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whump-town · 4 years

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High School AU: Emily tossing a rope out her window for Hotch to climb up so she can clean him up after his father’s been drinking

Warnings for abuse and violent language

The first time Emily Prentiss met the Hotchners she was struck by the dark features of the eldest boy. A sharp jawline accented by the purpling bruise on his cheek. Her eyes never leave him as his mother makes a sheepish but ultimately flat lie on his behalf-- or rather, his father’s.

The youngest shows none of the same hawk like features as his elder brother. Aaron and Sean, she learns their names to be, don’t seem to have a lot in common at all. On the surface, that is. Her mother wraps an arm around her shoulder as she introduces them both, smiling as she places that Aaron is only a year ahead of Emily in school. They might make good friends.

Emily sincerely doubts this.

It turns out she’s cruelly mistaken.

“Would you get your big ass--” she’s found herself in an odd tangle of arms and torso. The two of them gripping one another tightly as he teeters on the edge of her window seal. “Why are you so long?!” He falls through the clearing with a huff, Emily landing on the bottom of their dog pile.

He rolls off of her a second later-- smelling of the woods and damp clothing. His breathing is disrupted by pants. Whether it be from the pain of injuries she’s yet to take stock of or from running through the dense woods this late at night. True to his nature, always the perfect gentleman, he’s the first to sit up offering her not only his hand in aid but an apology.

She takes his hand and rises to her own feet. Over the course of the last few months, she’s learned her fair share about this small town in Virginia. The humidity, on the right day, is a punch to the face. The rain, which should cool things off, makes this worse. Unless, of course, the rain brings showers. The kind that do not relent for the upwards of a week, perhaps more.

They are currently in the midst of a never ending shower. Thunder shakes the earth and strikes fear in her heart as it cracks across the sky. Aaron never seems to be bothered by these noises. If anything, he loves the rain and yearns for it when it’s gone. Which explains why his already ill fitting clothes are twisted on his long body, dripping water on her floor.

They do this enough that all she needs to do is step to her dresser.

“Are you staying the night,” she asks, pulling open her sock drawer and retrieving the men’s pajama bottoms out from under a layer of bras. The only place she’s can be certain her mother won’t go snooping. She tosses them on her bed and waits for his reply.

He’s too busy fumbling to get himself out his wet jeans.

That’s the difference in their families and even just the two of them.

Where Aaron is a soft-spoken, easily flustered straight A student, Emily is a rebel on the mend. She wears fishnets and skirts that push the dress code. A parallel to Aaron’s old army green jacket with the large breast pocket where he keeps the cigarettes they smoke on her roof. He pushes her to be a better person and a better student and she helps him hide the bruises.

Speaking of, she stands as she sees a nasty abrasion on his back. He’s turned away from her, struggling to get his wet shoe laces untied. When her hands meet his cold flesh they both shiver. She flinches when he jerks, catching her wrist in his much larger hand.

There’s a flash of something in his eyes, something she doesn’t recognize, before he releases her hand just as quickly as he’d caught it. She watches as he clenches his fist, forcing the knuckles white with the force. “Sorry,” he rasps.

She pulls her wrist to her chest. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you,” she excuses. “It was my fault.” She knows better than to do something like that. He has a very short list of unspoken rules: no sneaking up, no announced touches, don’t talk about the nightmares, and never mention the bruises.

He rises to his feet, cheeks burning as he finally steps out of his jeans and stands in nothing but an old pair of blue boxers. Emily knows better than to look for too long. She’s not certain if it’s the scars that mark most of his body or just the self-imagery problems that all teens have but he doesn’t like to be looked at.

No matter how many times she reassures him that he’s a very attractive man.

“He’s dying,” Aaron finally announces after a baited moment.

Emily looks up from her lap and finds him sitting on the edge of her bed, the pajama pants on. His chest is bare, allowing her the chance to clean him up some. But his comment has distracted her. Her mind takes a moment to process exactly what he means.

When Emily settles on the bed beside him, her first-aid kit in hand, he’s crying. She’d given up a long time ago trying to understand what emotions she should feel towards his father-- the man accused of hurting her best friend. She also understands that she’ll never know how to feel about him because Aaron doesn’t know how he feels.

