#things were going so well and she’d been kinder recently

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[darkmatilda]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer struggles with a relapse in addiction after emily's death when he meets you, a person who wants to help everyone around.

𝐭𝐰: there's going to be a lot… all topics related to mental health issues, mentioning the death of a loved one, suicide, relapse into addiction, violence. stay safe guys 𝐚/𝐧: please, read before reading. this is the full, ridiculously long version of "with the light off" that I posted yesterday. i’ve never seen a fanfiction this long on tumblr, and i won’t lie, i'm fking insane.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 25k

Spencer Reid was a genius.

Everyone knew it; he knew it himself, though he didn’t always see himself that way. It’s not difficult to explain what a genius is. One defining trait was that his brain worked at an incredibly fast pace. Metaphorically speaking, of course. In any case, he had no trouble connecting facts and forming assumptions that later proved accurate. With the amount of knowledge he had about various situations and people, it wasn’t hard to predict the course of certain similar events. It was simply a matter of connecting the proverbial dots—that’s what the vast majority of his work entailed. The rest involved risking his own life, something he had recently experienced in a painful way.

Spencer knew hundreds of stories about people struggling with addiction. He had read just about every available resource on the subject, trying to help himself. He understood the topic from firsthand experience and was aware that relapses were entirely normal in the face of difficult life situations. Yet, once he had overcome his addiction, he never imagined— even in his darkest visions—that he would ever reach for Dilaudid again.

But that’s exactly what he did. Well, technically speaking, not yet. But it was only a matter of time—minutes, to be exact.

He was walking through the city with the drug in his coat pocket, as if it were an ordinary item, like a wallet or car keys. At the same time, he felt as though everyone was staring at him. A shiver ran through his body every time he accidentally made eye contact with someone. She knows what I’m about to do. He knows too. They all do.

He was acting like a complete paranoiac. 

He had a substantial dose of Dilaudid on him and knew he’d take it the moment he was alone in his apartment. Yet, he hadn’t used it—he was still technically clean. Could he call it Schrödinger’s relapse?

He started to laugh, a bit hysterically, as he fumbled to open the door. Suddenly, the key seemed too large, or maybe the keyhole had somehow shrunk? Or perhaps his hands were simply shaking so much that he couldn’t line it up? The second option seemed far more likely, though admitting it was difficult for someone as devoted to logic as he was.

Spencer pressed his forehead against the door, taking a deep breath. He was ready to break down the damn thing…

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” came a voice behind him.

He turned around. One of his neighbors had poked her head out from the apartment across the hall—a sweet-faced elderly woman with an even kinder demeanor. Talkative and prone to asking questions. Knowing her love of sensation (she really did seem to have more energy and bravery than he, an FBI agent, did), it wasn’t all that surprising she’d stepped outside the moment she heard strange noises from the hallway.

Her question, the very presence of another person, somehow brought him back to reality.

"Just fine, Mrs. Schulz," he said, forcing a calm tone.

Standing with his back to her, he closed his eyes and took a deep, slower breath. His neighbor lingered for a moment in her doorway, and even without looking, he could imagine the suspicious look on her face. But finally, he heard the sound of her door closing—she’d let it go.

He slapped himself on the cheek, trying to snap out of it. He hadn’t been drinking—he was just coming back from a funeral—but he felt dazed, as if he were drunk. Slowly, he raised his hands again, and this time he slid the key into the lock without issue.

He didn’t even turn on the light or take off his coat; he went straight to the bedroom and tossed what could only be called a junkie’s kit onto the bed. In a plastic bag were a clean syringe and the main event.

Dilaudid.

He hadn’t wanted anything this badly in a shockingly long time. He’d promised he’d never touch it again. He’d made that promise to JJ and Gideon, but most importantly, to himself. Only when he pictured their faces and heard their voices in his mind did doubts start to creep in. He couldn’t get addicted again.

But on the other hand, did using it just this once, after all this time, really mean falling back into addiction? He knew people who had quit smoking years ago but occasionally had a cigarette—just to see if it still tasted the same. They’d end up thinking, Wow, was I really addicted to this? It’s disgusting!

It should be the same for him. He’d do it once, just this one time.

He recognized that particular thought. It was the voice of addiction.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d once gone to a support group for people struggling with addiction, sitting in the back, practically hiding, but he listened intently. That was what they talked about—how to separate his own thoughts from those of addiction. It all came down to the fact that addiction had no real power over him; it couldn’t physically force him to take the drug, only tempt and seduce him.

And he had to fight it.

He ran his hands through his hair, and then, on impulse, grabbed the bag on the bed and shoved it into the small safe in his nightstand. He kept his gun and badge there, along with his most valuable belongings. And now, also, the thing that could destroy him.

Breathing heavily, he backed out into the hallway. He couldn’t stay in the apartment. If he did, he’d give in. The problem was, he didn’t really have anywhere to go. He didn’t want to show up at JJ’s or any other team member’s door; he didn’t want to admit his moment of weakness. Besides, that day had been Emily’s funeral—everyone was too absorbed in their own grief to have to worry about him too.

The only place that came to mind was the library.

In his teenage years, it had been his only, truest friend. He’d spend hours there, loving the feeling of being surrounded by walls of books. He loved running his fingers over hardcovers, as if reading a message written in Braille. And above all, he loved to read. Was there any better escape from reality?

The next hours were spent immersed in the works of his favorite authors, pinching the back of his hand every time his thoughts wandered toward Dilaudid. A red mark appeared on his skin, and after another attempt, he began to bleed, though he didn’t even notice until he accidentally stained the page while turning it. He hurriedly set the book aside, feeling guilty for damaging it.

To make matters worse, someone appeared by his side.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, you were so engrossed in your reading, but I need to close now. It’s midnight," the librarian informed him, looking every bit like the most stereotypical library worker.

Spencer looked at him pleadingly, not even knowing what he was hoping for. That the librarian would let him stay until morning? In silence, he put on his coat and headed for the library’s exit. It wasn’t a standalone building. Upon stepping out, he found himself in what looked like a hallway, with stairs leading, as far as he knew, to the laundry room, and wide-open doors to another room.

He was about to head for the actual exit when something caught his attention. A sign, like the ones warning about slippery floors. However, instead of a typical message, it had an inscription written in a handwriting resembling that of a child, with a flower replacing the dot on the letter "i."

If you feel like you can’t handle it, come in. We’ll talk, or not, if you don’t want to. But know that you’re not alone :)

He stared at the message motionless. It sounded a bit like some social campaign he would have ignored in 80% of cases. Yet, something about the simplicity of the message kept his gaze fixed.

Let’s be honest, Spencer was fucking terrified of going back to his apartment. And probably because of that, he decided to walk through those doors.

"As if I didn't have enough cleaning to do every fucking day," you muttered under your breath, moving yet another chair so you could mop the floor with the poorly wrung-out mop. A puddle formed on the old brown panels. ” I’ll be a twenty-five-year-old with the spine of a life-worn retiree. Amazing”

Even though you had been complaining for over twenty minutes, deep down you were pleased with how things had turned out. You could use this room from midnight until six in the morning and even got your own set of keys. For free. Well, not entirely. In exchange, you had to clean at the end of each day. It hosted meetings for Alcoholics Anonymous and other support groups. And anonymous chip-aholics, you thought, noticing crushed crumbs under one of the chairs.

Your earnings as a bartender and occasional office cleaner didn’t allow you to rent any space for your... let’s call it a project. However, you believed you’d rather strain your back a little and perhaps save someone’s life than spend these already sleepless nights watching shows or partying.

You couldn’t quite remember how you came up with the idea. It probably happened while reading some sprawling discussion thread on a random forum online. Reading how people argue over the best cheesecake recipe on some website was one of your favorite late-night activities (don’t be fooled by the trivial topic—the discussion included a serious threat of arson and ended at a police station). Anyway, one night, while you were browsing a forum for parents of teenagers out of boredom, you came across advice from a woman who claimed that her communication problems with her daughter ended when she started talking to her late at night, rather than in the afternoon when she got home from school.

The thought wouldn’t leave you alone. You looked into it and found that, while most support groups met in the evening, it was usually early evening. Well, that made sense—few people could dedicate their whole night to it. But you could. You’d been struggling with insomnia since college, ever since your mother passed away. After finishing your evening bar shift at eleven, you’d rush to this place, put up your homemade sign on the door, and wait. You’d catch up on sleep in the mornings. And then, repeat.

Was it exhausting? A little. Had your social life nearly vanished, with the only people you saw being your equally nocturnal roommate and the neighbor’s kid you took to daycare in the morning for a few extra dollars? Absolutely. Did it bring you satisfaction? Only one person had shown up since you started, but yes, it brought you immense satisfaction.

It might sound a bit overdramatic, but helping others was your calling.

You continued cleaning, muttering a few more curses under your breath. One earbud dangled from your ear; listening to music went against your personal code. You knew that if some desperate person rushed in after reading the sign on the door, the sight of you—the person offering them a conversation—with earbuds in might be a bit discouraging. They might think better of bothering you and back out, and you wouldn’t even notice, absorbed in the music. But you couldn’t help it—you hated silence.

So, you bent your own rules, using only one earbud.

You swung the mop in a wide arc, in perfect sync with the rhythm of the song, and couldn’t resist doing a spin. Cleaning and dancing—was there a better combination?

When you turned around, you only then noticed that someone had been watching you the entire time. Which meant they’d heard every curse word that had come out of your mouth over the past twenty minutes. And there had been... a lot. You pulled the earbud from your ear, like a teenager caught watching something they shouldn’t.

Congratulations, you idiot. Whatever’s bothering him, he’ll definitely want to talk about it with someone like you...

“Hi!" you said, in the friendliest tone you could manage. You had to somehow get rid of all those curse words from your mouth. The man didn’t respond, but you noticed his chest move, as if he was taking a deep breath. Unfortunately for him, every time the other person stayed silent, you started babbling nonsense. "Sit down if you want, and don’t worry about the wet floor. I mean, maybe worry, if you care about your teeth. I slipped here yesterday too, but luckily on my back…I can’t afford a dentist visit, do you know how much they charge now?"

"I’ve read... I’ve read the note on the door," the man said shyly, pointing his thumb behind him. Only then did you take a closer look at him. A black coat with a piece of a black shirt peeking out, matching trousers, and elegant shoes...You straightened up, still holding the mop, realizing he must be coming back from a funeral. "Can I really stay here for a moment? If so, for how long?"

The desperation in his voice tightened your chest.

"Yes, of course," you said gently, much less chaotic than before. "You can stay as long as you need."

You held back the playful remark, At least until six in the morning, because after that I’m not welcome here anymore. Humor could ease tension in tough situations, but it wasn’t always appropriate, as you had learned many times. This man didn’t look like he’d be helped by your silly jokes…

He looked, above all, lost. He must have felt that way, since his feet had led him to this place. Despite your earlier words, he didn’t move, seeming unsure of how to act.

"I…I don't have to talk to you, right? That’s what the note says…"

His stuttering didn’t seem like the result of shyness. You got the impression that his lips were refusing to cooperate, too tired to express what his still sharp mind wanted to convey.

"If you don’t want to, I’m not going to force you. But sometimes, you know, it’s better to say what’s on your mind."

It seemed like he only heard the first sentence. Completely ignoring the second, he took a seat in one of the chairs in the last row. They were arranged like pews in a church, one behind the other. Surprising, considering it was a space for support group meetings. Usually, in such places, the chairs were set up in a circle—you knew that from experience.

For a moment, you kept staring at him, fighting the urge to speak again. His appearance moved you deeply—actually, the suffering of every living person touched you. And he was definitely suffering, moving stiffly as if in constant pain, with a vacant expression on his face. But since he had decided he needed silence, you couldn’t impose yourself on him. It could have the opposite effect, driving him away rather than encouraging him to open up.

You had no choice but to return to cleaning.

Moving around the room, you tried to take steps as light as a ghost. You tucked the earbuds into your pocket. You gathered all the lost trash and items, finishing mopping the floor. From time to time, your gaze would instinctively drift toward the man. Staring wasn’t in good taste, but you couldn’t help it. He looked... intriguing?

He was definitely young, around your age or maybe a little older, but still very, very young. His skin was unnaturally pale, contrasting sharply with his black clothes. Brown hair, short but longer than most of your male friends', a bit unruly. His eyes... so much was happening in them. While the rest of him seemed cold and unmoving, those eyes were a window to all the pain inside him.

You looked into his eyes just once and knew he wouldn’t say anything more to you. You’d spend a few hours in silence— you would finish your work and take a seat in the first row, far enough so you couldn’t hear each other’s breathing, but in a position where he could see your back, remember your presence, in case he decided to speak. But that won’t happen, you thought, and you were right.

At five in the morning, the mysterious, troubled man left the room.

You stared at the door, overwhelmed by your own thoughts. Maybe you had made a mistake by respecting his request? Maybe you should have sat right next to him, taken his hands, and begged him to tell you everything? You had no idea if those few hours of silence had soothed him, or if it had been the opposite. You were afraid he might have dangerous plans for himself, but that realization came too late. You couldn’t run out after him into the street; you wouldn’t find him in the cold, December night.

All you could do was sigh, certain that you’d never see him again.

Seeing him in the doorway the next night, you thought you had fallen asleep and that it was just a dream. 

But you never slept at this time. 

Spencer couldn’t reasonably explain why he went back there the following night.

Or why he was heading there for the third time.

He also didn’t know why he was so surprised that Hotch had given them a few days off. After all, he had long since learned that behind his cold exterior lay a genuinely caring and understanding nature.

Maybe he was simply hoping for the quickest possible return to work, something that would occupy his mind. He’d even be willing to stay late at the office, analyzing some old, unsolved cases, and only head home in the late hours, when he’d be longing to collapse into bed.

He’d be so exhausted that he wouldn’t even think about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe. He still hadn’t gotten rid of it, for a deeply humiliating reason. He feared that if he so much as tried to open the safe, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.In the evenings, he was gripped by an anxiety so intense that his breathing would grow shallow to the point of causing severe dizziness. He couldn’t sleep either. An irrational fear haunted him—the fear that he might simply stop breathing in his sleep. That he’d never wake up again. In a few days, maybe a week, one of his friends, let’s say Derek, would decide to check why he wasn’t showing up to work. Derek would find him still lying in bed, his skin gray and cold, his limbs stiff.

His merciless mind seemed to be conjuring these images on purpose. Imagining Morgan over his lifeless body would send him back to Emily’s funeral, making him feel that same painful tightness in his chest.

These weren’t even flashbacks. He was almost certain he was sending himself back to that moment at the cemetery deliberately, purposefully crafting these visions. He wanted to amplify his suffering, to make a possible relapse feel more justified. It felt as though he was faking his tragic state, which made him dismiss any thought of asking anyone for help. Why would he, if he didn’t deserve it?

Besides, he didn’t want to intrude on anyone else’s grief. JJ couldn’t afford to break down; she had to stay strong for her family, for little Henry. Derek had nearly lost Emily in his arms, bearing an unbearable guilt and pain—it would be cruel to burden him with more. And Hotch was still reeling from his own tragedy; Hailey had died not so long ago, and Prentiss’s death could easily reopen those old wounds. They were the ones who truly deserved these few days off. Their struggles were real; he was just an addict—a boy supposedly intelligent.

Supposedly, because if he really were, would he keep something capable of destroying him in a safe by his bed, within reach at any moment.

Because of these thoughts, he feared the night more than anything. That’s when he became weak, vulnerable to the voice of his addiction. So, spending his nights away from home felt like the only solution.

He’d already developed a sort of routine. First, he’d head to the library, usually packed with students preparing for exams. As the hours wore on, they would disappear one by one, until by closing time, he was left alone with just the one librarian in square glasses.

He’d wander out to the hallway, glancing into the next room with the same curiosity he’d felt the first time. He wondered if that girl was still there. It seemed almost unbelievable that anyone would willingly spend entire nights sitting in silence with a gloomy stranger. Didn’t she have work to get up for? Or classes. She looked like a student—the kind who’d doze off in the front row without a shred of humility, doodle strange symbols in the margins, and engage professors in conversations on topics wildly unrelated to the lecture. And, somehow, they actually responded to her.

He stepped through the door, certain he’d find her there, yet…the room was empty. A chill ran through him at the thought that maybe he’d finally lost his mind and had only imagined her. In men, the first symptoms of schizophrenia usually appeared a bit earlier, but as everyone knew, every rule had its exceptions…

Something crashed forcefully into his back.

“Damn, sorry!” said the girl, her face obscured by the enormous box she was carrying.

She leaned it against her hip so she could see who she had just bumped into. Spencer was surprised to realize that he had been waiting for what she might say. The day before, when she saw him, she had said, "Oh, Mr. Mysterious. Good to see you, I was starting to think I made you up..." That had been their only interaction that night, and he wondered if she was going to greet him with a similar line.

But she simply smiled, adjusted the box in her arms, and walked past him. Did he really feel… disappointed?

He quickly shook his head. After all, he had asked her from the very beginning if they could not talk. He spent so much time there because it was the calmest place he could imagine, not because he was looking for new friends. He didn’t need them. New friends quickly turned into real friends, then old friends, and eventually, they only left wounds.He sat in the same spot as the previous and the one before that night. During those, he barely moved, spending those hours solely on thinking—about matters both important and trivial. This time, he brought something to occupy himself, specifically a pocket edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Even though he knew the book by heart and could recite any page from memory, he still found comfort in the story. Besides, this particular edition had been a birthday gift from Emily. He opened to the first page, but then his eyes fell on the inscription she had written by hand… As he began to read it, the words of her dedication blurred with the words spoken at her funeral. His head was filled with a ringing, and he immediately closed the book and placed it back in his pocket.

So, he was left with the escape into the depths of his own mind. He knew that most people wouldn’t be able to spend so many hours just thinking, but for him, it had never been a problem. He wasn’t sure whether it was a matter of his nature or simply a matter of habit, a skill he had mastered during his lonely teenage years.

Then, he glanced briefly at the girl still there. It occurred to him for the first time, what on earth she needed that huge box for. He found her standing on tiptoe on a chair, trying to reach the corkboard hanging on the wall. Attached to it were reminders about the benefits of belonging to a support group, etc., so people who got bored during meetings could constantly remind themselves why they were actually sitting there. The girl was trying to frame the board by pinning… Christmas lights to its edges?

Given her short stature, it was quite a challenge. Sensing that her fall was only a matter of time, he stood up from his seat. He didn’t even particularly wonder why she was hanging Christmas decorations in November.

“I’ll help,” he offered.

She looked at him, first a little surprised, then almost with relief.

“I’d like to, as any altruist would, refuse your help and say that you don’t have to…but for God’s sake, please, just do it,” she said, immediately jumping off the chair and onto the floor. “I think I’ve already told you that I can’t afford a dentist, so I’d rather not take the risk.

“You mentioned it,” Reid replied, not sure what else he could add. He stopped trying to come up with any elaborate responses. Once again, he reminded himself that he hadn’t come here to make new acquaintances; he didn’t need to present himself in the best possible light. He could afford a little blissful silence and grumpiness.

She watched his actions with her arms crossed. He reached the spot where she wanted to attach the lights without much trouble.

“I know it’s not very hygienic,” she muttered, cutting a piece of tape with her teeth. “But I don’t have scissors, and as they say, you have to make do somehow.” She handed him a transparent piece, which, though almost invisible from a distance, was meant to keep the lights from falling. He accepted it without a word.

“The owner requested that I decorate this place for Christmas,” she continued. “He mentioned something about how the atmosphere positively affects most people, so it’s best to start as early as possible. But for me, it’s a bit too soon. What do you think?”

Absorbed in the task, he hadn’t heard her question. She didn’t seem bothered by it. Leaning against the wall with one arm, she clapped her hands when he finished.

“Thanks a lot, stranger. Now that I’ve used you once, maybe we should finally introduce ourselves?”

Spencer prolonged the process of getting off the chair as much as he could. For some reason, he didn’t really want to reveal his name. In a way, he liked that, entering this room, he was just a shell without characteristics, data, or past experiences.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” she added, noticing his hesitation. “Actually, names don’t really matter. I can always just call you a stranger. You could suggest some adjectives. Think it over carefully; it’s an opportunity to be, for example, a handsome stranger…”

He couldn’t help himself and chuckled. The girl’s eyebrows raised slightly, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

“Spencer,” he revealed, extending his hand.

She shook it, offering her own name in return. Her nails were of varying lengths, especially those on her thumbs, which didn’t even extend past the tip of her finger, as if she only bit those particular ones.

“Well, considering we’ve theoretically known each other for three days, it sounds a bit funny, but nice to meet you, Spencer. Thanks again for the help. So, let’s see if it works.”

He had planned to return immediately to his seat, but the girl spoke so quickly that he didn’t have time to pull back. Instead, he found himself standing in front of her, watching as she switched on the Christmas lights, her face showing the intensity of an inventor presenting their latest creation.

“No way,” she muttered when the lights didn’t turn on.

“Probably the batteries,” he replied.

She looked at him as if he had just said something groundbreaking.

“You know what kind we’ll need?”

“AA, the thin ones.”

“Alright, then let’s go,” she decided, moving forward with determination.

“What? Where to?”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or just referring to herself in the plural. It was... unexpected.

“To the store, across the street. I need to decorate this place if I want the owner to keep letting me do what I’m doing here. Since you’re a battery expert, you can tell me which ones to pick.”

“AA, the thinnest ones. I’m not an expert, it’s common knowledge. Haven’t you ever changed batteries on a remote?”

He hesitated a bit about leaving the room with her. However, she had already put on her jacket, a brown leather one, at least two sizes too big. Underneath, she wore a green, lace blouse with an asymmetrical cut and flared sleeves, giving it a slightly fairy-like style.

“I guess not, I don’t know. My mom was against television, and we watched it so rarely that we never had to change batteries. Or maybe she changed them herself, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I just want company so let’s go.

If she had phrased it as a suggestion, he would probably have replied that he’d prefer to stay inside alone, if that were possible. However, she used a command, delivered so quickly that his brain didn’t even have time to process what was happening before his body moved forward.

After a moment, they crossed the street, heading toward a small, 24-hour shop on the corner. Spencer figured he might have dropped by there once before or after a visit to the library; after all, it wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar neighborhood.

Almost immediately after stepping inside, they came face-to-face with the guy behind the counter, who looked like he was counting down the hours until closing, the way prisoners count down the years left on their sentences.

“What do we need, expert?” the girl muttered to him, as if they were about to buy a part for constructing a rocket launcher, not just a couple of ordinary batteries.

Spencer asked for batteries and, after a moment’s thought, a coffee, too—the kind served in those ridiculously inconvenient cups without any sleeves, making it easy to spill and burning hot to hold. The girl glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, so he added, asking for one for her as well.

As they waited for their order, an incredibly awkward silence settled over them. It was odd, considering they’d spent the last two nights practically without exchanging a word. She stood with her elbow casually resting on the counter, while he kept his hands in the pockets of his brown coat. The harsh, almost clinical lighting inside revealed details about her appearance that Spencer hadn’t noticed before. For instance, her light-blonde bangs fell in a heart shape on her forehead, her eyebrows were slightly asymmetrical, and her eyes were the coldest shade of blue he’d ever seen. Or maybe it was the effect of the black eyeliner on her waterline?

Noticing his stare, she tilted her head in question, assuming he had something to ask. Caught off guard, he mirrored her gesture without knowing why. They were spared further awkwardness by the arrival of two coffees on the counter in those unfortunate cups.

“Thanks for paying,” she said as they stepped back outside. As the door closed behind them, he felt like muttering no problem but she beat him to it. “I was counting on it. I don’t have any money on me. That’s my way of saving—just never carrying cash.

A comment about how it wasn’t the wisest method came to his lips—after all, accidents happened, and sometimes having a bit of cash on hand could actually save one’s life. He was surprised, though, by his own concern and sense of responsibility toward a stranger.

As they left, she locked the door, then handed him her coffee to hold so she could unlock it again to let them back in.

“If it turned out you didn’t have a cent in that fancy coat of yours, I would’ve just stolen it,” she admitted in the same casual tone one might use to comment on the weather. Her bluntness startled him every time. “I even considered it, but then you pulled out your wallet. Hey, you’re not a cop or something, are you?” she asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

“I am,” he replied automatically. Damn, he shouldn’t have said that. He’d already given her his name, and now his profession. At this rate, his anonymity would burst like a soap bubble.

From her expression, he could tell she took it as a joke.

“Oh no. Are you going to arrest me now?”

He shrugged.

“If I did, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”

Saying this, he felt a twinge of inner humiliation. His slightly improved mood sank back to square one, as he was reminded that he wasn’t on a casual outing with a friend—he was on a forced exile from his own apartment.

She pushed open the door and stepped through first, walking backward, facing him as she went.

“I’ll take that as a no. Although, on second thought—do you have hot water in your place?” He nodded, answering her question, clueless about where she was headed. Her comments were too unpredictable. She clapped her hands together. “That’s great! They cut ours off in the building two days ago for some maintenance work, and honestly, I’ve missed nothing more than a hot shower. So, officer, maybe you should reconsider that arrest?”

She literally pushed her wrists right under his nose. For a moment, he regretted not having handcuffs with him. He imagined the shock and amusement on her face if he actually snapped them around her wrists. He shook his head, not understanding why he was picturing that—or why, suddenly, he felt so amused. Well, at least it was a relief compared to how he had felt an hour ago.

“Well, I don’t know the procedure for a cop taking an arrested person to his own home,” he replied.

“I’ve heard they do that with the worst criminals,” she said.

“Like battery thieves?”

“Every serial killer starts somewhere.”

“I don’t know of a single case where it started with stealing batteries.”

“Well, maybe you don’t know enough about criminology?” she asked, spreading her hands.

Spencer fell silent for a moment, then simply started laughing. Not mockingly, but genuinely, like he hadn’t in... a long, long time. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t have known the true reason for his reaction. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t know the true reason for his reaction. She tried to take the coffee from him, still holding it for her. As he was still overcome by some boyish chuckle, he flinched and accidentally brushed her pale hand. The girl didn’t even seem to notice the fleeting contact, grabbed the cup, and took a small sip of the still-hot drink. His fingers twitched, curling and stretching. He had never been a fan of physical contact, accepting it only from those closest to him. Whenever he tried to touch someone, he had an overwhelming feeling that it bothered them. Spencer considered it an incredible paradox that he worked by conducting in-depth psychological analyses of individuals, yet in his personal life, he struggled so much with understanding others' feelings.

Standing in the same spot, he watched as she approached the Christmas lights.

“Well, come on, techie. Time to change the batteries.”

She pulled him out of his thoughts. He joined her by the corkboard, this time offering her his coffee. It took him less than a minute, but when the lights blinked on, she patted him on the shoulder with such admiration, as if he had spent an entire day working on it.

It was a purely joking gesture, but somehow it still reminded him of all those pats on the back at the funeral—the last time anyone had touched him. He was really starting to hate his brain for dragging up memories like that every damn time he began to feel even a little bit better.

The girl must have noticed the slight withdrawal on his face after she touched him. He could almost see the invisible notebook in her mind, where the words never touch him again, he doesn’t want it seemed to appear. He suddenly wanted to open his mouth and explain that it had nothing to do with her, but he knew it would come out sounding pathetic.

That’s why he just sighed, like a beaten dog, wondering if taking Dilaudid that day would have allowed him to talk to her—and anyone else—with far more ease, without the heavy burden on his shoulders and the eternal tornado of painful memories storming through the depths of his mind.

“So…” the girl began after a longer pause. Her voice sounded different for a moment, stripped of its playful and cheerful tone, and Spencer almost felt as if she forced herself to bring it back. “Thanks again for your help and for unwittingly stopping me from committing theft. Oh, and for the coffee, though it’s one of the worst I’ve had in the past ten years of my life. Which is about as long as I’ve been drinking coffee at all. Anyway, if you’ve grown tired of my chatter, your lucky moment has arrived, because I need to get back to hanging the rest of the holiday decorations, cleaning the floors…”

"I can help you with all that," said Spencer’s lips—certainly not him, at least not so quickly or so confidently. That didn’t mean he disagreed, though.

She bit her lip, gently shaking her head.

“No… I don’t want you to feel obligated, like you have to help me with something. Or like you need to repay me for hanging out here. Since… let’s say I started this place, I’ve been managing everything on my own. This room is pretty small, there’s really not that much to clean. So just relax. Enjoy your book—I noticed you brought one.” She nodded toward his coat pocket, where it indeed rested. “Yeah, I stared at you for a second. Subtly, of course, so you wouldn’t notice. But don’t worry, you weren’t, like, picking your nose or anything. Not that I assumed you would. I mean, you don’t seem like the type.”

“Thank…you?”

One thing about Spencer—he often heard that he talked too much. That was just his nature. When a broad topic genuinely fascinated him, he couldn’t help diving into even the tiniest details. It always left him feeling a bit ashamed, worried that whoever he was talking to wasn’t remotely interested and was only rolling their eyes internally. For the first time in a long while, he’d met someone who made him seem like the quiet one, maybe even a bit grumpy.

The thought surprised him, but he regretted not meeting her at a different point in his life. Just a few stupid weeks ago, when Emily was still alive, and he wasn’t constantly battling the urge to soothe himself with Dilaudid. Maybe then he could have mustered more energy, started a truly engaging conversation. But now his throat was bone dry. He realized he was stuck in the belief that a part of him—the part everyone seemed to like the most—was gone, and the only way to get it back was locked in the safe by his bed.

His ears started ringing, and his own body felt like it no longer belonged to him. It was just an ordinary object with a delicate structure, cracking under the loud sound filling his ears.

The girl kept staring at him. God, he must have looked pathetic in her eyes. Was she talking to him because she wanted to, or because he came here every night and she had no other choice? He could have sworn he saw some disgust in her eyes. For the first time, he noticed that when they stood side by side in the store under such harsh lighting. It allowed her to examine him closely, and she noticed the bags under his eyes and the tired grayness of his skin. Furthermore, he spoke so little—she must have despised him.

He felt the urge to simply run out of the room, head straight back to his apartment, ignore the old neighbor on the stairs, and with trembling hands, open the safe... then it would all be over, the pain and the tension...

“Spencer?” A sound pierced the heavy dome surrounding him. His name. It was the first time she had used it, instead of some mocking label like stranger, officer, or techie “Spencer, is everything okay?”

He sank heavily into one of the chairs. It was the only way to stop himself from leaving. Not enough, he felt. Something kept urging him to stand up and go to his apartment. The apartment, the safe...

"Could you... could you say something to me?" he asked pitifully, in the voice of a beggar pleading for a piece of bread.

He had to distract himself somehow, get rid of these thoughts.

"Say something to you?" she repeated, confused.

"Anything, please. About inheritance and gene mutation, why you even come here every night, it doesn’t matter, just talk to me…"

"Okay," she said, a little feverishly, sitting down right next to him. He avoided her gaze, but briefly noticed she was looking at him with concern in her cold, blue eyes. "Okay... okay... so I'll tell you I have no clue about inheritance and genes, sorry...what was the other topic to choose? Why do I come here?"

He didn’t answer, not even realizing she had asked a question. Trembling, he listened only to her voice and her words, paying much less attention to the tone. He forced himself to listen. You’re not leaving this room, at least not until she finishes speaking. Listen. She has a nice voice, doesn't she?

"Spencer, you’ve gotten very, very pale."

"It’s okay, just talk to me. I need... to forget about something."

The girl suddenly nodded, with more readiness and understanding.

"Alright... Why do I come here? My friends, the ones who even know about this, slash one roommate and a guy from the bar, I'm not going to pretend I have a lot of friends...Anyway, they asked about it, and I told each of them a little bit of something different, but with the same general meaning. I didn’t go into details, I didn’t go into details, but I’ll tell you now, not just because you look like a dying man and I feel a bit like I’m fulfilling your last request before you drop dead on the floor. By the way, I wonder what I’d tell the police if that happened. Would you stand up for your old good friend, officer?"

His hands clenched around his knees, his head hung low, and for a long time, he had been hearing the beating of his own heart. His smile in response to the question was crooked and tired, but that didn’t change the fact that it was still a smile.

"How, when I'd be dead?"

"Oh, you like to nitpick words?"

"I just like logic. Usually."

"If I wanted to finish you off, I'd start telling you about my roommate's love life. That one's completely devoid of logic. You’d die listening to that.”

“So maybe another time? Besides, as much as I'd prefer not to die in an AA meeting room, I'd rather listen more about you."

"So listen. And breathe, deeply. You can take my hand if you want, or if it helps. Don’t you think I sound like I'm giving advice to a woman in labor? Breathe, hold my hand..."

Spencer exhaled again, followed by a burst of laughter. Her train of thought was simply exceptional, and he was genuinely curious about what would come out of her mouth next. He was beginning to forget about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe by his bed…

"Oh God, I forgot again what I was talking about, I’ll never finish telling this…" The girl groaned, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Ah, college. No, wait, something about friends. I know, why I started this place! Alright, so it all probably started in college. The need to help, not the idea. I came up with that through an internet forum and arguments about cheesecake. Anyway, at my college, we created this really small organization. It's hard to even call it that, it was just... at that time, we were all moved by a girl I shared a room with who had attempted suicide. After everything, she dropped out of college... nearly cut contact with us, and we felt the need to do something, to help someone. Young, ambitious psychology students, you know? I think it was even my idea. I was sober for the first time since the academic year began, longer than two days, and immediately started having flashes of brilliance. It was about this: late at night, when most people were contemplating suicide, we swarmed all the nearby bridges. "It sounds heroic, I know. But in reality, we intervened only two, maybe three times. I was really surprised by that, I thought it was one of the most popular methods."

"In the United States, the most common method is hanging. It accounts for 25 to 30% of cases. After that, there’s..." He felt the need to swallow. "Overdose. Especially among the young. Falls from heights or deliberate drownings are less common, but still present in the statistics."

"I'm a little concerned about your knowledge on this subject."

"I read a bit."

"Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, as someone whose favorite book is Girl, Interrupted, but maybe it’s time for some... less... devastating reading?"

"Maybe I'll think about it. Anyway, what’s next with your... project?"

The girl rested her chin on the back of her chair, recalling where she had left off. Spencer finally straightened up, and as he became more engaged in the story she was telling, his hands stopped shaking as much.

"Well, as students go, we kind of lost our drive. They left one by one. The only thing I can say in their defense is that it was a damn cold winter, and you could have gotten hypothermia just from standing on that bridge at that hour. But I... somehow got more involved in it. My mom... passed away barely a month after I started college, completely unexpectedly. You know... or maybe you don't, I don't know what the beginning of a semester looks like in college. More parties than studying. My body had a full Mendeleev’s table inside at that time. Those nights spent on the bridges were the first sober and fully conscious ones in a long time. I liked standing there, thinking. To the drivers passing by, I might have looked like I wanted to jump myself, but I never considered it... not in that particular way. I had been dealing with insomnia for a long time, so I could come there very late. And one time... I really managed to save a man. I noticed him, and we talked for almost an hour. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, but... after that time, he actually stepped down from the railing, hugged me, and walked away. I don’t remember what I said to him. I’m not even sure if it actually happened, maybe I made it all up?

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Spencer stared into her lost gaze, devoid of the false positivity that usually covered it. He wanted to... he couldn’t quite determine if he wanted to hug her. He wanted to do something, but he wanted it to be more than just a hollow gesture. Still, he flinched, holding himself back from wrapping his arm around her.

"I'm sure it really happened," he said, his voice quieter and hoarse. The girl was surprised by the certainty in his tone. "And that's because... maybe you don't realize it, but you're doing exactly the same thing now as you did on that bridge, just in a different place and with a different guy."

He saw her slowly blink, the weight of his words settling in. One of the most talkative women he had ever met was suddenly rendered speechless. They stared at each other in silence for a long time, her lips parting and closing a few times. He felt a strange tension, as if whatever she was about to say would determine something significant in his life.

"Is that... why you come here every night?" she asked finally. "To avoid standing on the bridge?"

Spencer hated metaphors, couldn’t stand when others used them, and struggled to create them himself. So he knew he had reached a truly strange point in his life when he found himself using one.

"I stand on it all the time, every moment."

Her fingers moved restlessly, her face momentarily expressionless. Then, she simply reached for his hand, the one farther from her.

"Nighttime is the hardest, isn't it?"

"Yes," he admitted. He kept the next sentence in his mouth for a long time, chewing on it repeatedly, questioning whether it tasted right and whether he should say it. He felt... that this request might be too much. Yet, at the same time, he was painfully desperate. For the first time, truly motivated to do it. He hesitated, licking his lips, and the girl followed the movement of his tongue, as if wondering what he was about to say. He finally decided to just say it. "I have something at home that I'm afraid I'll take. I know that when I try to get rid of it, I won’t be able to stop myself. I know I probably shouldn’t ask you this, but I can’t do it on my own... I don’t have anyone else who could do this for me..."

She looked at him with a cold seriousness.

"Are you trying to lure me to your apartment?"

"No!" he assured hastily, realizing it really did sound that way. He quickly shook his head. "You're right, you shouldn’t go to a stranger’s house, and I shouldn’t even ask you. We barely know each other..."

"I was joking," she interrupted, reaching for her jacket. "I want to help you, I really do."

"No, I’ve thought about it, and I think I can handle it on my own..."

"After what you just told me? Forget it. I’m not taking the risk that something might happen to you."

"But..."

Determination sparkled in her eyes.

"How far do you live from here?"

You were doing something incredibly stupid.

You were going to the apartment of a man you had met three days ago and knew nothing about except his name.

You were practically risking your life. You could have ended up subjected to excruciating tortures beyond anything you could imagine, then murdered and desecrated.

This was how Spencer lectured you the entire way, trying to convince you not to follow him, but it was already too late. You had made up your mind and tried not to think about the potential danger. It was incredibly difficult, thanks to the vividly detailed stories he kept sharing.

During the twenty-minute subway ride, he managed to summarize the biographies of six serial killers who targeted women just like you. He even called you someone in the highest risk group for assault and violence, to which you sarcastically muttered thank you and clamped a hand over his mouth—mainly because the woman sitting next to you looked like she was dialing emergency services.

“You know an unsettling amount about that topic too,” you remarked as the two of you covered the last stretch of the walk on foot. “You know, murderers and crimes.”

Of course, you had locked up your space, even though you’d never left it before sunrise. Night after night, you had stubbornly stayed until morning, even though, apart from Spencer, only one other person had ever shown up, and you’d spent most of the time bored out of your mind. Yet, you didn’t feel guilty about abandoning your post. After all, your intention from the start had been to help people in crisis—those who couldn’t or wouldn’t seek professional help, who needed more of a friendly, honest chat over a beer but without the beer.

Since the moment that man had first walked through your door, he had occupied your thoughts more than you wanted to admit. You had been incredibly afraid he’d spend every night silently sitting with you and then suddenly stop coming, leaving you with guilt and endless questions. Instead, he had opened up almost by accident.

Even though you knew far less about him than you wanted to, you felt a strange connection between the two of you. Mostly in the form of sleepless nights, the shared loss of someone dear (you guessed this from his attire during that first night), and likely a history with various substances.

Many people would look at him and refuse to believe he could be an addict. Well, aside from the state he was in after several sleepless nights in a row—exhausted eyes, a few days' worth of stubble, and a slouched posture—he looked quite respectable. But you had encountered enough people struggling with addiction to know that appearances were no indicator. Judging based on looks in such matters was simply harmful.

“As I mentioned, I read a bit,” he replied to your question.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? What, The Silence of the Lambs as a bedtime story every night?”

He chuckled but didn't press the issue further as you both reached the building where he apparently lived. He stopped, signaling for you to do the same. Above you, a streetlamp cast the only light in the starless night. Spencer was wearing a brown coat that you really liked, and a light breeze ruffled his hair.

"Maybe you should text your roommate, let her know where you're headed?" he suggested. "You know, give her the address..."

"Oh my God, Spencer..."

"I just want you to feel comfortable," he said.

You sighed and grabbed your phone, wanting to ease his worry.

"It's just common sense to do this every time you're going somewhere with someone you don't know. Or when you're coming back alone. It's not just about women."

"Now I'm starting to think you're really a cop," you muttered.

You pulled up your friend and roommate Jude's number on your phone and began typing a message.

i'm going to some weird dude's place, here's his addy. if I'm not back by noon, just know my head's probably in his fridge xoxo

Jude worked nights cleaning office buildings. She must've been slacking off because she replied almost immediately:

you little slut. 

After a moment she added:

don’t let him tie you down

if worse comes to worse bite his dick off

not as hard as it sounds

“She replied that I’m being a bit irresponsible and I should be careful. She’ll call me in an hour to make sure everything’s fine.”

Spencer seemed satisfied with the response.

“Sounds like a really good friend.”

“Yeah, the best. Let’s go in. 

As soon as you were at his apartment door, he noticeably tensed up. And when he turned on the light, you saw his skin pale again, just like earlier when you had been worried about his state. You didn’t look around too much. The apartment was definitely nicer than the one you shared with Jude, but it had been kept in a style from a decade ago, which immediately impressed you since you weren’t a fan of modern architecture.

