardamine (detroit: become human)

I Loved You, I Always Do (detroit: become human/detroit evolution)

Cigarettes and Outer Space (detroit: become human/detroit evolution)

i am. Noticing A Trend lmao (also not one but Two richard edwards lyrics titles. hmm.)

5. do you respond to comments? why or why not?

sooooometimes? occasionally i am moved by the desire to Empty Out My Inbox, at which point i reply to all the unread comments in there, but otherwise i normally reply to comments by friends and comments on more recent fics. the older stuff, especially the de artfest stuff, gets more frequently ignored lmao (although someone commented the loveliest thing the other day on one of those fics <3)

6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

there are several in contention for this! (i feel) an overwhelming need (the moors) is a character study from a very upsetting play wherein the protagonist is literally eaten at the end, which is A Bit Not Good. i can't stand to see you bleed (the wolf and the watchman) has a more ambiguous ending but also ends with the distinct possibility that cecil will just straight up Die a few minutes off page and everyone is very sad about it. blizzard of pumice piled six feet high (goncharov) does of course end with mutually assured destruction and a fun little murder-suicide-murder situation that they are both resignedly sad about. there are a couple others that Are Angsty but not so much as these i think

7. what’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

once again, a couple options here! first is leave your body at the door (killjoys), which is a huge epic of legacy and mourning and ends with a bittersweet but also incredibly triumphant chapter about love and family. much as the ending itself is tinged with sadness, considering the amount of Torment we had to get through to wind up there puts this fic on the map for this category! alsoooo i think The (G)Hosts of Satellite's Past (mystery science theater 3000) gets up there, because it's basically just. tooth-rottingly sweet found family nonsense in space

8. do you get hate on fics?

not that i can remember? but it's also entirely possible i've just deleted a few of those comments and subsequently forgotten about them lmao. although it must be said that someone commented on my mst3k fic being VERY NITPICKY about my adherence to the given canon of the show and the liveshows and the livestreams and i'm like. bitch. i have not watched every livestream ever and i do not pay attention to the liveshows. also the show's canon can't agree with itself leave me alone shshjsjhs

9. do you write smut? if so, what kind?

uhhh i did a couple times at one point? but that was many years ago and it was never published. nowadays i've almost considered it exclusively for The Bit (ie relationships where I Think It Would Be Terribly Funny) but also The Bit has not yet overcome my Anxiety and Lack Of Skill. buuuut i will occasionally write The Craziest Metaphorical Shit You Will Ever See. meaning. that cannibalism is also an allegory y'know?

10. do you write crossovers? what’s the craziest one you’ve written?

i've certainly pondered many in my time but i'm unsure i've actually published any— WAIT I JUST REMEMBERED SPYTOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF THAT SENTENCE. whoopsies. so yes! i do! i've only published one of them and it was a spies are forever/hadestown crossover that got Massively bigger than i ever intended (so much fanart! curt mega saw one of the pieces! hadestown official put one of the pieces on their story! shoutout to all you lovely artists and writers! @szollibisz / @considerablecolors / @teethworm / @owen-not-carvour <333333). there is also an Ancient artifact buried in my google docs that hasn't seen the light of day that's. a voltron: legendary defender/crazyhead crossover? to date it's one of my longest incomplete works and rereading it, despite how old it is, is remarkably pleasant like i was possessed by some sort of Good At Writing gremlin and it's surprisingly good. wonder if i should dredge some of that monstrosity up someday.....

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of? but also i'm not sure why i Would know that

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

if i have, no one has credited me or informed me of it

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

in terms of unpublished works, i have written So many fics with @nico-demons, since we were cringey middle schoolers together, but when looking at what's actually on my ao3, the only collaboration is with @chiropteracupola! while we don't actually share documents writing our flintlock fortress works, we have a massive shared bank of Lore and double check with each other constantly while we're working on our fics. so it's co-written not in practicality, but in literally every other capactiy

14. what’s your all time favourite ship?

o god i never have an answer for this. i cycle through fandoms so quickly it's hard for ships to have a huge staying power? but given that we're entering year two of this ship in earnest and year like. seven. of this ship in a half-pondered capacity, i'm gonna have to give it to joel robinson/mike nelson of mystery science theater! they will never ever leave my head!!!!!

15. what’s a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

oof i have a Couple of these. first and foremost is contagion (gravity falls), a monster falls/timeskip gravity falls concept that i plotted SO MUCH OF and then got so intimidated by i could only write a couple pages before feeling like whatever i wrote wouldn't match up with what i'd been imagining. much as i'd love to muscle through someday and actually get the concept down, i find it Unlikely that'll ever actually happen. same with a joel/mike mst3k fic concept that i've been kicking around for a couple years surrounding mike's return to earth and trying to find joel again. once again, i got out over my skis and got so scared of executing the concept it's hard for me to imagine i ever get to it shjshjs

16. what are your writing strengths?

i've been told on numerous occasions that i'm really good at mimicking character voice (and possibly author voice, but that's usually more secondary)! i have a very sound and rhythm based memory, so writing dialogue has always been a strong point of mine, as i can basically hear what the character would be saying in their way of saying it. i also consider myself really good at crafting well thought out/intricate plots!

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

FINISHING THINGS. JESUS CHRIST. i'm so bad at mustering any sort of followthrough on projects that are either longer than my usual or i've been working on past a couple of weeks of inspiration. a part of this i'm Sure is the adhd but also i'm miserable at writing anything to completion past a few one shots.

18. thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

depends on the context, depends on the language. flintlock fortress in particular has characters of Many Nationalities coming together in a very specific context? thus far i've been rather loath to write extended sections of dialogue in other languages, but i can usually manage small sections, especially french (took it for three years in high school and apparently Something stuck). otherwise i tend to skirt around it or double check with people more familiar with it

19. first fandom you wrote for?

i was discussing this with @chiropteracupola the other day actually!! my first fic Ever saved to my google drive is a wild kratts/my little pony crossover! and i would continue to cross mlp over with Many Things! so i would say my little pony was my first written-for fandom, purely based on the fact that it served as such frequent crossover material

20. favourite fic you’ve written?

this is an interesting one! i have a few fics that have a special place in my heart for different reasons. i'm incredibly fond of Try Again, Die Again (detroit: become human/detroit evolution) because i felt insanely clever and actually managed to execute the concept i wanted in a way that was very close to what i originally imagined. it's one of my more action-packed stories and upon rereading it i'm actually still really proud of it. another one i'm extraordinarily fond of is strangely enough Where The Sun Can't Find Me (spies are forever), which is a short little werewolf!curt one shot! just the right amount of Meat to appeal to me and i really like the prose style i went with for it. honorable mention once more goes to leave your body at the door (killjoys) but i've talked about her already so. Moving On. lastly i loooove don't give it a hand, offer it a soul (team fortress 2/haunted by your hand crossover), because it's a Ghost Story and Ghost Romance and A Little Gross and Full Of Sadness. what fun what fun :3

taggin'! @nico-demons, @firstmatedville, @considerablecolors, @natdrinkstea, and @wilhelmina-murray-harker :3