She reaches up and cups the back of his head, scooting closer so she can pull his bigger frame to hers. “I’m so sorry, Aaron.”

He sobs into her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her.

She’d like to pretend this the first time she’s held him together after his father’s gotten a hold of him but that’s simply not true. Tonight, the bruises on his body can’t be fixed chain smoking on the roof. How can it? His father is dying. Where does that leave Aaron? A senior in high school, meant to leave in three months for college, and leave behind a dying father, a helpless mother, and a nine-year-old Sean.

“I hate him,” Aaron gasps but she knows him too well. He’s never hated his father, not even at his lowest. “I’ll be glad when he dies,” but there is no conviction in his words. There can’t be, not at the rate tears pour down his eyes. “He’s a bastard. I hate him.”

She rubs his back, nodding her understanding as he works through his grief.

“Emily?”

She hums.

“I’m supposed to hate him, aren’t I?”

The Aaron she knows is the strongest person she’s ever met. He’s brave and smart. Calculus may not come to him easily but his emotional intelligence is scary. He can call a bluff from anyone and it makes him crazy good at poker. Mostly, Aaron is a kind hearted softy. He showers his baby brother in gifts whenever he can afford it and remembers every little thing about her no matter how silly.

Because he’s loving and caring and kind. He’s nothing like his father.

“Aaron,” she has no idea what he’s supposed to feel. Her own father is distant and the only person she’s known who died was her grandfather when she was ten. “No one can tell you how to feel. There is no right answer.”

This seems to sober him and he pulls himself back away from her. He curls himself forward, hunching over.

She patches him up.

The bruises will have to wait for tomorrow but for now she can apply a butterfly bandage to his bleeding eyebrow. If she sneaks downstairs she can get him some ice for his lip but she redirects her energy to cleaning the cut on his side. She’s not sure what it came from. The wound is jaggard and it looks like some dirt got into it, so if she had to guess he was pushed in the driveway. Rocks leaving this wound.

She places a bandaid over it and no matter how much she has to dig into the wound he does not flinch.

He never flinches.

Placing the first aid kit back under her bed, she cuts the lights out. Pulling the comforter back she takes his hand and guides him under the covers.

“He--” his voice has lowered to a whisper. His body shakes as much as his voice. “He put a knife to my throat once,” he tells her. The darkness has provided him a cover and unable to see her reactions he feels safe to tell her the truth. “Told my mother he was going to slit my throat in front of her so that she would have to watch as--” he swallows thickly.

Emily presses her face into his side, squeezing his hand.

“She didn’t do anything,” Aaron’s hot tears slide over his face. “She never did anything.” But that’s not true. When Emily wasn’t here she used to hold him. In the long hours after the booze knocked his father out, his mother would climb the stairs to his room with whatever food his father wouldn’t notice was missing. She’d patch up the worst of the bruises and hold him into the early hours of the morning.

Emily rubs her thumb over his knuckles. “She loves you,” she reassures him. “He does too, in a sick twisted way.” The words are forced and they both know it. She can’t be bothered to lie to him right now. Not while her mind is tainted with the sight of his dead body. Her best friend… dead.

“I don’t think…” he feels a deep pang in his chest. His heart is aching. “I don’t think they ever did,” he admits. “Not really, not the right way.”

Emily sits up and presses a kiss to his cheek. She cups his cheek in her hand, squinting in the dark to see his eyes. “Sean loves you,” she tells him firmly. This they both know to be true. Sean worships the ground on which Aaron walks. After a moment she adds, “I love you.”

Neither are sure of the full depth of which she means the statement but that doesn’t matter.

Aaron nods his understanding and she settles back down beside him. He stares at the ceiling, her head on his shoulder.

Too long passes before he hesitantly asks, “Emily?” Her breathing has evened out, she’s asleep. He squeezes her hand, their fingers still interlocked. “I love you too.”

Contrary to what both teens thing. Elizabeth is very aware of the rope hanging out of her fifteen-year-olds window. The horrid contraption the only way Emily could think to get that Hotchner boy from down the street up into their house. Never mind their perfectly good front door.

In her daughter’s doorway, Elizabeth opens the door to a sight that has greeted her many times over the course of the last year. The teens are asleep, Aaron under the covers while Emily lays atop them, her head rests on his shoulder. He still has enough skin exposed for her to see the latest damage his father has done to him.