“Where is it?” you asked, referring to the mysterious thing you were supposed to take from him.

Uncertainly, he opened the door to the bedroom for you. If he really intended to kill you, it probably would have happened right then. You watched as he approached a cabinet near the double bed. He opened its doors, revealing a simple safe. He typed the code so quickly that even if you had wanted to, you wouldn’t have been able to memorize it. You held your breath as he came over to you, handing you some plastic bag. You shoved it into your pocket without even looking at it.

You didn’t want him to think for even a moment that you were judging him. Besides, the moment he handed it to you, that concern no longer mattered. He could finally breathe again in his own home.

“I haven’t taken anything for a long time,” he confessed in a quiet voice. “Actually, I thought I was completely clean. But something happened recently, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t get rid of it.”

You stood in front of him, your head tilted up, the plastic bag weighing lightly in your jacket pocket, even though its contents were virtually weightless. The silence between you became intimate, and a smile of appreciation crept onto your lips.

“You’re incredibly strong.”

“I’d be strong if I hadn’t bought it.”

“Spencer, you kept it in that safe, what, for three days? You spent nights away from home so you wouldn’t think about it? You asked me to come and take it so you wouldn’t risk giving in. Think about it. So many people would’ve broken down in your place.”

You could see that he didn’t completely agree with you, but you didn’t want to push him to change his mind. You were just sharing your opinion. For a moment, you both stayed silent, his head leaning in your direction so you could hear each other clearly despite the softly spoken words. It was as if you were sharing secrets so big that even the walls couldn’t hear them.

"I hope that by taking this, you'll be able to sleep for a bit," you said, feeling a little like you were committing a sin by breaking the silence. Spencer stepped back to his usual distance.

You knew there was nothing left for you here, but somehow you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the room. You didn’t have even the slightest excuse to stay, so you sighed and glanced meaningfully at the door. His expression was unreadable, his shoulders hanging loosely by his sides.

"Well, I’m off. I’ll drop by the place for a few hours," you said. You were really about to walk out when you cursed in your mind and finally forced yourself to say what had been bothering you. "So... even though you’ve gotten rid of it, do you still plan on coming by? I mean..."

You didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

"We’ll see each other tomorrow," he assured you shortly, but firmly, which was enough for you.

You wanted to leave with a sense of mystery, but you couldn’t stop the wide smile that spread across your face. Spencer opened his mouth, probably to say something about safety and walking alone in the city late at night. You gave him a quick, caring look and disappeared through the door.

You’d been living a nocturnal life for years, aware of the dangers that the darkness held, but you’d also come to know the comforting feeling that it left behind in its embrace.

*

One might expect that after an entire afternoon at work and a sleepless night, you would collapse into bed exhausted by morning. But that never happened. Every day, you returned to your apartment in that dark green building with red fire escapes and spent two hours tackling your dreaded household chores—washing dishes or doing laundry.

You hated mornings, though you didn’t know why. Nights were loud and alive, and so were you during them. Mornings were quiet and seemed to trap you like wounded prey. They cornered you, gnawed at you, and forced you to confront... what exactly? Your own life? Your thoughts? Longing and emptiness?

One thing was certain: you wouldn’t trade your lifestyle for anything in the world.

Around eight in the morning, you would take your neighbor's son to preschool. She was a single mother, just two years older than you, earning a decent income but, as a result, constantly busy. Sometimes she left the boy with you, rewarding you generously afterward.

That was also when Jude came back from her night shift, usually dropping into bed without even greeting you. By then, you would often shut your eyes for a few hours, too—you weren’t a machine, after all, capable of functioning entirely without sleep.

And yet, you were always the first to wake up, spending an hour or two in bed with your laptop before your friend joined you, and the two of you would have breakfast. At two in the afternoon.

You spread homemade jam on your toast. Jude was obsessed with unprocessed food, and if she had the time, she’d probably bake her own bread—from flour she milled herself from grain she grew. You could easily picture her in some tiny, bygone village, growing vegetables with a scarf tied around her head—a funny image, considering she lived a thoroughly urban lifestyle and spent every weekend in a club.

“So?” she asked, walking into your small kitchen after her shower, wearing a black satin robe that revealed glimpses of her freshly pampered brown skin. Even the lack of hot water in the entire building didn’t stop her from sticking to her twenty-step skincare routine. She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “How was the night? Did you have to use your mouth?”

“If you’re referring to that advice you gave me yesterday—no, I didn’t have to.”

“Probably used it in another way,” she said with a smirk.

“Sometimes you’re as gross as teenage boys in high school.”

“Sorry,” she said, waving it off while making herself some coffee. “I’m just happy for you. Lately, you never go out, never see anyone. You spend your nights acting as a free therapist in an empty room, and when you’re not at work, you’re glued to your laptop. It’s not healthy, babe. Sometimes you’ve gotta have fun and blow off some steam. So, who’s the guy? You said he’s kind of a weirdo.”

“He kind of is,” you admitted. “But in a sweet way. We didn’t fucked by the way.”

Jude turned to you, looking utterly crushed.

“Then what the hell did you do? Play chess?”

“You immediately assumed it was a quick hookup. This is a guy I met while acting like a free therapist in an empty room,” you quoted her own words back at her, slightly sarcastic.

She was silent for a moment, arms crossed, staring at you. “Hot?”

“What does that have to do with anything—”

“Well, he must be, considering how quickly you agreed to go to his place. You know what, girl? Need any help with your ‘business’?”

You snorted with laughter, swallowing the last bite of your toast.

“Whore”

“Single young woman, I prefer” 

You weren’t very talkative, your mind constantly drifting back to the events of that night. You regretted not getting Spencer’s phone number. You needed to know what happened after you left and how he was holding up, to the point that you couldn’t focus on anything else. You comforted yourself with the thought that you’d see him again that night. An intense need to learn more about him, to understand him, and a bit of concern for him lingered with you.

Jude was sipping her coffee when there was a knock at the door. You flinched, and she, stiff as a board, stopped you with a gesture of her hand.

“I have a bad feeling about this…” she muttered under her breath, nervously clutching her cup.

As if on cue, the light knock at the door turned into a loud pounding. “Jude!” a male voice shouted. “Jude, come on, let’s talk!”

Your friend hid her face in her hands as you sighed. Richard was her ex-boyfriend, and a complete psycho. They had broken up a year ago and had no contact since. Yet, every now and then, he would remember she existed and stalk her like some kind of obsessive. Then he would disappear again. You had almost gotten used to it, though you still insisted she should report it to the police. Jude, on the other hand, thought it wasn’t worth the trouble since nothing would come of it anyway.

“Pretend we’re not here,” she ordered.

You sighed again, looking at her gently. “I really think you should do something about it.”

“He’ll get bored in a week. We just have to wait. Maybe one day he’ll break his neck on those damn stairs, and we’ll be done with him.”

You couldn’t help but snort, despite the seriousness of the situation. The steepness of the stairs in your building was truly terrifying. So much so that when you went out to the club, instead of heading home in the early hours, you’d crash at some mutual friends’ place. Trying to climb those stairs drunk could end tragically. 

Jude was right about one thing. Richard quickly lost interest, and after ten minutes the knocking stopped, but you didn’t leave, afraid he might be lurking somewhere in the hall. You both left the apartment together—she was heading to meet some friends, and you were off to work.

You liked the bar where you worked. The afternoon shift started quietly, mostly with a few guys stopping by on their way home from the office, chatting calmly and not causing any trouble. As night fell, the atmosphere picked up, becoming livelier. You always finished your shift just when the fun was starting to turn into chaos and arguments. As you left, you noticed the jealous looks from your coworkers, who, after months or even years, still watched some people with fear. Well, a drunk person is an unpredictable one.

You walked back to your rented room as if wings were carrying you. You were curious about what time Spencer would show up. You suspected he spent his evenings in the nearby library, which closed at midnight. You also hoped that besides him, others might show up as well.

Once inside, you started wondering if you should move the sign from the door to a more visible spot, so more people could learn about your initiative.

 Spencer usually showed up right at midnight. Not waiting for him, you got to work on your usual chores. You were certain he’d appear in the doorway any moment, just like he always did—silently, like a ghost. As you scrubbed the floors, you kept turning over your shoulder, always convinced you’d see him there. But every time, there was no one. You glanced at the clock and went back to work, because what else was there to do?

You really regretted not exchanging phone numbers.

Sure, you had taken his Dilaudid, but that didn’t rule out the possibility that he might eventually crack and reach for it. That was the dark scenario that had formed in the pessimistic part of your brain, and it lingered there only for a moment. You remembered the determination and certainty in his eyes last night—he really didn’t want to return to addiction. Most likely, something had just come up. After all, not everyone can afford to stay up so many nights in a row. Work, studies, responsibilities... You realized you didn’t even know what he did for a living. There were so many questions.

Hours passed. You looked at the Christmas decorations you’d put up yesterday. Your mom had never liked Christmas, considering it an unnecessarily stressful time, but at your request, your home always drowned in lights and Santa hats. As an adult, you walked past such things in stores with your head down. Every association with your mom brought memories—positive ones, true, but sometimes the greatest joys also brought pain.

You sighed, catching yourself in those thoughts. This was exactly why you hated silence. It always led you down a path of sadness. You considered putting in your headphones when someone appeared at the door.

You straightened up with hope, but it wasn’t Spencer. Instead, it was a man in a burgundy sweater, glasses on his nose, and a touch of gray in his hair. You recognized him as the librarian, who sometimes left work when you were arriving. He greeted you in an extremely polite manner.

“I’ve noticed that sign on your door for a while now, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to come in. Do you work here?”

At first, you were disappointed it wasn’t Spencer, but that feeling was quickly replaced by a smile. Someone had finally taken an interest in your notice.

“It’s not really a job. More of a personal project. I sit here and listen to what’s weighing on people’s minds.”

The librarian turned out to be a kind, though very shy, man. You talked for a while; he made you laugh more than once, and the rest of the night didn’t seem as depressing. He unexpectedly confided in you that his retired wife was battling cancer. He must have felt the urge to get it off his chest as soon as he entered, maybe even as soon as he saw the sign. He tried to maintain composure, but inside, he was terrified of losing her. His aging hands trembled as he spoke about it, and you listened with a heavy heart.

When you returned to the apartment, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything. You sat on the fire escape, your legs hanging into the dark space, until the sun rose. You heard the key turn in the lock and jumped to your feet, rushing to the door.

“Jude, Jude, Jude!” you called to your roommate. She stepped back, her exhausted mind unable to handle such an enthusiastic greeting. Without waiting for her questions, you said, “You need to find someone for me. Get their phone number, preferably. I don’t care how, I know you have your ways.”

Your roommate wiped her eyes.

“We’ll talk after I get some sleep. And after you make me breakfast. Eggs, just how I like them.”

You agreed to the arrangement. Jude had incredible stalker skills. Once, she found an online profile of a guy just by knowing what kind of watch he wore. You didn’t want to wait until the next night hoping Spencer would show up, so you decided to track him down yourself.

While Jude was sleeping, you wandered aimlessly around the apartment, eventually collapsing on the couch with the laptop on your stomach, reading through discussions on poaching forums. Why? God knows. You just couldn’t sleep.

A king’s breakfast appeared on the table: fried eggs on toast with avocado, freshly brewed coffee. Jude sighed at the sight.

“If only my future boyfriend treated me like this.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you warned, finishing off half an avocado raw. “I’m only doing this because I really need you to find someone for me.”

“Did you meet some handsome guy again?”

“It’s the same one.”

She laughed.

“You slept together and now there’s no trace of him? Sounds familiar…”

“Oh, just shut up with the toast. We didn't sleep with each other. How much longer you’re gonna eat that? 

She rolled her eyes at your rushing and deliberately prolonged eating her breakfast, just to watch the vein on your forehead throb. When she finally finished, she pushed her plate aside and placed her laptop on the table instead. Cracking her knuckles like a piano virtuoso before a performance, she said:

“Alright, tell me everything about him. Every little detail—not just his name and address. Which metro line you took, what shoes he was wearing, what type of condoms he used, everything. That’s how I’ll find him.”

“Condoms?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly. Give me thirty minutes.”

You started losing faith in the success of this plan, but when you shared the information with her—though not everything, to preserve at least some of his privacy—she actually went silent for half an hour, fully focused on her laptop screen. You waited, tapping your nails on the table.

“Ha! Got him!” she exclaimed, both amused and proud. “Oh, crap… did you know the guy’s a doctor?”

"What?"

Surprised, you shifted in your seat. Not that it was entirely implausible… actually, the more you thought about it, it kind of fit him. But his career path was the least of your concerns at the moment—you were looking for a way to get in touch and find out why he hadn’t shown up last night despite his promise.

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” Jude read out. “Sounds sexy. Were you two playing some kind of role-play game?”

“For heaven’s sake, Jude, I told you…”

Once again, you explained to her that you hadn’t spent the night together, but she just cackled through your entire speech.

“Fine. Whatever. You know what, you’re right—we had sex. BDSM, ropes, the whole deal. I’ll tell you all about it…”

“Okay, on second thought, I don’t want to hear this anymore.”

“So plug your ears and give me his phone number if, by some miracle, you managed to find that too.”

*

The first case they got right after Emily's death involved murders that had taken place... in another state.

They were supposed to have one more day off, but it turned out to be a child abduction case—something that simply couldn’t wait. They were called in and had to go. Unless, of course, they wanted a life on their conscience…

Spencer remained silent throughout the entire flight on the jet. He barely slept at night; after the girl left, he stared at the door for a long time, then at the empty safe where his old, despicable colleague had just been. He felt that with the disappearance of the threat, his motivation to leave the apartment or do anything had faded. He no longer viewed the place with such intense disgust, but now considered it... incredibly lonely. When she left, a silence of an unparalleled intensity settled in, causing a sharp headache. He lay down in bed, fearing it might worsen.

The news about returning to work simply terrified him. He was unable to think, at least not as intensely as usual, and after all, that had always been his role—the brain of the team. Without the ability to focus, he was useless.

In child abduction cases, the first twenty-four hours are always the most critical. Pressured by time, he stared at the case files, analyzing all the information gathered so far, and he was losing it. Inside, he was simply losing it. In the past few days, he had started to accept that due to grief and the return of his addiction's voice, he might not be as effective as usual. As a pure realist, unwilling to lean toward either extreme, he finally came to the conclusion that this state would pass. It would pass... he just had to wait.

But he couldn't afford to wait. Someone's life depended on him. A child's life.

This is how he justified it to himself. This one time, he would give in, not to satisfy some fleeting, selfish need. The reason was far more complex, morally justified, even sacred. One could say he was sacrificing himself for the greater good of the case.

"Spence," a voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see JJ with a gentle smile on her face, though it lacked much joy. "I can see you're feeling better."

He hesitated before answering. His mind was a jumble of intertwining conclusions, assumptions, and calculations related to the case he was investigating. Having been torn from his own world, he didn't quite grasp what she had said.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"I said that it’s clear you’re feeling better. You were really distant on the jet. I was worried."

He swallowed hard, overwhelmed by a wave of shame. If only she knew why he felt better...

Looking at her face, he felt the urge to cry, to fall to his knees and apologize to her. She shouldn’t even be worrying about him—he didn’t deserve it.

"Spencer?” she asked, worried, as he once again failed to respond.

Panic began to rise within him, the same paranoia he’d felt when returning from Emily’s funeral with Dilaudid in his pocket. Everyone knew what he’d done, they’d seen it, could read it on his face. He was as transparent as water, unable to hide anything.

And then, as if fate, weary of watching his pitiful behavior, decided to intervene, his phone rang, saving him from the situation.

"Oh, sorry JJ, this is something important," he said, even though he didn’t recognize the number.

His friend looked at him with suspicion.

Having received the call, he didn’t even have time to speak when someone on the other end beat him to it. That was enough for him to guess who was calling.

"Hello. Dr. Spencer Reid? This is the investigative department. We have a few questions for you regarding a missing woman who was last seen with you."

JJ noticed the change in his expression and surely registered how he took a few steps away so she wouldn’t hear his response.

"Very funny," he snapped. He was surprised at how pleased he felt hearing her voice. His muscles relaxed a little, like when she told him about herself at his request. "You know that the investigative department doesn’t contact suspects by phone?"

"Jerk, fool, and fun killer."

He let out a laugh so soft it sounded more like a sigh.

"You know why I’m calling, right?" she asked. He could hear her moving around the apartment, closing some doors, as if she were hiding. "I’m not going to yell at you now about why you ditched me, because it’s not exactly that you ditched me, but you kind of did. Are you keeping up?"

"Ditch me?" he repeated, surprised. "You mean... our late-night meetings?"

"No, I mean the book club where we meet every Monday."

"Something came up at work," he explained, ignoring her sarcasm. "Something really, really important, and it didn’t occur to me to let you know... Actually, I didn’t even think you’d be waiting for me."

He said it sincerely. Until now, he had thought that the girl's question during their last conversation about whether he would come was merely out of politeness, not because she actually wanted to see him.

"Of course I waited. And I was worried when you didn’t show up. You know how few people visit me, when someone finally came through that door, I dropped the mop because I thought it was you."

He fell silent, feeling a warmth in his chest. Lately, he had felt lonely, not just with his own problems but in other areas of life as well. The sadness made him think he was losing interest in things that had once brought him so much joy. Without all of that, he felt a little like a lighthouse in the sea, with nothing and no one within a few miles’ radius. On top of that, he had isolated himself a bit from his loved ones, he had to admit. It was only these late-night meetings and this phone call that made him realize he wasn’t completely alone.

By chance, he caught JJ's gaze. He wasn’t completely alone—he had friends around him—but that didn’t change the fact that he felt like he didn’t deserve them.

"Can you even talk right now, Doctor? If I’m interrupting something important, you can just say so."

"In literally one minute, I’ll have to get back to work…"

"Alright. Setting a timer for sixty seconds. Damn, I’ve already wasted like ten saying that. Never mind. Anyway, I get that something might have come up and you couldn’t make it. I’m not mad. But I’d really like to talk to you. If you get the chance, stop by. You know where."

"I’ll come by as soon as I’m back. Probably not today. I’ll call you then."

"No, don’t call," she asked. Surprised, he furrowed his brows. "Just show up. It’ll be romantic, don’t you think?"

"I hate to break it to you, but neither of us has what it takes to be a romantic," he replied gently, regretting that he was talking to her over the phone instead of face to face. It was always so hard for him to understand the intentions and meaning behind others’ words when he couldn’t see them.

"I do," she protested. "Maybe not you. You seem like the type who, when a woman asks for flowers, buys her a flycatcher."

"And what’s wrong with a flycatcher? It has an exotic and intriguing look, is a natural insecticide that helps reduce the use of chemical ones, and it’s very easy to care for. Besides, let me remind you that once you told me to take your hand and breathe, then asked if you didn’t sound like you were coaching a woman in labor. Is that your idea of romance?"

"That has nothing to do with my sense of romance. I just sometimes can’t keep my mouth shut. But honestly, flycatchers are freaking awesome. I’ve always wanted one. Still, my advice is, if you ever find yourself debating between buying a woman roses or a Venus flytrap, it’s safer to go with the roses."

"And what if I’m certain that the only woman I’d ever want to buy flowers for would prefer a Venus flytrap?"

"Deduce that yourself, Doctor."

He couldn’t help but smile. It felt strange—his cheek muscles had grown unaccustomed to that kind of effort.

"I know my sixty seconds are up," she said after a moment, her voice calmer and less chaotic. "But there’s one more thing I wanted to ask you."

"What is it?"

"How are you doing with, you know, the addiction? Was it easier for you after I took the Dilaudid from your apartment?"

The phone began to feel heavy in his hand, and the next breath was simply uncomfortable. He felt the same kind of shame as when JJ had asked if he was feeling better. The girl had been the only person he had confessed to about struggling again. His honesty on that front had made her quickly rise in the ranks of his closest people. It would have been easier to admit to her that he had relapsed. He even had a full explanation ready in his mind: he’s working on a missing child case, and had to do it to focus... He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bring himself to say it.

"Sorry, I have to go," he lied instead. "We’ll... we’ll see each other soon."

"Alright," she replied, somewhat coldly, certainly with concern. "I understand. See you soon."

He noticed that JJ had started glancing in his direction again. He hesitated, wondering if he should approach her, but he felt so bad about himself that he needed to disappear from anyone’s sight. He needed to focus on something, like the case but wasn’t sure if the fog in his mind would even allow that. 

Disappearing for a moment in the bathroom might help, and at that moment, it seemed like the only solution. And maybe it should have dawned on him much earlier, but only on his way did he start wondering, where the hell did she even get his number from?

*

That same night, you were calm. You were happy that Jude managed to get his number and that he could explain everything to you, which, in turn, made you stop worrying.

You felt the same on night number two and... night number three.

But when Spencer didn’t show up for the fourth time, you began to worry.

On the fifth and sixth nights, you called.

By the seventh, you were pissed as fuck. 

On the eighth day, you decided that since he couldn’t be bothered to call back, you’d stop acting like some damn wife waiting for her husband to come home from war. He was probably cheating on you. Well, not literally. Just extending the metaphor. 

You still spent every night in that room, but you no longer wondered whether he’d show up or not. You just did what was expected of you. As usual, you cleaned the floors. The owner of the hall called, asking you to clean the windows on both sides as well. You couldn’t help but greatly appreciate that you were on the ground floor. The cold air that made its way inside left pleasant kisses on your cheeks. The librarian came by to say goodbye. He did this every night exactly at midnight, when his shift ended and he was heading home. Sometimes he stayed to chat, but not always in the mood for it. Lately, he was feeling better and shared with you that the treatment for his wife’s cancer was showing positive results. Overjoyed, you almost fell out of the window and asked him to deliver good news to you next time when you’re actually standing on the ground.

You had always hated silence, but then it became unbearable. Through the open windows, the sounds of cars reached you, but not enough to drown out your thoughts. After a moment of hesitation, you shoved the headphones into both ears. When you felt particularly bad, you would return, body and soul, to equally painful moments. It usually happened in chronological order, without skipping even a single detail. There would be some minor inconvenience, and suddenly you were back in the dorm, banging on the bathroom door while your roommate was carving herself up in the tub. And a second later, you were at your mother's funeral, with no other family member around to hug you. You had never needed it so much before or after.

You closed your eyes. Usually, this happened in the morning, during those hated hours, not during the beloved nights. You opened them a moment later, and in the window, your face was reflected... along with someone behind you. Scared, you jumped out in a place. 

"I'm sorry," Spencer said, looking guilty. "I really shouldn't have sneaked up on you when half of you was hanging out of the window."

At first, in shock, you pulled the headphones out of your ears. You stared at him... furious. There had been no contact with him for so long, and now he appeared as if nothing had happened, looking unbelievably good, and holding in his hands...

"Is that a flycatcher?"

He seemed surprised that you were the one to ask about it first. However, he smiled and lifted the plant higher. 

"That's right."

"Shove it up your ass."

He opened his mouth, but no words came out, seemingly surprised at how quickly your calm tone shifted to anger. You took a moment to examine him more closely. He was dressed neatly and meticulously in a black cardigan, the collar of a white shirt peeking out from under it, and a red tie. Over that, he wore a black coat, not a single crease visible on any of his clothes. He was freshly shaved, his hair seemed a little shorter... but his face still carried that unhealthy expression, and his eyes looked exhausted. It also seemed to you that... he'd lost weight? As if he were trying to hide what was going on inside by his outward appearance. 

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, while his fingers tightened around the pot. "Look," he began, his voice a little unsteady. "I've been going through a really rough time. Actually, it's been like this for quite a while. On top of that, work's been stressful, and then I got sick..."

You interrupted him, your arms crossed firmly across your chest. "I called," you said, your voice sharp.

“I know,” he admitted. “I saw, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to call back because... I was ashamed...”

“Ashamed that you started taking Dilaudid again,” you stated more than asked, almost certain your guess was correct. You weren’t really angry anymore, just disappointed. Not in him, or in the fact that he hadn’t been able to fight the addiction. It hurt you how much he feared admitting it.

He didn’t answer, which was confirmation.

His gaze darted away from yours as fast as his legs could carry him. You sighed and moved closer, until the only thing separating you was the flycatcher he held. Your hands rested on the soft fabric of his coat, near his elbows. Due to the difference in height, he would have to lower his head to look at you. But he stubbornly kept it straight.

"Spencer, are you afraid I'll judge you?"

A long silence.

"I know you won't," he finally replied. "You're not the kind of person who judges someone for their struggles, I know that. But it's still so hard for me to talk about it."

"Hey, remember, you don't have to explain anything to me. Or say anything now. We can focus on something else first, and whenever you're ready to talk, I'll still be here. Like every night. Unless you just dropped by for a moment?"

Spencer finally looked at you, and as he lowered his head, a few stray strands of hair fell onto his forehead. You were still holding both of his shoulders, tightening your grip slightly to reassure him.

"I've got the whole night free. We finished working on the case, and I don't have to show up at work tomorrow."

You frowned slightly.

"A case?"

"A child abduction," he explained.

Something about this didn't add up.

"I thought you were... a doctor. You know, like, hospital stuff."  You could see how much that amused him. "Don't laugh at me! That's what my friend told me. I asked her to find your number, and that's the information she came across."

"I have a doctorate," he clarified, glancing at you with a small, indulgent smile. "That's why 'doctor.' I don't work in a hospital."

"And here I was already picturing you in a lab coat with a stethoscope around your neck," you groaned. "More than once, actually. No offense, but you don't  look particularly sexy in white. So, what do you do, then?"

He scratched his nose, hesitating slightly before answering.

"I'm an FBI agent."

For a moment, you stared at him silently, your lips slightly parted like an idiot.

"So, you really are a cop... I was joking about that the whole time we last saw each other! That’s why you were laughing so much." Finally connecting the dots, you crossed your hands on your hips, still surprised. You let out a short laugh."A doctorate. Impressive. Now I feel embarrassed around you for dropping out of college."

Spencer's eyebrows shot up.

"I didn’t know that. Psychology, right?"

"Last year. I rarely admit it to people, to be honest. I just don’t feel like hearing, 'How could you drop out when you were so close to finishing?'"

"I'm sure you had your reasons."

"Well, I like to tell myself that. But honestly, I was just in a really bad place mentally."

"That's a reason too."

For a moment, you fell silent. You’d never felt particularly ashamed of it, but you also didn’t like delving too much into the topic. Wanting to change the subject, you brought a smile to your face and pointed to the plant in his hands.

"Is that my apology gift?"

Spencer handed you a terracotta pot with a young, elongated flycatcher inside.

"Something like this. You're not mad at me for not reaching out, are you?" He tried to make sure.

You looked at him and shook your head.

"Not anymore. I'm very easy to bribe. Shouldn't I water this?"

For the next hour, at your request, he told you about this type of plant with such tiny details that you started to wonder if it was possible for an average person to have such an extensive knowledge… on any subject. But you listened intently. First of all, he had that way of talking about things that you always admired in others. It was captivating, filled with passion. Secondly, you were about to become the "mom" of a Venus flytrap. You had to know everything about your baby to take proper care of it.

"Am I boring you?" he asked during his talk.

You shook your head, encouraging him to continue his lecture. Then Spencer asked how your past few days had been, and the conversation flowed on. Easy and pleasant, sometimes abruptly shifting from one topic to another, but then slowly returning to it. Comparing it to your first longer conversation here… you were glad to see how much he had opened up.

Carefully choosing your words, you managed to find out that work had been the trigger that led him back to taking Dilaudid. When he finally said how terrified he was that his distraction might cost the child’s life, you simply didn’t know what to say. Sitting right next to him, you just melted into his side, resting your head on his jacket and wrapping your arm around his back.

"You lost someone recently, didn't you?" you risked asking. "That must have been some kind of trigger too."

A long silence fell, during which you could easily count his breaths. Two long ones.

"She was a member of our team. And to me, like a sister.”

You were surprised when Spencer gently laughed at those words.

"I still carry it with me," he said, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a small, pocket-sized edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. You’d seen him with that book before. "But I just can't manage to read a single page. I'd really like to, though. I loved that book as a kid."

"I hated reading as a child," You recalled. "My mom loved it. Mostly fantasy; for my sixth birthday, she gave me all of Tolkien’s books. But I preferred the adaptations. I felt like my imagination couldn’t grasp all those beautiful images, I preferred to have them in front of me, on screen. It wasn’t until college that my roommate gave me The Bell Jar. She was obsessed with Sylvia Plath, which, now that I think about it, was incredibly unsettling. Well, you know, considering what happened later. But maybe I’m adding things in. Anyway, that’s when I fell in love with books. The ones that don’t take place in distant, magical worlds, but in gray cities or sad suburbs. About people, happy or less so, with good hearts or complete bastards, as long as they’re realistic."

"Do you have any books left from your mom?" Spencer asked, intrigued. You realized you hadn’t talked about her with anyone in a long time, and certainly not in such detail. Until now, you had considered her an intimate memory, reserved almost exclusively for you.

"I donated them to the library near our place. They’d just gather dust at mine, I don’t know if I could bring myself to reach for them. It’s not even about my dislike for fantasy… I also have two boxes of her clothes hidden in my apartment, I don’t even look at them anymore, let alone wear them. She had a wonderful style. A bit like a fairy. She was a psychologist at my high school, and everyone, literally everyone, told me they envied me for having such a mom."

"You also dress like a fairy," he said, studying you more closely. His gaze slowly traveled over you, starting from the light, ruffled blouse and ending at the heavy martens. He snorted. "Okay, like a fairy who goes to rock concerts in her free time."

"Thank you, that’s the style I’m aiming for,"

"So what’s wrong with your mom’s clothes? From what you’re saying, I gather you had quite a similar taste."

You hesitated to respond, thinking about those unopened boxes in the tiny attic of your apartment. You couldn’t even remember exactly what pieces of clothing were in them. It was just… the thought of wearing any of them for an entire day, at work or in your free time, terrified you. Your brain couldn’t separate the good memories from the destructive ones; you simply couldn’t have anything that reminded you of your mom. All the time.

You noticed Spencer was watching you. His expression was gentle, yet painfully sad.

"It never gets easier, does it?"

You realized he was talking about grief and quickly shook your head. Your words might sound incredibly pessimistic to someone who had recently lost someone.

"No. It does get easier, really," you assured him. "God, that’s probably not what you want to hear right now..."

"I want you to be honest," he asked.

"It gets easier, but it will never get easy. At least not for me. Though maybe it’s because I just haven’t confronted it yet, you know?" You laughed bitterly. "I live in constant denial, and when it gets hard, I put headphones in my ears to stop thinking. And the more time passes, the harder it is to face it.”

"So is that your advice? To accept it as soon as possible?"

"I'm not sure you can give advice on grief, Spencer. It's such an individual thing."

You saw his chest move as he sighed. You both spent some time in silence, as it seemed like you both needed it. Spencer didn’t take his eyes off the cover of Alice in Wonderland. You didn’t take your eyes off him, but your gaze wasn’t fully present, so he didn’t even notice you were staring.

You continued your conversation, and the morning arrived at an incredibly fast pace.

There was some tension accompanying the moment of goodbye, for some reason.

"I just want you to know that now, with all the work I have... I won’t be able to come here. Sometimes, sure, but not every day, no chance," he said, standing in front of you as you both got ready to leave. You threw your leather jacket over your shoulders and froze, your hands clenched tightly around the fabric. You quickly corrected yourself. What did you expect, that every night would look like this?

"I totally understand," you assured him, pretending to sound casual. "But if you need this meeting, you know where to find me. No need to announce it."

He nodded, and for a moment, silence hung between you again. You grabbed the pot with the carnivorous plant and froze, not really wanting to head toward the apartment.

"Or maybe..." Spencer started, clearly unsure of himself. "Maybe we could meet somewhere else. You know, like any other... friends. For dinner or whatever you suggest."

You pressed your lips together, feeling an even tighter knot in your stomach.

"Maybe," you said, in a very weak voice. You knew where this was heading. "But... you’re aware of what my day looks like, right? I’m busy most of the afternoon with work, then I come here for the whole night. At the moment, I’m only available in the morning..."

You didn’t have many friends, nor did you enter into long-term relationships for that very reason. Sometimes you met a fellow night owl, someone with whom you spent some good moments... but it was never forever. You never came across someone for whom the nocturnal lifestyle was a permanent state. Usually, after months or years, they decided they’d had enough of that way of life and tried to cure their insomnia. But you planned to live that way until the grave.

"There are still weekends. Though sometimes I work then too, if a tough case comes up... But let’s not think about that. I’m sure we can figure out how to make it work." You had a strange feeling that Spencer didn’t believe his own words. He swallowed with a kind of desperation. "At least from time to time, because... I really like you."

You really liked him too. But despite the fact that you deeply hoped you could stay in touch, you were aware that it wasn’t a very realistic scenario. You shook your head to stop thinking about it. You grabbed the Venus fly-trap in such a way that you could hug him goodbye. He prolonged the moment, holding you tightly with both arms, and in that gesture, there was... gratitude?

"See you then," he said, barely nodding as he did.

"Soon, I hope," you replied.

He left as you turned to lock the door. You could still feel his strong embrace around your body, and it was as if your body itself was telling you that something was missing.

 It was truly a tough morning return to the apartment.

*

"One more time, what’s the name of that bar?" asked Morgan, who was behind the wheel.

The other matter concerned the murderer targeting female students, with a recurring detail being that each victim had spent the night before their death at the same bar.

“The Tipsy Cow,” Spencer repeated, without a moment’s hesitation.

He was incredibly focused because he had taken Dilaudid. The first dose after a period of abstinence always put him in quite a pleasant state. The following doses, however, brought unwanted effects. After the first one, he didn’t even sweat. When they finished working on the search for that child, he was so stressed about meeting her that he deliberately delayed the moment in order to show up clean again, as if it had never happened. Later, he admitted everything to her anyway, so all the suffering was somewhat pointless when looked at from a broader perspective.

Though he desperately wanted to maintain their relationship... day by day, it became clearer to him that it probably wasn't possible. It was all about time. After a whole day at work, he simply couldn't afford to visit her late at night. Still, he tried to drop by even for an hour. Her mere presence gave him pleasure, the simplest pleasure in the world. He valued their conversations, loved her sometimes chaotic way of speaking, and how attentively she could listen to him. These meetings also motivated him to resist his addiction.

But in the last two weeks... something always came up. December, the end of the year, was always a bit intense.

It seemed to him that she was also drifting away from him a bit. Well, for the past fourteen days and six hours, she hadn’t sent him a single picture of how her flycatcher was growing. He didn’t know if he had done something wrong or if there was some other reason. In any case, the current case was so complicated and shocking that it looked like another week without contact was ahead…

“The Tipsy Cow,” Morgan muttered, shaking his head in disdain. “That’s gonna be the bar with the worst name I’ve ever set foot in. And there have been many.”

“A party animal, huh?”

“I used to be, yeah.”

In recent weeks, Derek had been throwing himself deeper and deeper into work, making it his top priority and always staying late. It was his way of coping with Emily's death. Spencer envied him a little for that. He, on the other hand, was so drained that sometimes, with no real plan... he would scroll through job offers he kept receiving. There were plenty to choose from. But for now, he felt he couldn’t bring himself to leave, even though the thought lingered in the back of his mind.

Together, they stepped into the small bar. The colorful, shifting lights gave the space a slightly club-like vibe, but the crowd inside wasn’t overwhelming. The music wasn’t too loud, and it was easy to move around. The noisiest spot was a small group of men playing pool in the corner, loudly cheering on a brunette in a black jumpsuit.

“We need to talk to the bartenders, find out who was on shift Friday night. Honestly, it’d be best to question everyone,” Morgan said as they approached the bar, where a burly man in a black polo shirt was busy mixing a drink. 

"Hey, man. We need a word with you."

He didn’t even look up at them.

"Order something or don’t. I’m not here for chit-chat..." he trailed off, his expression shifting the moment he saw the badge. "Okayyy. That changes things."

Spencer stood sideways at the bar, arms crossed over his chest. He was more of an observer than an active participant in the conversation, but his focus was sharp, ready to catch any details crucial to the investigation.

“Were you here last Friday, around 9:30 to 11:00 PM?”

The guy leaned against the bar with one arm, chewing gum as he thought about it.

“Nah, on Fridays and weekends, I usually come in later.”

“We need to know who was tending the bar then. This is serious, dude.”

“Damn, someone died?”

Their looks said it all.

At that moment, a petite bartender with light hair emerged from the back, carrying two glass bottles in her hands. Initially, she didn’t look at any of them, seeming a bit detached from her surroundings… Spencer straightened up completely.

 What a damn coincidence.

The bartender addressed her by name.

“You’re here Friday nights, right?” he asked.

The girl, caught off guard, nodded, only now noticing their presence. Her eyes shifted to Morgan, who was closer to her and holding his badge up. The muscles in her face tightened slightly with unease. Her eye makeup was heavier than usual—black with a touch of shimmer in the corners.

Only then did her gaze linger—suspiciously long—on him. Her lower lip parted slightly in surprise. Spencer had no idea if he should acknowledge her. He was keenly aware of how nosy Morgan could be when it came to his personal life, and he’d never mentioned his new acquaintance to anyone on the team—or in his life, for that matter.

Swallowing hard, he felt a slight panic rise, urging him to say something.

“We need to talk to you,” he told her, his tone carefully balanced between serious and gentle.

She seemed uneasy about the FBI’s presence; he could see the stress in her piercing eyes, which hadn’t left him for a second. He felt a sharp urge to reassure her, to tell her not to worry.

“But don’t stress—it’s just a few questions,” he added, his voice softening.

When he turned his head, he noticed Morgan watching him intently. He avoided his gaze at all costs, pretending to be at ease.

“Was anyone else working with you that night?” Morgan asked.

“Peter,” she replied. “But he’s on leave right now. His girlfriend just had a baby. A boy. Not that it’s any of your business,” she added quickly. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure I have his number somewhere if you need it…”

She began hurriedly searching her pockets, tugging at the fabric of her black jeans. She was also wearing a dark purple blouse tied at the waist, with a deep lace-trimmed neckline and wide, flared sleeves that didn’t seem particularly practical for bartending.

“You can give it to us later,” Derek reassured her. “What we really need are the details. I want you to try to remember everything that happened that evening. If you can’t, because it’s too loud here… Reid, maybe you two can head to the back?”

There was a faint, sly glint in his eyes. Did he… figure it out?

Derek shifted his gaze to the gum-chewing bartender. “And I’ll have a chat with you.”

Spencer let her lead him to the small back room. He turned to close the door and, when he faced her again, noticed her raised eyebrows and the faint smile playing on her lips.

“Coming to work today, this was the last thing I expected,” she chuckled.

Spencer smiled slightly as well. “It’s been a while. You look good—like you’re sleeping better. Does your partner know we know each other, or are we sneaking around like we’re in some kind of movie?”

“He doesn’t,” he replied, quickly adding, “But of course, it’s not a secret. And the fact that we know each other has no impact on the investigation. By the way… I really like your blouse.”

She raised her arms, showing off the flared sleeves, clearly pleased he’d noticed.

“Guess where I got it,” she said, and without waiting for his attempt, revealed, “It’s my mom’s”

He clearly remembered their conversation on the topic, so he tilted his head with a smile.

“I’m glad you finally pushed through,” he said quietly. He, too, had something to share. “As for me… a few days ago, I started reading Alice in Wonderland. I’m not sure if you remember…”

“The edition you got from your friend? Of course, I remember. That’s good news. Are you feeling better?”

He scratched his nose, unsure of what to say. It had been hard for him to identify his state lately; things were stable, maybe even better, if not for the fact that he had gone back to taking Dilaudid.

“And how’s Steven?” he asked, referring to the flycatcher they had named together some time ago.

“He’s good. The kid I sometimes look after stuck his fingers inside recently, and she bit him. I got a little scared that his mom might sue, but it turns out she doesn’t hurt people,” she said, but then straightened up suddenly. “Wait, here we are chatting, and I think you were supposed to be questioning me.”

Spencer immediately caught himself.

“Yeah, right. So, I’d like you to close your eyes, okay?”

She followed his instructions, responding to his quiet and focused tone. He needed her to recall everything that had happened that evening, to bring back any memories that could help them catch the unsub. As her eyelids lowered, she took a step closer. Suddenly, the room seemed even smaller than it was, as if the walls were trying to pull them together, closing in. Spencer lowered his voice further, causing her face to twitch slightly.

The last time they had been this close, they had accidentally found themselves too near. Her gaze had dropped to his lips, she sighed, and kissed him. He had been caught off guard, unsure of what to say, and she... acted like nothing had happened. He felt the gradual distance between them, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He didn't even allow himself to acknowledge how often he thought about that kiss. In fact, it had been the only thing on his mind since they entered this room and stood face-to-face once again. At the same time, her expression and behavior suggested as if nothing had ever happened. She always had a more relaxed attitude toward touch than he did, but the kiss must have meant something to her, especially since she had initiated it, right?

Not knowing what the hell he was doing, he brought his head closer to hers. He didn’t touch her, just froze in place, very close to her face. She had already said everything she knew, he’d gathered some valuable information, but still, she didn’t open her eyes. Was she aware of how close he’d gotten? Could she feel his presence right next to her?

He had no intention of getting closer to her; they were both at work. It was just… he’d been overcome by temptation and was curious about her reaction. But he quickly withdrew and cleared his throat quietly.

“That’s it. You can open your eyes,” he issued the final command. He knew it looked awkward, scratching the back of his neck, but he couldn’t help it. “Thanks a lot for your help. I think this could be important for the investigation.”

“I hope so,” she said, sadly. “They were… innocent girls. I can’t believe this man just comes here so casually now.”

“You never know what the other person is hiding,” he remarked, feeling a sudden tightening of concern in his chest. They had already left the back room and were approaching the bar where Morgan was still talking to the bartender. He slowed his pace. “Be careful when you walk alone at night, okay?”

“Am I in danger?” Worry flashed across her face.

“From this particular killer? Well… you’re not his type. But he’s not the only person with bad intentions in the world. Just be careful, please.”

She nodded, looking him in the eyes.

“For the first time, I’m glad I’m not anyone’s type,” she added after a moment, breaking the seriousness of the situation. Spencer held back a chuckle. Morgan glanced their way briefly. “Goodbye, agent.”

“Goodbye,” he replied with a short grunt. He wanted to ask if they would see each other again soon, but he knew it was highly unlikely, especially while they were focused on their work.

He never thought any relationship he had with a woman would be tested by something as mundane as differing daily rhythms. Still, he intended to hold on to the hope that it might work. Maybe something would change soon?

A sly grin tugged at Morgan’s lips as they walked back to the car.

“She caught your eye, didn’t she?” he teased.

Spencer looked at him, feigning pity.

“I’m a professional. I don’t get distracted at work.”

“Should I remind you how…”

The faint, really faint trace of a blush on Spencer's cheeks prompted Morgan to burst into laughter.

*

The owner of the room across from the library called, asking that you not come that night. Apparently, there was a meeting planned that would stretch into the early hours.

You had become so accustomed to your routine that, when you returned to your apartment from the bar, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Jude was getting ready for work; you exchanged just a few words before she left. So, you laid down on the couch with your laptop on your stomach, unbuttoning your pants for comfort as you lazily read a book review online.

Your gaze kept drifting between the screen and the flycatcher sitting on the coffee table

Earlier, you had thought about Spencer a lot, but more out of concern or curiosity. Since your encounter at the bar, however, those thoughts had shifted in another direction. He was literally occupying more space in your mind. At random moments, you even found yourself catching his scent—the same one you had noticed when he was so close.

You kissed him because you wanted to. Simple explanation. If it were up to you, you would have gone even further. But you knew that wouldn’t be good for either of you. You were already starting to grow attached, and it hurt to realize how little future you could see in your potential relationship. Potential relationship. You were imagining too much.

You closed your laptop with a resigned sigh and got off the couch. Jude was at work, Spencer was probably either working or already in bed, and the rest of your friends might not appreciate you suddenly reaching out after months of silence. But just because you were alone didn’t mean you couldn’t have fun on your own, right? You hadn’t gone out in ages. You were in the mood to dance, to have some fun, to meet someone new—a wild girl or guy for just one night, then forget about them completely. You needed that. Lately, there had been so much tension inside you.

So, you spent an hour in front of the mirror, touching up your makeup and thinking about which shoes would go best with your black mini dress. It wasn’t just any black dress—that would be boring. This one had short sleeves, exposed shoulders, and a subtle, astronomical pattern with a delicate sheen.

You left the apartment barefoot, holding your heels in your hand. The stairs in your building were too steep to navigate in those shoes. On the way, you threw a jacket over your shoulders, heading to a club you and Jude had been to before, where you both loved the atmosphere. It was there that you met a group of five friends who pulled you into their circle even though they didn’t know you, and the whole night felt like it lasted only a minute. Jude still kept in touch with a few of them. You were hoping for a similar adventure.

You didn’t drink much when you went out alone for safety reasons. You quickly found yourself lost in the rhythm of the club’s music, dancing with strangers and clearing your mind in the midst of the chaos. Hours passed, and someone tried to kiss you, pulling you into a tight embrace, but you couldn’t feel it. It didn’t bring you any pleasure, yet you had a twisted feeling that it would’ve been different if it had been someone else…

You stepped outside to get some fresh air. Your cheeks were likely flushed from both the dancing and the stuffy atmosphere inside.

The phone rang. Jude?

"Hey, girl," she said, her voice clearly worried. "Are you home?"

"I went out to the city," you replied, feeling uneasy. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing... it's just that the neighbor called me saying Richard is hanging around our door again. Be careful, okay? You know, you never know what might go through his head. And we don't even know if he's sober. At this hour, probably not."

You clenched your lips. The December chill hurt like knives, it was almost three in the morning, and you hadn’t planned on staying out until dawn. From the start, you intended to head back early, maybe relax in front of the TV for a bit, and perhaps even try to sleep, since nothing else seemed more appealing. Of course, you weren’t angry at Jude; it wasn’t her fault that her ex turned out to be a psycho.

"Thanks for telling me. Don’t worry, I’m not going back to the apartment for now."

Your roommate hung up, as she had to return to work. You stood there facing a dilemma. Should you go back to the club? You felt too drained to dance, and sitting alone in a corner seemed incredibly boring.

Maybe it was that one drink you had, but your legs seemed to take you in a certain direction.

You weren’t sure if Spencer was even home. But if you had nothing else to do, why not check? A short walk. You were a little desperate, after all, you didn’t have anywhere else to go. That’s how you justified it. You were going to him because you had no other option.

He opened the door, dressed in a wrinkled shirt, trousers, and a tie loosely hanging around his neck. His hair was in disarray, and you felt an urge to run your fingers through it and style it the way you wanted, but it would’ve been awkward.

"Hey. Am I interrupting?"

Surprised, Spencer shook his head.

"No... Actually, I was asleep."

"In those clothes?"

"I fell asleep while reading..." he explained, trailing off when he noticed your appearance. To put it modestly, you looked incredibly hot. For a long moment, his gaze lingered on your dress, visible beneath the open jacket and ending high on your thigh. "Very... nice dress. Is it... is it your mom's too?"

You chuckled.

"Can you imagine my mom, a school psychologist, in a dress covering half her ass?"

Embarrassed, Spencer raised his hands in apology and also chuckled softly.

"Sorry, I'm still half-asleep. Anyway... is there something wrong that you're here?"

"My mentally unstable ex-boyfriend of my roommate is lurking under our apartment.” You confessed bluntly “I'm a little scared to go back, and... I didn't know where else I could go."

It seemed like he was suddenly waking up quickly. He swung the door wide open, letting you in.

"Of course, come in. Is he dangerous?"

"He shows up every now and then and then disappears. It's like a lottery. Jude doesn't want to ever see him again, so we just pretend we're not here when it happens."

The inside looked just as you remembered. The lights were off everywhere except the bedroom, where he was probably reading. You allowed yourself to take off your uncomfortable shoes and set them by the door.

"Why don't you report it to the police?" His forehead furrowed with concern.

"Jude doesn't want to. And I don't want to do anything against her will. But I swear, if this happens again, I'll convince her. Or I'll do it myself."

"You should," he said, and suddenly a silence fell between you.

You weren't sure how to act. You'd barged in on him in the middle of the night, pulling him from his sleep. Not to mention, you hadn't seen each other since that conversation at the bar.

"Let me take your jacket," he said after a moment, as if remembering how to behave when hosting a guest.

You slowly took it off, revealing the full dress. Spencer momentarily let his gaze linger on it, but then he caught himself and turned away to hang your jacket. The glance didn't embarrass you in the slightest; if anything, you expected to catch him looking.

"Sorry if I woke you," you said, realizing you should probably apologize. It was only then that you began to feel a little awkward about the situation.

"You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault. And I'm glad I can help," he said, and once again, silence settled between you. Spencer placed his hand on his forehead as he realized you were still standing in the hallway. "Sorry, it's been a long time since anyone's visited, and I don't even know how to act... Do you want something to drink, or need anything?"

"I’m fine," you assured him, walking behind him into the living room. "I don't want you to act like I'm some important guest, Spencer. Or like you need to serve me."

"But you are an important guest," he replied.

A warm, gentle smile appeared on your lips.

"What were you reading?" you asked, leaning your lower back against the kitchen island, the two rooms connected as one. You glanced around the cozy interior, in soft, almost warm hues, where the darkness of the night blended with the orange light of the lamp. "Let me guess, some spine-chilling thriller?"

"I have spine-chilling thrillers every day at work," he snorted. "I was reading... Emma. Jane Austen."

Your eyebrows shot up.

"You fell asleep reading classic literature on a Friday night? Spencer Reid, what kind of man are you?"

"In a good way or a bad way?"

He stood across from you, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. Your eyes lingered on the first few undone buttons of his shirt.

"Of course, in a good way. Why would I judge someone for reading?"

"I don’t know," he shrugged. "Some people think it’s boring. And weird, especially on a Friday night. And what about you? What were you doing before your roommate’s ex showed up?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes as he nodded meaningfully toward your outfit. "Were you reading too?"

You lifted your chin high.

"Exactly. I was reading my favorite Shakespearean drama in my favorite dress. And those incredibly comfortable shoes I left by your door."

"That goes without saying."

"I definitely wasn’t at any club."

"I wouldn’t even suspect you of that."

"I was doing what any God-fearing virgin would do," you said, bursting into laughter at the absurdity. "Alright, alright. I’m getting carried away. Now I actually feel like reading something. But nothing too classic—I don’t have the brainpower for it. Do you happen to have any romance novels?"

I'm afraid not."

"Really? You have more books in your home than the library in my hometown, and not a single romance? I’m not talking about dark erotica or anything—just something subtle. Friends to lovers, polite sex..."

Spencer choked on a laugh.

"Sorry, but are you drunk?"

You were just horny. 

"Not a drop of alcohol has touched my lips. I'm just hyperactive. That’s what the night does to me."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"So? Aren't you hiding any sinful books in there?"

He rolled his eyes, clearly amused rather than annoyed by your persistence.

"You're welcome to look," he offered, gesturing toward one of the shelves. "But I’m not promising you’ll find anything like that."

"But if I do, you owe me a drink."

“And if it turns out I’m right, then what?”

You bit your lip, pondering. 

“I’ll figure something out.”

“You know, I won’t enter a bet unless I know what I get in return.”

“And what do you want?”

“A dinner together,” he replied without hesitation. “Or breakfast, if you prefer.”

“Deal,” you answered just as quickly. You weren’t worried about regretting it—your blood was buzzing too much for that.

He extended his hand for you to shake on it, sealing the deal. Instead of letting go, you held onto his fingers firmly and tugged him toward the bookshelf. He stood so close as you examined the books one by one, taking some out to inspect their covers to see if they suggested any hint of romance. When they didn’t, he let out a short laugh, his breath brushing against your neck and sending a shiver down your spine. You didn’t let it show.

“Spencer…” you started after a while, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “It counts if the book has a romantic subplot, right?”

“No, it doesn’t count! We agreed on a romance. A full-fledged, contemporary one.”

“We didn’t say contemporary.”

“I assumed it was implied since I mentioned owning Jane Austen books. Pride and Prejudice is a romance, among other things…”

“Ha! So you do have one. I won!” You raised your hands high in victory.

“…But it’s also a social and domestic novel. Doesn’t count.”

You poked him in the chest with your finger. “You don’t know how to lose.”

He glanced at the spot where you touched him, clearly trying not to smile.

“Maybe I just care a lot about that dinner,” he admitted boldly.

You didn’t know what to say. You tried to look at him confidently, but it was hard to think and maintain eye contact with him at the same time.

“Or breakfast,” you murmured.

“Or breakfast,” he agreed. Realizing how close he was standing, he instinctively stepped back half a pace. “So, are you ready to admit my victory?”

You shot him a defiant look.

“Not a chance. I haven’t even checked all the books yet. I’m only about three-quarters through. Who knows what kind of BDSM might be lurking in the last quarter?”

“Seriously?” he asked with a sigh. “Okay, just look at me. Do I seem like the kind of guy who reads stuff like that?”

“Honestly, you look like the kind of guy who reads encyclopedias. But the one thing I know about people is that appearances can be deceiving. Still waters run deep.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re as stubborn as they come.”

“Maybe I just really want that drink,” you teased.

“I can make you one,” he offered unexpectedly.

“Seriously?” The suggestion caught you off guard.

Spencer shrugged casually.

“I don’t drink much, but some friends gave me a few bottles for my birthday.”

You hesitated, considering.

“I’m not really in the mood,” you admitted. You felt good, even without alcohol. “But I do have another request… Do you happen to have something I could change into? I won’t lie, this isn’t the most comfortable dress… though it’s absolutely stunning.”

He smiled softly.

"You’re right. And yes, I’ll find something for you to change into. Just… it’ll be something of mine."

Following him into the bedroom, you let out a small chuckle.

"You know, I didn’t expect you to have a closet full of women’s clothes. Plus, in my size. Although, who knows what girls leave behind at your place. It’s a tactic, you know? You leave a sock at a guy’s place to have an excuse to come back. Unless you didn’t like it, then you have to accept losing the sock."

He didn’t say anything, opening the wardrobe to find something appropriate for you. You’d been in his bedroom before and didn’t feel the need to look around; nothing had changed inside.

"Do you do this often?" he asked, inspecting a t-shirt. "Use the sock strategy?"

"No," you replied, shrugging. "I’m too straightforward for that. If I like it, I just go back and say 'Let’s do it again' Or I don’t leave at all. I’m a bit of a parasite too."

He chuckled at the comparison and finally handed you some clothes. You didn’t really look at them; you just needed something looser, something you hadn’t danced in for hours at the club.

"You know where the bathroom is, right?"

You confirmed and were about to head in that direction when you stopped.

"Wait," you said, turning back toward him. But then, you turned again, facing him with your back. "The zipper on the dress," you explained, pulling your hair to the front. "I could manage it myself, but I don’t want to risk breaking it. Could you…?"

"Y-yeah," he agreed after a moment, stepping closer.

He stood just behind you, reaching for the top of your back. Before he pulled the zipper down, there was a moment where he simply paused, unmoving. Your knees suddenly trembled, almost impatiently. Then, he tugged at the zipper, unfastening the dress, and the coolness and freedom teased your skin.

You could have said thank you and headed to the bathroom, but you didn’t. Something kept your body rooted in place, right there next to him, feeling the pads of his fingers on the lower part of your dress.

Even his breath, louder and irregular.

When you began to, slightly disappointed, assume that he wouldn’t do anything more, his lips found a spot on your neck, kissing it slowly. You inhaled deeply, your head instinctively tilting back, giving him more access, as if you had been waiting for just that.  He stopped for a longer time in this specific place, pressing on it harder, as you barely hold a groan. 

Your breath was given a free rollercoaster ride.

You reached your hand back, wrapping it around his head and pulling him closer to you. You felt him sigh directly into your skin, leaving another two hungry kisses on an exposed skin on your shoulder. God, why were you still wearing that dress?

You abruptly stopped, turning around and almost hitting the top of your head against his jaw. You didn't care about it, and the thought of apologizing never crossed your mind, just simply pushed him, planting a strong kiss right on his lips.

The clothes he gave you slipped from your hand and fell to the floor, but neither of you were concerned about it, as you were both too absorbed to care. You pushed him again, this time onto the bed, on which he sat, surprised by your suddenness. You saw red marks creeping onto the parts of the neck exposed by the undone shirt. 

"Spencer, Spencer, Spencer," you said, shaking your head in a mock reprimand. He tilted his head to the side, unsure of where you were going with this, his fingers impatiently brushing your waist on both sides. "You lied to me."

Your hands grabbed his face, positioning just under his jaw and lifting it upward so you could find his lips right against yours. 

“I lied to you?”

"“That's right. You said you don't read romances. But tell me, how does someone who doesn't do that know such practices?”

“Practices?” he repeated again, surprised."

His gaze was focused solely on your lips to which he tried to get closer, but you hadn't allowed him to yet. 

"This whole unbuttoning of the dress. And then, the neck”

With your index finger, you traced along the skin on his neck

“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. He removed one hand from your waist and took your hand, the one you had been playing with.

“Did I like it?” you scoffed with a genuine laugh.“I’m like half naked now. Answer that for yourself”

Undressing was the element you hated the most. You became impatient and couldn't understand why your clothes couldn't just disappear from you, instead of threatening to burn your already overheated skin. Spencer didn't help, so slow in his movements. You had a feeling he was doing it on purpose. He probably enjoyed watching you struggle to untangle yourself from the dress. He waited a minute before helping you, effortlessly pulling it over your head.

Maybe slow wasn't the most accurate description.The way he touched his body wasn’t slow. It was like rationing a treat, breaking it into small pieces and savoring them one by one. Meanwhile, it gazed straight into your mouth, shouting, eat me!

It required incredible self-control and composure, but it resulted in something more than just pleasure. When he found himself right between your legs, his lips touching gently every single inch of your thigh and refusing to go further despite your pleas, you compared him to the previous guys you slept with. With them, on the other hand, you had to tell them to slow down, to do everything more carefully, and not to focus solely on their own needs.

“Does it feel right?” He asked, briefly lifting his gaze, his hands gripping your thighs.

Your back arched, probably enough of an answer, but you confirmed it with a soft moan.

"I'd rather you said it out loud. Does it feel right?"

"That's edging on sadism, do you realize that?" you whimpered, trying to release the tension by pulling at his hair.

He stopped again.

"Please, do it again."

It wasn't something he had to beg for.

The rest went similarly. You liked how his confidence and courage grew, but you also went wild when, at certain moments, the same gentle and sometimes awkward Spencer returned. It was a perfectly balanced mix.

"Can you talk to me more?" he asked over time, once he was already inside you. "I want to know how you feel about all of this." After those words, your forehead twitched slightly as you felt the onset of pain. "Does it hurt?"

"No," you whispered, accompanied by a faintly tired exhale.”A little. But it's normal I just didn't have sex for a while”

"No, it shouldn't hurt you. Do you want to stop?"

"Just... give me a moment."

He slowed down, almost stopping. You took a breath,pressing your forehead to his. You stayed like that for a moment, neither of you in a hurry. After all, where to? Outside, the night still reigned, long and patient, winter’s grip holding steady. You liked having his face so close to yours, joining them together and not speaking. For the first time, you could truly say that you enjoyed the silence.

You had always considered silence overwhelming, incapable of calming the chaos that arose in your mind. You preferred moments of wildness, loud sounds, and fast pace, but it was in that silence, which fell then, that you found a peace filled with intimacy.

You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck.

"It's okay, I'm ready."

After everything, you simply lay facing each other, tangled in one another. Actually, you didn’t like that expression "after everything." After everything—after what exactly? Sex wasn’t just about the physical act; it also included the long moment before and the even more significant one after. It was precisely that moment after which revealed the true you both. How much you cared for each other and how much you meant to each other beyond the bed. That was often missing in one-night stands; the perspective of quickly disappearing from each other's lives and being forgotten somehow intensified selfishness in people.

Lying there, you played with the hair on his forehead.

"You know, they say this is the moment when people are the most honest with each other."

"Do you want to squeeze a few secrets out of me?" he asked.

"Just one," you said mysteriously, turning onto your back. Before that, you noticed his eyebrows furrow.

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at you again.

"Which one?"

You pretended to hesitate before answering. You tried with all your might to keep the smile from appearing on your face, betraying you.

"I'm afraid that even now, you won't be honest with me."

"I'm starting to get worried."

"I'll tell you, but you have to promise to tell the truth. Give me your pinky."

"What?"

"A pinky promise, you fool."

“O-okay” 

Clearly surprised, he did what you asked.

"Now tell me the truth. You got any romance books at your place you're too embarrassed to admit to?"

He rolled his eyes.

"I'll find them," you teased. "I’ll get up right now and find them."

You pretended to get up, but he pulled you closer, preventing you from moving.

"You're not going anywhere."

*

You fell asleep.  

Asleep. At night.  

Completely normal for any other person, but for you...? The shock made your heart beat faster, painfully colliding with your chest. The blanket slid off your shoulders as you sat up.  

Spencer sighed in his sleep, the kind of breath that often heralds waking, but not this time. He was still deep in slumber, lying on his stomach, his face turned toward you. Falling asleep next to each other after sex had always seemed a bit... cliché to you. Pulled straight from the movies. It looked pleasant on screen and spared the viewer the awkward scene of putting on clothes that had been scattered across the floor in a frenzy of passion just moments earlier. In reality, who had time for that?  

For you, someone who had been struggling with sleep issues for years, it was usually just lying in bed next to a guy sleeping soundly, feeling bored. A sign it was time to get up and leave.  

You’d planned to spend the night at Spencer’s place from the start. Well, maybe not specifically in the same bed, but as his... guest. Because of Richard, of course. So when he fell asleep mid-conversation, you didn’t have many options on where to go. Besides, you didn’t want to leave. It was nice lying next to him; his face looked so innocent in sleep. You had thought about quietly grabbing a book or reaching for one of the ones in the bedroom, but that would probably wake him up. So you rested your head back on the pillow and watched him. At some point, without realizing it, your eyelids grew heavy.  

It was a very early hour, or so the clock on the nightstand claimed. It felt unreal to you. Usually, at this time, you were sitting in an empty room, waiting for some lonely soul desperate for a conversation to walk in. 

For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, but... it would hurt if it didn’t work out. You’d lose a friend and confidant. A man who had come to you at his lowest point and decided to trust you, making you feel special. Someone who understood you, made you laugh, and had even given you a Venus flytrap. On top of that, he had an excellent taste in books, an incredible intellect, and, to be completely fair, was very good in bed.

Well, running away wasn’t an option anymore. You knew that when Spencer woke up, you’d have two choices: pretend nothing happened again, or have a conversation. You were both adults, so it was only reasonable to expect you’d choose the latter

You knew you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. It was an anomaly, one that wouldn’t repeat itself. Still, you wanted to let him sleep peacefully, feeling guilty for disrupting his night by barging into his apartment. Before finding a comfortable position by his side, ready to lie there for an hour or two, you glanced one last time at the clock—and something caught your attention.

“Spencer,” you said softly, not wanting to wake him too abruptly. It didn’t work, so you gently shook his bare shoulder. “Spencer, your phone.”

It must have been silent, but you could clearly see an incoming call displayed on the screen.

At the word phone, he reacted as if it were a blaring alarm. He bolted upright, still half-asleep, and pressed the device to his ear.

“Hotch?” he asked, his voice rough and groggy, sounding almost like a cough. He listened to the person on the other end, rubbing his face with one hand to wake himself up, then sighing heavily as he ran that same hand through his hair.

"I’ll be there in an hour," he said, his tone laced with clear reluctance but also an undeniable sense of duty. When the call ended, he turned to you over his shoulder. The expression on his face softened.

"Hey," he said gently.

"A new case?" you guessed, trying not to let it show how much you didn’t want him to leave. After all, it was what it was—his work was far more needed by the world than by you in bed.

"We’ve been working on it for a while, and there’s been some kind of breakthrough... I’m really sorry. I feel bad, leaving like this," 

"Spencer, I understand. It must be something important. Go, and don’t worry about me. I’ll get myself together and head back home soon..."

"And what about your roommate’s ex?" he interrupted, giving a slight shake of his head. "You don’t know if he’s gone yet. You shouldn’t be going back alone."

"It’s Richard. He’s a very impatient motherfucker. He’s probably already gone," you replied.

"You don’t know that."

"So, what are you going to do?" you scoffed. "Take me there by the hand?"

Spencer was silent for a moment, looking at you as if the answer was obvious.

"Just stay here,"

His suggestion made you raise an eyebrow. Spencer shrugged.

“Well, what? It’s barely five in the morning. I don’t want to kick you out this early just because I got a call from work.”

"Kick me out?" you chuckled, causing him to look at you with a slightly puzzled expression. At the same time, he was heading toward the wardrobe, realizing he didn’t have much time and should start getting dressed. "If you call this kicking someone out, then I don’t even have a word for how other guys behave. By the way, could you hand me, I don’t know, a sweater or something?"

The apartment had a pleasant temperature, but you still had an overwhelming urge to wrap yourself in something warm and soft. The only piece of clothing you had with you was a short-sleeved dress. And a jacket, but that didn’t really count.

"In that case..." Spencer began, rummaging through the clothes in his wardrobe, his brow slightly furrowed as if he were seriously contemplating his choice. He didn’t seem amused by your earlier joke—in fact, he looked surprisingly focused.

His fingers finally stopped on one of the hangers. He pulled something out and turned toward you with a faint smile.

"I'm tremendously proud that I don't fall into the category of those other guys. You like purple, right?" he added, holding up a sweater in a deep plum shade.

"I meant just any piece of clothing. But yes, I do like purple," you said, stretching your hands out in front of you, encouraging him to toss you the sweater.

Instead of throwing it, he stepped closer to you. At first, you didn’t understand what he was doing, especially when he stopped right in front of you, still holding the sweater in his hands.

It dawned on you a moment later, and you burst into laughter, raising your arms up so he could slide it over your head. The sweater draped over your body, proving to be slightly oversized. The V-shaped neckline awkwardly settled on your shoulder, slipping down and leaving it exposed.

Spencer, almost mechanically and with focus, slid his hands under the fabric to free your hair that was tangled beneath it. After probably half the night in the club and the second half spent in bed, it probably resembled a huge mess of hay, but you weren’t particularly concerned about it. It only just occurred to you that he had to leave soon, and knowing his work and the constant impossibility of syncing your schedules, you might not see each other again until the next few days.

"I’d like to talk to you," Spencer suddenly said, almost as if he had to force the words out, quietly taking a breath. "About all of this. About us. We don’t really have time for it now, but as soon as I get back, I’ll make sure to meet you. No matter what time it is or how tired I am, okay?"

You wanted to comment on the last part of his words, the bit about being tired, assuring him that you weren’t asking for that from him, but something in his gaze stopped you. It was funny how his eyes were both sleepy and lively at the same time. His dark iris blended with his dilated pupil, the boundary between them fading, making them almost hypnotic.

"So, are you staying here?" he asked.

A delicate smile passed over your face.

"I see this means a lot to you. Aren’t you afraid I’ll start digging through your books?" "All of them are at your disposal," he reassured, also lifting the corners of his mouth slightly.

However, suddenly his expression darkened, as if some spell had been cast, taking away all his confidence. For a long moment, he stayed silent, and you tilted your head in confusion.

"Can... can I kiss you?" he finally asked.

"Do I need to remind you that we already slept together?"

"Well..."

Whatever he was about to say, you simply cupped his neck with your hand, pulling him closer. A sweet, shallow, slightly long —a typical farewell kiss.

He had already mostly dressed, with only the task of crouching down by the nightstand left, to open the safe inside. You knew he kept his gun and badge there. You tried not to look in his direction while he entered the code, just as common decency dictated looking away when someone unlocks their phone. But still, you noticed how his fingers trembled slightly.

When he left, you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. If you were anyone else, you would’ve hidden under the blanket, absorbing the scent of both of you, sinking into an incredibly peaceful sleep. However, you were aware that wouldn’t happen. You pulled a pillow under your head, lost in thought, haunted by some strange unease.

You spent a long time simply wandering around the apartment, unable to help the fact that you were one of those people who got bored quickly. Jude had just returned, you thought, as the clock struck eight. The main trait of her ex was unpredictability, but even he followed certain patterns and routines in life. He didn’t show up that early because he knew she was still asleep. He preferred to knock on the door at noon and bother her during her free time.

You started getting ready before you even made a decision. First, you made the bed, then undressed again to slip back into the dress. On top, you put Spencer’s sweater, for some unknown reason not wanting to part with it. Was this some sort of reversed sock strategy? Were you taking his clothes instead of leaving them behind?

An impulse shot through your body as you stood by the door. Not even knowing what you were doing, you simply returned to the bedroom, falling to your knees in front of the, as it turned out, unopened safe.

Spencer hadn’t emptied it completely. Inside was a dose of Dilaudid, the reason his hands had been trembling earlier.

An unexpected wave of guilt hit you with force. Recently, you hadn’t brought up the topic with him at all, assuming that if he needed to talk about it and was ready to, he would bring it up himself. But that’s not how people in addiction found themselves. They could deny it to the very end, doing anything to avoid seeking help.

You wiped your face with your hand. Should you even confront him about it when you saw him again? Well, the answer was probably yes, but the real question was how.

You came up with the idea of perhaps arranging a night in your room across from the library. That place had an oddly polite way of encouraging people to be honest, without making them feel like information was being extracted from them forcefully. You had been considering this on your way back. The heels were rubbing your feet, and after the night in the club, you had a few blisters. Before entering the building where you lived, you simply took them off, not wanting to risk your life on those steep stairs. Jude had sprained her wrist on them once, and thank God it was just her wrist.

Completely lost in your thoughts, in their aggressive waterfall, you didn’t even notice someone sitting right by the door to your apartment, leaning against it with their back. You jumped in surprise when Richard sprang to his feet.

Shit.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, clearly happy to see you. You cautiously stepped back a step, likely balancing on the edge of the stairs. You didn’t turn around, nervously glancing at the man. "Hey, do you remember me? You're Jude's roommate, right? You definitely remember me."

"I remember," you admitted uncertainty, holding yourself back from taking another step backward. Richard always had that dangerously unpredictable energy. One moment, he could circle around his girlfriend like an attention-hungry kitten, and the next, he’d be throwing plates in the kitchen. Although, theoretically, he had no reason to hurt you, you preferred to remain... cautious.

"That's great. Listen, could you let me in for just a second? I need to talk to her."

You didn’t know what to say, how to act. Of course, letting him in was out of the question; you wouldn’t do that to your friend. However, you knew that as soon as you opened the door, he’d take advantage of the opportunity and force his way inside. You could step back… the real question was whether he would let you.

"Come on..." he pleaded, trying to make a puppy-dog face, which looked downright comical on his stern face. "Please, she doesn’t want to see me. I just want to talk, to make things right. I’ve changed, really. I don’t know what she told you about me, but half of it probably wasn’t even true. Please."

Seeing that you still weren’t moving, his features suddenly hardened.

"Just open the door."

You didn’t respond.

"Where’s your key?"

He probably guessed it was in your jacket pocket, and suddenly reached for you.

"Move away, right now!" you hissed, pushing his hand away.

He grabbed your wrist so tightly that a strangled cry of pain escaped you.

You started struggling. You tried to push him away as he rummaged through your pockets one by one, still gripping your hand tightly, preventing you from escaping. A few times, you struck him with a clenched fist, shouting loudly, hoping to wake Jude or one of the neighbors.

Your attempts at defense were in vain. No one came. Richard finally found the key, and once he got what he wanted, he shoved you aside with a scoff.

You didn’t even have a chance to try to regain your balance.

It happened so quickly that you didn’t even manage to close your eyes, fooling yourself into thinking it might protect you from the pain to come. During the struggle with Richard, you dropped the shoes you were holding, your bare feet slipping off the edge of the step. Your body followed, limp, like a rag doll. In that moment, you wished you were one. Without bones, the sound of them cracking filling your ears.

Without limbs, vulnerable to breaks.

Without real eyes, still covered in the remnants of party makeup.

Beautiful, cold, and empty, as they started to fill with fog.

Forced to look in the direction your neck had twisted.

Dead. 

tagging: @lillaberry @nightfullofparadox @issy25 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @reidmarieprentiss @miriamnox @bloodredrubyrose

i'm so grateful for how many of you wanted to read it all <3

[bountyhaunter]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Daiyu's house PARTIES: Alistair @deathsplaything, Emilio @mortemoppetere, Vic @natusvincere, Zane & Daiyu @bountyhaunter SUMMARY: A conspiracy meets to plan an ambush. CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A

She had never had this many people in her house. Scratch that: Daiyu had never had people in her house, ever. Not this one, anyway, this small cabin that she’d been able to rent through hunter connections and had been living in for about half a year. It was kind of overwhelming, if she was honest, but she never was to herself and so she didn’t pay it any mind. 

She returned to the living room with a stack of mismatched cups and a bottle of soda, placing them on the table where a few other key ingredients for a strategy meeting already resided. A package of grocery store chocolate chip cookies and a bowl of potato chips, for one, and then all the bits and bobs of paper like the blueprints and guard schedules Alistair had provided. She looked around the strange combination of people — from Emilio to Vic (who she’d just thought a very sweet suburban mom up until recently) to a guy named Zane (whoever that was) to Alistair. Brutus and Nugget were hopefully entertaining each other in corner. She’d be very sad if they didn’t get on.

“Alright,” she said, ignoring the cups and soda now that she’d placed them on the table. These people were capable of pouring themselves a drink and she wasn’t very good at hosting, anyway. To the dismay of her father — but well, that wouldn’t be the main thing that’d bother him about this ordeal. “Where were we? Us …” She gestured at Alistair and herself. “On the inside. We’ll make sure there’s not a lot of peeps on schedule.” Daiyu tucked her legs underneath herself as she got comfortable on the floor. She didn’t have enough chairs. She barely had enough forks for one person. “Whatever. Getting in’s not the issue.” She was down to brush over those details, because something else was nagging at her. Daiyu wasn’t very good at boring planning details. She pulled a messy list of captives toward her. She’d worked on that over the past week. “What do we do about the people?”

—

Tension turned his body into a coiled spring, ready to leap up at the slightest irritation. Emilio stood in the kitchen with his back against the wall, eyes darting periodically between Alistair and the woman he didn’t know with the occasional uncertain glance towards Daiyu. The only person in this room he trusted fully was the one he’d brought himself, and he was already feeling a little guilty for dragging Zane along. 

He looked to the table, to the blueprints and papers and things he probably wouldn’t understand. This level of planning was new to Emilio. Most of the time, his plans consisted of ‘go in, kill what needs killing, try not to die.’ (Except for the ones that omitted the last point — he tried not to let himself think of those for the moment.) This kind of strategizing was foreign to him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here. Part of him wanted to protest, wanted to point out that it wasn’t necessary for the blade to know what the hand was planning. Point him in the direction where he needed to slice, and he’d do it. Everything else seemed wasted on him. 

But… he wasn’t sure he trusted any of them, even Daiyu, enough not to know the plan. If he was going to put Zane’s stupid life on the line, he was going to make sure the plan was a decent one. He owed the vampire that, at least. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a flask and took a swig, ignoring the soda and snacks Daiyu had set out. This was more his style. “Case by case, I think,” he piped in, glancing at the list Daiyu had provided. “Some of them might not be the kind we want to put back into the world.” But Emilio wouldn’t leave anyone locked up. A quick death was kinder, he thought; he’d give them that. It was what he’d want for himself, when the time came. “Okay. So, we need to… look into this. Right? See why they were brought in, decide what to do with who. We don’t want to send serial killers loose on the town.”

—

It had taken a lot from Alistair to leave Tommy at the apartment to come to this meeting. The two had become dependent on each other since the loss of Melody and both of their worlds crumbled from under them. The only thing that propelled Alistair forward on this mission was that his life was on the line, and there was no way they would leave Tommy alone. They owed everything they could to make this out alive. And if that meant going against The Good Neighbors and Winnifred herself? Then so be it. Brutus had been playing with Nugget in the corner, but Alistair gave the command, and Brutus ceased his playtime and made his way over to his owner, eager to work. 

A case-by-case basis was necessary. Alistair remembered a lot of the names that went into those cages and remembered the atrocities that were committed. “Winnifred has a better-kept log that has names, dates of imprisonment, and reasoning,” Alistair spoke up, arms crossed over their chest as they stared blankly forward. “Daiyu and I could call her to the keep to discuss overcrowding,” Alistair suggested, knowing that the keep was getting seriously overcrowded. It was something they’d have to talk about eventually, whether Winnifred wanted to or not. “She’d bring her book with her and make decisions for ‘the good of the town.’ or whatever she tells herself.” 

“Listen, this mission is not going to be easy,” Alistair warned, hand gripping around the hold of Brutus’s harness. “People are going to get hurt, people are going to die. Not everyone you release will be happy to see you.” Alistair knew from experience how wily they could be. They knew they had to prepare for the worst, a spell that they’d already begun to prepare for. Alistair was going to die there, they knew they were. But they didn’t want anyone else to get killed along with them. If they could warn them of the dangers, they’d at least have done their part.

__

Vic had turned back home three times before she finally convinced herself to join this meeting.  This was why she’d joined the Good Neighbors in the first place, right?  To protect the vampires she’d suspected were being targeted and start the path toward righting the wrongs of her past.  Sure, she may have gotten a little distracted by the delicious little taste of neighborhood power joining the group had provided her (she’d made more citizen’s arrests in the last month than probably her entire time in Wicked’s Rest, but littering was down a good 10%). But after finally overhearing the truth from Alistair and Daiyu a few days ago, it felt like something substantial was finally about to happen.

As she sat straight-backed in the chair that had been offered to her, pursing her lips at the menu offered to them, a punch of guilt invaded her stomach, scolding her for even thinking of freeing monsters from their cages.  She had known for nearly 300 years that they deserved to die, and if she were in this meeting three years earlier, she would have elected to kill them all on sight.  What kind of world was she leaving for Rosie-... for humanity… if she let monsters like herself walk free?  But then her mind flipped again, to all the work she’d done to be better, to all the ‘monsters’ that had proved her wrong… Why couldn’t this have been easier?

“Why do we get to decide which of them deserves death?” Vic chirped from her corner, the first thing she’d uttered the whole meeting.  “Is that not just as reprehensible as what Winnifred is doing?  Who’s deciding morality here?”

__

Zane had rarely felt as out of place as he did here, working very hard to piece together the bits of information Emilio had provided with the people in the room and the words they were exchanging. It probably didn’t help that he’d chosen to stand, wanting to fade into the background with his ill-defined role here but realizing it probably made him look like Emilio’s bodyguard or something equally silly. How the slayer would have seethed at that notion. Moving to sit now seemed worse but he did uncross his arms, trying to match names and what they were to the faces in the room. 

It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn grim - who gets to live. He’d had this conversation with Emilio, about how locking up things like Zane wasn’t a viable option. Not humane, either, especially for something that would practically live forever. It still made his skin crawl but the naivety he’d possessed last year existed no more, gone up in flames when that barn did. “Someone has to do it,” he found himself speaking up, not sure how much of it was his own opinion and how much was simply support for Emilio, which seemed his only true role here. “At least this way it’s… informed.” Was he even supposed to take part in the conversation? Well, too late now. 

—

This was why she shouldn’t get caught up in affairs. Not human affairs, not supernatural affairs — none. Daiyu functioned best on her own. If she had never joined up, she would have never known about this and she would have been able to spend this night watching Buffy. But here she was. Hosting the revolution for a place that should perhaps not be overthrown, hearing people talk about what she preferred to avoid. Morals. She tended to let herself be led by the bounty board, not by what felt good.

She started stuffing a cookie into her mouth so she had an excuse not to talk (which was nonsensical, considering she talked with a full mouth all the time) and felt herself grow agitated. “Yeah, we could totally get the book off her, no doubt,” she said, “Whatever, but — even those are — you know.” Vic was making good points. All of them were. She wanted to slam her head into the table.

“Way I see it, Winnifred isn’t … she’s just a human. Trying to do what she reckons is best, but she doesn’t … she’s clueless, yeah?” She glanced at Emilio. “Cortez and I, we’re hunters. We know this shit. We’ve been raised for this. We know what’s a risk, what’s not.  What beast to take out in the woods and which to let run its course, ya know? So it’s the same as that. Just … more …” She wiped a crumb off the table. “Premeditated. Whatever. Most important is that it ends here. And yeah, for many that’s gonna mean it ends-ends.” Daiyu’s job was to figure out who in town should be targeted, hadn’t it? She knew in some cases why some of the prisoners had been put there. She’d made that judgment. None of them were innocent. (None of them at this table were either. Well, maybe Zane and Vic, she wasn’t sure.) “I’ll make sure there’s plenty of weapons around for when push comes to shove.”

—

Zane had his back, though Emilio wondered how much of what he was saying was what he really believed and how much came from his perception that he still owed Emilio for what happened in that barn a year ago now. He didn’t bring Zane along to have a yes man in his corner, didn’t want someone who would agree with everything he said. He needed Zane for the same reason he needed Teddy, or Wynne, or Xó: because sometimes, Emilio led with something that wasn’t his head. Sometimes, the past got muddled in with the present, and nothing was quite right. If he was making the wrong choice here, he needed someone to tell him that. He needed it to be someone he trusted, someone who understood him. He had to hope that Zane was speaking his mind and not saying what he thought Emilio wanted to hear. He spared the vampire a quick glance, hoping to communicate all of this in a simple look. It was a lot of pressure to put on an expression that really wasn’t much different than his usual.