With any luck, Emily will help him down the rope in the morning and he’ll knock on the front door. Elizabeth will demand he stay for breakfast and he’ll sheepishly comply. That’s the least she can do for him. He’ll hide here for the day and at night fall, Elizabeth will hear Emily’s soft sobs as Aaron makes the long walk back to his own home.

To a condemned beating.

Maybe, he’ll be back in the morning or next week but he will be back and Emily will be waiting.

A lifetime from now she’ll walk into his office and for a moment they’ll be these kids again. He’ll be reeling with loss, shaky but still that boy from Virginia who likes to stand in the rain. She’ll have a box of her belongings and take his deliberate incorrect recalling of her alma mater as an insult because she’s still the girl from all over the world who's too loud for her own good.

He’ll risk his career for her and she’ll hold his hand as the world caves in around him.

They’ll always be the kids that Elizabeth sees right now. So close, yet worlds apart. Fighters.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #hotchniss #hotly #criminal minds fanfiction

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laughingpinecone · 4 years

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1140w, Teen And Up Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cabanela/Jowd Characters: Jowd, Cabanela Additional Tags: mid-chapter 9, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of past death, brooding like a chicken

@fyeahghosttrick Ghost Swap treat for dearest @siverwrites 💖💖💖

The city has changed. Under the harsh light of the full moon, death row inmate Jowd follows his captor’s lead through a maze of foreign streets. This is not his home. It does not interest him. Instead he nurses a little fantasy to keep himself busy as they walk: in his mind, he pictures Cabanela getting shot, or run over, not that there’s much traffic at this hour of the night, so that that strange ghost who wears Yomiel’s face could save him (ironically enough, all things considered). Then, and this is the important part, they could talk. Soul to soul. Imagine that. The prospect of intimacy – strange and forced, for old friends who betrayed each other and cannot talk – sends a thrill down his spine. It is a good thought to entertain, over and over.

Of course life is not that charitable. Jowd is not stupid: this little fantasy is unattainable. When the strange rules of ghosts forced him to open his heart and be honest, he was quick to see how half-truths, honest questions and untold truths could build adequate walls. Cabanela is not stupid either and would only find new ways to lie.

It would still be nice to die together, even if just for a handful of minutes.

The high rises cover the moon. Just neon and ads dotting the sky now. A man in a black suit walks to meet them across the expanse of the empty boulevard. The artificial light that falls over his pale hair paints it an unnatural white; as their gazes meet, Jowd knows at once that there is copious blood on his blue hands, and he’s out for more.

Murderer intuition: roughly the same as detective intuition, it turns out. Also, in a way, like riding a bicycle and easy to pick back up after five years of stasis.

The man’s firm polite smile widens into something unintelligible. He has a gun trained on them, hidden under his jacket in a display of modesty that does not suit the rest of him. He makes a wide gesture toward them. Cabanela rolls his eyes, lets his own gun drop to the ground and raises his hands. Jowd sees the first beats of his fantasy play out in front of his eyes and wonders whether he should feel guilty about it, for having conjured this scenario out of thin air as well as for the anticipation that’s settling in his bones.

For about five seconds, he tries to conjure a chicken, too, but reality doesn’t seem to be interested in catering to that specific desire of his and so he drops that line of thought.

It’s Cabanela who first breaks the silence. “You wound my heart, baby,” he says, with the tone of voice one usually reserves for declaring opening moves in chess.

“Everything I said was true,” replies the foreigner with the same detached fascination, more interested in what will happen six moves ahead than in the immediate aftermath.

“You said, two desseeerts.”

“Long spoons don’t fall in the bowl.”

Jowd ponders the connections that allow the sharing of a code. People making new connections while he wasn’t looking. His erstwhile best friend first and foremost.

Cabanela nods, pondering that bit of ciphered wisdom meant for him and the assassin alone. “But even they fall from the table,” he says eventually, “like thiiis.” He lets his left arm drop, snapping his fingers, and a bullet is fired.