He glanced to the necromancer, scoffing quietly. “I don’t think anyone here walked in that door thinking this would be easy,” he replied flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “If it were easy, we wouldn’t need this meeting.” This was going to be rough. It was going to be hard and it was going to be dangerous and people were probably going to die. People at this table were probably going to die. Emilio felt a surge of guilt for the fact that he hadn’t shared his plan to participate in this with any of the important people in his life. If he died doing this, none of them would know until after. They’d probably be upset about that. 

He nodded as Daiyu spoke, glancing around the table. “Look, I think… These people got into this shit thinking they were doing something good.” He let his eyes go from Daiyu to the clean-cut looking woman beside her to the necromancer. Maybe all of them had gotten into the Good Neighbors with good intentions, and maybe they hadn’t. Emilio wasn’t sure it mattered. What mattered more was their intentions now. “Some of the people locked up there are bad. There’s no denying that. But some of them aren’t. Some of them are just people who have made mistakes, maybe, and they can learn from this. And the ones who can’t…” He trailed off, clenching his jaw. “I would rather die,” he said simply. “If I had to choose between being locked away for as long as these people live or dying for what I’ve done, I would rather die. It’s better. It’s faster for them. It’s safer for everyone else. It’s better. So this is what I’m doing. If someone has a problem with it, you can try to stop me, but something tells me we’re all here because we’re on the same page, yes? So we figure out who gets what, and we figure out how to give it to them. That’s what we do. Anyone who wants to leave can leave, but I’m all in.”

—

When it came to killing, Alistair was no saint. They’d done it before, they’d probably do it again. They’d done it for the sake of saving Tommy, they’d done it to save countless others. But they’d never killed someone without someone else benefitting from it. They’d never killed on a scale such as this. And that’s what they were doing, wasn’t it? All those people who couldn’t be set free were going to die. It caused Alistair to shift their weight from foot to foot, head downcast as they thought about the implications of taking more lives. They wanted no part of it anymore. Still, if it had to be done to keep people safe, then the benefits outweighed the costs in their minds. 

“There are alarms.” Alistair piped up, looking through Brutus’s eyes to point in the correct placements. “Once when the front gate is breached, once when the button on the cages is hit.” Alistair pointed to the center control panel with a frown. “If you want to set them all free, that’s where you want to go.” He tapped his finger against the paper before removing it.

Alistair pulled out a set of keys that Daiyu had. “This one opens cages.” They explained, pulling out a rather large key and laying it on the table, then pulling out a passkey. “That’ll get you in the building without detection. We’ve made sure that security is lighter that day by putting ourselves on duty.” Alistair put the pass key down on the table alongside the large ring of keys. “Daiyu and I will stick together, so we don’t need both of us to have this on us.” 

“As for who lives and who dies, we’ll deal with that when the time comes when we have that book from Winnifred. What are we going to do about her?” They implored, knowing that Winnifred would go down kicking and screaming if it came to it. “She’s a human, but she’s a human that thinks what she’s doing is justified and within reason.” 

__

Vic had known some of them were hunters before she arrived.  Of course there’d be hunters in a situation like this.  For years, hunters were probably the people she felt most comfortable with, as long as her bracelet was functioning properly.  She was practically surrounded by them, whether at her old bartending job where they frequented or her more nefarious meetings where she was trading information about vampires for cash.  But now, with everything between Rosie and her change of heart, she found herself actively avoiding them.  She felt herself toying with the cloaking bracelet as they argued.  

As Emilio spoke, Vic couldn’t deny the familiar feeling that fluttered through her stomach, the one she felt after she was presumably betrayed by her first love, and again after she was sired.  “I’m still not comfortable with us being so egotistical as to think we get to be the deciding factor, but…”  People were still important.  Humanity was still important, as much as it sucked.  There had to be a nuance between the belief that all vampires were monsters and all vampires were saints.  Her sire was no saint.  Neither was she.  She sighed before she continued.  “It seems with the time crunch, it’s our only option.”  She wasn’t happy with it, because morality in general felt so gray these days, but she couldn’t sit by and watch them all be prisoners.  Not with everything she knew now.

The group that they had gathered seemed valuable, and willing to work together, and for a moment, she doubted her place amongst them.  Would she be much help?  “There won’t be much use in us trying to get through to her”, Vic said.  She was the newest member of the group, the one who knew Winnifred the least, but she knew more than her fair share about having the wrong idea about supernaturals and using it to try to rid them of the world.  “Perhaps she needs a taste of her own medicine.  At least until we figure out what to do with the others.”

__

It would be even more difficult when the time came. This discussion was one thing, even looking over names on paper might be easy but when the time came… Zane wondered briefly if rehabilitation was an option. Where was the line? For humans, those who would eventually perish during a life sentence, there were cases of atrocities bad enough that redemption wasn’t in the cards, would never be on the cards. Was this scenario that much different? They did lack a judge and jury but if murder, especially repeat offenses, meant a life sentence, wasn’t that what they were executing in a way? At least for the ones like him, hadn’t they already used up all their allotted time and simply cheated death? The brief ethics course in nursing school hadn’t exactly prepared him for this. 

Emilio was staring him down, face unreadable as always. Did he not want him to talk? Or maybe not agree? Who knew, honestly. At least it seemed settled that not everyone would be released into the wild from their prison, the older man with the dog moving on to plans that made Zane feel eerily like this was a heist movie. The odds for an end scene showing how they pulled everything off smoothly with no casualties didn’t feel great, though. “What are we dealing with in terms of the people… running this? Are they all… human?” Zane found himself asking as they discussed the fate of the ring leader - it was hypocritical in some ways but the idea of harming humans didn’t sit well with him at all. It had been over a year but he still felt more of a kinship with them than his fellow undead. 

—

All of this went against all Daiyu had made herself know for the past years. She was a bounty hunter, plain and simple. The Good Neighbors had been a gig, a lucrative one at that — but she’d joined with that stupid notion of doing something good and it seemed she hadn’t given up on that. “We don’t touch that button, then. The one that opens everything at once. That’s disaster.” She looked at the keys, then at the would-be intruders. “Just get in with those, don’t raise any fucking alarms, and the first bit should be smooth. It’s when start opening the cages that we should be more alert.”

She took her list back. It had names, species, some transgressions on it. It wasn’t Winnifred’s color coded book, but it was something. “Let’s get through some, at fucking least. We’re here now.” She didn’t want many more of these meetings. Daiyu splayed it on the table, pointed at the name Mack Ross. “Like, I can tell you now what and how. She killed a buncha people, isn’t in control, which is …” She made a motion. “Ludacris, ‘cause it’s Mack fucking Ross. Then, Johnny no surname, he’s a vampire. You know, I think he’s alright, he loves Snicker Snackers, he could totally do an animal based diet, maybe.” She pointed to another name, “Svetlana, serial student killer. Stake.” Daiyu motioned staking a vampire, wooshing sound and all. She pointed at another name. “Chang, dunno his first name. Kept the bones of all his kills after he ate ‘em whole. Probs best to not release him into the world again.”

To speak about killing undead and shapeshifters was something she did with an eerie ease, as it was who she was brought up to be. Later that night, she’d reflect on her lackadaisical attitude with distaste, but for now it was something to hold onto. She felt something stir in her stomach at the mention of Winnifred, though, and her eyes moved to Emilio. Hunters were supposed to protect humans. Winnifred had tried to do the same, foolishly and cruelly, but she had. “We destroy the keep. We make sure they don’t make one again. And yeah, all human. Or like, human with some zest, like Al and I.” She wasn’t going to kill them. “So yeah. We destroy their means and that’s that.”

—

“Agreed,” Emilio said, nodding towards Daiyu. “Setting everyone free at once would be a bloodbath.” The more violent offenders would kill each other, the ones offended by the time they’d lost behind bars would kill anyone who got close. And that was to say nothing of the ones who might just be hungry. That wasn’t the sort of chaos any of them could afford. They needed to do it slowly. It would be risky, sure, but… less risky than setting loose a whole slew of problems. “Whose cage gets opened first, then?” The ones with the best shot of actually getting out would be the ones freed in the very beginning. But beyond that… “Any prisoners who might help us out? Without killing any of us, ideally.” His eyes darted towards Alistair and Daiyu, who’d both had some kind of a hand in the… acquisitions. 

Daiyu, at least, seemed to be on the same page. She was already pointing to her book, and Emilio felt a little uneasy at the first name she pointed out. Mack Ross. Kaden and Monty were both fond of her, weren’t they? “We should spring her early on.” He pointed to Mack’s name. “At the beginning.” He offered no explanation as to why. “Johnny no-name, too. Get the ones out who we think will need the… least amount of help staying honest. The ones we know we’re going to kill, we should get to last. That way if something happens and we can’t get to everyone…” At least they could free the ones who needed freeing before going out in a blaze of glory. He let the thought hang unfinished. Looking at the list, he pointed at another name. “That’s my client’s friend. We free her early, too.” After all, that was why he’d gotten dragged into this whole mess to begin with.

Winnifred, though… That was more complicated. He met Daiyu’s eye, then glanced to Zane. Did it matter if a human didn’t think they were doing harm, as long as harm was done? How much did good intentions matter, in a case like this? Emilio had to believe they meant something. After all the bad shit he’d done with good intentions, he wasn’t sure he was the best one to judge. “We don’t have to kill any of them.” But would he stop any of the prisoners, if they tried? He wasn’t sure. “We destroy the place,” he agreed. “How… detailed are their records? We should destroy those, too. Make it impossible for them to start up again next week or something.”

—

Staying silent as the others deliberated who lived and who died, it was like he was healing people all over again. The wellbeing and life for one, was the only way to help another. Some of the people who were locked up in those cages were less monsters than Alistair was, and they knew it. They stayed silent as they deliberated, then perked up at the name of Mack Ross. “Yes, definitely free Mack,” Alistair spoke up finally, knowing that she was a sweet girl who had already been through enough. What she did to land her in the Good Neighbor’s in the first place be damned. They, like Emilio, also offered no further comment. 

“I’m all for destroying the place.” They muttered, knowing that their opinion on matters held little sway. “Winnifred will fight for this place, it’s her baby, it’s been her sole purpose for so long,” Alistair explained, tapping a finger against their other arm as they thought. “The records are kept here,” Alistair spoke, tapping the map to a back room. “It’s got fireproofing, so you’ll need to go in there first.” Alistair frowned, realizing the problem with that. “Only Winnifred has access to that room, not even I can get in there.” 

Winnifred had good intentions, but she didn’t know what the real world was really like. She saw what she wanted to see, and turned a blind eye to all the rest that made the rosy picture anything else. They’d learned that after being close to her after all these years. “There will be after-effects of this we should think about as well. Just because the keep is gone doesn’t mean they won’t try to reform somehow. People will always find a way. The top hitters are the ones you’ll want to keep an eye on, like Winnifred if you decide to leave her in the ruins of her keep.”

__

Vic shifted in her seat, uncomfortable as the names down the list were being read.  None of them sounded familiar, even the first one that Daiyu seemed to imply would be well known, but the talk surrounding them didn’t make her any less uncomfortable.  What had kept her from the same fate as these vampires?  What if they were freshly sired, or hadn’t had a chance to learn yet?  What if an old, grumpy bitch of a vampire had betrayed her own kind and caused them on a path of destruction, somehow?  She stood up from her chair suddenly, crossing her arms over her chest.  “You don’t have to speak of this so crassly.  It’s almost as if you’ll enjoy killing them.  If that’s the case, you’re no better than them.”

She was no better than her old self, if she was allowing this to happen.  Perhaps she could find a way to rescue those they were intending to harm.  She could buy a property in the outskirts of town, far away from Rosie, and teach them to be less monstrous, somehow.  It felt wholly cruel to take someone’s second chance away.  What would these people say about her if she had found herself in the keep? Their words sounded muffled around her as she concocted it. Victoria Larsson, reformed vampire hater and only feeds from what she calls ‘ethically sourced’.  Currently brainwashing a slayer child.  Monster. Stake. 

She sat back down with a huff.  “So our moral code includes deciding that some prisoners die for their crimes, but all of the people who locked them up just get to roam free with some property damage?  Alistair is right.  They’re just going to find a way to do this again.  Maybe with more permanent consequences, as a backlash to our success.  Letting them walk without consequence would be as foolish as not doing anything at all.

__

The one with the notes, Daiyu, started moving down the list in a way that so clearly established her as a hunter. It was crass but not necessarily… wrong. There seemed to be a distinction made between pure malevolence and mistakes, a lack of control. Zane felt relief, realized that if his own transgressions were being judged, he would have stood a chance at this proposed reform. “Is it safe to assume no one’s been… feeding them?” he wondered as Emilio suggested letting the previously captive help. “Because I can… provide blood.” He didn’t offer any explanation as to how - skimming from the hospital seemed like a necessary evil in this scenario. 

—--

Daiyu felt her stomach sink as Vic chastised her, eyes blazing as she looked at her, “You don’t know shit about shit, lady,” she bit, before trying to turn to other matters. A headache was forming behind her eyes and she looked at the list before pulling it towards her again. With a pen she found somewhere on the table she added some asterisks next to names they’d discussed and X’s next to others. “This isn’t about being better or worse than ‘em, it’s about ending it. So. What the fuck do you suggest we do about the rest of the good neighbors? Should we punish ‘em all? Hang ‘em from their thumbs or something? What about you? Me? Alistair? Should we throw ourselves under the rubble to repent?” She was mostly talking to Vic now, even if she spoke to all of them. They were humans. Daiyu might not really keep to a code, but hurting humans? You didn’t do that. That was the main hunter rule. 

She tried to refocus. “The cages are split in different rooms. We can make a plan, an order of operations. I can … Alistair and I can list who seem aggressive.” Daiyu considered suggesting they just kill them all, but that was too crass, even for her. “We just light all the shit on fire. Getting a flamethrower shouldn’t be hard.” She would like to have one on hand, anyway, for totally legal reasons. 

She glanced at Zane. “Sometimes. When there’s stuff. I give them some of the … leftovers from my regular hunts sometimes. But if you’ve got proper shit, sure. Smuggling stuff in isn’t too hard.” Getting it out was what was harder. “Might be better if the vamps aren’t starved. Can you get brains too?”

—

“I don’t think trying to keep serial killers off the streets makes us shitty people,” Emilio added, nostrils flaring with brief irritation. “We’re not talking about killing the people who were tossed in cages for fucking up. We’re talking about the ones who carve people’s fucking hearts out for fun. You really want people like that running around this town?” The thing was, he understood where the Good Neighbors must have been coming from, in the beginning. Their philosophy wasn’t that far off his own. The only real difference was that Emilio killed the people he deemed worthy of his judgment, while the Good Neighbors locked theirs away. In Emilio’s opinion, killing was kinder. In the opinion of others… Well. There were different schools of thought.

He glanced to Daiyu, nodding his head. “Good idea,” he agreed. “Go in with a plan for the order, get it done as quick as possible. And destroy everything we can. Maybe they try to pick up again later,” he looked to Vic, acknowledging her concern, “but it won’t be easy. We take away their base. We show them that their plans can go wrong. We put the fear in them. If they’re smart, they go underground, try to put distance between themselves and the people they locked up. If they’re not smart…” He trailed off, letting it hang. Odds were, they wouldn’t have to kill any of the people involved with the Good Neighbors. If they didn’t disappear… someone else would take care of that part. Emilio found he didn’t have any real desire to stop that. He wondered if he ought to feel guilty.

He nodded at Zane’s question, looking at Daiyu again. Her smuggling shit in was part of what had clued him in that she might be willing to join his side of this shit. “They’re probably not well fed,” he replied, “so more blood is better. I… might know someone who can get us brains.” He grimaced, unsure he wanted to ask Monty for a favor. But if the zombie was really as into peace as he claimed, he’d probably be on board. And Emilio figured he owed it to him to let him know what was going on with Mack, anyway. He’d want someone to tell him, if it were Nora or Wynne. 

—

For a while, Alistair stayed silent, listening as people listed off what to do, about what they would do with what. For a moment, they found themselves completely detaching from the conversation, dissociating as they thought about the very real possibility of dying here. Some people were locked up who wanted them dead, they’d been too close to Winnifred for too long. They were responsible for their cellmates disappearing and never returning. If anything, Alistair was just as much a monster as those who were locked behind those cell doors. It’s something they’d been wrestling with for quite some time, but now? Now they had to finally address it. 

They couldn’t let themselves simply die, they had to continue preparing for the worst-case scenario. While everyone else planned who to set free and what to do, Alistair was making a mental checklist of what they needed to gather for a spell. “There’s no world where Winnifred wouldn’t come after us if she was allowed to walk away unscathed.” They finally spoke up after some time, still distant, still somewhere else in their mind. 

“I say we let the prisoners deal with her.” It was harsh, it was crass, but it’s what they thought. “I’m sure the prisoners will take care of Daiyu and me if we’re not careful,” Alistair added, crossing their arms over their chest. “We’ve been to the keep countless times, they know our faces.” They spoke to Daiyu, though they didn’t look over to her. “It’s something to keep in mind, that’s all.” They nervously scratched at the side of their nose, knowing that they were opening a can of worms with their words.

__

Vic felt her grip tighten around the arm of the chair, staring Daiyu in the eyes as her sharp words echoed around the room.  For her part, her expression remained stoic and still, but inside, she was seething.  “Those who wish to take down positions of power inherently have to be better.  It’s the whole goddamn point of what we’re doing.”  This was a bad idea, she should have never agreed to join this overtaking- never eavesdropped on Daiyu and Alistair in the first place.  “I suggest that we do anything other than stick our thumbs up our asses and hope for the best.”  Perhaps she should be one of the ones to be punished.  Not for crimes involving the Good Neighbors, but for all she’d done to vampires for centuries.   

But Emilio had a point.  Some of the people in the cages were bad.  That was the long and short of it.  The problem, to her, came with who got to decide what bad was.  “No”, she said quietly, and she stood up again, walking to the other side of the room in a huff.  She wasn’t used to having to work with people, or having to compromise on her beliefs to make  someone else’s plan work for someone else.  But she wasn’t naive to the fact that she was the newbie in all of this, and that everyone here thought they were doing the right thing.  No matter how ignorant some of them sounded.

She glanced at Emilio, then at Daiyu, and then at the others, feeling calmer than she had a moment ago.  “Then I think it’s worth discussing continuing to meet up after everything.  Periodically, to make sure she doesn’t try this again.”

She raised her eyebrows at Alistair’s suggestion, not hating it in the slightest.  It would be the truest justice to let those that were scorned by Winnifred be the ones to decide her fate.  Even if it were just the supposed ‘good’ ones.  She looked between the rest of the group, eager to hear their thoughts.

__

All of the arguing wasn’t exactly inspiring hope. This was a group of people clearly not accustomed to working in a team, basically a bunch of Emilios struggling to find ways to make this collaboration work. Zane wondered if he was the only one in here with actual experience of working in a team - granted, a team focused on saving lives and not… whatever this was. “We’re not gonna get far if the four of you tear each other’s heads off, first,” he muttered, finally moving from the perceived safety of his position backed against the wall. “It’s a shit situation and there’s obviously not going to be a conclusion everyone is comfortable with. So we’re all going to be uncomfortable and really morally compromised and we either deal with it or actual, good people are going to continue to rot away in cells.” It had come out a bit more… scolding than intended and he backed down again, arms once more crossing over his chest. “Up to you, I guess,” he added, withdrawn and hoping he hadn’t overstepped any boundaries as the ‘random fifth addition’. 

Maybe all of this would work. Maybe it wouldn’t. Honestly, it probably wouldn’t and something would go wrong. Zane thought about the last ‘jail break’ he’d been a part of. It had definitely gone wrong but… overall, it had been worth it. All he could hope was that this would be worth it, too. And he needed to remember to ask Emilio later where in the world he was procuring brains from.

—

It was easy to keep looking at Vic. To stare her down and take her words and consider throwing the soda bottle at her head. “Then you can fuck off if you want. There’s no better. There’s just ending it. And we are better, for ending their suffering, rather than keeping them there to rot.” Daiyu’s eyes glared darkly at Zane, another person she barely knew who was suddenly mounting a moral high horse as if there was any morality to be found here. Violence begot violence. This would ripple out. It was just another punch thrown in a never ending brawl. “Fine.”

Speaking of brawls, she’d prefer one of those rather than planning this. “M’fine with meeting up after this.” Then, to Alistair: “She can try to come after me. I wish her a ton of luck fighting her hired muscle.” Daiyu didn’t think herself above harm, but there was no way that Winnifred would win in a fight against her. “Best to keep her away from the Keep when we destroy it, if you ask me. Not alert her and all that shit. Just more trouble.” She rubbed her forehead. “And yeah, people will be pissed. I can deal. I’ve dealt with pissed off supernaturals before.” Kind of part of the job description. “Will watch your back though.” 

She wanted to beckon Nugget over and bury her face in his fur before rushing out and going for a run (where she punched trees). In stead she exhaled. “Alright. Emilio and Zane, blood and brains duty. Alistair, spells. Me? Weapons.” She glared at Vic. “Explosives?” 

—

“If the people she’s fucked over want to go after her, that’s between her and them. I’m not risking my ass to save her from shit she brought onto herself,” Emilio added, crossing his arms over his chest. He wouldn’t kill Winnifred, but he wouldn’t stop anyone she’d wronged from doing so if they chose to. After all, he’d hope that anyone who came across him on his never ending quest for vengeance would offer the same courtesy. People got what they deserved, sometimes; Emilio had no intention of standing in the way of that. “If you two want to get out before we start freeing the ones who might be a little angrier at you than others, that’s fine, too,” he added, looking to Alistair and Daiyu. The latter, he figured, would turn down the offer. The former was more likely to take it.

Zane spoke up, and Emilio was reminded why he brought him in the first place. Having someone he knew he could trust was good, but having someone he knew he could trust who could also wrangle people in a way Emilio himself was incapable of? It was a good thing. It made Zane kind of perfect for this shit. He offered the vampire a curt nod. To the rest of the group, he said, “We shouldn’t wait long. They’re likely to figure out someone’s planning something soon. We need to act before then. Catch them off guard. If everyone knows what they’re doing… I say we move in sooner than later. Good with everyone?”

—

The slayer was giving Alistair an out, an out that they very well thought about taking before frowning and shaking their head. “I’m seeing this through.” They spoke, voice harsh and determined. There was so much that they still had to get done, and now was the time to expedite everything they’d worked so hard to accomplish. They were going to do this. They were doing it for Tommy, no one else. Not even themselves.  The plan was set into motion, and there was nothing to do but go ahead with it. From helping to create the Keep and the Good Neighbors to taking it down, Alistair knew they were nothing more than a hypocrite and a traitor. But if this is what it took to keep themselves alive, then so be it. They gripped Brutus’s lead tightly, then nodded their head. “Then so be it. As soon as we’re ready to go, we go. Not a moment later.” Alistair waved a hand, and the papers in the middle of the table began to move around until they were in a neat pile. “Then next we meet, we burn it all to the ground.”

[babygirldabi]

Runaway Part 4

y’all I wrote like twenty one pages of this today, so CW: probably haven’t edited as well as i would’ve liked to, MDNI, smut, 18+ themes, semi-public sex, creampie, lots of cussing, some slapping and shoving, drinking, mentions of abuse, derogatory terms used towards women,  Dabi is an asshole, like a huge one, but he makes up for it, I think that’s it. DEFINITELY doing a Part 5 and maybe even a part 6 because I have so many thoughts. 

Likes and reblogs always appreciated <3

Tags: @prettylittlebunnys, @kierewrites

It’s been a full week. 

Since Shigaraki informed you that you were in, things have been drastically different. For one, you have your own room now. Twice and Compress spent a day clearing out the spare room previously used for storage, and Toga disappeared for hours, mysteriously showing up at the end of the day, arms loaded with new clothes. When you’d asked how you could repay her, she’d just winked. “No need, I didn’t pay for these in the first place,” she’d giggled. 

 Your room is on the first floor, across from the bar and Dabi’s room. You and Toga had spent your first full evening in your new room, talking and decorating the sparse space with a few items Toga had brought from her own room. A lamp, a small bedside table, a couple posters, a long, thin mirror, a handful of glow in the dark stars from a set that she’d stolen a while back. Spinner showed up with an old, but comfortable enough, bed frame and mattress. It’s a single, and creaky, but it’s your own, and you’re very grateful. 

For the first time since high school, you have your own space. No angry husband, no roommates, just yourself. Despite moving into a space full of Villains, you are sleeping better than you have in years. 

 During the day, you assist with whatever is needed. You’ve not been on another mission since, but Toga explains that’s mainly due to the League having a period of minor inactivity, waiting to hear from the Doctor on what comes next. Toga has brought you to the grocery store with her a few times, explaining that she is the one the League has appointed to ordinary tasks, presumably because she looks the most “normal” compared to everyone else in the League. Either way, each time you go, both of you wear inconspicuous clothing, hats hanging low over your eyes, face masks stretched over the lower half of your faces. And each time, Dabi trails behind you for extra security,  saying nothing, a protective shadow. 

Meals are mainly eaten together in the main room; the League sprawled out across the bar, the couch, in a couple of beaten chairs. It’s never anything fancy; ramen, rice, some bread, but you’re fed and content. Spending time with the League, getting to know everyone on a more connected level, seeing personalities come out more, is much more fulfilling than a strained five star meal with your ex husband at a fancy restaurant, with paparazzi taking your pictures through the windows. 

Everything is easier now. Everything is simpler. You decide that, had you known about the League prior to this, in depth, you would’ve run away from the Hero life years ago. 

 In the week that has passed, Dabi has mostly left you alone. After your second hookup, he has gone back to treating you as the new hire, albeit a little kinder. He insists on shadowing you and Toga on grocery store runs, checks to make sure you’ve eaten dinner before he goes to bed, occasionally invites you to have a drink with the others and himself at the bar, but he keeps his hands to himself. He’s not entirely comfortable with how much he’s been thinking about you, how often he feels the need to check in on you. This is starting to feel like more than just fucking the new hire and something akin to having feelings, which is fucking goddamn awful. He’s not that guy. He can’t be that guy. 

 One night recently, stepping out of his room to have a drink at the bar, the sound of your laughter stopped him in his tracks. It was you and Toga, in your room with the door cracked, doing God knows what- probably Toga showing you some stupid tiktok video- but you were both laughing hysterically. Once again, the sound of your laughter made him feel so light he was disgusted with himself. He’d quickly downed two glasses of whiskey before retiring to his room for the night, getting right into bed so he wouldn’t feel tempted to check in, see what was so funny that you laughed like that. 

 This isn’t like him. He doesn’t like it. 

The week has been a wonderful epiphany for you.

 It has been an internal struggle for him. 

On your eighth day of being part of the League, Dabi knocks on your door, jerking you awake. You groan and resist, pulling your pillow over your head, even as the door swings open. 

“Good mornin’,” Dabi drawls, smirking as you peek out from the pillow to glare at him. 

“Is it?” You grumble, giving up now that it’s evident that he won’t leave. You pull the pillow off your face and force yourself to sit up, swiping your hair out of your eyes. “What time is it?” 

 “Eleven thirty.”

“Shut up, it is not.” You scramble out of bed and brush past him to check the clock hanging over the bar. Sure enough, it’s nearly noon. You turn back to him in amazement. “I’ve never slept in this late.”

“Maybe if you weren’t up all night having girl time with Toga,” Dabi smirks, strolling across the room to you, hands in pockets. “I just thought that maybe you’d be interested in hearing what our next mission is.”

You perk up immediately, plopping down on the couch. “Tell me.”

Dabi explains the plan- the Doctor needs the League to go to an underground Villain club, in search of a particular Villain. 

 “His common name is Thanatos. His real name is-”

“-Buki Shino,” you interrupt, nodding as you think back. “I know that name. I think he was high on the watch list. We never spotted him, though…Sorry,” you add quickly, noticing that Dabi looks perturbed at your interruption. “Why do we need him?”

Dabi glowers at you resentfully. “I was getting to that.”

You make a great show of shutting your mouth and looking at him expectantly. He hides a smile and continues. 

“Thanatos has access to weapons-and followers with Quirks-that we can’t even begin to fathom.  He’s been on our watch list, too. If we can get him to work with the League, we’d be practically untouchable to the Hero Commission.” His eyes gleam at the prospect. “We could completely destroy it.”

“Well,” you say dryly, “as someone that the Hero Commission has recently chewed up, digested, and shit out, I can’t say I’m opposed.” Dabi snickers.

“So, we’re heading to the club tonight.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” you question, heart skipping a beat at the prospect of just you and Dabi on a mission together.

“You, me, Toga, and Compress. Toga will be there in case she has an opportunity to get any blood for new disguises, and Compress will be there in case we need to make a quick getaway.”

You swallow hard. “Why would we need to make a quick getaway? These are other Villains, right, so-”

“One thing you need to remember, Rookie,” Dabi interrupts. “Not all Villains are like us. We have purpose. We have a mission. Not all Villains are going to take you in, hire you, feed you, decorate you bedroom with glow in the dark stars-”

“You leave my stars alone,” you snap, and Dabi chuckles, glancing down at his hands before looking back up at you, his face turning serious. 

“I mean it, Rook. You stick close to me. Only talk to who you have to. Understood?”

“Okay.” You nod, swallowing hard, and glance at the clock again. “When are we leaving?”

“The club doesn’t open until at least 9 pm. So, probably about 10 or so.”

“Okay.” You stand, trying to look casual, as though your heart isn’t beating like it’s about to come through your chest. “I’m gonna go get dressed, and…maybe I’ll make some lunch. Are you hungry?”

Dabi’s eyes give you the up and down as you stretch. “Starving,” he replies, his tone dark. 

Your eyes shoot back to him before you turn on your heel and head for your room, choosing to ignore the implication. “Alright, just let me get dressed, and I’ll-”

You’re halfway across the room when you realize Dabi is hot on your heels. You turn, confused, and find yourself face-to-face with his chest. Looking up, his face is close to yours. 

“Everyone’s out right now,” he breathes. 

You know what this means, know what he wants, and it’s not like you don’t want it too- It’s been all you can think about for the past week, but you’ve rehearsed what you decided to say in your head at least fifty times. 

“Dabi, I don’t think we should-”

He’s backed you into the wall just outside your room, hands ghosting over your hips. 

“Why not?” He murmurs, ducking his head to graze his lips over your bare shoulder. 

“Well, I-I’m part of the League now, and-” you sigh as his lips move up to your neck, feeling the brush of his tongue against your pulse point. “If-if we’re going to keep things professional-”

He chuckles against your throat. “Who said I'm professional?” he asks, but pulls away anyway, much to your relief. 

It takes you a minute to stand up straight, pushing away from the wall, ignoring your trembling legs and the wetness that has pooled between them. Dabi doesn’t miss this, and smirks. 

“I get it,” he says. 

You peer up at him, unsure if he’s angry or not. “You do?”

“Yeah. Close quarters, that kinda thing.” Dabi shrugs and returns to the couch, sprawling out over it. “Just thought it might make the day more interesting.”

“Interesting?” You sputter. Dabi’s eyebrows knit together.

“Yeah?”

You’re infuriated. Interesting. Like you’re a way to pass the time. Like you’re a placeholder before the mission. 

That sucks.

He’s still watching you, confused, as you silently stew, still standing against the wall. You lift your head to glare at him. 

“I’m not just something to pass the time, Dabi.” With that, you spin and march to your room, slamming the door behind you. 

Dabi stares at your door, bemused, then scowls and stands, heading for his own room. “Never said you were,” he mutters, not nearly loud enough for you to hear. 

In your room, you yank on a pair of skinny jeans, a black tank top, and a hoodie, still angry. Stuffing your feet into your shoes, you stroll out of the room to the kitchen, fully expecting Dabi to still be on the couch and admittedly relieved when you see that he’s not. You busy yourself with pots and pans, cracking eggs and stirring ramen into boiling water. You make a batch of ramen big enough to feed the League when they get back from wherever the hell they are, taking your own bowl back to your room to eat alone. 

In his room, Dabi listens to the distant slamming and clanging from the kitchen, smoking cigarette after cigarette on his bed. Christ. He doesn’t know how to do this. He’d proposed a hookup casually to prevent you from seeing how badly he wanted it. Maybe he did want you to think that you’re just something to pass the time. You’re not, though. He can’t stop thinking about it, about you, naked, underneath him. Clearly, he fucked this one up. And not only had you said no, but now you were pissed. He doesn’t get women. He doesn’t get himself- why he’s so obsessed with you. Maybe another hookup, with someone else, will shake him of whatever this is. This fucking craving. Maybe he just needs a distraction. 

The day passes slowly- the two of you stay isolated in your own rooms until nightfall, when the rest of the League returns to headquarters. Slowly but surely, the main room fills as members trickle in, turn on the tv, warm up dinner. You join the rest just before Dabi does and make it a point not to even glance in his direction for the next couple of hours. Dabi stays at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey and sulking while trying to look like he isn’t sulking. Finally, at quarter of nine, he finishes his drink, stands up, and turns to you. 

“You need to go and get dressed,” he says briskly. “We need to be leaving soon.” 

You nod and head to your room, a shiver of excitement running down your spine. You’re still angry at Dabi for earlier, but it’s quickly being replaced by your anticipation. You have picked out several potential outfits this afternoon, spreading them across your bed, figuring you would ask Toga her opinion before you left. But Toga is up in her own room getting dressed, and Compress won’t have any interest in what you wear. You sigh, considering the outfits, all dark, jeans, tshirts, hoodies, before you hear Dabi behind you. 

“You can put those away. We already chose an outfit for you.” 

You whirl around, surprised, as Dabi steps into your room, closing the door behind him, and holds out a handful of very skimpy-looking clothes. 

“What? Who?” Bewildered, you accept the proffered outfit and look it over, piece by piece. 

“Shig, Toga and I.” The outfit is made up of a black tank top, so thin it could be tissue paper, a short, pleated skirt, thigh highs, and black Docs. You turn to gape at him. 

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Dabi doesn’t smile. “I’m not. Put it on.” 

You glance at the door, waiting for him to leave, but Dabi doesn’t budge. He stands there, face impassive, as though he’s challenging you. 

Jesus.So this is angry Dabi.

You sigh and throw him an annoyed look, but begin to undress, as he leans back against your closed door and lights a cigarette. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it already. All the same, you dress quickly, annoyed and not wanting to give him a good long glance at anything. 

The tank top feels like silk-you don’t know if this is another Toga piece of clothing or something Dabi has gone out and actually gotten for you, but it’s soft and sheer and shows much more than you’re used to showing. The pleated skirt is purple and black. The thigh highs are long and warm and black- you like these a lot, probably the only part of the outfit that feels comfortable. You shimmy into it all, glancing in the mirror, and your jaw drops. 

“Dabi, this literally shows my ass. I can’t-”

“You can and you will,” he cuts you off. “We don’t want anyone to recognize you. You can’t look like some typical ex-hero. You need to look like you belong on the streets.”

You give him a doubtful look. “This is a disguise?”

“You’ll wear a mask too, like last time.” Dabi takes a drag of his cigarette as his eyes rake up and down your figure. “Toga will help you with makeup. I don’t know nothing about that shit.”  

“I’ll go find her.” First, you sit down on the bed, slipping into the Docs and lacing them tightly. When you stand, you are at least a couple inches taller, which makes you feel a little more powerful as you approach Dabi. 

“I’m gonna need you to move out of the way of the door if you want me to find Toga,” you say sweetly, and he smirks briefly, reluctantly, before his eyes flash away and back to yours. Suddenly, he looks nervous. 

“Look- about this afternoon-” He starts, his voice low, eyes darting back and forth between you and the floor. 

You hold your hand up to stop him. “If it’s all the same, I don’t want to talk about it right now. Can we just forget it?”

Dabi looks frustrated, considering this, before he tries again. “I don’t want you to think that-”

“Look. Dabi.” You take a step back and cross your arms. “I accept that what happened with us was a temporary thing. I understand. That being said, I don’t take sex so lightly. I was in a bad place, and you were a huge comfort to me (his eyes flash to yours in surprise), but I get that it wasn’t like that for you. It meant different things to each of us, and that’s okay. I’m happy that you brought me here. I’m happy to be here. We don’t have to over analyze it. Okay?” 

I don’t want it to be over is on the tip of Dabi’s tongue when there’s a knock on the door. You both jump at the sudden noise. 

“It’s me!” Toga trills, sounding lovely and excited. “Can I come in? I have makeup!”

“Of course,” you call back, as Dabi shuffles away from the door, slipping wordlessly out of it before Toga steps in. 

“Sit, sit, sit!” Toga chirps, guiding you over to the bed and throwing a bag down. “I’ve got work to do!”

Twenty minutes later, Toga’s work is done. You glance in the mirror and can’t help but stare at the girl looking back at you. You don’t recognize her. The ex didn’t allow you to wear much makeup. He said it was whoreish, unnecessary, so you’d never really learned how to apply any of it. But Toga has done a brilliant job; your eyes are smoky and dark, lined with kohl and seem at least two sizes bigger than before. Your skin looks immaculate and smooth, matched with a black-lipsticked smile. You stare for a few more seconds before turning to Toga, wide-eyed. 

“You’re gonna have to teach me how to do this, sometime.”

Toga laughs. “I’d love to! But we gotta go, or we’re gonna be late. C’mon!” she seizes your hand, half dragging you out to the main room, where the others are waiting. 

Compress glances up before standing and heading for the door. “Lovely as always, ladies,” he says warmly. Dabi turns towards you and freezes, sapphire eyes wide. 

“What do you think, Dabs?” Toga chirps, plopping down on the couch to pull her own shoes on. “Doesn’t y/n look great?”

Dabi looks away quickly, turning to put his coat on. All he says is, “I dunno why you put lipstick on her, Toga. She’s gonna have a mask anyway.”

“It’s for the aesthetic,” Toga huffs, then gets up and flounces towards the door. “You never appreciate my work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dabi mutters, then turns back to you. “Here.” He offers you a black face mask, which you take. 

“Thanks,” you say simply, offering him a small smile before putting the mask on and tucking the bands between your ears. He nods, then leads you out the door. 

“Everyone stay close,” he orders, sounding more like himself. “On the streets, at the club. If shit goes down, I need to know where you are.”

The club isn’t far, so your small group walks there. Several blocks up, Dabi leads you all into an alleyway and down a short flight of stairs, knocking on an ordinary-looking door. You’re surprised to see a speakeasy-style grate slide open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes. 

“Name and business.”

“League of Villains.” Dabi flashes an easy smile. “Just here to blow off some steam, man.” 

The eyes narrow, the speakeasy grate slides shut, and then the door swings open, ushering you into chaos. 

You immediately flinch from the pounding of the speakers blasting some sort of shitty techno music. Following Dabi inside, you can’t see shit. The inside of the club is all dark and flashing colorful lights. As your eyes adjust, you look around the room. There’s a long bar, tended by what looks like a walking shark, but you realize it’s just a Villain who must have some shark-like quirk. Either way, he’s terrifying. Maybe he was hired for that purpose alone. The room is lined with booths, and a small, lit-up dancefloor stands to the side, packed with dancers. Toga whoops, barely audible over the pumping bass, and makes a beeline for it. Compress groans and follows quickly behind. 

So much for staying together. 

Meekly, you follow Dabi to the bar, trying very hard to look casual. He leans across the bar and speaks to the shark, who nods, pours two whiskeys, and hands them to Dabi, who throws a twenty down on the bar before turning to you and handing you a glass. He leans down to speak in your ear so he doesn’t have to shout. 

“I wasn’t really expecting Toga and Compress to stick around. Drink and stay close to me, okay?” 

His breath against your ear makes you shiver, something Dabi notices. He smirks, pulls back, and takes a sip of his whiskey, his eyes glowing. Annoyed that he caught it, you scowl and down the drink in one gulp. Dabi doesn’t hesitate to take your glass and order you another before leading you to a booth. Instead of sitting across from you, he slides into the seat next to you, cozying up. Leaning down, he speaks in your ear again. 

“We’ll find him. For right now, just act like anyone else here, try to have a good time, okay?” 

“Okay.” The first glass of whiskey has settled in, and you feel slightly more relaxed than before. You allow Dabi to settle a casual arm around you as you nurse your second drink, searching the dance floor for Toga. You find her being twirled around by Compress, and have to smile. You turn to tell Dabi, but find him scanning the room himself, eyes alight. Looking for Thanatos, you figure, and let him do his thing. Twenty minutes passes in a heartbeat, before Dabi collects your empty glass with his, murmurs a “stay here” to you, and gets up without waiting for a response. You watch in slight panic as he abandons you to go back to the bar. 

It’s fine. I’ll just sit here and talk to no one. You turn back to face the dance floor, searching for Toga again, but she is lost in the sea of dancers. You’re looking so hard, you don’t notice when someone slides into the booth beside you, until they speak in your ear, startling you.