Again: detective’s instincts, murderer’s instincts, rusty either way, but still sharp enough for Jowd to feel the change in the air before he hears the shot, which rings in his ears when he’s already jumped, already hit the ground, shielding Cabanela’s twiggy body with his own. Turns out that Jowd’s imagination can paint that white coat bloodied in painstaking detail, but when push comes to shove, his instincts disagree, or maybe his goal was to claim that bullet for himself and get his sentence now that that meddling ghost is far away. So he’s curled around Cabanela, pressing his body against the ground as the gunshot echoes and fades across the street, and he expects the pain to hit at any moment now. It’s a comforting thought. All the times he tried to climb to his freedom during the blackout and a guard put him in his place, there was an element of relief to the pain blooming in his wound. It felt like a chunk of his guilt had been shot away, as if his body had finally caught up with what the rest of him deserved, again and again, botched attempt after botched attempt.

He can still feel those deaths. But only in his memories. Seconds pass in silence and nothing changes. He breathes. His heart beats. This satisfaction is denied to him. Eventually, he raises his head.

Half a dozen feet away from them, the assassin is lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Jowd squints. He’s pictured several outcomes of this little confrontation and this doesn’t even come close to any of them.

“My coat,” grunts Cabanela from underneath him.

“That’s your first concern?”

“What eeelse?”

“No, you’re right. Can’t think of a single thing.”

“Pah. If I had to worry for every business end of a gun I’ve seen of late… please catch on, baby. Tonight is a baaattleground. I had snipers in place. Obviously. Now if you’d pleeease let me lift an arm, I’d like to signal to the boys that we’re fine here. Unless you have other plans?”

Funny thing is, for all of Cabanela’s grumbling, Jowd can’t help but notice how the man hasn’t moved a muscle to try and sneak out of his predicament. As a matter of fact, he is staying so still that he isn’t even tapping the ground to some rhythm in his head, and Jowd could swear he has never been this quiet even when (if) he falls asleep – motionless except for the slow, deep breaths he is taking against Jowd’s collarbone, through the thick fabric of the smock.

Even then, his muscles are tense and he is so very alive. Cabanela burns with a fire of his own and in the end it is Jowd who pulls back and leaves him to his official Inspector business, signal the squad, examine the body, whatever else a detective may have to do in this faraway future he’s been thrown into all of a sudden.

Sitting on the sidewalk as he waits for their little tour to resume, he can still feel his heartbeat, his warmth, that fire that feels contagious. Jowd can’t afford that. Jowd doesn’t deserve that, either.

He stares at him from afar; Cabanela turns around for an instant and notices. Jowd notices that he’s noticed. It is a strange connection. For now, it will have to do.

#siverwrites #ghost trick #ghost swap #ghosttrick10th #fanfiction #ch9 springs eternal #spoilers! I'm only posting from here so tumblr doesn't eat my posts!

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its-warm-in-here · 6 years

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To Err is Human ch5 (Connor RK800 x Reader)

Sorry! I meant to get this posted yesterday but that didn’t happen. I’m so happy to see that people are enjoying this so far!!

Summary: You are one of the head designers of the RK800 and when you here it’s going to be decommissioned, you make a move to keep at least on of the models in tact. Word Count ~1,600

You had nothing to do with the designing of the physical appearance of androids. You were more focused on the mechanics and coding of them. You knew how to take one apart and put it back together from the ground up, but you didn't have any hand in what kind of skin or facial structure was applied to the models.

So when Connor stepped out on the blue button down and jeans you couldn't help blushing a bit as he finished buttoning his shirt up. Whoever was in charge of his physical design deserved to be fired, rehired and given a promotion. You cursed yourself for thinking of what was equivalent to a toaster to be attractive. A damn Ken doll.

“Do you like them?” you asked.

Connor thought for a moment, staring at itself in the hall mirror, “They are a nice change from the CyberLife uniform.”

“I was worried they wouldn't fit, but you clean up pretty good when you’re not covered in blood,” you joked and motioned for it to sit next to you.

You crossed your legs on the cushion and stared at it through your fingers, “What am I going to do with you?”

“I would suggest that I stay in doors for the time being, but once we know we have evaded CyberLife, I will be able to resume my mission hunting deviants,” Connor replied a bit to enthusiastically.

You smiled, “You know what a rhetorical question is, right?”

Connor stared straight ahead, his LED turning yellow, “I know.”