“And just who are you?” The smooth, familiar voice causes you to jump and whirl in your seat, finding yourself staring into golden eyes with familiar markings. 

Oh, my God.

“Hawks?” You blurt, before you can stop yourself. 

The winged Hero has come over to flirt, and has no fucking idea who you are. You watch as his golden eyes flash in surprise, and then narrow suspiciously. “Really, who are you?” He demands. 

“Hawks, it’s me.” You pull down your mask to reveal your face, and Hawks’ face whitens as he takes you in. 

“Y/n? What the fuck are you doing here? Everyone’s been looking for you!”

“What the fuck are YOU doing here?” You demand back, partially out of shock and partially to avoid the question. “This is a Villain Club.”

“I’m aware- are you aware?”

“Of course I’m aware! Hawks-” The thought suddenly overtakes you. “Are you working with the Villains or are you here undercover?” The realization that you could be exposed causes your stomach to drop sickeningly, your hands shaking.

Hawks grabs them. “No- No. I’m…ah, fuck it. Y/n, I’ve been working with the League.”

You stare into his anxious eyes for a long second, and the burst out laughing. Hawks stares at you in shock as you laugh hysterically for at least a full minute. 

“Do you wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?” He finally exclaims.

“Hawks- Keigo. I’m part of the League now- I’m trusting you with this,” you say sharply, finally somber. “Nobody knows.”

“Y/n, the last I heard of you, you’d beaten on your ex and then disappeared. The Commission reported you were fired, and the news outlets have been searching for you since. What the actual fuck happened between now and then?” 

 Fuck it, you’ve got time. You lean into Hawk’s ear and give him a brief summary of the last couple weeks of your life. When you’ve finished, his eyes are intense, his mouth flattened into a thin line. You pull back and wait. 

“Fucking Christ, y/n,” he finally says, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes as he takes this all in. “Fucking Christ.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He opens his eyes to gaze at you again. “Are you sure this is what you want? You’re gonna spend your whole life on the run.”

“I don’t think it’s any worse then leading a double life.” You look at him pointedly, and he has the humility to look ashamed. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing with the League? Because nobody’s even mentioned you to me.”

It’s Hawks’ turn to lean into your ear and explain himself. By the time he’s done, you’re nodding. 

“Yeah, the Commission’s corrupt. I’m glad to see that somebody else sees it, and not just me.”

“There’s actually a lot of us who feel that way,” Hawks says excitedly, “and we’re getting somewhere. I’d love to tell you more about it sometime, I’m actually due to see Dabi later this week- maybe you can come with him?”

“I can ask. Actually-” you turn to scan the room, frowning. Dabi isn’t near the bar. It’s been at least fifteen minutes. “Maybe I should go find him. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I’ll be around a little, tonight. If I don’t see you, I’ll bring you up with Dabi later this week.” He flashes you a sincere smile. It’s really fucking good to see you, y/n. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m glad you’re on our side.” You give him a smile and a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you soon, okay? And Keigo, please- keep this between us.”

He lifts one hand and crosses it over his chest. “On my life,” he vows, then squeezes your hand, offers you one last smile, and is gone.

You turn to scan the room again, in search of Dabi. Where the fuck is he? 

You don’t know what happened. 

You don’t realize that, fifteen minutes ago when Dabi went to the bar, he turned to check the dance floor, located Toga and Compress, ordered your drinks, and then glanced back to check on you- 

And saw you flirting shamelessly with fucking Hawks. 

It actually made his heart drop in his chest to see how closely you were leaning into each other, the way you were speaking into his ear. He stood, frozen, until he saw Hawks grab your hands, and then forced himself to turn away, slamming the empty glasses down into the bar and heading into the crowd. 

You have no idea what Dabi saw, and what he believes happened. He doesn’t give you any time to explain. 

You get up and move cautiously through the club, in search of him. Passing the dance floor up close, you easily spot Toga and Compress, give them a quick wave, then continue your circling, searching for him. 

You reach the back of the club, spot his head in the crowd, and freeze when you take in the whole scene. 

Dabi, leaning against the wall. 

Dabi, towering above some long-haired woman. 

Dabi, whispering in her ear. 

You can’t tell much about the woman except that she is small and thin, with long blonde hair. She looks like she’s about to take him somewhere and crawl on top of him. Her tiny hands dance along his chest, tracing his collarbone as they speak together quietly, not breaking eye contact. Dabi gives her a long, slow, heated grin, the one he usually reserves for you, and that’s about when you absolutely lose your fucking mind. 

“HEY. What the hell?” You shout, striding over to them, ducking underneath Dabi’s arm long enough to shove his chest. He’s unaffected, but steps back a couple feet, eyes glowing in a way you don’t recognize. 

“What’s your issue?” The woman hisses, grabbing your shoulder and spinning you around. You jerk back. 

“Keep your fucking hands off me. I don’t owe you an explanation,” you spit, righteous indignation and two glasses of whiskey spurring you on. “Keep your fucking hands off him, too.” 

“It’s a free country,” the woman snarks back, glancing above your head to Dabi, who is watching this little scene go down, a satisfied little smirk hovering at the corners of his mouth. 

You snap your fingers an inch from her nose, so that the woman’s eyes shoot back to you. In your Docs, you tower over her, so backing her into the wall and getting a couple inches from her face isn’t a problem. For a second, she actually looks scared.

“Keep your skanky hands off of him,” you say slowly, enunciating each word clearly as though she’s an idiot, which she probably is. 

“What did you just call me?” The woman shrieks, looking like she’s ready to claw your eyes out. You open your mouth to respond when Dabi finally puts an end to it all. 

“Okay, stop. Come here,” he orders, gripping your wrist and wrenching you away. You point threateningly at the woman with your free hand as he drags you, until you stumble and are forced to turn and follow him. 

“Let go of me!” You hiss at him, struggling to free your hand in an all-out tantrum. You are furious and drunk. Dabi pulls you into the nearest bathroom, a small, empty, single stall room. He slams the door shut and locks it behind him before he turns on you. You’re already ripping your face mask off, shoving it into your pocket, ready to start yelling. 

“What the fuck was that?”

“What the fuck was THAT?” You yell back. “You went to go get us a drink and I find you in a fucking makeout corner with some little blonde slut-”

“I went to go get us drinks before I saw you flirting with fucking Hawks,” Dabi counters you, eyes sparking dangerously. “Fucking HAWKS.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you fucking- Dabi, Keigo and I grew up together. He came over because he didn’t recognize me, and when he did-”

“When he did, he was all whispering in your ear and holding your fucking hands,” Dabi snarls.

“HE WAS GLAD TO SEE ME. HE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT HAP- you know what, I don’t need to fucking explain myself to you,” you seethe, turning to wrench the door open. “You have fun with your fucking little whores-”

Dabi’s arm shoots over your shoulder, slamming the bathroom door again so that you can’t leave. He keeps it there as you glare at the door, refusing to look at him, and speaks low in your ear. 

“I was only talking to her because I thought you were talking to him.”

“Then FUCKING ASK ME, Dabi, Jesus!” You yell back, spinning to glower up at him. 

He steps closer to you, his hand coming down to cup your cheek, dragging his thumb across your lips. “So you’re not into Hawks?”

“No, I’m not fucking into Hawks,” you snap, still furious, despite how good his warm hand feels on your skin. “He’s an old friend. That’s it.”

His eyes trace your lips before flashing up to look at you. “So why are you so mad about the Villain-chaser?”

You open your mouth to respond, and find that you don’t have an answer. 

“We- we’re on a mission,” you hiss, trying to muster your indignant righteousness back to where it was before. “You abandoned me-” 

“I didn’t abandon you. I was across the room.” 

“In a Villain Club that I’ve never been to-”

“Toga and Compress “abandoned” you too, and you’re not mad at them.” Dabi’s eyes are glowing triumphantly. “What else ya got?”

You feel yourself start to blush. “I-” He doesn’t let you finish. 

“Admit it. You were jealous.”

That pisses you off. 

“I wasn’t jealous,” you hiss at him, shoving against him. “We have a job to do, and you were off trying to get laid-”

Dabi isn’t having it. He knows he’s won. 

“Jesus, doll,” he drawls, tracing one long finger against your lips. “If you wanted to fuck me again, all you had to do was ask.”

“Fuck you,” you bite out, and he smiles, widely, before seizing you by the throat and shoving you against the wall. You gasp as he leans down and digs his teeth into your collarbone. 

“That’s exactly what I’m gonna do, baby.”

And then he is smothering you, kissing a blazing path up your neck, one hand holding your waist flush against him and one tangled in your hair. You should be mad, should be furious, but you’re kissing him back as though you are drowning and he is oxygen. His lips are at your ear.  

“So good girl gets jealous, huh? Want me all to yourself?” 

You smug, arrogant asshole. 

Something animalistic takes over and you shove against his chest hard enough to make him step back again. You reach up before he can react and slap him across the face. He lets go of your throat and stares at you in surprised delight. “Do it again,” he challenges huskily. 

So you do. This time your hand makes contact with the staples against his cheek, hitting him hard enough to turn his head. When he looks back at you, his smile is dangerous, but he makes no move as you step closer except to gaze at you with lust blown eyes, pupils dilating. 

 When you reach out to clip him again, he seizes your wrist and pulls it to your side, holding you in a straitjacket position and swiveling you so that you’re bent against the wall. You make a sound of distress, but can’t help panting as he hikes up your skirt and pulls your panties down to your ankles. 

 “I didn’t know you liked it so rough, good girl,” he breathes in your ear, and then releases your arms and allows you to brace yourself better against the wall. 

“I’m not always good,” you mutter back breathlessly. His belt clinks as he undoes it. Almost painfully slowly, he lines himself up with your entrance, hissing over how wet you are already. 

“You are for me,” he breathes, and then pushes inside you in one fluid motion. You groan at the fullness, trying desperately to keep your back arched for him, as he begins to fuck you at a steady pace. His hands burn at your hips as he pounds away at you, bullying your cunt. Gasps and soft moans from both of you fill the tiny space. 

 Somewhere along the way, your hands go numb. Dabi sees them slipping from the wall and seizes your arms, long enough to pull you against his chest before wrapping his own arms around you to pull your tank top down and fondle your breasts. You moan, your head falling back against his shoulder. His pants and muttered curses sound even better so close to your ear, and all too soon you feel the familiar tightening in your belly. 

 “Not yet,” you whimper, because this feels so good you want it to last hours. 

 “Gotta be quick, baby,” Dabi half-whispers, half-moans in your ear. “We’re on a mission, remember?” 

Oh, yeah. That. 

Dabi knows exactly what will finish you the quickest. Reaching down, his deft fingers part you, finding your clit as he pushes sloppily into your cunt. 

“Oh, fuck-“ the tightening increases and you feel your body tensing up, preparing for the onslaught. 

 “You’re doing such a good job for me, baby. You feel so good,” Dabi whispers, his own breath ragged. “I want you to cum on daddy’s cock, please? For me? Come on baby, I know you can.” He listens as your panting increases rapidly, hiding a smile into the crook of your neck before biting down gently. “Cum for daddy, good girl.” 

 You let go, crying out, vaguely aware that his hand snakes over your mouth to muffle you as you shake uncontrollably against him. 

 “So fucking good,” Dabi moans, his hips stuttering against you as he finds his own end, trembling and panting into your shoulder as he gushes inside you. You both take a minute, leaning against each other, panting as you come down to earth. 

Eventually the moment ends, and you find yourself pushing off from Dabi’s chest, pulling up your panties, fixing your top, and straightening your skirt. You stride to the mirror to smooth your hair. Behind you, Dabi catches your eye in the mirror and smirks as he secures his belt. 

“Guess I should make you jealous more often.”

“Shut up,” you snap, but you can’t help grinning as you smooth your hair back into place. 

He chuckles. 

“Better get this done with. Shig is gonna think we ran away or somethin’.”

You turn towards the stall to clean up, already feeling the warm trickle of cum leaking from your cunt and running down your thigh. “I have to-”

Dabi seizes your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. Confused, you look up at him. “Leave it,” he breathes, pupils dilating again as he gazes down on you. “Please.”

He looks so pathetic and needy at this request that you can’t say no. You just can’t. You lean down, straightening your thigh highs, then nod towards the door. “Let’s go, then.”

Dabi gives you another triumphant grin, swooping down to kiss you gently. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, kissing you once more. He waits for you to pull your mask out of your pocket and slip it back on before he turns, and leads you out the door. 

Back in the chaos of the club, Dabi slips his hand into yours to guide you as he scans the room. His head turns sharply, focusing on a far corner, then nods. “We need to go get Toga and Compress. He’s here,” he says into your ear, then leads you to the dance floor. You follow dutifully, feeling like a puppy. 

At the edge of the floor, Dabi quickly locates Toga and Compress, dancing blissfully in the center of the crowd, and waves them over. They hurry over to join you, sweating profusely, out of breath, but beaming. 

“Having fun?” Dabi asks dryly.

“So much!!!” Toga and Compress chorus gleefully, high-fiving.

“Well, tighten it up. He’s here.” 

Both of them quickly sober, eyes lighting up as they follow Dabi’s nod to the corner. You’re too short to see above the crowd, so you can’t see where they’re looking, but you hold on tight to Dabi’s hand and wait patiently for the next move. 

“Let’s go,” Dabi says, loudly enough that everyone hears him, and leads the way to the opposite side of the club. On the way there, you pass the Villain-chaser from before. Dabi doesn’t even look at her and keeps your hand in his as he leads the way. You can’t help but throw her a smug smile behind your mask as she stares at the two of you in wide-eyed disbelief. As the cherry on top, you flash her the middle finger before turning back to trail after your tall, raven-haired guide. 

He doesn’t miss this. Glowing blue eyes shine down on you in approval just as you reach the back corner of the club. This is clearly a VIP section, the booths fancier, more spacious, cleaner. 

You know which one is Thanatos instantly, just by the way everyone is fawning around him. He’s a big man, at least seven feet tall, with long dark hair that trails down to his muscular arms and chest. He looks like a Greek god, a warrior. Surrounding him are smaller, lesser Villains, many women, and an entire security team. Dabi waits patiently, letting go of your hand and nudging you gently behind his back so that you’re practically hidden. Toga and Compress sandwich you into Dabi’s back, flanking your small group with brisk professionalism. 

It only takes a couple minutes for Thanatos to notice Dabi standing patiently in front of him. “Ah, I know that face anywhere,” he booms, his voice clear and deep even over the music of the club. “You’re the one they call Dabi, aren’t you? With the League of Villains.”

“That’s correct. I’m here to request a discussion between you and the leader of the League, Shigaraki, at your earliest convenience.” Dabi speaks clearly, graciously. “He sent us here to seek you out.” 

“And who do you have with you?” Thanatos inquires, lifting his eyes to the space just behind Dabi. “I want to know who Shigaraki has sent.”

Dabi steps aside, and in one fluid motion, Toga and Compress step forward, once again obscuring you from view. 

“This is Toga and Compress,” Dabi introduces them quickly. “Two of our strongest members.”

“I see them,” Thanatos booms, “But I’m wondering who the little one is, hiding behind you.”

You feel Dabi stiffen, briefly, before reaching his hand back to you, to guide you to his side. You are shaking a little; this is a Villain the Commission has long been searching for, one that you’ve never actually managed to see in person. His list of crimes is longer than your list of saves as a Hero. To the Hero Commission, he was like a myth, terrifying, strong, and largely nonexistent. He’s never been caught. He’s never even been sighted in public. 

This is kind of a big deal.

“This is our newest recruit….” Dabi pauses, and panic sweeps over you as you realize you haven’t created a Villain name for yourself yet. Dabi covers that smoothly. “It’s her first week. We brought her along as part of her training.” You give a stiff and hurried bow of respect as Thanatos regards you briefly before turning back to Dabi. “And where is your great leader, the one who wants to speak with me, but has yet to face me?” He rumbles, causing his lackeys in the background to chortle. 

Dabi’s chin jerks up a fraction of an inch. “In the League, we run the errands and send the messages. Shigaraki only comes after we’ve secured an appointment.”

Thanatos considers this, nodding. “Not a bad way of doing things,” he agrees, then sighs deeply, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

“I will meet with Shigaraki. One of my cohorts will give you contact information-” he turns to nod his head at a lackey, who scrambles over with a pen and a small piece of paper, scribbling down some information. Dabi takes it with a nod, places it carefully in his pocket. 

“Tell your Shigaraki I look forward to speaking with him,” Thanatos says, clearly a dismissal. Dabi nods. 

“We’ll be in touch.” Dabi turns and steps away, you, Compress and Toga quickly following suit. 

 Dabi leads the rest of you out of the club and into the night air. The minute the door swings shut behind you, you take off your mask and take a deep breath, letting the chill fill your lungs. You turn to beam triumphantly at Dabi, who returns your smile as Toga does a victory dance and Compress gives a silly little bow. 

“Well done, team,” Compress sounds like he’s beaming behind his mask. 

“Let’s get home.” Dabi takes your hand again (a gesture not missed by Toga and Compress, who elbow each other but mercifully stay silent), and leads you down the sidewalk. 

Back at headquarters, Dabi immediately goes upstairs to report to Shigaraki and give him the contact information that Thanatos’ lackey gave him earlier. You sink down on the couch with Toga as Compress bids you both goodnight and also disappears up the stairs. 

Toga yawns, slumping against your shoulder. “God, what a night. My feet hurt from dancing,” she says dreamily, and you make a mental note to ask Dabi if you can go back to the club again every once in a while. 

“You did a good job tonight,” Toga adds, sitting up to smile at you. “You’re really one of us now, huh?”

Warmth floods you as you beam back at her. “Yeah, I guess I am,” you say quietly, and Toga pecks a quick kiss on your cheek.

“I’m sleepy. Goodnight!” She bounces up the stairs. Moments later, you hear her door click shut. 

 You sit on the couch for a while, reflecting on the mission, and listen to the low murmur of Dabi’s and Shig’s voices upstairs. You think back to Hawks, possibly the greatest shock of the evening. Keigo was a childhood friend, a confidant, and you’re beyond thrilled to be able to see him and speak with him again. Crazy, what he’s doing with the League, but then- so are you. You’ll have to ask Dabi if you can come with him when he goes to see Hawks the next time…

Your thoughts are interrupted by Dabi’s heavy footfall on the stairs. He descends quickly, head down, taking a drag of his cigarette, and begins to cross the room to your door, not even noticing you on the couch. 

“Going somewhere?” You smirk, and he jumps, noticing you.

“Jesus. Yeah, I was coming to…check in,” he says vaguely. 

Your smile widens. “About what?” You ask, feigning innocence. 

He takes another drag, blowing it out slowly as he eyes you, one hand stuffed in his pocket. 

“Can we go to your room?” He asks, gesturing towards your door. 

“Sure.” You stand and lead the way, turning on the lights as you do. Dabi shuts the door behind him and leans against it, his same move from earlier. You sit on the bed, cross your legs, and wait. 

He’s staring at the floor, trying to find words. He doesn’t know how to do this. He mutters something, something you don’t quite catch.

“What?” You find yourself leaning forward, straining to hear.

Dabi huffs a sigh and then looks up, locking eyes with you. “You’re not just something to pass time on. That’s not how I see you.”

 You’re thrilled, but still hesitant. “But earlier-”

“I said that so you wouldn’t know how bad I- how much I…I was trying to be casual. But I think I should tell you, this isn’t…casual…to me. Not anymore.”

Cerulean eyes meet hazel eyes from across the room as you both weigh the meaning of the words. He doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for you. 

Instead of formulating a response, seeking out the perfect words- you’re far too tired for that- you stand, cross the room, and press your lips to Dabi’s. He responds instantly, his hands twisting in your hair, deepening the kiss without hesitation. When you finally pull away, his eyes are half open, his breathing ragged as he waits for whatever comes next.

You take his hand leading him away from your door. “Let’s just go to bed.”

To be continued 

[meximango]

Day 30 - Two Heads Are Better Than One - Tibby + Luvon - PG

Summary: Two adventurers have a chat from their jail cells. Takes place during Stormblood.

A bit silly, but this one is inspired by alternative versions of these characters lol. I could see it happening to their ffxiv counterparts, thus this was born! Their first meeting. I imagine Tibby goes on to join Ironworks after Luvon tells her about it in conversation after the events of this fic. The fic is a nod to my bg3 playthrough where Luvon ended up in jail about 20 different times despite being a goody two shoes, because he was bad at talking his way out things lol. And then in my dnd campaign where I play a version of Tibby, she ended up in jail through a series of many consecutive bad rolls recently… But hey! These characters are great at jailbreaks, good for them.

--

“Hello there! Is this your first time getting arrested?” The soft, warm voice broke up the monotony of nothing but the faint whistling of wind above her and the steady drip of water from a broken pipe somewhere nearby. Tibby startled, cursing as she placed a hand over her chest. She paused in the thorough examination of her dingy cell so that she could look around for the source of the voice. There were at least eight cells, and she hadn’t noticed or heard anyone when she was escorted here, so she hadn’t expected company. By her estimations, it had been about a bell since she’d been brought down here. After a few moments scanning the dim dungeon, she saw a tan, pudgy hand poke through the bars of a cell across the room diagonally from her, about twenty fulms away. It waved at her from about torso level. A lalafell, then. Must be why I missed him. “What’s it to you, and who’s asking?” She meant to come off as casually curious, but it ended up coming out sharper than intended. Well, she was stressed, so sue her! She didn’t have time for idle chit-chat, not when she had to get out of here, and fast. Her ‘trial’ would likely be hastened due to just who she’d crossed. If the man in the other cell caught on to her attempts and was a snitch, she was fucked.  “Just trying to make conversation. I was meditating before, so I apologize for not introducing myself sooner. I was awoken when the guards delivered our evening…victuals, that they were so kind to prepare.” He had paused just long enough before the word ‘victuals’, that Tibby was sure he had been searching for a kinder description than what she would have called it: ‘an affront to nature and completely inedible slime’. When that earned him a little snort of laughter from her, he added on, “My name is Luluvon, but just Luvon is fine.” “Well, ‘just Luvon’, you can call me Tibby. The slop they deigned to bring us should be arrested for impersonating food; eating it might kill me faster than the hanging I’m sure to have earned myself.” Luvon shuffled in alarm. “Certainly not? It is rather uncommon to be sentenced to death. Hard labor, fines, or banishment are the usual punishments.” “Not when you’ve slighted the viceroy herself…” she confessed quietly, bonking her forehead against the cool metal of the bars in front of her.  The pause was rather long, as Luvon seemingly processed her words. Most likely he was trying to calculate how huge of an idiot she must have been to go against the acting ruler of Doma. “You certainly are brave, to anger Yotsuyu,” Luvon finally responded, aiming for forced levity. It didn’t work. Tibby grabbed the bars of her cell in the tightest grip possible, as though she could break out of here with pure force. Unfortunately, she wasn’t gifted with a muscular body, only a muscular mind–and what good was intelligence when she had no worldly experience to go with it, no wisdom at all! Her arms shook with the effort of trying to wrench the bars apart, but they were made of a strong alloy, not a hint of rust. The bars didn’t rattle or creak, not even a little. 

“That certainly is a word, but I wouldn’t choose it. I’m really, really not. I just thought I was good enough to get away with it, or that everyone else would be slower and stupider than me and get caught instead, if things went awry. But nope. I'm the only one who ended up getting caught. The sad thing is, I was pretty close! Then a series of poor calculations landed me here.” She groaned in frustration, willing the tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes not to fall. 

Why did this have to happen to her? Why not one of the others? She would have thrown one of her group under the carriage instead, if that had been an option to save herself. Instead, they were likely malms away by now, with no intentions of springing her free. She hadn’t even caught their names, so there would be no providing intel for the hopes of a lighter sentence. “A group effort, then… It must feel hopeless, having to take the fall for the actions of multiple. What exactly did you attempt to do? Or were you successful?”

Tibby bristled a bit at that. No need to rub it in that she was completely alone! She wasn’t going to give up just yet. Stepping away from the bars, she went back to examining her cell elsewhere for weaknesses. 

“Well, I needed to make some quick gil. High risk, high reward. I didn’t realize how high the risk, but it’s too late for that. Some people are willing to pay a great deal to pull one over the viceroy, and she sounded like a monster, from everything I’ve heard. I was all too glad to screw her over. So I agreed to try stealing something important from her personal quarters… And I did steal it! The plan was flawless. We got through the security, the locks, the traps, the navigational issues, distracted the guards and her secretary, and I was just about to crawl out the window when she came back–far earlier than she was scheduled to, I might add. One particularly astute guard was all it took to ruin my clandestine visit and departure.” Tibby didn’t offer further detail than that, and the lalafell didn’t ask, seemingly satisfied with her answer. This near stranger didn’t need to know which shady underground company she’d gone to for work, nor what item they’d wanted, and how it would have aided in a lot of forgeries, tax fraud, and who knows what else that didn’t concern her. So what if a criminal wanted to impersonate a nation’s leader? He certainly couldn’t have been more evil than Yotsuyu herself, and he’d kept up his end of previous deals they’d made, so she didn’t bother thinking about it too hard. It was supposed to pay well. It was supposed to be her ticket out of here! Boat rides to other continents were so expensive, and stowing away only worked on short trips.  

“To plan so far, try so hard, and still come up short… I know what it is like.” Luvon’s voice lacked pity, despite her dire straits. It resonated with truth–with understanding. Tibby appreciated it. “You must, if you’re stuck here too. So, what are you in for, then? It’s only fair.”

“Of course! While my crimes weren’t quite so personal as breaking into a government official’s residence, the law enforcers still viewed me as enough of a danger to the line of rule so as to lock me away.” Luvon tapped his fingers against the bars absentmindedly in the semblance of a song. “It was not necessarily my intention, as I do not enjoy endangering others, but I may have given a few impassioned speeches that incited a large group of farmers into rebelling against their oppressors,” Luvon admitted sheepishly. It seemed to be for show. He did not sound particularly guilty about it, as though this was par the course for someone like him. 

Of all the people to meet in jail, she didn’t expect this. A drunkard who pissed on a guard’s boots by accident, maybe. Maybe a horse rustler. A stab-happy murderer, perhaps. But not a foreigner who stirred up the hearts of the working class. 

It made her feel a little bit better, discovering his crime was on a grand scale as well. A little less lonely, facing certain doom knowing someone else was in the same shoes. 

“Huh. Maybe we’re both doomed, then. That I wasn’t executed on sight was a surprise, but I probably only have until dawn so they can make a public example of me in daylight–which were the guards’ words by the way, not mine. I don’t think they were bluffing.”

Do they really do that here? Kill criminals in front of the entire town? That’s not how I wanted to leave this mortal coil. I never should have left home. Mom and dad, you might have been right. 

“They told you that?” “Yeah, they laughed about wishing me sweet dreams for my last night on the star, as they took all my stuff. I clawed one of the guards in the face for that. And if they’re going to kill me over some attempted thievery, I can’t imagine anything less pleasant for you either.” “I suppose. In my case, though, making a public martyr of me would have the opposite effect they’re aiming for.” “Oh, so just me up on that stage, then. Goody.” “You will not be dying tomorrow. This I believe,” Luvon said with such blunt certainty, such conviction, that for a moment Tibby almost felt she could believe it. 

Tibby wasn’t an optimistic person, though. Unless she did something to get herself of this, she was on a ship set to sail straight into the waiting maw of death. Best to keep working on her jailbreak, before it was too late. She began quietly disassembling her bed, hoping its raw components could be fashioned into something helpful. Luvon hadn’t asked or mentioned anything about what she was doing. That combined with what he’d done to end up here made her doubt he was about to flag a guard down to tattle on her. The floor wasn’t something she could hope to dig through, and the walls didn’t have any loose paneling either. Why couldn’t this cell have shoddier construction? 

Might as well keep talking to keep her mind off the rising panic. 

“So…How did it go? Did the farmers get put back in their place, or were they able to overthrow their leaders?”

The lights were too dim to make out his facial expression from so far away, but there was a definite smile in Luvon’s voice when he answered. “Let’s say that specific town will be running on its own terms, for a while. So long as they are still willing to sell their produce as usual. They will be getting paid fairly, finally, though. While proceedings are a ways off from reclaiming Doma Castle or anything close to being a blip on the radar of neighboring countries, it’s a step. Terms are being negotiated under the table; there are a lot of efforts to keep it hush-hush, away from the newspapers, lest neighboring towns get the same idea in their heads. Luckily casualties were kept to a minimum. I tried to keep it so–the minimum bloodshed and sacrifice for the maximum effect. In the end, I turned myself in so they had a ‘big bad orchestrator’ they could blame, lock away, and consider the problem taken care of. One city down, countless more still under their thumb.” Tibby blinked a few times, processing that. “You weren’t caught. You willingly gave yourself up?” “Mhmm. And here I am. It was a good trade!” He sounded…proud? That couldn’t be right. He was joking, right? Or was he a righteous fool? “Are you an idiot?” She couldn’t help blurting out. There really was nothing else she could think to say. A good trade?! This man needed to learn some bargaining skills! Luvon laughed, like what she said truly tickled him. “It depends on who you ask, but I fear a majority would be on your side. It is all part of the plan. I’m glad it’s working.” “You’re going to rot away here at best, get murdered quietly in this dank basement at worst, and you’re glad?!” She was incredulous. He was insane. Had to be. What was he getting out of this? A sense of accomplishment and self importance before he jumped into the aetherial sea? “You must be wondering why I would do something like that, with no gain for myself and no guarantee of a future.” Woah! And now he can read minds? You have to tell me if you know what I’m thinking. The square root of 625 is…? Luvon had no reaction to that, even though the answer was obviously 25, so it must have been a lucky guess. Maybe her own brain was starting to unravel from this baffling conversation. She went on autopilot a bit and started assembling all the bits and bobs she’d found around her tiny cell in a row in front of her. The guards had taken all of her tools and gear, leaving only her underclothes and an itchy frock of thin material. Hopefully she could build something stable out of this junk, but her hopes were not high. It would have to be small. “Well, yeah. Nobody does selfless stuff like that, not even heroes. They’re not allowed to go to jail or die for their deeds, not unless the stakes are much higher than one town full of farmers.” One dinky town full of farmers. Who would even notice? What did it matter? Luvon chuckled at that, supposedly amused by her answer. “To that town, that may be their entire world. It’s relative.” Tibby gulped back emotion, suddenly incredibly homesick. Her thoughts had been so callous, but Luvon was right. Her own hometown of Sui-no-Sato had seemed so large, growing up. It had been everything she’d ever known for so long. When she left, she realized how tiny and isolated it really was. That small bubble under the sea was insignificant and completely unknown to the majority of the star. If it popped and disappeared, who would care or notice? Just like that town full of farmers… To them, Luvon had saved their everything. That was all nice and dandy for someone with a big heart, but did he even know them? Was it personal? He couldn’t have been from there, not with his accent. Maybe Tibby would do a lot for her hometown, but not for some random people. “It still doesn’t make sense to me,” she admitted quietly. What could his motivations possibly be?

“The truth is, I was forced to live under the Garlean empire’s heel, my life threatened on the daily, for years. After escaping that hell and still keenly remembering what it was like, having to suffer in constant fear–I can’t help but do what I can so others can get out of a situation like that. To show them how strong they are together, so they can better help themselves.” He still remained so calm and serene, and his voice was so gentle, it nearly hurt. But there was a somberness to him, especially as he continued. “Someone very, very dear to me had made the greatest of sacrifices to return to the lifestream so I could gain freedom and lead others out of the empire as well. I am willing to see to it that others who are subjugated get that chance too.” Tibby couldn’t imagine someone dying for her, a debt that could never be repaid. If she fought so hard for escape, she’d never risk getting trapped again, not even to help others gain a chance of autonomy. 

“Seems a big waste, you throwing away your freedom like that to give it to others. Wouldn’t that be like spitting in the face of the person who sacrificed for you? Dishonoring their memory?” She felt angry on behalf of that so-called dear person to Luvon. What was he doing here, wasting that gift? “That is the last thing I would want to do.” He didn’t sound wounded by her accusations, but rather the thought of hurting someone who was already long-dead, pained him. “He believed the lives of many were worth more than his own. I was upset by his decision, but I would have done the same, in his position. I believe the same, regarding myself–but I am not one to so easily give up. Only if no other options existed, would I give up my life to save the many. It is called a greater good, after all. But my life is something he viewed as precious, so I try to honor that when I can.” This wasn’t adding up. Tibby felt she was on the cusp of an epiphany with this guy, but it was out of reach. She pondered on it as her hands kept busy. She finished making a very poor reconstruction of a lockpick that she hoped would hold up against the padlock on her door. It was a skill she found she had a natural talent for, which came in handy as someone constantly low on funds but rich with hair pins. She began the process of picking the lock. Methodically, she focused on setting the tumbler pins in place, one at a time. Halfway through this process, it came to her. 

“There’s always another option. You could have left the farmers to take equal blame, or attacked the enforcers more ardently. You wanted to avoid too much loss, but you don’t consider yourself ending up here a great loss, despite cherishing your own freedom. Which means…you wouldn’t have given yourself up, unless–you were certain that you could gain your freedom again!” That had to be it, right? And with that, she also got the last pin in place. The lock clicked open. Eureka! She could finally open the door and figure a way out of the rest of the building!

“Correct. A most excellent deduction!” Luvon praised. His voice was much, much closer to her than it had been, which nearly had her flailing backwards in surprise.

Tibby had been so busy thinking his logic through and openly escaping her cell, that she hadn’t noticed him making his way to her cell. He opened her door, motioning for her to exit whenever she was ready. “When did you get out?” She hissed quietly, but she did exit and started following him toward the stairway that would lead up toward the guard station and the locked chests containing their belongings. “This is not my first time locked up. Once you have escaped one jail cell, the guard patterns and steps do not change much. It gets easier and easier. I took the key off the guard when he first locked me in here, and I returned it when he brought my first meal. I didn’t know I’d be joined by a guest, or I could have kept the key for you. Nice impromptu lockpicking, though! If you had been unable to get it, I would have punched the lock off the door for you. Quite noisy, that option–so thank you for letting us avoid the ruckus.” 

Incredible. This strange fellow kept finding new ways to surprise her. How was he so casual about this and helping a fellow criminal escape? He seemed to enjoy helping people, so she’d take whatever help she could get, while it lasted. “I can’t believe you could have left at any time. Why didn’t you?”

“There is a better chance of success when the guards are less likely to pay attention, and the cover of night makes stealth easier too. Their security is most lax at the evening shift change, which starts in approximately…oh! Now, actually. Perfect timing.” Distantly, Tibby thought she could maybe make out a clock dinging. His hearing must be sharper than hers. This all came together far too smoothly. No way. Just how experienced was Luvon at getting out of these types of situations? Tibby was not about to squander this good luck. 

  “Well, two heads are better than one. Since you’re so experienced at this, I’ll let you lead. Ready to get our belongings back and bust our way out of this place?”

Luvon rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles in preparation, taking on a stance that seemed vaguely familiar…Oh. He must have been a monk! That certainly explained the comment about punching a lock. Was he a traveling adventurer? She had so many questions for him, her curiosity not in the least bit sated. That could wait until they got out of here, though. “Ready. When we get up there, you can start picking the locks to the chests with our belongings, while I knock out the guards. From there, I know a safe path that will lead us out of town. “Got it.” Against her usual judgment, Tibby trusted this guy. She had the strangest feeling this wouldn't be their last time working together. 

Nodding to each other in understanding, they snuck up the stairs toward freedom.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Best Jupidad Moments #6 Nevermoor Ch 9 - What’s Really Important?

Right, I’m not going to lie, I’m struggling to differentiate between “the best Jupidad moments” and “ALL the Jupidad moments” as each one has its particular charm but… I’ll try to rein myself in!

First: trying exciting new things…

The bone-shaking terror she’d felt watching the platform speed towards her was washed away by a wave of adrenaline, and she let out a triumphant shout as they hooked on to the rail. Jupiter grinned, throwing his head back to enjoy the ride.

I especially love this moment right now because I recently took my daughter on her first proper rollercoaster ride. She wanted to do it, to start with, but got herself very worked up and tearful in the queue. Part of me wanted to just say “ok fine, we don’t have to do this today” but I feel like I know her fairly well(!) and I was sure she’d enjoy it and also be really proud of herself for facing her fear and going through with it. So instead I said “we’re going to do it, I think you’ll love it but if not it’ll be less than a minute, you’ll be safe and I’m with you and we never have to do it again”. Thankfully she did love it, but I did question myself and my parenting a lot in that queue!

Our Jupidad is making a similar call, albeit without the assurance of physical safety cos… Nevermoor… and sure enough this becomes one of Morrigan’s favourite things about living in the city. Did he know for sure she wouldn’t hate it? No. But he pushes her to try anyway.

I also suspect he’s running distraction here - she’s nervous about the garden party, so he gives her something else to focus on, where she gets a big old shot of adrenaline and arrives at the party thinking “wow, I did that!” which should take the edge off the nerves at least a little. Clever Jove.

He also lets her choose her own outfit, rather than forcing her into something that would make her either blend in with everyone else’s pastel vibe, or match his own flamboyant style…

… filled with people in light linen suits and pastel dresses. Jupiter had allowed Morrigan to choose her own outfit – a black dress with silver buttons, which Dame Chanda declared ‘smart, but utterly lacking in spectacle’. Morrigan thought Jupiter’s lemon-yellow suit and lavender shoes provided enough spectacle for both of them.

I think this is a pretty big deal actually and perhaps not something Morrigan would have foreseen after the “black isn’t a colour” conversation. Would it have been kinder to have said “I think everyone else will wear something more spring-ish”? It might have saved her from a couple of insults from Noelle… but the two of them were likely to clash anyway and isn’t it better to start making new friendships by being yourself? It’s easy to want to protect a child from getting splashed by social waves, but if you coddle them too much they won’t learn to swim in the sea.

There are some waves, however, that nobody should take to the face. Like raw sewage, radioactive waste, or Baz Charlton…

He was cut off by a sharp look from Jupiter, his mouth left hanging open. ‘Consider your next words carefully, Mr Charlton,’ Jupiter said in the low, cold voice that Morrigan had heard from him only once before, on Eventide at Crow Manor. She shivered.

Baz Charlton closed his mouth. Jupiter stepped aside, releasing the long-haired man from his gaze and allowing him to stumble away. He sighed as he smoothed down his yellow suit and gave Morrigan’s shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘Told you. Odious man. Pay no attention.’

I really want to know what the deal is with Jupiter’s low, cold voice because it really freaks everyone out! I wonder how often he uses it other than in Mog-defence-mode? It’s a very effective way of protecting Morrigan here and although I think we’d all like to see Baz dropped from a great height into a skip, I really appreciate how there’s no physical threat used.

Enjoying yourselves?’ Jupiter wandered over with a placid smile, ignoring the stream of servants rushing past with nets and brooms. Morrigan chewed the side of her mouth guiltily. ‘A bit.’

Ha, I love the image of that smile where he knows exactly what’s gone on here. I also adore the fact that Morrigan has somehow befriended the one child out of 500 who is probably the most like Jupiter was at school 😅

Plus the moment of mirroring later when she asks Jove a question she knows the answer to:

‘I’m here illegally, aren’t I?’

Jupiter chewed the side of his mouth. ‘A bit.’

How do they debrief later? Not with a “so, what did you think of Wunsoc?” but…

‘You made a friend.’ ‘I think so.’

‘Anything else of interest?’

Morrigan thought for a moment. ‘I think I made an enemy too.’

‘I didn’t make my first proper enemy until I was twelve.’ He sounded impressed.

Oh poor Morrigan, you’re going to rack up a few of those pretty soon. Thanks to Jupidad for making that sound like an achievement rather than a character flaw 😬

‘Promise you’ll think about it?’

‘Only if you promise you’ll stop thinking about not getting into the Society.’

‘But if I don’t get in—’

‘We’ll blow up that bridge when we come to it.’ Morrigan sighed. Just give me a straight answer, she thought. But she said no more.

Jupiter ushered Morrigan down the hall ahead of him. ‘Now. Tell me more about your resourceful new friend. Where in the Seven Pockets did he find a barrel full of toads?’

And just like that he brings it back round to what should be important to an 11 year old - friends, having fun, new experiences - and sharing the excitement of these things with a parental figure is such a precious and vital part of the relationship. Jupiter proves he is as interested in these details of her life as much if not as more than the big picture “what does the future hold, what is my purpose?” kind of stuff that threatens to take over.

This is maybe my favourite thing about Jupidad - how he constantly values her as a person (and as part of that her everyday life experience) above everything else, even though he is confronted with the BIG thing that makes her particularly important to the world every single time he looks at her.

[whumping-in-the-wings]

Well, at long last, the moment I’ve been waiting for has arrived. It’s time to introduce you all to one of this story’s central characters, and possibly one of the most personally important characters I’ve ever allowed myself to write. This was actually a more recent idea that only started to take shape a few weeks ago, but it quickly grew into something I couldn’t stop and didn’t want to. If I hadn’t found this community, I honestly don’t think I would ever have written anything like this. I’ll be reblogging this post with a longer author’s note that will explain a little more, but for now, let’s just get to it, shall we?

CW: bruises, mentions of injury, caretaker POV

Taglist: @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @finaldreams1106, @redwingedwhump, @whumpy-catfish (and as always, let me know if you’d like to be added/removed from the list!)

Traces: Part Six

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“…for my Robin is to the greenwood gone, but he loves me, aye, he does!”

The final note cracked as harshly as a dropped eggshell, and the mule flicked an ear back in annoyance. Cyra Swann reached forward and patted the creature’s shoulder by way of apology. “Sorry, old girl. I’ve a voice no softer than yours, it seems.”

If there had been anyone but the mule to hear her, Cyra wouldn’t have bothered with the singing. From her voice to her work-callused hands, everything about her was rough, too rough for a sweet thing like a song. But the sun was nearly set now, and the road to Aurenside Manor was deserted. A dark, empty road was a dangerous road, and the best way Cyra had found to deal with danger was to make your presence known to it and bid it come closer if it dared. She’d started out as she always did when she was on her way back from a fair, loudly cursing the tanner and the blacksmith for the high prices they charged on leather and horseshoes and all the other things a stablemaster had need of. But even her plentiful supply of insults had run out half a mile back, so a song it was for the rest of the journey.

To the relief of both her voice and the mule’s ears, however, they had not much farther to go, and it was only a few minutes more before the familiar shape of Aurenside Manor loomed in front of them. There was no challenge called as Cyra turned the mule onto the path that led to the gatehouse, and the gate itself had been left standing open. “No guard again,” Cyra scoffed. “And it’s not because they expected me back, either, it’s because there’s ale flowing in the great hall. Couldn’t ask a kinder welcome, if I were a thief. No doubt Duncan and the boys will be in there wetting their gullets too, and they’ll have left the chores undone, as like as not. I might be only the stablemaster, old girl, but this whole damned place goes to pieces when I’m gone, and it’s all the lordling’s fault, as most things are.”

She patted the mule again, ducking low over the animal’s back as they passed through the gate. “What say you, then? Is our Sir Aubrey more stupid than spoiled, or the other way round? And which is it worse to be, I wonder?”

The mule never minded her fault-finding, and Cyra always had plenty to find fault with, so she kept up a steady stream of it until they’d reached the stable door. Then it was time to turn her focus to the tricky business of dismounting.

She knew the steps by heart now, though that hardly made it easier to perform them. The strong oak cane she’d carried across her lap went down first, and she dug the tip of it into the ground as she leaned low over the mule’s neck. It took no little effort and brought no little pain to swing one leg over the mule’s back and kick the other free of the stirrup, and then there was the drop to the ground, her teeth gritting at the familiar sharp protest that shot through her hips as she landed. She let the cane take most of her weight for a moment, waiting for the painful twinge to ebb again and making sure her feet, inward-turned as they were, had found a solid purchase on the ground.

“There’s that, then,” she told the mule as soon as she felt steady again, reaching for the halter and setting off toward the stable at a slower pace than was typical for her. Ordinarily, except for the more difficult tasks like dismounting, she hardly needed the cane and carried it only as a precaution. But the long ride had settled a worse-than-usual soreness into her legs tonight, and there was no one about to see her, so she let herself lean on the long oak staff more heavily than she otherwise would have.

For once the stable door appeared to have been securely latched- which wouldn’t spare Duncan a tongue-lashing, if he was really off drinking in the great hall as she suspected he was, but improved her mood at least a little. She had to lay the cane against the wall while she lit the heavy iron lantern that hung on a hook at the side of the door; fate, for some foolish reason, had seen fit to give humans only two hands, and hers would be full of lantern and rope, with none left for the cane. But the stable was small and the walls were close, and she’d have plenty to lean on if need be. With the flickering light to show her where to put her feet and the mule plodding patiently behind her, she undid the latch and limped into the familiar dimness of the stable.

It didn’t matter how much she despised Aurenside, or how often its golden-haired lord irritated her: this place, at least, was a haven, and her many rough edges were always somewhat smoothed with the stable’s stones about her. Though the mule was pawing the ground now, anxious for her supper, Cyra paused a moment, as she always did, to close her eyes and breathe in the well-known and well-loved scent of hay and horse and harness.

When she opened them again, there was another pair of eyes staring into them, gleaming dark in the lantern light.

Cyra cursed, dropping the mule’s halter and barely managing to avoid dropping the lantern as well. Only her many years of knowing not to make sudden movements around horses- and how difficult it was for her to make sudden movements at all- kept her from stumbling back in shock. Instead she stood frozen, her heart beating like a rabbit’s, slowly raising the lantern higher to see exactly what she was dealing with.

Her heart jolted all over again when she recognized the shape of a centaur. But the next moment she saw that the beast was staring at her from over one of the sturdy stall doors. Her brow furrowed, and she stepped nearer, sure now that the centaur couldn’t do the same. One of the lantern-beams fell on the creature’s side, on the crimson brand bright against the black-brown coat, and immediately she understood. The tension drained from her body like water from a cracked jug, even as chilling fear changed itself to blazing anger.

“That Aubrey,” she burst out. “That idiot!”

Though she regretted that her stiff hips would not let her stomp around her tasks with any satisfying amount of force, her tongue was as nimble as anyone else’s, and she had never been afraid to put it to use. The centaur was left nearly forgotten in the heated ramble that followed; it was Sir Aubrey who took the full force of the stablemaster’s fury.

“I hope,” Cyra snarled, “that that temper of his sets him afire someday! If it were noble brains that made lordships instead of noble blood, he’d be naught but a beggar and no mistake!” She slammed the lantern down onto its hook, seized the closest brush and all but attacked the mule’s damp sides with it. “Make a name for himself, will he? Make them remember him? Well, he might try going off and dying in some terrible way. Or walling himself up in a cave somewhere for the rest of his days, they’d make a saint of him for that-“

She kept on as she finished caring for the mule, all the while knowing in the back of her mind that she would never have said most of this to Sir Aubrey’s face. She had never feared him- there was little that she truly feared- but she knew as well as anyone in Aurenside how dangerous he could be. Her anger was only ever words. Aubrey’s could be much more, much worse, than that.

Job done and the greater part of her indignation played out, she brushed her hands briskly together and turned back to what had caused that indignation to begin with. The centaur was still watching her, his dark ears pricked forward and his eyes following her every movement.

But not fearfully. Not the way he should have been watching her, given that he’d clearly had the worst of someone’s ill humor if the bruises and cuts littered across his pale human half- and likely the other half, too, though it was too dark to see clearly- were anything to judge by. He wasn’t angry, and he wasn’t anxious about what she might do next. He was only watching, as if…as if he was trying to understand her.

As if he could understand her.

The idea was so sudden, so surprising, that Cyra’s eyes widened. And then, the next moment, she shook her head, almost laughing at her own foolishness. It didn’t matter how human those eyes looked; there was only emptiness behind them. Everyone knew that. If he hadn’t been a centaur, he would have been no different than one of her horses.

The thought, oddly enough, settled her down a little, soothed the uneasiness she’d been feeling ever since she’d walked in and seen him. She knew horses. She knew nothing better than horses. She could handle this, even if she still intended to give Sir Aubrey Gravesend a piece of her mind for putting her in a position where she had to.

Lifting the heavy lantern again, she stepped close enough to peer at the centaur over the stall door, grateful to see that his hands were bound and there was little chance that he could harm her. “I’ll just put a rein on my temper, then,” she said, more gently than she’d spoken all night. “It looks as though temper’s the last thing you need more of, poor creature.”

A particularly impressive string of bruises traced a line from his left temple down to his right cheekbone, as though someone had struck him across the face with something. A rope, probably, and Duncan even more probably. He had a habit of doing that; she’d taken him to task the first time she caught him doing it to one of her colts. Either the lesson hadn’t stuck, or he’d decided it didn’t apply to a centaur.

With tempers like Duncan’s and Sir Aubrey’s about, this was far from the first time she’d come back to find a horse in need of a gentle touch and a bit of patching up. She continued her inspection with the practiced eye of someone who knew what to look for, clicking her tongue at the apparent lack of food and water, making a low sound of disapproval deep in her throat when she spotted the arrow-wound beneath the brand. Finally, satisfied that she at least knew her own next steps even if Sir Aubrey’s long-term plan for this whim of his remained a mystery, she stepped back a bit, shaking her head.

“It looks as though we’ve given you a rough welcome, and it’s sorry I am about it,” she said. “But I don’t think you’ll give me much trouble. And that means I won’t have to give you much temper, and we ought to get on just fine, you and I.” She turned away to set the lantern down, the thick iron making it too heavy to hold for long. “But I tell you one thing,” she continued, half to herself. “You’re as much as I’ll stand for. If that idiotic piece of arrogance tries to fill up my stable with any more of your kind, I’ll put a stop to it that fast, I promise you that.”

A sharp intake of breath from behind her. A quick step forward. And a voice.

“You can do that?”

This time Cyra did drop the lantern, whirling around far faster than she would have thought herself capable of doing just a moment before. It was her turn to stare into those eyes with her own eyes wide and startled, her lips parted in shock.

“Sweet Judas,” she breathed. “You can speak.”

[sandbees]

Yuu and the House of Mouse; The...Great Seven?

It’s been three weeks since Yuu has worked at the House of Mouse.

Headmaster Crowley decided that going would be a great experience! He graciously gave you permission to work there! (Just don’t forget to do your homework and get a good rest after; he doesn’t want you to be lagging behind your classes after all!)

At the House of Mouse, you eventually learned the ins and outs; and you’ve gained everyone’s attention. They like you a lot! You have this, “If I talk to you about my problems you’ll listen kindly and either give me advice or continue to let me vent out my feelings” vibe.

Being a (sort of) therapist must have helped, huh?

You yourself have a few favorite guests that you can always look forward to seeing;

Tiana and Naveen: You hit it off when you first met. Something about their dynamic and allowing you to vent about back at Twisted Wonderland gave you good vibes about them. They’re polite guests, and they have given you advice on how to improve your work. Tiana has (once) invited you to work for them if you wanted to work at another job, but you tell them that you have school. They’re immediately concerned, because someone going to school working at a job with very demanding and colorful characters? You assure them that you’ve manage to balance school and work, however they seem less than convinced. Though nothing big changed, they occasionally remind you to take breaks and to have fun watching the cartoons on screen when you’re not busy waiting tables. (They also give you candy from their time! Butterfingers, anyone?)

Hades: He’s a frequent guest at the House of Mouse. You had lent an ear to his complaints, and then again, and then again, and soon enough you’re his personal therapist. You’re the go-to waiter whenever Hades shows up; much to the delight of the staff (The penguin waiters are...a little scared of Hades). It’s surprising how little he seems to reflect Ignihyde. He’s like a shut in extrovert. However, when you tell Hades this, he becomes very interested in your world. He’ll let you ramble about what you know about Twisted Wonderland, and he’s going to make smug comments about it. After that encounter, Hades starts conversations with you that isn’t just complaining about his siblings. In fact, he’s one of your pep talkers when you’re feeling stressed or down.

The Darling Siblings: If you don’t recognize them, they’re the siblings from Peter Pan! (Wendy, John, and Michael) When you first met them, they acted very polite. And they gave “children, protect them” vibes. As you continue to work, you discover that the children had a more playful side to them. You could easily joke with them and in exchange Wendy would tell you stories or John and Michael would tell you about their recent adventures.

Scrooge McDuck: Donald introduced him to you, actually. He mentioned, “Since you sound like you’ve been on a lot of adventures, I think you might like to share stories.” How right he was. Scrooge’s stories were captivating and enchanting, you’d always be on the edge of your seat hearing them. Whenever he swung by and you were on break, you two would be swapping stories of your lives. He was most interested in your first day story; about the magical chandelier specifically. You always look forward to a new story he would have.

Of course there were others, but the ones listed above were the people you loved seeing.

Today was a typical night in the House of Mouse, though everyone seemed...a little agitated?

You ask Mickey, and he explains that there was a reservation for a villain get together...and last time, it went poorly.

You offer to serve them as a waiter, since you’re sure that you can handle it.

“Are you sure?” “I’ve dealt with worse characters...I think. By the way, can I get the list of who’s going?”

You find out Hades was the one who reserved it (oh thank goodness, someone you’re already familiar with. And he likes you)

He’s also bringing - “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” “The Queen of Hearts, Scar, Ursula, Jafar, The Evil Queen, and Maleficent.” “I-“

Imagine your shock when you find out Hades is bringing all of the Great Seven. You’ve already met Maleficent, but someone like the Queen of Hearts, or the Beautiful Queen??? You’re ready to walk to your doom right now.

When the doors open, you go about your night as usual, though your on edge as you anxiously wait for the Great Seven to arrive. This would be the first time you would be interacting with most of them.

When they arrive, you greet them and take them to their table, doing normal procedure.

However, things go south when Hades asks Yuu to come and have a chat with them when they go on break.

“yeAH suuurrreee-“ “Great! They have a lot of questions and I think they’d like to hear what you have to say!”

Yuu is making high pitch dying screams when she gets to the kitchen.

“Oohhhh my god, they want to talk to me. What if I mess up? What if they dislike me and then try to kill me? Oh no oh no-“

Yuu is trying not to scream in excitement and stress as Mickey excuses her to talk with the Great Seven.

The meeting? It goes well.

When they ask about their world, Yuu describes their time at NRC, and how the villains were praised as good people, and were known as the “Great Seven”.

They were very intrigued about this, and would always puff up when Yuu praised them. They also ask questions about Yuu as well!

What? They’re villains, but they’re not rude.

They listen to your tales, and are sympathetic to the idiots that you surround yourself with. They get it, they are also surrounded by idiotic, self centered heroes who think they’re in the right- (projecting much?)

The Queen of Hearts is a lot more than you expected; she’s strict, but she also has good humor (as long as you don’t mock her). When you ask what kind of tarts she likes, she responded with “Any kind of tart, however jam filled tarts are one of my favorites.”. You wonder if she’d like the tarts Trey would make.

Scar...isn’t talkative, though he seems very pleased when you talk about what NRC thinks of him. He’s actually kinder to you - you’ve heard stories from Goofy and the penguins waiters that Scar is hard to please.

Ursula is what you would call a sweet talker. Kind of like Hades, but you can tell that she wants something. You indulge her, answering any questions about your world. She seems particularly interested in the rivalry between NCR and RSA, however.

Jafar wants to know everything about Scarabia. From it’s current standing to it’s history. You try your best to explain as much as you know about the dorm; but you mention that your information is limited since it wasn’t your dorm. He’s satisfied with what you give, but Jafar tells you that next time, he’d like to know more. You better go study up on Scarabia now :) (Or ask Kalim or Jamil about Scarabia)

The Beautiful (Evil?) Queen acts smug, and she seems relaxed around your presence. Maybe it’s because you told her that she’s known as the Beautiful Queen? She wants to know who is housed in her dorm, and like Jafar, she wants to know everything about Pomfiore. When she heard about the VDC, she asks multiple questions about it. (“When the VDC comes around, maybe I shall grace everyone with my presence...hmm, or should I help NRC’s team? I mean, they would represent me, of course.”

I’ve actually mentioned that you have met Hades and Maleficent in this ask

Hades and Maleficent consider you as friends (maybe not close friends, but friends nonetheless)

The rest of the Great Seven also have positive opinions on you; and they try their best to live up to your expectations! They can’t have you turn your back on them after you openly praise them!

You’re dragged away from your job - instead you focus on entertaining the Great Seven! (Which was fine, Pete was at it again by trying to drive out the guests; you kept the Great Seven in so they could still run the show!)

As the night went on, you felt yourself getting less and less nervous about being with the Great Seven. You had loads of fun!

Of course the show ended sooner than you liked; and it was closing time.

“It was really wonderful to meet you! Maybe we’ll see each other again when the House of Mouse opens again?”

“Why would we wait for nighttime? I have a magic portal to travel to Twisted Wonderland whenever we’d like.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Turns out Maleficent had an easier way to travel to Twisted Wonderland; but she gave you a sparkling gem. She told you that when she gave everyone (The Great Seven) a way to travel to Twisted Wonderland, they’d surely visit you. With the gem, it will sparkle and shine a certain color when they do.

The color? Well, of course it would be the dorm colors! It would be easier that way, would it not?

So, in the near future, the Great Seven would be able to visit you.

What do you think? You’re not against the idea; but the idea of one of them showing up during class is going to be a nightmare.

Oh well, future you will worry about that.

You thank Maleficent and go about returning to your world.

Before you get to the mirror, Mickey stops you.

“Hey, I just wanted to thank you for making sure the villains stay, it was a lifesaver and you saved our show.” “No...problem?” “Haha, our club would’ve been toast if they left! Thank you again!” “...Your welcome?”

And then you departed from the House of Mouse, immediately crashing onto your bed. Lazily, you take a glance at your mirror, wondering when you’ll see the Great Seven.

Then you promptly fall asleep.

[itsclydebitches]

I am briefly pausing my normal RWBY content to talk about something completely different: Kang Soo-Jin. 

I binged True Beauty recently. As in, “I haven’t managed to watch anything new in half a year, discovered this drama, and promptly marathoned 14+ hours of content,” so to say I’m enjoying it is an understatement. I might do another post sometime about why I think the show works so well, but for now, like many (drama only) viewers, I’m specifically grappling with Soo-Jin’s descent into antagonist territory. At first I was just as shocked and disappointed as others seem to be, but upon reflection I don’t think this is badly written in the way many fans are claiming. To frame this as, “I can’t believe they would make wonderful Soo-Jin suddenly OOC and bully Ju-Kyung over a guy!” is ignoring core parts of her character. I’m as sick of the girl-hates-girl-over-guy plotline as the next viewer, but in the interest of acknowledging that there are exceptions to every rule, I think this is one of the times where that choice makes perfect sense. 

Soo-Jin has been abused throughout her life and I’m not simply talking about the fact that her father hits her. Though that’s obviously horrific, what I think is more pertinent to this conversation is the intense competitiveness her parents have instilled in her. The physical abuse comes about because Soo-Jin fails (in their eyes) to be the best, which is where Ju-Kyung comes in. The Soo-Jin we knew in earlier episodes wasn’t faking. She isn’t an inherently evil person who was just waiting for the right time to show her true colors. Rather, at the start of the story Ju-Kyung—crucially—was not in competition with Soo-Jin. Or rather, Soo-Jin did not perceive her as competition. She’s after the best grades in the school and Ju-Kyung is notoriously at the bottom of the class. All she has going for her are her (new) looks and her easy-going personality that makes her popular, two things that Soo-Jin isn’t interested in. Even if she were, those things already come naturally to her too. She’s already friends with Soo-A and, as is commented on multiple times, naturally beautiful without any makeup on. Soo-Jin has been taught—literally had it beaten into her—that she must be the best and in the beginning of the show she pretty much is: popular, mature, confident, smart… just not the smartest in her class. Ju-Kyung doesn’t threaten any of that, so friendship initially comes easily for Soo-Jin, the sort of friendship that allows her to chase perverts off busses or hide her friend’s real face. 

This changes once Soo-Jin’s “perfect” mask begins to slip. They’re heading towards college, she’s running out of time, and she still hasn’t managed to take the top spot in the class. Worse, she drops out of the top ten. This exacerbates the abuse to the point where, as we see, she’s constantly in the bathroom trying to cope by washing her hands. Any tiny deviation from that “perfection”  — like, say, leaving your tutoring session when you realize your lifelong friend just got devastating news — results in the sort of yelling/physical abuse she can only escape from via a locked door. While things get worse on her end, they get better on Ju-Jyung’s. Her grades go up some and she becomes even more popular, attracting not only school-wide attention, but the attention of the two hottest guys too, including Soo-Ho. For a while this is still fine from Soo-Jin’s perspective, but things really take a turn when Ju-Kyung changes Soo-Ho. Meaning, she helps him come out of his shell and teaches him how to be a kinder person… which includes being a better friend to Soo-Jin. The Soo-Ho who suddenly lies and announces that they have to go study just to get Soo-Jin away from her father’s insults, all of it stemming from a small tick he paid attention to, or comforting her while she sobs over the abuse… that Soo-Ho didn’t exist at the story’s start. He was too wrapped up in his own grief and has been that way for a long time. They may have known each other since childhood, but Soo-Jin and Soo-Ho don’t appear to be particularly close in the past—all Soo-Ho’s flashbacks are with Seo-Joon and Se-Yeon. But that starts to change once Soo-Ho himself changes. Soo-Jin’s ability to keep it together is unraveling, Soo-Ho is opening up and becoming more emotionally available (something Soo-Jin even comments on), then her whole class starts eagerly talking up how good they would be as a couple… so Soo-Jin sees a lifeline. Soo-Ho will care for her even when no one else will. Of course he will. She’s already seen him be that person multiple times. 

The problem is that Soo-Ho has his own life and his own problems to grapple with. Between grief over See-Yeon, panic over telling Ju-Kyung how he feels, and the initial rush of dating—what couple doesn’t want to spend all their time together at the start?—he doesn’t have much energy for Soo-Jin. Which from his perspective is fine. They don’t normally hang out together outside of study groups, so yeah, he can put off a conversation with her… not realizing that Soo-Jin is now putting all her emotional eggs in his basket. By the time her feelings are coming to light, Soo-Jin is actively sabotaging her own attempts to get attention and compassion from Soo-Jin. By manipulating them—here’s a new scrunchy to remind you that you’re my best friend and you can’t ever betray me, here I am showing up unannounced at your apartment and guilting you into not spending more time with me, etc.—Soo-Jin has put Soo-Ho (rightfully) on his guard. He’s wary of having a private conversation with her about something she won’t name when he knows Ju-Kyung has been a mess over losing her friendship. He has no desire to listen to her confession of love after she’s just tossed Ju-Kyung’s beloved necklace into the fire. In her efforts to ensure that Soo-Ho pays attention to her, she only succeeds in driving him away. 

All of which makes Ju-Kyung the enemy in her eyes. The new competition. To her mind, friendship and love cannot co-exist because Ju-Kyung stands in the way of that love, therefore one has got to go. (In contrast Seo-Joon, coming from a loving family, is in time better able to accept that he can be friends with Soo-Ho even though he likes Ju-Kyung. We can discuss the problems inherent in giving one plot to the girl and the other to the guy, but as they are, these characters have concrete, in-world reasons for their different reactions to what’s essentially the same situation.) And why does love (“love”) win out over friendship? Because Soo-Jin has latched onto Soo-Ho being her boyfriend as the way to finally “win” at life and fix all her problems. It’s fine if she’s not the best provided she’s dating the best, just look at how much Dad fawned over him. Second place academically is suddenly an option provided the top student is on her team, so to speak. The fact that Soo-Ho is also one of the most handsome, a great athlete, super rich, and one of the few people to provide her with feelings of safety certainly doesn’t hurt matters. And the only thing that stands in her way of securing this life-saving “win” is Ju-Kyung. Who is she? No one compared to Soo-Jin. Her grades are terrible. She’s not wealthy. She’s pretty… but oh, only with her makeup on. 

Soo-Jin doesn’t need makeup, so why not win this competition by showing the whole school—showing Soo-Ho—what a fraud Ju-Kyung is? 

From Soo-Jin’s perspective she’s done the math and come out on top. Everything that (supposedly) matters she either has equal to Ju-Kyung, or is superior, therefore it’s obvious that Soo-Ho would choose her in the end. She says at much: If I had confessed first you would have loved me first, so now that I have confessed you’ll break up with her. Hell, even Ju-Kyung believes this. She has the nightmare about Soo-Ho learning that Soo-Jin has feelings for him and immediately, publicly breaking up with her. After all, if he suddenly has both as an option the winner is obvious, right? It’s all about competition, what they’ve been taught to believe is a competition: Ju-Kyung through her bullying and Soo-Jin through her abuse. The difference is that Ju-Kyung has had the whole series with Soo-Ho (and others) helping her slowly unlearn this mentality. Soo-Jin had the rug pulled out from under her in an instant. 

Soo-Ho says no, I wouldn’t have loved you if you had confessed first and I’m not going to date you now. It’s important to realize that this shatters Soo-Jin’s entire world. It’s not about a girl being upset that she can’t get the guy — not even about Soo-Ho as an individual, really —  it’s about an abused girl not knowing how to grapple with the fact that she finally did everything “right” and still couldn’t “win,” coupled with losing the last bit of security she had. Soo-Ho broke the unspoken rules Soo-Jin’s father beat into her and she doesn’t know where to go from there. She literally has no one else to turn to. So she falls back on the only way she does know how to handle a situation like this: by still trying to win. If Soo-Ho won’t admit that she’s better, she’ll force him to realize that by plastering Ju-Kyung’s “ugly” face all over social media. Which, to be clear, isn’t an excuse. This isn’t meant to be a way of absolving Soo-Jin of her absolutely horrific actions, only a means of explaining them. Her descent, while shocking to those of us who loved her initial character, is well written because it’s a nuanced look at what can happen when you abuse a kid her whole life and teach her that competition is everything. Oddly enough, she’ll apply a competitive outlook to everything and deal with her stress in unhealthy ways. Ju-Kyung is a victim of Soo-Jin now, but Soo-Jin is a victim too. Her home life has ensured that she does not know how to accept failure—or what true failure even means—so it was inevitable that when things got bad, she’d  try to fix it in ways that hurt both her and those around her. It’s all she knows how to do. 

So far less “Perfect girl goes ooc and abandons her friend over a boy” and far more “Abused girl falls into a terrible, but predictable cycle that the other stressed high schoolers around her are not equipped to break.” Soo-Jin’s story isn’t bad writing, it’s tragic. Thanks for coming to my three page TED talk ✌️

***

2/4/21 FINALE UPDATE! 

[imonthinice]

The Criminal Psychology Majors, Jason Todd x Fem!Reader Part 2/?

Word Count: 2k

Author’s Note: Y/N - your name, A/N - any name (your best friend’s name)

Warnings: Swearing, no beta bitch we die like Jason Todd

Welcome Back! I have, once again, written more of Jason Todd because he’s a fucking teddy bear and I love him.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15) (Part 16) (Part 17) (Part 18) (Part 19) (Part 20)

Y/N and Jason both returned from that date feeling all giddy about each other, but trying their dammed-est to not let their hopes get too high about the other. However, that was extremely, extremely hard for Jason to do with family like Dick in his life. It’s like coming home to a hopeless romantic of a shipper as a nosey bitch. Lovingly, of course. No one’s like Dick.

“So, Y/N?” Dick asked Jason immediately as he entered the Manor.

“Yeah, what about her?”

“So, many questions: Was that a date? If no, will there be a date? Is there going to be a second date? Do you like her? Do you think we’ll like her? Does she know you’re Bruce Wayne’s son?” Dick rambled at his little brother.

“Okay hold on god damn, yes it was a date, yes there will be a second, yeah I think she’s cool and I like her, slow your roll Circus Boy, I don’t know when she’ll meet you lot, I don’t think she knows who I am, she’s from Metropolis, so I don’t think she knows the Waynes well.” Jason answered Dick with confidence.

“So you like her!” Steph mocked as she entered the hallway, probably heard her brothers talking about Y/N, so she wanted in on it. Somehow she had evaded Jason’s gaze though, so she startled him immensely.

“Jeez, how many of you will scare me today? And yeah, dumbass, I like her. But I’m doing this magical thing called ‘Not getting my god damn hopes up about her since it’s only the first date’ you hopeless romantic fucks.” Jason barked at them.

“Yeah, but you love us.” Dick said.

“That might be true, but your meddling is only going to cause chaos, Dick and Steph.”

“What about my meddling, Jay?” Bruce asked. Once again, he had heard the talking about Jason’s new crush and decided he’d parent the boy on his girl. Jason jumped out of his skin, because, he had once again, not seen Bruce enter the hallway despite his best efforts to not get startled again.

“You, are going to give me a heart attack.”

“Looks like this girl let your guard down.”

“Can we just go on patrol and stop badgering me?” Jason muttered under his breath.

“Nope!” Barbara exclaimed. Clearly, there’s a pattern with Waynes escaping Jason’s attempts to not get startled today, “We’re still going to badger you, Jay,” Barbara finished.

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

When Y/N made her way back to A/N, she couldn’t help but turn her radio as loud as she could and try to take the longer journey back home. Pieces of quiet and tranquility always surprised and drew her in. Like a good book on a Sunday morning before the rest of the bustling city of Gotham or Metropolis awoke itself. If New York never sleeps, she thought, then what the hell do Gotham and Metropolis call themselves. She laughed.

There were a few good things about Gotham, like the people you’d meet on the street at 4am were some of the weirdest but kindest people you’d ever know. It’s like the city radiated off of the energy of the people in it, and in spite of the villains constantly hitting the city with their worst, somehow everyone never let it get to them. It was admirable. Metropolis was the same in that avenue, but it didn’t feel like the cold Gotham streets.

Y/N thought Jason was one of the kinder people she had met in her travels and classes. And she never thought that she’d meet someone she liked this much in her criminal psychology class of all places, but hey, the universe had different pen strokes for her.

She went and parked her car in the driveway of the rental house she and A/N shared. Only the two of them shared it, but if either of them lost their jobs, they’d be looking for another roommate immediately. Pulling out her bag which was full of notes written by Jason, the original notes written by her, and binders upon binders of criminal cases she was looking into at the time, she would get out of her car and begin walking to her door.

Of course, like most people, she would kick off her heels the minute she walked through the doors of the house, to which, A/N paused her music and went to go question Y/N about Jason.

“So, you know how this works, babes, lay it on me, how’s hottie? Is he kind?” A/N pondered.

“He’s so kind, he paid the printing fees for my notes and rewrote all of them, I guess it’s a system for us now. I write the notes in class while he tries to take it all in, we meet up, and he rewrites them all and pays the printing fee.”

“He paid the fee?! At that college?” A/N said, completely shocked.

“Is that shocking?”

“Well, the printing fees are so fucking expensive, hun. Mans must have daddy’s money to do that.”

“Really? Well regardless money doesn’t matter, he’s kind and I can make a name for myself if I graduate at the top of my class.” She said, fully believing this. Smart woman. She knew she could do it.

“I believe in you, do you have homework tonight? I can make dinner for you so you can study.” A/N offered.

“Nah, I’m just going to go file my notes and shower, I’ll come join you and help after.”

“Well, don’t drown.” A/N joked.

“Do you know how much effort that would take?” She laughed as she walked towards her room, once she got there she pulled out her papers and began the slow filing process of them into her desk.

About 2 minutes into this, she got a text:

Hey stranger.

If someone had a heart monitor hooked up to her, they could have bet their last penny on her heart skipping a beat. 

Hey Jason. She sent back.

I had a fun time today with you, do you want to do the same thing tomorrow, I could use your fast writing skills to get by in classes. And I just like talking to you. What do you say?

She thought. Maybe something legit is here, hopefully I’m not just used for notes. She worried about that, since she was just a tad insecure about him. He was pretty. She knew she was a looker, sure. But he was something more.

I would love to go on another budget date with you.

Budget? Actually yeah, I guess it is budget lol. Maybe next time I’ll actually take you out to lunch like I said I would.

I, honestly, completely forgot you said you’d take me to lunch, I was just having fun as we were talking.

Me too. You’re a hoot.

A hoot? That’s a book nerd statement if I’ve ever heard one. She joked. She didn’t actually know if he was a book nerd at this time, but they had been joking the entire time when she was filing her notes. She was no where near done filing her notes, Jason was a distraction from that, it wasn’t that important, she would end up finishing it later. She just liked some semblance of organization so she didn’t have to put it off.

I’ll have you know I’ve probably read more books than you.

Well book nerds are cute.

Eventually the messages from Jason and Y/N started slowing, Y/N assumed he was tired or working so she took her chance to file her notes and start running her shower.

Sorry Y/N, this has been fun but I’m going to get really sparse with replies, I got work to do.

That’s fine! Where do you work, by the way?

And she got into the shower. Halfway through her shower her phone pinged, she assumed Jason was texting back, so when she finished her shower, before she even got her towel on, she decided to answer him:

I work at Wayne Enterprises with my dad. It’s quite fun.  He had said.

Oh! I’ve heard the owner of Wayne Enterprises is a lovely man, have you met him? She asked him back.

And within an instant, he answered.

He’s my dad, so yeah.

You’re the Jason Todd? Heir to the Wayne Manor and Wayne Enterprises? She started thinking back on what A/N had said. Yep, she thought, Daddy’s money indeed. She started to slip into her pajamas, which were literally a mess and not put together, because this is the real world, not every girl has matching sets, when he answered:

I hope that doesn’t change much, Y/N.

Explains the camera I saw but didn’t mention, and that’s about it.

You saw the cameras? Damn it. I tried to shield you, they may have pictured us together, sorry.

Worth it for a lovely date. I’ve seen worse, my mum works with Clark Kent, who I guess you probably know since he’s Bruce’s best friend, and the paparazzi loves to take Clark’s picture.

Oh yeah, Uncle Clark. Yeah, the pap love him. You get used to it. I guess you somewhat know my family lol.

Nah, that’s about all I know. Wasn’t really interested in drama about you lot because it’s just not my business. Probably not a shared ideal with the general public.

She finished getting dressed and went to go cook with A/N, and share the news.

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

“Girl! You were right about daddy’s money oh my god,” Y/N said when she entered the kitchen.

“Go on,” A/N urged.

“You know Jason Todd? Guess what. That’s hottie from Crim Psych 101.”

“Are you serious? That’s insane. You’re probably plastered across the internet right now for that date,” A/N laughed, “are you scared to date a famous man?” She asked.

“No, he’s really sweet and if this gets serious, I can just block out the flashes.”

The two of them laughed and started cooking. A/N was Latina, so, of course, she was in charge to cook most nights. But Y/N made killer desserts and pizza. Tonight was fajitas, so Y/N kind of sat bat and let A/N do her thing. Trying to know more so one day A/N wouldn’t have to do all the work, Y/N went onto the internet and the first thing she saw?

Globally Revered Son of a Millionaire, Jason Todd, out on a DATE with a Mystery Girl?

Like clockwork, Jason answered:

I guess I have a lot to teach you, and I hope you haven’t been on the internet recently.

I have. Globally Revered Son of a Millionaire. She texted back.

Fuck those damn tabloids. He said, she couldn’t help but agree, the paparazzi seem like they’re very invested in stories that aren’t theirs to tell.

Can’t agree with you more. We should put on a show for them tomorrow, actually give them something to write about.

I like your thinking.

You’ve opened up a lot today.

Is it your turn now?

What do you want to know? You asked him before turning to A/N.

“Tabloids talk too much,” you sneered at her.

“Cat should get their tongue and choke on it,” she finished, “did you at least look cute in their pics?” she asked.

“Somehow. Wasn’t even posing,” Y/N finished.

“Well, food’s done, are you still hungry?”

“Always.”

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

Jason turned to his brother, Dick, Nightwing, and said, 

“She knows now.”

“That you’re rich?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess I have to be more wary of her now,” he sighed, “I hope she’s not in it for the Wayne fortune.”

“Doubt she is if she agreed the tabloids can suck it, Red Hood.”

“I pray you’re right.”

He then drew his guns and fired at the ground underneath their laest venture into crime-fighting. This was gonna be one hell of a ride Y/N embarked on, not even knowing what she was getting into.

[lingthusiasm]

Transcript Lingthusiasm Episode 59: Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Theory of Mind

This is a transcript for Lingthusiasm Episode 59: Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Theory of Mind. It’s been lightly edited for readability. Listen to the episode here or wherever you get your podcasts. Links to studies mentioned and further reading can be found on the Episode 59 show notes page.

[Music]

Gretchen: Welcome to Lingthusiasm, a podcast that’s enthusiastic about linguistics! I’m Gretchen McCulloch.

Lauren: I’m Lauren Gawne. Today we’re getting enthusiastic about whether you’re getting enthusiastic about theory of mind. But first, our most recent bonus episode is on translation in fiction – mostly translating between human languages and non-human languages but all kinds of translation.

Gretchen: You can get access to this translation episode about some books we’ve been reading recently and 50 other bonus episodes by becoming a patron at patreon.com/lingthusiasm. Here’s a bit of a preview into the books we talked about.

Lauren: We talked about Semiosis by Sue Burke, and A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine, as well as The Devil Comes Courting by Courtney Milan. And, Gretchen, you have read Native Tongue by Suzette Haden Elgin.

Gretchen: I have finally gotten around to reading Native Tongue, which has been much recommended to me.

Lauren: A classic piece of linguistic sci-fi.

Gretchen: You don’t have to have read any of these books beforehand. We don’t provide plot spoilers, although we’ll talk about some of the things in the setting. It’s fun whether you’ve read any of them or not at all. You might end up with some new things to read.

Lauren: You can get access to that episode and all of our bonus episodes at patreon.com/lingthusiasm.

[Music]

Lauren: Gretchen, I’m gonna run an experiment on you.

Gretchen: Okay, I like experiments.

Lauren: Excellent. This one involves a lot of a set up, but it’s great because you can do it. If you are listening along, you can also do the experiment along with us.

Gretchen: Great! What’s our set up?

Lauren: We have Sally and Anne.

Gretchen: Okay.

Lauren: Sally has a basket. Anne has a box. Sally has a marble – Sally with the basket – and she puts her marble into the basket. Then she goes out for a walk. Sally’s not here. But we’ve got a basket with a marble in it.

Gretchen: Sally’s not here. We’ve got her basket with the marble in it. Okay.

Lauren: We’ve got a box, and Anne is still there. Anne takes the marble out of the basket and puts it in the box.

Gretchen: So, now we’ve got a marble in a box.

Lauren: We’ve got the marble in the box. Sally comes back, and Sally wants to play with the marble. Where is Sally going to go to get her marble?

Gretchen: I’m going to deduce – based on the fact that when Sally left the room, she left the marble in the basket – she probably still thinks the marble is in the basket because she’d have no reason to assume that things would’ve changed, and so she’s gonna try the basket first because she doesn’t know that Anne has moved it.

Lauren: That is a perfectly reasonable deduction to make. You are a veritable Sherlock Holmes.

Gretchen: Thank you. Did I pass the test?

Lauren: You did. You completed what is known as the “theory of mind test” because you kept track of what you knew about the situation and what Sally knew about the situation and all the sneakiness that Anne had perpetrated with the marble.

Gretchen: But presumably at some period earlier in my life, when I was a very young child, I might not have passed this test.

Lauren: The ability to correctly articulate what you know about Sally’s likely chances of going to the basket or the box really doesn’t settle into being reliable until 3 or 4 years old – actually being able to articulate what you know about the state of other people’s thinking.

Gretchen: Which feels kind of late because 2-year-olds, 3-year-olds already have quite a bit of language in most cases, and yet this later reasoning about mental states and what different people know about different things comes along later.

Lauren: That’s what the theory of mind test seems to indicate. It is a bit more complex than this. This is something that was run for the first time 30 or 40 years ago. There’s been more work that’s tried to do versions that don’t involve language; they just involve looking. They show that toddlers, 15 months old, are actually maybe better at paying attention to the fact that the marble is in one place or another and what Sally might know a little bit better than they can articulate. It’s something about being able to put it into words that seems to be one of the challenges that takes until, as you say, well into language acquisition to be able to do this task consistently.

Gretchen: This task feels like something that some experimenter set up in a lab, and maybe they had puppets, or maybe they had two different experimenters, and these props feel very psychology-experiment-prop style to me.

Lauren: What do we have in the props department, yeah.

Gretchen: It’s funny. I was reading a different paper about these types of experiments, and there are other ways you can test for theory of mind. One of my either favourite or least favourite, depending on this, is – oh, shall I do it on you?

Lauren: Okay, yes.

Gretchen: I have a box. It’s a small cardboard box. The outside says “Kinder Chocolate Bars” – chocolate things.

Lauren: Great. I’m very compelled by this box.

Gretchen: We have our friend Gavagai, who is also in the room and sees this box with the chocolates on it. Gavagai is called out, suddenly, to leave to go do something else.

Lauren: Bye, Gav.

Gretchen: I open this box, and I show you that inside is not, in fact, chocolates, but it is pencils – coloured pencils.

Lauren: Okay, I was gonna say that’s a bit of a disappointment, but it’s something of a disappointment to me.

Gretchen: They’re coloured pencils, which is something more exciting than graphite pencils. But still, they’re not chocolates. Then I close the box up again, and it looks like it’s closed. Then our friend Gav comes back in the room.

Lauren: Hi, Gav.

Gretchen: What does Gav think is in the box?

Lauren: Well, I know that it’s pencils. But Gav wasn’t here when I saw that it was pencils. Gav still thinks it’s chocolates, and boy, are they in for a disappointment.

Gretchen: Yes, they are. You can do this about location of item, which is the Sally-Anne test, which is about location, or you can do it about identity of item – what’s in it.

Lauren: I have a colleague who’s done the theory of mind task with little stones instead of a marble, but then there’s a whole other twist where the stones end up being those little nuggets of chocolate that look like stones. I just feel like I would be confused by that point about who knows what about the state or location of this rock chocolate situation.

Gretchen: I remember I loved those stones as a child because it felt like you were gonna break a tooth on them, and then you would eat them.

Lauren: You could definitely do some fun false belief with someone about me eating dirt.

Gretchen: There’s also a fun one in this study where they found – and I don’t know where they got this object because I have not seen an object like this – they have this little toy that looks like a race car, like one of those cars that you “vroom vroom” on the table. But it turns out when you press a button on it, it turns into a pen. A pen-thing pops out. They’re trying to see does this person think it’s a race car, do they think it’s a pen. Somebody’s really going around in toy shops being like, “Okay, what here could be deceptive?”

Lauren: Keeping track of people’s knowledge states, as we’ve said, is something that takes a little bit of effort. Not all animals can necessarily do it. In fact, when we find animals that are really good at this, people get really excited. There are animals that are closely related to humans, like chimps seem pretty good at this. You can basically do a version of the location of an object thing, and the chimps are all over it. Also, ravens are really good at conceptualising where someone might be and what they might be doing. It’s one of those skills that isn’t just like – well, first of all, you get theory of mind and a bunch of other things, and then you get language. It’s not just an ingredient in the language cake. It’s just one of many skills that humans and animals closely related to humans seem to have but also is scattered throughout the animal kingdom.

Gretchen: Corvids are pretty smart, I guess. They can recognise people, so maybe they can also – if you feed them, they’ll become your friends.

Lauren: We’ve run a very classic theory of mind experiment at the top of this episode, but as we suggested, people have been pulling apart exactly what theory of mind is and how different people do different elements of it. It seems to be this complicated cluster of features around attention, attention-tracking, false belief, mental states, and being able to do all of this is part of being able to do the social element of language.

Gretchen: Because when you’re talking about language, you’re describing what other people have done. You’re thinking like, “Okay, why did this person behave this weird way this time?”, or “Why did this person do this thing to me?”, “Why can’t I get this?” You’re trying to figure out, well, it’s because this other person wants this thing even though that’s not what I want. Or it’s because this other person knows this thing even though it’s not what I know.

Lauren: Even just the process of asking a question, like, using language to interact with someone to try and get to an end goal and whether or not they are likely to have the right information that I need to get this question answered. Theory of mind is the having really good foundations on the house of language, and it’s part of why I’m always very zen when people talk about computers taking over the ability to do language. It’s like, well, first of all, a computer has to be able to keep track of their best guess of the knowledge state of everyone else in the interaction, and that’s not necessarily the same kind of programming task as figuring out sounds or morphemes or syntactic structures.

Gretchen: It’s interesting because it is a theory – not like the theory of gravity where scientists have hypothesised that minds might exist – but in the sense that, whenever we’re interacting with the world, we’re hypothesising that the people around us have intention behind what they’re doing, and they’re doing stuff for reasons. I have to hypothesise that you, Lauren, have a mind because I don’t actually have direct evidence that you have a mind. Maybe you have actually been Lauren-bot this entire time!

Lauren: True, true. I am operating under the same premise. I have my own theory. It’s not a shared theory, necessarily. We all have this internal idea that the people we’re interacting with in conversation are also doing the same mental calculation that we are.

Gretchen: I remember having this realisation that people have other mental states, and maybe they conceive of the world dramatically differently from how I do. Maybe this thing that I see that I call “red” isn’t actually what someone else is seeing even though they also call it “red.” I remember having this philosophical realisation when I was about 12 or so, and thinking, “How do we know anything that we’re seeing things.” And yet, even though I don’t have empirical evidence that you aren’t just an extremely sophisticated automaton – I mean, I do have a lot of empirical evidence, actually, because automatons aren’t that good yet – but we still manage to interact with people. We still manage to operate under a working theory that people do have minds and they are interactable with.

Lauren: People have drawn a link between this kind of cognitive foundation and the need for language by looking at the way early human ancestors learnt to socialise with each other. Instead of having small packs of humans, you ended up getting these larger and larger groups. Once you have these larger groups, you have to have some way of maintaining social cohesion that’s not just small-group dominance. Robin Dunbar is probably one the most famous proponents of this idea that language is a way of maintaining social cohesion and that you can keep a happy social relationship with more people essentially through gossip – gossip being one of the mechanisms that helped generate the need for language.

Gretchen: I mean, it’s useful to know can you trust this person because they were trustworthy last time or have they been going around and doing things that are not trustworthy or is this someone that someone else is willing to vouch for. There’s lots of reasons why language can help with cooperation.

Lauren: In the absence of being able to time travel, I quite like this theory of one of the ways that humans came to use language.

Gretchen: I’ve actually been thinking about Robin Dunbar’s theories for a different reason. Because he has this very famous 150-size social group number, which is the size of a lot of villages or small communities or small companies or small conferences. It’s the magic number for that kind of community. But also, there’s this other number that Dunbar and colleagues have also researched, which is four. That’s the number of people that conversations tend to max out at before they start splitting into smaller conversations.

Lauren: Ah, this makes a lot of sense when I think about small group chat at parties and the ebb and flow of when people join or leave conversations. I think that must also explain why trying to have all of your friends in one big video chat room at an online party is really stressful.

Gretchen: Exactly. This also shows up in fiction. It shows up in plays. It shows up in movies that people tend to max out at four conversation participants. The reason for this has to do with theory of mind, which is that we find it too cognitively exhausting to keep track of the mental states of too many people.

Lauren: In a specific conversation.

Gretchen: At once, yeah.

Lauren: So, I can vaguely keep track of, like, 200, 150 people in my social village, but in terms of the moment-to-moment what-do-you-know-about-the-story-I’m-telling, three or four people is enough for me to keep track of.

Gretchen: There’s a really interesting test of this which is that Dunbar and colleagues did an experiment where they asked people to talk about an absent third party and speculate about that absent third party’s mental states. When people were instructed to use that for their conversation, they tended to form one smaller conversational grouping, so maximum of three instead of maximum of four, when they were just asked to talk about what the absent third parties were doing but not what they were thinking.

Lauren: I’m deeply fascinated by – this is experiment is “Please come into this lab and gossip.”

Gretchen: Right. I don’t remember exactly how they set it up, but yeah, something about the maximum number of mental states that you can conceive of without getting too tired is around five, but that means four people because you’re also keeping track of, like, between you and me, we have three mental states. I’m thinking about me, I’m thinking about you, and then I’m also thinking about what you’re thinking about me.

Lauren: This is why the language that we use to talk about internal mental states does particularly interesting things in grammar. You begin to see theory of mind affect the way that we do grammar because verbs that express internal mental states act a bit differently to other verbs.

Gretchen: English actually has this interesting grammatical distinction between how we talk about mental state verbs versus action verbs in the present tense. We say something like, “I know,” “I like,” “I understand,” “I enjoy,” “I fear,” but for action verbs, we’re more likely to say something like, “I am running,” “I am walking,” “I am talking.”

Lauren: Oh, yeah, “I walk,” implies an “I walk every day” habit thing.

Gretchen: Right. Whereas “I know” doesn’t imply “I know every day.” There’s just this subtle distinction between how we talk about verbs in the present. In the past, we don’t do this. You can say “I liked” and “I walked,” and that’s the same, but in the present, we have this interesting distinction that’s made in English that isn’t necessarily made in other languages.

Lauren: That only really works for first person in English. It’s a bit weird to say this about other people, especially the person who you’re talking to.

Gretchen: It’s another thing that’s weird about verbs about mental states where it’s sort of weird for me to be like, “Lauren, you like cake.” I mean, I guess –

Lauren: I mean, you definitely have enough evidence to support that as a viable statement. I think in the context of us interacting, it would be fine, but it would very weird to say it to someone who you didn’t have that knowledge for.

Gretchen: If I just go up to someone in a coffee shop who’s eating cake and say, “You like cake,” it’d be like, “Excuse me, but who invited your opinion here?”

Lauren: I think this is one of the things I’ve had to learn in teaching over the years is it’s very easy for me to be like, “Well, you know this because we covered it in class last week.” I just assume that everything we covered in class is completely absorbed into your knowledge state.

Gretchen: You mean your students don’t have perfect downloads of every single, you know, audio file of your voice?

Lauren: In much the same way that we don’t assume that people have absorbed every single fact from Lingthusiasm when we bring them up a couple of years later.

Gretchen: Absolutely. You don’t retain this. It’s easy to be like, “I’ve told you once,” and like, “Yeah, that was years ago, I don’t remember everything that happened to me years ago.”

Lauren: It’s why you end up finding a lot of question forms for second person in verb paradigms when you’re trying to do this elicitation because it’s much more comfortable for people to reframe what you’ve said as a question.

Gretchen: I think when we’re used to doing this decontextualised form of grammar as linguists, we’re like, “Oh, yeah, okay, I can make a verb paradigm: I like; you like; he/she likes; we like; you-plural like; they like.” Yeah, fine, I can just make this little paradigm for me. But the social context in which you would use each of these forms is actually really different.

Lauren: I mean, now that we’ve said that I can definitely think of contexts where it would be fine to say it in English with a direct “You like” or “You know.” I think there’re definitely where it would be safe to say it to a child that you are very close to like, “I know you like toast. We ate toast for breakfast yesterday.” Lo and behold, they like toast. They just need to be reminded of that.

Gretchen: But even there you were like, “I know you like toast,” which is sort of not quite as committed to the statement as “You like toast.” Or if you wanna say to a dog or something like, “You want your dinner? Yes, I know you want your dinner. You’re gonna have your dinner. Here we go.” But it’s, I think, to say to an adult – I mean, maybe if I walk in on you in your office, and I’m like, “Oh, you’re busy. I’ll come back later.” Or like, “Oh, you’re reading. You’re on the phone. I’ll come back later.” There’re certainly contexts in which you could do it, but you have to do a lot more contextual set up.

Lauren: I love how much set up you had to do to get to that as a valid way of using an internal state verb directly at someone.

Gretchen: Whereas if I say, “Yeah, I know. I like cake.” This doesn’t require any set up. This is just the unmarked thing to do.

Lauren: This is why we separate out these verbs about internal mental states or “psych verbs” as they’re sometimes called and look at them separately to other verbs in English. Because talking about someone else’s mental state changes the way that we can use them in grammar.

Gretchen: Some psych verbs come in pairs. You can say “I like cake” or “Cake pleases me.” Or “I fear dogs,” “Dogs frighten me.” In both cases, you’re having the same relationship between the two entities, but the verb flips, which you don’t always see with actions. Sometimes you see it with actions like “I buy this from you,” “You sell it to me.” But it seems to be one of the things that happens with internal mental state verbs.

Lauren: They also tend to have more variation across languages and across cultures as to how you can use them.

Gretchen: Yeah. There’s a really interesting and subtle example of this in English and Spanish where in English it’s less common to say something like “You understand” with the meaning of “I infer you understand based on the evidence of you seeming to understand.” Whereas in Spanish, you have a verb that seems like it should correspond to English “understand,” but it is reasonable to use that verb to mean “I infer you understand because you’re asking really good questions” or “I infer you understand because you are making noises of comprehension and you’re nodding and so on.” It’s reasonable to say to someone “You understand” with the meaning, like, “It seems to me that you understand” or “I observe you to be understanding.”

Lauren: That is a subtle but important meaning distinction, I feel.

Gretchen: I heard this anecdote from a linguist who – I don’t remember which linguist anymore – who said that they’d told this to somebody – an English speaker and a Spanish speaker who were in a marriage together – and they both spoke each other’s languages, but they didn’t have an understanding that this was actually a pragmatic difference between them. Sometimes, they would get in fights by like, “What do you mean you say I understand? You don’t know what’s going on in my internal mental state. You’re just assuming what I know.” Which was actually a systematic pragmatic difference in how the languages use those particular mental state verbs rather than a case of just not understanding between the partners.

Lauren: That is amazing. The thing I find really interesting about that anecdote is that the distinction between the two forms of “understand” was really implicit between the two languages. I’m really interested in those grammatical features where knowledge state becomes very overt. That’s essentially what motivated me to study how we grammatically track source of information, which is the area of evidentiality. We had a whole episode on that that I will not assume you’ve listened to, and I will not assume you remember anything from, but essentially, evidentiality is used to keep track of, depending on the language, whether you know something because you saw it or because someone else told you about it or maybe you’re not entirely certain about it. This is marked as a feature of the grammar rather just being implicit or optional.

Gretchen: In English, you have the option of saying something like, “It’s raining,” “I can see that it’s raining,” “I can guess that it’s raining because I can hear the rain drops,” or because someone’s walked in, and their shoulders and umbrella are all soaking wet. You can say all of those things to indicate the source of your knowledge, but you don’t have to. You could just say “It’s raining” and let someone else figure out how you came to know that information.

Lauren: Whereas if we look at a language like Yolmo in Nepal that I’ve worked with, you can actually see someone’s knowledge state changing throughout the story that they’re telling because maybe they start with talking about something in a way where they’re not certain if this cake is going to be delicious, and then they talk about how someone told them it’s going to be delicious, and then finally, they have direct sensory evidence of how delicious the cake is. You see how the knowledge about the cake being delicious is really clearly marked by the grammatical choices that they have to make throughout the story. It means that I can keep track of someone else’s source of evidence in a way that’s more direct than in English. It means that people are more attentive to mine as well.

Gretchen: So, if you wanna say something like, “I infer that you understand,” you would be doing that with the evidential marker. Or “You told me that you understood this yesterday, so why don’t you understand it today,” then you’d have a lot of ways of marking the differences between those internal mental states.

Lauren: Yes. And those internal state experiences of if someone’s unwell or if someone’s hungry, I have to mark them differently if I don’t have any direct visual evidence. If you’re unwell, and you’re shaking and feverish, I can say that I can see you’re unwell. But if you’re unwell in a way that I can’t see, I have to use other grammatical ways of marking it. How you interact with other people’s internal states varies because sometimes you don’t have access to a direct source of evidence for it.

Gretchen: I feel like I’m just picturing those little cartoons you get in language learning textbooks where they have test very stereotyped representations of common illnesses that don’t have obvious physical things. Like, “I have a headache” would be like a person holding their head in great distress or with a hot water bottle on their head, and you’re like, “I don’t put a hot water bottle on my head when I have a headache.” Or like somebody who has a thermometer sticking out of their mouth or something to indicate these sort of things that aren’t really easily visually represented.

Lauren: It’s because figuring out someone else’s internal state is actually a really complicated cognitive task that we do, and we fall back on these tropes to help us navigate that.

Gretchen: I guess same for teaching other types of mental state verbs, you know, “know” or “understand” or “like” or something. You have these maybe very stereotyped or symbolic representations. If you have someone with a heart or something, maybe they’re liking it or loving it. But it’s difficult to do a picture of “I know,” “I understand.” Not everything is easily visualisable.

Lauren: You talked earlier about how it was a revelation for you at some point that maybe we can’t really know what’s happening in other people’s minds. There is a lot of cultural variation as to how much people are willing to feel like they’re able to intuit the internal states of other people – so much so that there’s a whole area of anthropology that looks at this idea of cultures where it’s really prevalent to assume that you can’t know someone else’s internal state. That’s the starting point for building social interactions.

Gretchen: This is the inverse of the Spanish thing where it’s like, “Yeah, I can infer your mental state.” This is like, “Nobody can really know what anyone else is thinking at all.”

Lauren: It’s a cultural assumption and starting point for building conversations and interactions that I’m gonna assume that I can’t know what your internal state is. I can only make reference to it by very overtly flagging that I don’t know that. I might talk about your actions rather than my assumptions about the thoughts behind those actions.

Gretchen: So, what does it look like in practice if someone’s operating under the assumption that you can never really understand what’s going on in someone else’s mind?

Lauren: A lot of the anthropologists who work in this area tend to look at the domain of gossip. I like to think of it in terms of – it just means that you’re unlikely to have gossip that goes along the lines of “What were they even thinking?” Instead, your gossip is more about the concrete actions of people rather than rationalising their mental state while they were doing those things.

Gretchen: Okay. So, not like, “This person had good intentions, but this thing didn’t work,” or “This person never cares about other people’s feelings, and so therefore…,” but it’s more like, “Oh, this person did this thing – ate my cake.”

Lauren: Yeah. I mean, assuming someone has good intentions is something that presumes that you can know what’s inside someone else’s mind.

Gretchen: It’s like, “This person ate my cake. I don’t care why they did it, but that’s what happened.”

Lauren: That tends to be more of the focus that gets talked about or that people might come upon by using strategies like grammatical evidentiality as a like, “You can’t know what’s in my mind, so let me tell you that I know that it’s raining because someone said or because I saw it.” Like, “Let me do that work for you of telling you my state of knowledge rather than you trying to guess something that you can’t guess.”

Gretchen: So, it’s not necessarily a thing of “We’re not talking about mental states,” but the person is the ultimate authority on their own mental state.

Lauren: Yeah. I think this area of opacity of mind is looking at commonalities between what are actually very different ways of approaching understanding people’s internal states because perhaps culturally we’ve just gone with the assumption that everyone thinks about social interaction the way we do and that maybe there’s a lot of variation there.

Gretchen: Lauren, are you saying we have bad theory of mind about theory of mind?

Lauren: Potentially. But I think learning about theory of mind as a bedrock and then opacity of mind as the way people approach this bedrock has made me more appreciative of keeping track of what people might know or not making assumptions about what people bring to any particular interaction. I really appreciate knowing about theory of mind for that reason.

Gretchen: I think practicing figuring out, okay, what are some possible mental states here, what might be going on. This is one of the things I really like about fiction, especially, reading books is you do get to be behind someone else’s eyes and thinking about what they’re doing and why they’re doing it even if their reasons for doing something are really different from what I would think. I find filmed stuff, unless there’s a lot of voiceover – I love voiceover because you can get into someone’s mind. Not everyone’s a fan of voiceover, but I love it because it gives you that internal mental state. I don’t just wanna look at someone’s face and think, “Oh, this is what they’re thinking.” I wanna be behind their eyes and thinking, “Oh, they actually think this is a good idea. Okay. Well, I’m along for this ride now.”

Lauren: I think fiction is a really great philosophical experiment. It’s one of the reasons I really find sci-fi to be interesting is because it can push the limits of what another mind is or what another mental state is to be thinking in. One thing we didn’t get to in the bonus episode about Arkady Martine’s Memory Called Empire is that there are people who have the capacity to take on the entire previous knowledge state of someone else. I just am like what would an evidential marking system be like for a person who has multiple consciousnesses worth of evidence for a statement.

Gretchen: Like, “I know this because my original consciousness knew this” or “I know this because the consciousness that I got added to mine later in life knows this.” Oh, man.

Lauren: There’re just so many layers of potential knowledge state there. That’s the kind of sci-fi that lets me bring my linguist brain to problems of consciousness.

Gretchen: I’ve been thinking about this from a practical level as well recently which is what’s the point of having a conference compared to just reading some blog posts or something about the same topic. I think it’s about that conferences create a state of shared knowledge among their participants. You know that everyone else was also at the same talks or in the same environment or is interested in the same topic, and so it gives you springboards for having conversations about topics of mutual interest rather than just “I’ve acquired this information.” It’s “I’ve acquired this information in a social context where I’ve also acquired a bunch of people to talk with about it.”

Lauren: I’ve never quite thought of conferences in that way, but that is a very wholesome, linguist-brain way to approach it.

Gretchen: Well, it’s partly why digital conferences can be unsatisfying because if you don’t know who else is in the audience and you don’t have any way of spending time with them then you don’t get to have that shared mental state with the fellow conference participants. You’re just receiving the knowledge in a way that you could do without the conference structure at all.

Lauren: I think that speaks to the way that approaching theory of mind allows you to just be more generous in the way you conceptualise other people’s intentions or their motivations or their actions, which is one thing I really appreciate about it.

Gretchen: I also think that there’s – I mean, this is definitely not in the canon of theory of mind – but it’s part of this thinking and reasoning about other people’s mental states. It’s also what the mental state is that you impose on someone else by reacting to something.

Lauren: Okay. I’m now very conscious about whatever I say in response to this anecdote.

Gretchen: I’m sorry. An example of this is the xkcd comic “Lucky Ten Thousand,” which reads, “I try not to make fun of people for admitting they don’t know things. Because for each thing ‘Everyone knows’ by the time they’re adults, every day there are, on average, 10,000 people in the US hearing about it for the first time.” And there’s some calculations. “If I make fun of people, I train them not tell me when they have these moments. And I miss out on the fun.” Then the little comic strip – this is two people – one says, “Diet Coke and Mentos thing? What’s that?” And the other one says, “Oh, man! C’mon we’re going to the grocery store.” “Why?” “You’re one of today’s lucky ten thousand.” Some of my friend groups have adopted “lucky ten thousand” when someone mentions like “Oh, what is this book?” or “What is this thing?” rather than say “Oh, you haven’t heard of that? What?”

Lauren: I can actually tell you exactly how Gretchen says it because Gretchen said to me when we were preparing for this, “Oh, you haven’t heard of the ‘Lucky Ten Thousand’? Oh my gosh, do I have the link for you.”

Gretchen: [Laughs] Exactly.

Lauren: It was so nice to not feel embarrassed to not know every comic in a canonical webcomic series and to be introduced to this very excellent one.

Gretchen: It makes the conversation happen in a much more positive way because then – you know, nobody’s read all the books. Nobody has done all of the things. You can have the conversation of “Oh, well, what did you like about it?” or “What is interesting about it?” without the shaming version of the conversation of “Why haven’t you done this?” or “What’s wrong with you that you don’t know this thing already?” I think this is a similar thing that happens when you create things as well, like “I wrote a book” or “on this podcast.” Sometimes, we’ll say something there or give some – like, here’s a set of examples or something. And sometimes people will reply, “Oh, I listened to your thing,” “I liked your thing and here is this other example for you.” Like, “Here’s another thing that you might like.” That frame is a really positive way of having that conversation and is something that I can then share with other people and say, “Oh, here’s this other thing that people might be interested in.” I can retweet it. Or “Here’s something else going on.”

Lauren: I always feel bad when people phrase it as though we have deliberately omitted something for nefarious reasons when it’s often just that we have a finite amount of time and there’re many languages.

Gretchen: Also, we don’t know everything. Sometimes, someone tells us about a new example.

Lauren: Sometimes, we get to be one of the lucky ten thousand for a topic in linguistics, and it makes us very happy.

Gretchen: The thing is, is the intentions are generally really good. People are excited to share things. They’re excited to talk about things. It’s just this common way of responding to things that doesn’t end up leading into the conversation that you wanna have and with a slight tweak could totally do that like the “lucky ten thousand thing.

Lauren: I also think about this modelling other people’s mental states and knowledge. I think one of the peak activities for that is creating a forwardable email.

Gretchen: Ooo.

Lauren: For those of us who spend a lot of time on email, occasionally, someone will say, “Cool. I’m glad we’ve agreed to do this thing. Can you put the details in a forwardable email so I can send it to the rest of the group?”

Gretchen: Right. Or “Can you introduce me to this person. Here’s why I think they’d be interested in talking about it.” And I’ll say, “Okay, I’ll write a forwardable email. I can send it to them, and then they can decide if they wanna talk to you,” or something like that.

Lauren: Me and this other person know that this email exchange has happened. I now need to write a single, useful, context-filled email that that person can forward on to the group that they want to do the thing with or someone that I am hoping to be introduced to. It requires me to think about what I know, what the person who asked me to do this email knows, and what this third person, who hasn’t been part of any of the prior conversation but needs all of the relevant context, needs to know. I just think that the mental state modelling involved and the mentalising what this person who hasn’t been part of the conversation needs is like Dunbar’s mental representation stuff as, like, multidimensional chess.

Gretchen: Because you end up saying – like, to the person you’re actually emailing, you’re telling them all of this information they already know, and that’s why you can sometimes specify to someone like, “Oh, yeah, please send me an email that I can forward to this person.” If I’m receiving a forwardable email, I know that you’re repeating information that I know, and it’s not patronising in this context because you know that I know that I’m gonna forward it to this third person who doesn’t know these things and so, therefore, that’s why you’re repeating this information that I already knew. There’s so many levels of understanding what other people are gonna potentially think in there.

Lauren: This is why, before we even get to thinking about language, we have to think about the cognitive processes that allow us to know where the marble is, to know if someone thinks cake is delicious, or to go to put everything into an email.

[Music]

Gretchen: For more Lingthusiasm and links to all the things mentioned in this episode, go to lingthusiasm.com. You can listen to us on Apple Podcast, Google Podcast, Spotify, SoundCloud, YouTube, or wherever else you get your podcasts. You can follow @Lingthusiasm on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Tumblr. You can get IPA scarves, “What the fricative” mugs, and other lingthusiasm merch at lingthusiasm.com/merch. I can be found as @GretchenAMcC on Twitter, my blog is AllThingsLinguistic.com, and my book about internet language is called Because Internet.

Lauren: I tweet and blog as Superlinguo. Have you listened to all the Lingthusiasm episodes, and you wish there were more? You can get access to 54 bonus episodes to listen to right now at patreon.com/lingthusiasm or follow the links from our website. Patrons also get access to our Discord chatroom to talk with other linguistics fans and other rewards as well as helping keep the show ad-free. Recent bonus topics include the linguistics of Pokémon, backchannelling, and translation in fiction. Can’t afford to pledge? That’s okay, too. We also really appreciate it if you can recommend Lingthusiasm to anyone who needs a little more linguistics in their lives.

Gretchen: Lingthusiasm is created and produced by Gretchen McCulloch and Lauren Gawne. Our Senior Producer is Claire Gawne, our Editorial Producer is Sarah Dopierala, and our Production Manager is Liz McCullough, and our music is “Ancient City” by The Triangles.

Lauren: Stay lingthusiastic!

[Music]

📷

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

[aliensunflower-fics]

Marinette’s Big Fall: An angsty Prompt

[ I have had not one. Not two. But THREE anonymous asks for some Miraculous ladybug angst with a pinch of salt SO here you go. Also because people keep asking me if they can make fics from my prompts I will just put here that YES you can I will love you if you do, please just tag me so I can squeal. I always love fan-art and I always love fics based off my ideas just go nuts guys. ]

If you asked the students of Bustier’s classroom what happened that sunny tuesday at 1:36pm they would all tell you it was an accident. None of them had meant for anything to happen and none of them had so much as laid a finger on the dark haired girl. It was just an accident that was all, but still their faces would lose blood and they would shake as they remembered the sight of Marinette Dupain-Cheng laying still as a stone at the bottom of the stairs. If you asked them to start at the beginning they would take a shaky breath and start their tale at the first warning bell of the school day, before Marinette had arrived and when Lila Rossi did.

The italian had for months been telling them of Marinette’s misdeeds and though many were proven to be false it seemed like not a day went by where Lila didn’t have some new to say about the bakers daughter. That days newest tale was about how Marinette had ruined Lila’s photoshoot at the park with Adrien. It was suppose to be a romantic shoot for valentines day and Marinette had arrived at the park where it was taking place with little Manon. Lila claimed that Marinette bribed the child into pushing Lila into the fountain during the shoot thus ruining the whole thing and making her look bad in front of the employer. Now hearing this story the students of Bustier’s class felt mixed Marinette was prone to fits of jealousy but would she really bring a child into it? Some were angry at Marinette for her repeated felonies some were unsure and one other a certain Adrien Agreste still had no idea what everyone meant about Marinette being jealous and while he knew that Lila had ended up in the water and that it was Manon who did it... He also knew for a fact that Marinette was in no way involved.

The debate over Marinette’s innocence would last until the young designer arrived then the class would fall into steely silence all fuming and grumbling trying to justify the Marinette they knew and loved with the jealous green eyed monster Lila suffered under. As they day wore on Alya always the seeker of truth began badgering Marinette trying to get to the bottom of the whole affair, and while Marinette admitted to being at the park and admitted to babysitting Manon and yes she even confirmed that Lila wound up in the fountain she claimed no responsibility arguing that little Manon had just wanted a hug from Adrien and had accidentally shoved the italian. This information spurred only new arguments though they happened without Marinette’s knowledge in back and forth messages when the teachers back was turned. Lila meanwhile continued to weave her web sending her own messages to the class with new accusations and ‘evidence’ something had to give as the tensions rose and at exactly 1:00 when Mme. Bustier stepped out something did give indeed.

No one really remembers the argument only who was leading it. Alya was a good person a bit too trusting and maybe a bit too gullible and brash but she always protected the weak and thats why Marinette loved her. The problem was right now Alya thought the one who needed that protection was one Lila Rossi. Marinette did her best to diffuse the situation she argued that it was a child’s mistake that Lila should let it go. Alya argued that Marinette always had issues with jealousy and that she needed to fess up and apologize. Marinette would no apologize for something she didn’t do and so the argument continued, classmates joined in things got more and more heated in the spur of the moment with everyone yelling and Lila sobbing Alya snapped and said two things she never should have. One she told Marinette they were no longer friends unless Marinette stopped being jealous. And two, she revealed just why Marinette was ‘jealous’ her crush on Adrien Agreste. The moment the words left her mouth Alya was hit with regret, the moment she saw embarrassment in her friends face and tears hot and fresh welling in her eyes she was hit with shame. No one spoke as the bakers daughter let out a choked sob but suprising them all it wasn’t an accusation of anger at Alya for outing her secret that left the dark haired girls lips it was a quiet shaky and broken:

“W-Were not friends a-anymore?” Followed by yet another choked and heartbroken sob.

Before Alya or anyone could answer the girl bolted for the door shaking with sobs. Everyone stood shocked still for a moment before Adrien bolted up and rushed after the girl the rest of the class followed. But they never reached Marinette in time. In her distressed state the pigtailed girl had tried to make a break for home but she was clumsy and clumsier still when upset so when she rushed down the stair she tripped and everyone could only watch in silent horror as the bakers daughter only managed to let out a gasp before her body slammed into the hard concrete. When the students of Bustier’s recalled everything later they would note with some shock that it was Chloe who moved first yelling out Marinette’s name, not her last name no, just her name as she rushed down the stairs and to the dark haired girls side. She noted the young girl wasn’t responding and quickly snapped for Sabrina to phone an ambulance while she continued to monitor Marinette. No one else would move, Alya would cry silently and in horror as Chloe called out to Marinette and checked her pulse, Nino would clutch his hat and stare mouth agape as Marinette lay like a lifeless corpse, Adrien Agreste would fall to his knees at the top of that stairs his eyes like saucers as he tried to comprehend what had happened. And Lila Rossi? She would feel every bit of blood in her body turn into ice as guilt gripped onto her and told her that this, all of this was because of HER.

Everything that happened next was a blur, the ambulance arrived Marinette was driven away with Chloe of all people. The police arrived, Bustier and Damocles felt there sweat turn cold as they were questioned, the other students of the school would stand around murmuring and pointing at the Akuma Class Rose would hear the kinder people ask what happened in hushed tone, Juleka would hear the crueler people say that the Akuma class had tried to kill the one person they couldn’t akumatize. Soon enough parents arrived and dragged away their children Kim and Alix would notice the small patch of blood on the concrete where Marinette landed, they would later puke thinking about it, but they told no one of what they had seen.

Meanwhile on the way to the hospital Tikki was in a panic, her dearest chosen her most precious and rare creation soul was BROKEN so many bones and bits of her body were mangled beyond repair... Well beyond NORMAL repair but Tikki was a god, a sentimental god at that and she would not let heaven or hell get in the way of her helping Marinette survive no matter the cause. And so sitting silently, hidden in the girls hair out of sight of the paramedic and Chloe who was telling them all she knew of Marinette’s medical background Tikki used her magic to mend all she could, she would make sure that her sweet precious Marinette would be alright but while she mended the broken body Tikki knew that there would be a price to pay. Magic always came with a price. In the past when she’d used her magic to heal holders this way some had lost their eyesight, others their voices, some would lose a limb, Tikki had no idea that cost Marinette would pay but she knew whatever it was her precious little bug would be alright.

And she was. The doctors were shocked to find that while Marinette had a broken leg and two broken ribs, some deep cuts that would never fully heal, and some awful bruising that would leave the girl sore for who knows how long she was in fact just fine. There was no internal bleeding, and no serious brain trauma, and somehow she’d be just fine to walk when her leg healed up. Sabine and Tom cried tears of joy at the news and stayed by the young girls side. Tikki was also pleased with the news from her hidden spot where she lay utterly exhausted. She knew still that their would be a price to pay but at least Marinette was alive and well. The bakers daughter did not wake up until early the next day and when she did she was mobbed by her parents. She smiled at their concern and when the doctor came in to greet her he decided to check her memory.

“Standard procedure.” He said. “It’s not unusual for there to be some minor memory loss surrounding the incident itself were just going to check.”

And so the questions began. They started with things like her birthday, and her parents names and ages, then they moved on to recent events, so far no problems. Finally they asked about the day itself and the ‘incident’ in questions Marinette opened her mouth to answer then paused thoughtfully. She couldn’t remember. Not unusual assured the doctor, and then he returned to asking other questions probing gently to ensure everything was alright, and it seemed to be up until the doctor asked a simple question.

“What’s your best friends name? And can you describe them.”

Marinette froze and stayed silent. Tikki suddenly felt a strange twist in her tummy. Sabine and Tom looked at their daughter uncertainly. Finally after a long pause. Marinette spoke with a strained laugh.

“I uhh dont remember having one sir.” Sabine felt her stomach suddenly drop, hidden away behind a plant Tikki felt the same thing.

Concerned by the answer the doctor probed more with Tom and Sabine joining in. The answers were startling. Marinette Dupain-Cheng had forgotten every single person that was present when she fell down the stairs. She could recall other students at the school and her teacher, but all the students of her own class? She could not recall their names or their faces. When her parents asked about a specific memory the first time Nino and Marinette met and became friends. Marinette’s eyes lit up. She remembered the event, she remembered someone being bullied and helping them and then they became friends. Her parents were hopeful and the doctor calmly asked Marinette to tell them who the bully was and who the person being bullied was. At that all Marinette did was frown and hold her head. She could remember the incident but... The faces of the bully and the one being bullied were blacked out she had no idea who they were. They tried asking her if she knew the bullied boys favorite things, she had no idea, his name? Nothing. Favorite color? Nope. It was odd extremely so and the only theory the doctor could offer was trauma based memory lose triggered by stress and the possible incident surrounding her accident.

Later when her parents left and it was safe. Tikki emerged and was overjoyed to learn that Marinette remembered her and being ladybug. Tikki was a bit worried about the holes in her dear chosens memories but she knew that this was the price Marinette had payed. She got to keep her life and all her limbs and eyes but she had lost something precious, her friends, they were now black holes burned into faded memories. And it extended into her superhero life. Marinette knew Rena Rouge she could remember her powers and her skill, but when Tikki asked who she was Marinette could only frown and hold her head as it throbbed. Alya, Nino, everyone even Adrien were gone, Marinette had the memories but no faces, no names, no attachment she had lost her friends. Tikki felt guilty of course and told Marinette as much but the young girl just kissed her Kwami’s head and confidently said that they would figure it out.

It had been a week sense Marinette’s big fall. And the students of Bustier’s class sat restless in their seats. None of them had been able to check up on Marinette as her parents had forbidden visitors and the bakers themselves were illusive now a days as they kept close to the hospital keeping their daughter company. All anyone knew was that Marinette was alive, and while that was great news it wasn’t enough. And to make matters perhaps more odd then Marinette’s disappearance was the complete inactivity by Hawkmoth. It was as if he was busy dealing with something else. Like maybe his teenage son who had been expressing all of his teenage rebellion and angst in a concentrated dose ever sense a certain bakers daughter had fallen down the stairs. Adrien was indeed the most miserable about the whole situation, he’d given up on bathing, moped all day, snapped at Lila for even opening her mouth, and was refusing to care for himself or attend any and all photoshoots and extra curricular activities. Adrien’s rebellion was causing big problems for Gabriel’s business and he was stuck rushing about trying to re-organize events and juggle his son who had become terrifyingly good at escaping the house to go to school no matter what kind of locks were installed.

As the day wore on for Bustier’s students ignored the looks given to them by the other students in the school. More then a few of them blamed them squarely for what had happened to Marinette while others shot them looks of sympathy or concern. The class as a whole looked like they were from a bad zombie movie, but the one who looked perhaps the worse of them all was Lila Rossi, while some would try and argue its because of how bad she felt for poor Marinette others would recognize that she seemed paranoid and on edge with her eyes darting about and how quick she was to defend herself against even the smallest assumed accusation against her. Finally lunch rolled around and like the mob of zombies they were the students of Bustier’s class walked mindlessly to the cafeteria that is until one of them spotted a familiar looking girl though her hair was no longer in pigtails and her clothing had changed it was undoubtedly her! The class rushed forward with a surge catching the attention of the whole school who watched the exchange curiously. Apologies were hurled out questions were yelled and poor Marinette looked overwhelmed silence only came when Sabine stepped forward with a warning look though there was an odd glint of pity and sadness in her eyes. Finally it was Alya who broke the silence.

“Marinette! We are SO sorry, please can you find it in your heart to forgive us?” The Ladybloger was holding back tears and no one had heard her voice that shaky before. After a long pause Marinette spoke.

“U-Umm... Hey listen I dont... Really know what your apologizing for... And uh I dont really know who you are but... Umm sure of course I forgive you! You seem very nice?”

The crowd was stunned. Marinette had no idea who ALYA was? Her best friend? The girl she’d fought with last? Sensing the tension in the room Tom gently guided Marinette away shooting Sabine an odd look. Both parents had hoped that seeing her old school would jolt Marinette’s memory but it seemed that even her best friends face wasn’t enough to bring back what had been lost. As Tom helped Marinette climb the stairs with her cast. Sabine took a deep breath and proceeded to explain what she could. That Marinette had lost... Some memories, specifically relating to people who had been around during her accident... She didn’t remember any of them and no one not even the doctors or Tikki herself could change that. As Sabine apologized for what must surely be a shock she excused herself to follow her daughter and husband to the principles office so they could discuss the situation.

For the students of the akuma class life felt like it had been turned sideways. Lila who had been consumed by guilt had begun to hyperventilate. Alya felt slapped and raw her best friend had no idea who she was and the last thing she had done before Marinette forgot all about her was denounce their friendship. For Kim and Nino their were tears and disbelief the girl that they had known sense childhood had no idea who they were and regarded them like any stranger on the side of the road. For Chloe there was the oddest feeling of heartbreak, now she would never know if Marinette could truly forgive her, because the Marinette to whom she’d been so cruel was all but gone. But it was perhaps Adrien who was hit the hardest, Adrien who had learned that Marinette liked him the day of the accident, Adrien who had watched her fall, who had not rushed to check on her, Adrien who had felt torn by guilt confused about his feelings, Adrien who felt like the world had lost the sun with Marinette gone, Adrien who had wanted Marinette to come back so he could see she was okay and ask her on the date she deserved, and now Adrien who meant nothing to her because she had no idea who he was.

As for the rest of the students of Dupont? Well many of them were overjoyed to know Marinette remembered them at least but they felt pity for the akuma class but many others wondered what the future held. Would Marinette’s old friends try and rekindle their friendships? Would they bring photos and music and videos to try and bring back the girls memories? Or would new friends take the place of the old and forgotten? Would Adrien continue down his path of rebellion fighting for a place in Marinette’s heart once more, or would he return to being a docile lamb under his fathers thumb his heart and mind numb due to the shock of it all. Would Lila Rossi return to her old ways? Would she crack under the feelings of guilt and shame? Or would she go mad and attack Marinette. How many people would forever flinch and rush to offer Marinette help whenever she so much as when near a flight of stairs? Would it be possible to anyone to reclaim Marinette’s lost memories or would new ones need to be made? No one knew. But they did know for certain that things would be different from now on.

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[cixthotshit]

Gon Gonie

Pairing: Lee Byounggon/BX x Original Female Character|Reader

Genre: Smut, Fluff, just a drop of Angst, College/University AU, Friends to Lover (established)

Summary: Getting BX to see that she had a crush on him was a lot more work than Piti had thought it would be

Word count: 4.3k

Rating/Warnings: Mature / Explicit Sexual Content: Porn With A Sprinkling of Plot, Kissing, Nipple Play, MtF Vaginal Sex

Author’s Note: This is a sister fic to an NCT fic of mine at my NCT fic blog. You don't have to read the original fic to get into this one, don't worry! You can read this as a stand alone one shot fic. But if you're here cuz you read my Yuta fic first, OK, I didn't plan to write this, but I couldn't help myself. I love BX and I had a lot of fun writing this! Sorry if I have any grammar mistakes, I try my best when proofreading but things always slip through. I always appreciate some feedback on my writings!

Piti tucked a little of her yellow tshirt under her left boob, the underside of her breasts were sweaty. She bent down under her desk to check the connection of her computer and webcam before reaching behind her to pull her cotton pink shorts down. It was riding up her left butt cheek. Her fuzzy pink slippers made her toes sweaty, so she kicked them off, letting them roll over toward her wooden coffee table.

“I mean, I think I did it right,” she said, glancing behind her to see BX adjusting the lighting to the lamp she’d purchased 2 weeks previously. “If I can’t stream tonight, I’ll just tell Willa that I wasn’t meant to be a CamGirl. It sounds like such easy money.”

“You already have a big following on Insta,” he replied. “I thought you had sponsorships.”

“They don’t always pay,” she said, sitting on her desk chair. “Thanks for trying to help. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“No problem,” he said, his eyes fixed on the lighting in her living room. “At least you’re nice to me.”

“Suchin’s mean to you too?” Piti asked, laughing. BX had always received fairer treatment from Piti’s elder sister, but BX was much kinder to Suchin than Piti ever was. It was unfair for Suchin to be mean to BX.

“She’s been mean to everyone,” he answered. He sighed, pulling his phone out of the back pocket of his skinny jeans. His eyes were glued to the screen as he sat down onto her baby blue couch. “She says that she’s stressed. I’m stressed too, you know?”

“What’s up?” Piti asked, walking away from her desk, which was set up beside the door to her balcony. She walked to the couch that sat beside her desk.

Sitting down next to BX, Piti took his left hand into her hands. There was a Bandaid wrapped around the top knuckle of his middle finger. She grinned, remembering when they’d FaceTimed in the morning. He’d cut his finger while cutting up an apple. For as long as she’d known him, he was prone to accidents.

They met when she transferred to a new university the previous year. He had always been her older sister’s friend, but she got along well enough with him that she could text or call him to ask about tech issues she had. Pressing her lips together to moisten the corners of her bottom lip, Piti had to admit that he’d become more than just her go-to tech person in the recent months.

Since starting his Film Studies, BX had come into contact with Piti more. He was filming partners with her sister. She was often trying to get Suchin’s attention, mostly asking her for help. Suchin had been busy directing and interviewing subjects for her documentary, so BX had become more reliable. He’d been the one to talk her through clearing out the clogged sink in her kitchen while he cleaned up the flesh wound on his middle finger.

His head rested against the back of the couch with his fingers half hidden behind the loose sleeves of his oversized grey sweater. His eyes remained glued onto his phone when she ran the tips of her fingers against his palm. Piti swallowed air as her eyes remained fixed on BX’s tongue licking his lips. The red of his lips reminded her of the Thai chili peppers she’d put into the curry she made for dinner. Her tongue burned with a sharp heat, remembering how hot the curry had been.

“I know our professor sucks,” he spoke up, his damp lips glistening under the lamp light. She released his hand, realizing he didn’t care what she was doing to his hand. The shaggy fabric of her periwinkle throw pillow cushioned her lower back as she rested her back against the couch. “I don’t know if film school is working out. Maybe I should have gone for medical studies. Do something in social sciences.”

“You’re still young,” she said, grabbing his hand again, giving it a squeeze.

His tone had sounded tired, more like he was thinking out loud instead of having an actual conversation with a human being, a very cute one too. Piti would remember never to give Film Studies a try if she wanted to keep her stress levels low. She bounced in her seat when he squeezed her hand back. Their eyes locked, and she gave him a half grin.

“You can change your career path whenever you want. Why do you think I want to give OnlyFans a try? I don’t know how long I’ll be this cute with such pretty tits.”

He gave a dry chuckle, his eyes returning to the illuminating light of his phone. His mouth was frozen into a handsome grin. Piti ran her free hand through her hair to stop herself from reaching out to touch the dimple on his cheek. She shifted herself to brush her chest against his arm, her heartbeat thumping rapidly up her back.

“Thanks for helping me,” she said, shifting her eyes to peer toward him. His eyes were lidded as he seemed to be reading something on his phone. “You help me out so much.”

“Come on,” he said before giving a scoff, tutting his tongue against the back of his teeth. His grin widened as his eyes returned to meet hers. “Of course. Any time.”

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked. She squeezed his hand again. “I’m sorry you’re stressed.”

“Thanks for listening to me complain,” he said, setting his phone down on the armchair.

“Please,” she said, rolling her eyes, pressing herself closer to him, “that’s hardly anything. Um, BX?” She squeezed his hand again. His face seemed to be coming in closer. The scent of Coke was infiltrating her nose as the warmth of his breath tingled her lips. “Do you think I’m cute?”

His lips touched hers, and she shut her eyes. Her entire face flared up in prickling heat. Her mind could only form curse words together as they flashed behind her eyelids in bold red letters. An overwhelming pressure built up in her chest, making her sinuses tingle uncomfortably.

He wrapped her into his arms, his hold warming her up. She broke their kiss, placing her hands onto his shoulders as she gave out a sob. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Piti?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “Am I a bad kisser?”

“No, silly,” she replied, snorting a sob when she inhaled a breath. She shut her eyes as BX gave out a belly laugh. She groaned as she threw her face into his chest, fisting her hands into his sweater. “I like you so much, BX.”

Her voice was muffled, but she was completely embarrassed, unable to look up. She’d never liked anyone as much as she liked BX. When she’d realized that she liked him she did her usual flirting tactics. She put in extra effort into her looks when she met with him, such as when she called him to ask for assistance to set up her new webcam. It never failed to get her hookups’ attention whenever she was looking her most desirable.

Her yellow top was old, so the fabric was loose and slightly transparent. The hole at the hem near the left side of her hip was supposed to be tantalizing, she certainly always ran her fingers to play with the fabric there. The soft yellow and pink together made Piti feel like she was a colorful candy, ready to be unwrapped. But he seemed immune, uninterested.

“And it makes you sad?” BX said, his tone going low. His hold on her loosened.

She looked up at him, and the nerves in her jaw lit up, sending a warm sensation down the front of her throat. His gaze was soft, his lips barely parted. Tilting her head up, she gave a sniffle before kissing him. She shut her eyes, furrowing her eyebrows as she opened her mouth to capture his luscious bottom lip between hers. His tongue licked her lips, making her insides squirm like fish caught in a net.

“I like you,” she said again, pulling away from his kiss, the inside of her ears burning up. She’d never wanted to be the first person to admit to having feelings or attraction, but she knew there was more to her attraction to him than physical attraction. “I’ve been putting on my cutest clothes. I always make sure my hair is all bouncy and curly. And like, you never look at me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his dimple deepened as he smiled widely, touching his forehead to hers. “My mind’s been focused on the doc.” He paused. She shut her eyes as the warmth of his hand cupping her cheek sent a shiver down her back. “Holy shit, Piti. You like me?”

She opened her eyes and felt goosebumps form along her arms. His gaze was soft, and his eyes slowly drifted down her neck to her body. When his eyes met hers again she nodded gently.

“I’ve never wanted like, a boyfriend,” she confessed, her cheeks hot and her nipples hardened as heat surged down to her stomach, “but I don’t even know how many nights I’ve been going to bed thinking about you. And like, when you finally kissed me, like, I’m so embarrassed. I want you to like me back so much.”

“How can I not like you?” he asked. His thumb caressed her cheek, making her body warm up. He gave her a chaste kiss. “You’re always feeding me those rice balls with tuna. You thank me for the smallest things. We made that study playlist together and we split the songs up evenly. You’re the sweetest person I know.``

His hand touched her hip, massaging her before sliding it down to touch her thigh. She shook as his fingertips touched the bare skin of her inner thigh. His touch made her nerves light up in erratic flames, his fingers soft like silk. Her shaggy throw pillow was making her butt sweaty, but she didn’t want to break the mood by reaching behind her to toss a purple pillow aside. Every word out of his lips made her insides warm.

“You’ve got the most beautiful body, the softest skin, kissable lips.”

“Keep going,” she whispered, pressing herself closer to him.

“It’s brave that you live on your own,” he said, “and you’re never afraid to ask for help, either.” She pecked his lips. She’d wondered for weeks what he thought of her. Hearing him speak of her in nothing but positives filled her whole body with a comforting warmth. “Your confidence makes you hot, and lovely.”

“You’re like, the perfect guy,” she said, raking her fingers through his hair. His cheeks flushed and she planted wet kisses onto his cheek and neck. He laughed, his hands pulling her into his lap. “I’m serious, BX. You’re so patient, and like, you’re so caring to me. And you’re a beautiful man.” He groaned, shutting his eyes. She planted a kiss onto his left eyelid. “Your eyes are so pretty when you smile.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “Your nose is cute.” She kissed his cheek. “Your skin is so much clearer than mine.” He chuckled. “Your lips are perfect.”

He kissed her, his tongue pushing against her lips. She opened her mouth and pushed her tongue against his. He groaned into her mouth, and she gripped onto his shoulders tightly as she felt a hand grope the inside of her thigh. He tasted like sugar and salt, the familiar blend of Coke and McDonalds fries filling up her senses.

“Fuck, you’re so bold,” she breathed out when she broke their kiss, the mixture of their saliva leaving a wet trail down her chin. She moaned, looking down at BX’s hand push up against her groin. His thumb pressed against the hood of her clit, and her hand shot down to grip onto his wrist. “Byounggon -”

“Gon, call me Gon,” he demanded, pushing his hand up and down against her slit. Red heat blinded her.

“Gon,” she said with a loud exhale. Blinking, she threw her fingers up to cover her smile as his cheeks flushed again, his head bowing down. His thumb drew circles against her, sending waves of heat deep inside, making her buck her hips. “Gon, oh my God!”

She gasped and bucked her hips again. His fingers slipped under her shorts, and she felt a hot flash of pride wash over her body. He’d grinned as he glanced up at her, feeling that she hadn’t worn any panties. Two of his fingers slid against her folds, applying pressure as they dragged upwards, making goosebumps form along her back and up her arms. Her grip on his wrist tightened as she looked up at him, his gaze drifting up to look her in the eyes.

“How do you worship your God?” he asked, his smile widening as he pressed his forehead against hers. “Calling me out already, that’s cute.”

“Gon,” she said, her cheeks hot. “Are you teasing me?”

“You don’t like it?” he asked. His hand slid away from her core, making her insides shake.

“Don’t stop,” she said, her grip on his wrist tightening again as she pressed her fingers against his hand.

“Hey, there’s a special word that you didn’t use,” he said, his smile disappearing.

“Gon?”

She closed her eyes as he kissed her, his tongue warming her lips once more. His hand slipped away from her hold, moving to caress her hip. Throwing her hands up to his chest, she pushed him off as she opened her eyes.

“‘Please,’ is the special word,” he said, looking down at her, his eyes barely open. “I know you can be a brat, Piti, but I don’t tolerate brattiness well, not when my dick is involved.”

She gave a shy chuckle, biting her bottom lip when his eyes drifted down her body. His finger pinched the fabric of her top near her left breast, and tugged down. Piti felt the folded fabric slip away from the underside of her boob, and she smiled, feeling her cheeks flush.

“That’s been bugging me,” he said, his hand sliding under her shirt. She pressed closer to him as his hand warmed her up, making her body shiver with his touch. “Your tits are distracting.”

“I know they’re cute.”

“Let’s see how cute,” he replied, grinning. His fingers grasped onto the front hem of her shirt and pulled it up. He groped her left breast, his fingers pinching her nipple. Her core flared with a deep heat, and she squeezed her thighs together. “If you become a CamGirl, you better charge top dollar. Your tits...your breasts...titties of a Goddess.”

“You’re such a cornball,” she said with a chuckle, scrunching up her face as she shut her eyes. He gave a gentle, low guffaw. A wet, slick sensation pushed up against her right nipple, and her gut felt a hot pressure release heat into her body as a sharp pinch hit her nipple.

She opened her eyes and raked her fingers through BX’s hair, watching him lick and suck on her breasts. As his mouth moved to her right breast, he fondled her left with his hand. She moaned out his name, pulling him closer against her. His body felt so good against hers, she wanted to melt into him.

“Want to fuck?” she asked, cupping his face into her hands. She pulled him up to look at her face, forcing his tongue away from her hardened nipple. “Please, Gon?”

He gave a gentle chuckle as he tilted his head down to plant a kiss onto the side of her neck. She shut her eyes, savoring the deep, calming heat his lips gave to her body every time he kissed her. She ran her fingers through his hair again. A low groan reverberated into the center of her chest as he kissed her there.

“Should we take things into the bedroom?” he said softly, making her face flush as he sat up straight. He pulled her body up against his. He touched her chin with his thumb and forefinger, pulling her face close to his.

“Yes, please,” she answered, nodding before he gave her a gentle kiss. Her body lit up, and she pulled forward, deepening their kiss.

He broke the kiss, and caressed her cheek with his thumb as he cupped her face with one hand.

“You’re cute when you say please.”

She took a deep inhale of breath as her hand reached to touch his groin. He groaned, and then tilted his head down to kiss her. They groaned into each other’s mouths as she applied pressure onto his cock, rubbing up and down his growing erection. One of his hands grabbed her breast, squeezing it and flicking her engorged nipple.

Pushing him away, she stood up as she took her top off. She slipped her shorts off and tilted her head to her left before turning away from BX to walk to her room. She bit her bottom lip as she heard him get off her couch, the sounds of his belt buckle unfastening ringing loudly in the quiet apartment. She giggled, trotting to her room as she heard the heavy steps of BX’s behind her.

“Really?” he said with a huff. “You’re going to make me chase you?”

“You’re so stressed you didn’t even see me showing my ass off to you,” she called out behind her as she jumped into her bed, the springs to her mattress squeaking as she reached to her night stand to turn the lamp on.

“I’m sorry,” he said, walking into her room with his sweater in his hands. He stopped at the foot of her bed, tossing his sweater to the floor. Her cheeks flushed and she felt adrenaline rush up her body as BX looked at her on the bed. “You’re beautiful.”

“And you’re hot,” she replied, standing on her knees, reaching over to grab his hands. “Come on, Gon. Please? I’ve been so horny for you.” “You’re horny for me?”

He gave a guffaw as she laid down onto the bed, letting him go. She shut her eyes and sighed loudly, resting the back of her curled fingers against her temples. She’d never had a partner stop to make jokes as she was naked in bed, begging him to fuck her.

The springs of the mattress squeaked and groaned as BX got into bed with her. Goosebumps formed up her legs and arms as she felt his body over hers, his left knee pushing her legs open. She gasped, opening her eyes, when she felt his hands grasp onto her wrists. Blood pumped furiously at her throat as he pressed her arms down into the mattress.

“So,” he asked softly as he looked down at her, his eyes moving up and down her face, “what will it take for you to call me again?”

“Gon?” she said against his lips as he pressed his lips over hers. She shut her eyes as his lips moved to capture hers. His thigh pressed up against her, and she moaned into his mouth as his thigh continually pressed up against her, the pressure of his thigh muscles flexing against her folds sent sharp heat into her body.

She breathed heavily through her mouth when he released her lips. His lips landed on her neck and his teeth nipped at her sensitive skin before licking and kissing the sweat off her neck and jaw. She took a sharp inhale of breath as his fingers tightened their hold on her wrists, her skin aching. The familiar wet sensation of BX’s tongue licking her tits returned as she exhaled out a sweet moan.

“Oh my God, that feels so good, Gon,” she said barely above a whisper. She squealed out a frustrated groan as his teeth captured the engorged bud on her right breast, grinding his teeth back and forth. Sharp, mind melting jolts of heat hit her groin like lightning. “Oh my God! Gonie! Gonie!”

“Gonie?” he said, his teeth releasing her immediately. Piti took in heavy, shaky breaths, her body so hot and her nerves so sensitive, BX was one thigh flex away from making her come. He kissed her lips. “That’s cute, Piti. Gonie. I’m your Gonie.”

“Gonie,” she said softly, breathing heavily, “are we going to fuck? Please?”

He chuckled, his fingers released their grip on her wrists and glided down her arms to caress her breasts. She arched her back and shut her eyes as her pussy was aching for his cock, her core wet and warm. A sharp heat hit her stomach as his hands kneaded her breasts.

“I like it when you ask in a sweeter way,” he said. She shut her eyes as his hand groped her right breast, her body radiating with a frustrated heat.

“Will you please put your beautiful cock inside of me, please?” she said immediately. He kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. The chuckles in his throat reverberated into her chest, sending sharp heat into her nipples.

When they broke their kiss, they sat up so she could grab a condom from her night stand drawer. She sat up in bed, and kissed his shoulder as she watched him put the condom on. He grinned at her, seeming to enjoy the attention. His hand stroked his cock before he laid down onto his back.

“What position do you like?” he asked as she laid down beside him, turning her body in toward his.

“Spoon me and play with my clit, please?”

“You’re so cute,” he said, his eyes lighting up as he smiled from ear to ear. “I like it when you say please.”

He kissed her before letting go of her so she could turn around to face her back to him. She felt a shiver ride down her body as his sweaty front came into contact with her back. His tongue licked her earlobe as his hand massaged the inside of her thigh, pulling her to lift her leg a little. She rested her head onto the pillow under her as she felt him enter her from behind. The kiss he planted onto her neck made her give out a gasp. His cock pulling the walls of her pussy apart caused her nerves to dance wildly, making her skin light up.

“Gonie,” she gave out a soft moan as she felt his hand fondle her breast.

He pushed in deep, and she gave a loud exhale. She grunted as he began to push in and out in a slow, deep rhythm, making her feel every motion of his cock. Desperate squeaks escaped her lips when his cock twitched inside of her as he paused, balls deep inside of her.

“Fuck,” she breathed out as BX’s hand moved between her legs, and she felt two of his fingers press against her clit.

She wriggled her hips against him as his fingers drew circles around her clit, and then spread to glide down against her labia before going back to draw circles around her clit. Her mind was spinning, like she’d ridden on a roller coaster where her legs dangled in the air as the giant machine she was strapped to made a giant 360 degree loop. Trying to focus, she thrust back as he pushed his hips toward her.

“Fuck,” it was his turn to swear. He groaned as he began to pick up a faster pace. She couldn’t keep up and shut her eyes as she threw her hand back to grab his hip to feel steady. Her fingers dug into his wet, soft flesh as he continually rutted into her. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

“Gon,” she panted out, “Gon! Gonie! Fuck me just like that.”

“It feels good when you squeeze on my cock,” he said against her ear as his fingers flicked her clit up and down. The sensations of sweat gliding down her back and chest overcame her as her mind went through another 360 degree loop. Her cunt clamped down on his cock as his fingers played with her clit. “Fucking hell, you’re going to make me come.” The bed springs squeaked and groaned in a furious, erratic rhythm as his fingers left her clit to grab the back of her thigh to push in deeper.

“Gonie, I’m gonna come,” she said desperately, her face unbearably hot. “You’re fucking me so good, Gonie. Your cock, Gonie!”

He guffawed, clearly on a high at her praises, keeping his fast pushes going. His fingers gripped onto the back of her thigh before gliding to grope her ass. Finally, his fingers returned to her clit, and she immediately lost herself. Three fingers rubbed against her clit before he captured her engorged bud between his forefinger and middle finger and pulled, milking her clit.

Champagne gold fireworks exploded before her eyelids as her body seemed to feel weightless, though she could still feel BX’s cock thrusting in and out of her. Her mind was spinning endlessly as her whole body tensed before an overwhelming calm overcame her, relaxing all the muscles in her body.

His hand moved up to massage her breast as he planted kisses onto her shoulder. His fast pushes continued as she turned her head over, opening her eyes slightly. BX bent forward and kissed her, closing his eyes. She gave a soft whimper as he gave a handful of erratic, sharp pushes into her. His tongue pushed aggressively into her mouth before he released her lips.

Spent, neither of them were able to speak, though BX withdrew from her. She shut her eyes and she listened to him move around, likely disposing of his condom. A low groan escaped her lips as she felt him spoon her, his lips warming her cheek.

“When can we do that again?” he asked into her ear, tickling her nerves and making her giggle.

--

Thank you for reading!

[embeanwrites]

Weighs the Heaviest

Masterlist

A/N: I love that “you fell asleep on my shoulder and looked to cute to move so we’ve been here for a while” trope and I love Echo…so yeah.

Word Count: 554

Echo was happy to be back on his way to Coruscant. The most recent battle the 501st went through was beyond tiring. Thankfully, General Skywalker listened to General (L/n). Who was another unconventional Jedi, but was far kinder than anyone else on the battlefield. She had saved them from what would have been a much bigger loss and it was clear she felt deep sorrow for every man lost.

Somehow, not only was she able to memorize each and every clones’ names on the first try, but she was also able to memorize what made each clone different. It made Echo feel… frazzled. How she could fight relentlessly and then be so unbelievably sweet. After every battle, she’d float around like an angel checking on everyone. She would joke with Jesse and Fives, make Kix take a deep breath before he got too overwhelmed taking care of everyone, and she always asked for Echo’s opinion on their next move. Asking him, what does GAR think they should do, and then asking him what he thought they should do. Whenever she clapped him on the shoulder and said goodbye, Fives would come over to him and tease him relentlessly telling Echo to ask her out. Echo would just shake his head and smile as if she’d ever fall for him.

Needless to say, Echo was head over heels in love with her. So, when she sat next to him on the transport back, he did the one thing he knew he was good at it…ramble about GAR protocols and strategies.

“There’s no defense for the systems we leave, while we may be able to protect a planet for a time, we cannot have full control while continuing on with trying to rid the Separatists. We’re simply to spread thin, I think if we- “

It was in that moment that Echo froze, feeling the general’s head on his shoulder. Looking over slowly he noticed they were lightly snoring. They looked even more angelic in this moment. Echo looked up to see they still two hours before they would arrive on Coruscant.

Should he wake you up? Let you sleep? He looked around to see his brothers were either softly chatting or sleeping. He craned his neck to try to see Fives, maybe he could give him some much-needed advice.

“Stop moving.” He heard her mumble under her breath as she nuzzled closer to him. As if it was a command on the battlefield. Echo froze, but he couldn’t stop the small smile that ghosted his lips. Slowly Echo began to relax and rested his head on top of hers, causing her to hum gently. He began to close his eyes as well until he heard her mumble something.

“What?” Echo felt her move, so her chin was resting on his shoulder and she was inches from his face.

“I’m really glad you’re okay, Echo. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She whispered, her eyes were half-closed, and she looked exhausted. The war weighed heavily on all of them, but when you had an open heart as she did. Well, it weighed the heaviest. Echo’s eyes never left hers, but he felt her grab his hand and intertwined their fingers.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He whispered. Thankful for this quiet moment during the war.

[prncesselene]

i love your kathony fics 🥺. are prompts still open? if they are then anything around that moment that is mentioned by edwina in the books - when kate says people will move on from her and anthony's *love match* gossip soon enough and edwina's like not as long as anthony looks at you the way he did at that ball, smouldering, pushing people away to get to kate. i love that because anthony is still in his denial phase but his actions are SO clearly the opposite xD

i am indeed still taking prompts! i’m working through them all ridiculously slowly, as my inactivity might indicate (lol), but i will be getting through everything that’s being sent my way, promise! :)

ao3

“There you are!”

Kate turned at the sound of her husband’s voice, her eyes widening. She hadn’t expected him to notice she’d even left the ballroom, much less follow her out. Her slowly relaxing heart took flight once more, a mixture of shame and embarrassment pooling in her chest.

They’d arrived back in London only a few nights ago, fresh off of their time in the country after the wedding. And though the time spent alone had been rejuvenating and enlightening all at once — Anthony was, in almost every way, a very attentive husband — returning to London as a bride had been a difficult adjustment. The height of the season was still upon them, and with it a number of events and social responsibilities that now asked much more of Kate than they had before.

And she wasn’t quite sure she was up to snuff, if she were being honest with herself.

Anthony crossed the hallway in three long strides and reached her side. “I turn around for just a moment and suddenly you’re gone. Practically knocked down half of the ton trying to find you.”

Kate’s chest warmed. The ballroom had been so full he would have had to have been keeping quite the close eye on her to notice something like that.

She shook her head immediately, dashing those childish, romantic notions away. He’d been very clear on where their marriage stood, and trying to paint his intentions as anything other than a gentlemanly interest in her well-being would only lead to heartbreak. She was already lucky enough, with the deal she’d been cut; asking for anything more than what Anthony could give her seemed selfish.

Once he was at her side, he tugged her elbow, gently bringing her in front of him. “Did something happen? Why did you leave the ballroom so suddenly?”

Kate began to fiddle with the buttons on his waistcoat, her eyes fixated on a string of fabric that had begun to pull from within one of them. “My, it's warm in here, isn't it? You need to take this to get fixed. I can arrange for your tailor to pass by tomorrow afternoon, if you can manage to clear your schedule. I know y–”

“Kate,” he warned, cutting off her nervous rambling, his voice more insistent. To their left, couples and families donning their finest gowns and suits entered and exited the ballroom, chatting amongst each other easily. “What’s wrong?”

She kept fiddling with the string of fabric, chewing on her lips until she was sure they would end up bleeding. Anthony’s hands came to rest atop hers, limiting her movement. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Kate sighed, gathering the strength needed for her admission. “Anthony, I don’t think I’m quite cut out for this.”

“Cut out for what?”

“Oh, you know, all of... this,” she emphasized, attempting to tug her hands away, but his grip only tightened.

“Marriage? It’s a little late for doubts like those,” he murmured.

“What?” Kate met his eyes then, surprised to find they were much more contemplative than she expected. “No, no. It’s not that. It’s just… well, I don’t really fit in, do I? I’ve never been good at the things that ladies are expected to be good at, have never managed to sit still or act demurely or... or anything like that, really and... well, now that is precisely what is expected of me.”

She paused, chewing her lip, taking her eyes off of Anthony’s to stare at the floor. “I know I’m not the kind of wife you expected. The sort that could smile prettily and charm everyone around her and be a proper viscountess.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed with concern, his stance tightening. He took her hands firmly in his and held onto them, running a thumb over her gloved knuckles. “Kate, where is this coming from? Did something happen?”

Kate swallowed, her heart beating traitorously. It seemed no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of Anthony’s objectivity within their marriage, her body refused to cooperate. The simple gesture of him listening to her so intently, with such gentleness and care, made her knees weak.

“No one is saying anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she sighed, noticing the way he relaxed once more. Her face reddened remembering Lady Whistledown’s most recent column. “In fact… well, it’s obviously a bit ridiculous, but the consensus among the gossips of society is that ours was a love match.”

“Ridiculous,” he repeated softly. Not quite a question, but not quite a statement of fact, either.

“Yes. Ridiculous,” she said, her belly swooping pitifully. “Anyways, clearly, it is not. You need not remind me of that fact. That— it’s fine. But even if they think ours looks like a love match, they must think it’s an ill fitting one. I mean, I'm hardly a catch. I talk too loud, express my opinion too plainly. I keep meeting duchesses and countesses and realizing I... I'm nothing like that, Anthony. And I worry I never will be." 

For a moment, Anthony didn’t reply, and Kate feared he agreed with her. That he, too, saw their marriage as the farce that it was. That the one with doubts was him.

But all he did he was bring her hands up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“Never speak that way of yourself again, Kate,” he said, his voice serious. “For my sake if not yours. In fact, as your husband, I demand it.”

Kate’s fingers were warm underneath the gloves where he kissed her, her eyes wide.

“I can only speak for myself, but there is absolutely nothing about you that I would wish to change. You are headstrong, passionate, and absolutely everything a proper viscountess should be, all of those other supposed virtues be damned. If someone — anyone — cannot see that, then that is their loss and theirs only." 

He tightened his grip on her hands and made sure she was looking directly at him before continuing. "When you enter rooms you command the respect of others not because you are my wife, or a Bridgerton, but because you're you. And you are more than enough.”

Kate was at a loss for words. She knew that love would never be a part of their relationship. That even if her body felt most alive when it was next to his, even if she laughed and talked with him like she had with no one else before, even if she knew she was already halfway in love with him herself — that those feelings would have to be kept under lock and key.

But then, when he said those things…. When he looked at her like that…

It was, admittedly, a little difficult not to want to wrap her arms around him and show him exactly how she felt.

Kate released her inhibitions and embraced him tightly anyways, if only so that he wouldn’t see the errant tears that threatened to slip out of her eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmured into the velvet of his coat, indulging in the comforting smell of leather and tobacco and Anthony that she’d grown to associate with warmth and belonging. That she’d grown to love, little by little. "You needn't lie to me to make me feel better, but I appreciate it all the same."

“There is nothing I’ve said that I wouldn’t happily repeat in front of all of London,” he said, the smile in his voice evident. One of his hands wrapped around her waist while the other tipped her chin towards his. “Will you obey your husband and never disparage yourself like this again? Can I trust you to do that?”

Kate’s eyes narrowed as she bit down on her own smile. She was like a slice of jelly when it came to him, pliant and willing to do whatever he said. It helped, of course, that all he was asking of her was to be kinder to herself. That he seemed to really, truly believe the words he'd said. That he saw her that way. 

“I suppose.”

He smiled and leaned down to slant his lips against hers, taking advantage of the brief lull in hallway activity. The arm around her waist tightened and brought her closer to him as his lips explored hers tenderly.

“Anthony!” she scolded, giggling against his mouth. “This is most improper. What if someone sees us?”

Leaning his forehead against hers, Anthony smiled. “The gossip about us is already scandalous. Why not add to it?”

Kate laughed but pulled away, shaking her head. As much as she loved kissing Anthony, she'd had enough scandal to last a lifetime. “I don’t think there’s any need for that.”

Straightening her ballgown and tightening her gloves once more, Kate took a deep breath. It was time to go back to the ballroom, where she would once again have to resume the act of viscountess; to pretend that she knew what she was doing, that she belonged there. With Anthony by her side, at least, it almost felt manageable.

Anthony’s smile was warm when he extended his arm out to hers. “Ready to return to the fun, Mrs. Bridgerton?”

Dash it. With him by her side it was certainly manageable. She had a growing suspicion that with him, anything was. Love matches or no. 

She slipped her arm into his, remembering his words. His faith in her.

“Ready.”

[chaoticpuff17]

A Dangerous Game

part 11

Masterlist

Hello, my darlings! Don’t forget to let me know in the comments what member you would like featured in my next fic after A Dangerous Game is over! Love you all! --- your chaotic puff

Namjoon had promised good behavior would bring free reign of the house, what he hadn’t told her was that it wasn’t going to be put into immediate effect.

Everything had gone downhill during their first dinner in the dining room since the night of their second meeting.

“What do you mean go back to that room?” She asked putting her utensils down as she stared him down from across the table. “You promised.”  

His eyes narrowed at her not liking the tone she’d taken with him. “You’ve been so good today, jagi. I would hate for you to ruin all that good work.” He warned continuing his meal though his grip on his own utensils had tightened.

They stared each other down. One was simmering with rage, and the other was waiting for any sort of slip up. The threat was clear as it hung in the air between them. Any wrong move on her part at this point would result in a full return to house arrest. She didn’t want to risk it, but by the same token she wanted nothing more than to fling a plate at his head. But she squashed that urge taking in a steady breath as she stood from her seat and smoothed out her skirt.

“And where are you going?” He asked curious as so what she was going to do.

“Back to my room!” She announced gracing him with a sharp smile one to rival even the most calculating of his grins.

He sighed setting down his utensils and standing from his seat as well. “I would appreciate if you would sit down, jagiya.”

“I’m afraid I’m a little tired. I think I’ll retire for the evening.” Every word was coated in a syrupy sweetness that was almost sickening. “Unless of course you have any objections?”

She knew full well that he couldn’t argue with that, not when he had so recently been the cause of her car crash. He was far too concerned with her health. Even if they both knew that she was lying, he would error on the side of caution and allow her to return to her room. He wouldn’t risk her fainting again. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the last time had shaken him. Seeing her crumple to the ground had caused his heart to stop for just a moment, and it wasn’t an experience he wished to repeat.

“Should I call for, Seokjin?” He asked moving over to her.

“No. I’ll be just fine with some rest. If you’ll excuse me?” She continued to smile that horribly sweet smile. It was an expression she had mastered under Marcus’ regime. It was bright and saccharine, but it never met her eyes. Those remained lifeless.

“I’ll walk you to your room.” He sighed again eyeing her carefully for any signs of real fatigue.

“There’s no need…”

“I’ll walk you to your room.” His voice held a note of finality that didn’t leave room for any more arguments so she acquiesced if only for the sake of their unsteady peace.

Once they reached her room she turned on her heal to face him with that smile again. He hated that smile. He would rather face her ire than that lifeless mask. It didn’t suit her.

“Goodnight, Namjoon.”

And before he could say anything, she had closed the door in his face.

The next morning dawned with a blanket of tension settling itself over the estate. Every member of staff knew something was wrong though no one dared to express that to the master of the house. But it was clear as they watched the frigid reception of their new madame during breakfast. Everyone had been excited for the madame’s recovery. So little had been seen of her over the course of her isolation, and they were all eager to see what kind of woman the madame was. But the tension between the two did not bode well to the other occupants of the house. A happy wife made for a happy household, and it was clear to everyone that the lady of the house was less than happy.

“Y/N….” Namjoon began sighing in frustration as he did. “This is ridiculous.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Namjoon had to clench his jaw and take a deep breath to stop himself from snapping at her. She had maintained the most infuriatingly blasé attitude all morning. She wasn’t rude. She wasn’t ignoring him. She was just politely detached remaining breezily above everything around her. It wouldn’t have been so bad, if only there hadn’t been that spark of something mischievous in her eye that told him she knew exactly what she was doing.  

“Y/N.”

And there it was, that saccharine smile he detested so much on her. “Yes, Namjoon?”

“Don’t.” He snapped slamming his chopsticks down. “Don’t do that. Don’t hide behind that mask.” She quirked an eyebrow at him but didn’t say anything. “It doesn’t suit you, jagi.”

“There are a lot of things that don’t suit me. Being here just happens to be one of them.”

“Jagi,”

“You could rectify everything by just sending me home. That would suit me very well.”

“That isn’t going to happen.” He growled.

“You can’t blame a girl for trying.” She sighed setting aside her won utensils and taking a sip of her tea. “Do I actually get free reign today, or should I assume free reign really just means meals in the dining room and walks around the garden with you?”

He leaned back in his chair debating whether or not he should release her onto the estate. The stubborn set of her shoulders told him that she would only keep up her passive aggressiveness would only continue if he made that his definition of free reign, but he had his ways of keeping her just as firmly under watch around the estate as she was in her rooms.

“Of course you’ll be given free reign of the estate, jagi, but you will have to have a guard with you at all times. For you own safety, of course.” A small smirk pulled up the corners of his mouth as he watched the frown overtake her features.

“A guard? You never mentioned anything about a guard.”

“I have my fair share of enemies. It’s for your own safety. Jungkook will accompany you while I’m not with you.”

And just like that her mask of detachment melted away replaced with a look of utter disbelief. “A babysitter. You’re giving me a babysitter?”

“For your own good, jagi.”

“It’s either a guard returning to your room. What’s it going to be, jagi?” He asked allowing himself a smile. It wasn’t a deal she would refuse, and he knew that.

“Fine, a babysitter then.”

“Excellent! This is Jungkook.” He said motioning to a young man who had only just entered the room, and Y/N had to stop and do a double take.

He was young, so very young. While he was tall and broad, clearly very strong, he was still so young. She wanted to sweep him up and take him out of here, far from Namjoon and his whole sordid business. She had been young when she’d gotten involved in this mess of a world, and it pained her to see someone so young here. It didn’t help that he had wide doe eyes that screamed of a kind soul.

“Jungkook, this is, Mrs. Kim.” Namjoon introduced motioning to the woman who was still staring at the young man in shock.

“I’m not your wife.” She snapped at him before turning a far kinder eye on the young man. “You can call me, Y/N. It seems will be spending a lot of time together.” The last part was said with an annoyed glance in Namjoon’s direction.

“Mrs. Kim, will be fine.” Namjoon groused.  

The poor boy was looking between the two of them with wide eyes unsure which of the two he should be listening to. Namjoon was his boss, but technically so was she. She was the lady of the house and would have far more contact with him on a day to day basis given his new job.

“You can call me whatever would make you the most comfortable.” She said gently, seeing the conflict on the poor boy’s face.  “Okay?”

He nodded gracing her with a smile that was too infectious not to return. They’d get along fine, but he would be a hindrance to her scoping out the gardens for a path of escape. But she should have expected this. Namjoon was always a step ahead it seemed. She’d have to find a way around him.  She’d have to play along for now.

“Well, as lovely as sitting her with you is, I think I’ll go explore. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had the time to see the house yet.” She smiled sarcasm layering each word as she stood from her chair. “Shall we, Jungkook?” She asked moving towards the door.

“Just a moment, jagi. There’s something I’d like to show you before you avoid me for the rest of the day.”

She paused turning to face him again. “I really don’t think that I can handle any more of your surprises. The overwhelming majority of them have been…” She stopped, searching for the right word. “Unpleasant for me. Besides you’re a very busy man. I’m sure you have work to do.”

“I’ll be working from home today, jagi.” He smirked watching her smile fall.

“How lovely.”

And at that, she had to admit defeat. There would be no avoiding him, not this time at least. She knew this was a probationary period. Namjoon didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her, and she couldn’t really blame him for that, though it did make her life more difficult. She had a known history of betraying men in his position. She wouldn’t trust herself either if she was him, so she’d have to behave and avoid any suspicion of her plans of escape until Namjoon no longer suspected her of trying to do just that.

He stood up coming around the table to stand beside her, placing a firm hand on the small of her back. “Shall we, jagi.”

“If we have to.”  She sighed reluctantly allowing him to guide her through the hallways with Jungkook trailing behind like an oversized shadow.

They stopped outside of a set of doors made from a dark wood, almost black, and glass, and she had to turn to him in confusion.

“You wanted to show me a room?”

“It’s a room for you, jagi.” Namjoon explained. “You can think of it as a private parlor.”

She stared up at him trying to decide if he was serious or not. But she couldn’t find anything in his face to signal that he was anything but serious. “The last time you gifted me a room wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience.”

He chuckled. “I think you’ll like this one much better.”

“You’re not planning on locking me in this one right?” It was unfortunately a rather real concern for her at this moment. She wasn’t sure what would set Namjoon off and have him send her back to her rooms for another stint of house arrest. “Because glass doors aren’t the most secure if that’s what you’re planning.”

“No. No one will be locking you in this room. It doesn’t have a lock, jagi.”

He opened the door revealing a small room the main focus of which was the shiny black baby grand situated within it bathed in the natural light that flooded the room from the windows that had a lovely view of the gardens. There were some comfortable looking chairs and an ottoman by the windows, and one wall was a set of shelves housing books and knick knacks. She hated to admit it, but she loved it.

“No one will bother you in this room without your permission.”

“Except you.” She pointed out dryly.

“Except me.” He agreed snaking an arm around her waist. “There is a library in the house of course, but these books are for you, for this room.”

She broke away from him her eyes fixed on the piano as she trailed her fingers across the keys.  “How did you know I played piano? That couldn’t have been in the file.”

“I have my ways.” He grinned watching her take a seat at the bench. “When you get bored, you fidget, jagi.”

“You knew I played piano because I fidget sometimes?” She asked looking up at him in disbelief.

He picked up one of her hands delicately playing with her fingers. “You’ll move your fingers in a pattern, like you’re playing a song only you can hear.” He explained allowing her to pull her hand away. “Do you like it?”

She wanted to say no if only to wipe the stupid grin off his face, but the truth was she loved it. She missed the feel of the keys beneath her fingers, and it would give her something to do. Namjoon hadn’t allowed her a phone or a computer to keep her occupied, for good reason. He wasn’t stupid, but it left her with fewer distractions than she would have liked in the house. She was living like some sort of Victorian house wife only with nicer amenities.

“It’s a beautiful instrument.” It wasn’t exactly agreeing, but it wasn’t disagreeing either.She refused to give him the satisfaction. But she did love the piano.

 “Is this a Bosendorfer?” She asked running a tentative finger over the name embossed above the keys in awe. “These cost a fortune.” She breathed out in disbelief, looking up at him with wide eyes. “It had to be $500,000, and that’s at the low end!”

She couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that the man had paid a small fortune for a piano. While it was a top of the line instrument, she never would have paid that much for an instrument. She had never even been this close to piano this expensive. It was utterly insane to spend that much on a piano.

“Only the best for you.” He smiled only to receive a swift smack across the arm from her.

“Are you insane? How could you spend a small fortune on a piano?” The look of absolute incredulity on her face clearly conveyed just how stupid she found him, found this. “You could have gotten a Yamaha for a tenth of the price, and it still would have been a perfectly good instrument.” Standing on by the door Jungkook had to choke back his shock. Never had he seen anyone scold his hyung in such a way, let alone dare to lay a hand on him, and Namjoon let her. “I’m not a concert pianist. I don’t need a piano that costs more than my life is worth.”

She raised a hand to smack him again, but Namjoon snatched her by the wrist, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Never,” He hissed anger pouring out of him in waves. “Never say that again. Do you understand me?”

part 12