The two of you sat in somewhat uncomfortable silence for a bit, you flipping channels and Connor flicking its coin back and forth. You felt your nerves rising and Connor not feeling or not caring about the tension that was building from the silence. With a breath, you asked, “Do you still have the Zen Garden interface installed?”

“Yes, but Amanda and I have not spoken since the android uprising,” it caught the coin vertically between its index and middle finger. “I don’t think she would be pleased about my current situation. It was her after all that informed me about my decommissioning.”

You felt a small shiver run down your spine. Amanda was the most advanced AI that Kamski had designed and it had yet to be topped by anyone from CyberLife and it idea that she was constantly watching you through Connor made the whole having an android in your home thing way more uncomfortable. She had been included in all of the RK series after the 400 and had been the mediator to make sure they stayed on task. So far she had never failed in her task. That was until Connor. She must be positively fuming in that virtual haven.

“Do you think we should keep her installed? I mean, if you ever did get back in the hands of CyberLife, she would ensure your destruction,” you worried at the corner of the couch cushion. And she would probably make sure I was wiped off the face of the map for kidnapping her golden boy.

“I would not be able to delete it without administrator approval from two different sources, but I doubt that there would be many at CyberLife willing to help you.” That was true, but that didn't mean it would be a bad idea to get that bitch out of its head, even if it meant paying someone off.

The awkward silence returned, this time without the television accompaniment. The only noise was the gentle ting ting of Connor's coin between its fingers. You found yourself watching, captivated by the delicate hand movements and the impossibility of the tricks that it preformed.

“You know, you don’t have to stay here because of me,” Connor’s voice broke the silence this time, forcing you to rip your eyes from its hands to its face. “I am able to entertain myself if need be.”

It was true that you had originally planned to run some errands and maybe go out tonight, but then you let this into your home. Not that you didn't think Connor couldn't take care of itself, but the idea of leaving a stranger, human or robot, alone in your house for more than an hour or so was unnerving. If something happened, you would probably be twenty minutes away. Having taken some sort of responsibility for the android didn't help you feel any better about leaving. So insead, you lied, “No, no I was planning on staying in today anyway.” Lying to the detective android, not your best play, but Connor dropped the issue all the same.

The rest of the day passed without a hitch. It mostly consisted of you doing your best to relax, switching from remedial task to remedial task, and trying to ignore the android snooping around your apartment. You almost told it to knock it off, but figured it was better to let it act out its base programming. Who knew when it would get another chance to do so.

When you finally put your book down and made some dinner of leftover mac and cheese, you found Connor sitting across from you at the dining table. He didn't say anything, just stopped looking about and sat down, hands flat in front of him.

You slowly chewed the mouthful of pasta and swallowed even slower, “Am I going to be interrogated?”

“No,” he removed his hands from the table, “I thought you might like some company for your meal.”

You snorted in response, “Most of the time the other person is also eating.”

“Traditionally, but it’s a good thing I’m not a person,” Connor responded, a bit to much snark lacing his voice, “I noticed that you like reading. What books do you like?”

You squinted at him as spoon full of macaroni dropped back into the bowl, “I read a lot of older fantasy stuff. Gaiman, Pratchett and Tolkien.”

Connor’s LED spun for a moment as he did a quick search, “Have you read anything by Marie Phillips? I see that she has a similar style to those authors.”

“No, but I’ll add her to the list,” you smirked as the social program went to work with trying to sort out what you were like. “You should read some of their books, not just look them up.”

“Maybe I will do that; it seems that I will have too much free time in the coming days,” he smiled. But it wasn’t a real smile, more like a programmed response to put someone at ease, stretching his face a bit to far. “Do you have any pets? I didn't see any animal hair around the apartment.”

Your brain did a one eighty as the conversation suddenly jumped topics, forcing you to struggle to find your words, “I did. I had a dog, but this place doesn't allow pets, so my mom has her.”

Connors face instantly lit up, “What’s your dog's name?”

“Cricket. Um, here,” you began flipping through your phone until you found a picture of an overly excited looking corgi with a green bandana tied around her neck and bright pink tongue lolling out. “This is her.” Connor didn't full on smile, but the slight upturn of his lips made your heart warm.

“She looks energetic.”

You took the phone back and put your empty bowl in the sink, “That’s a word for her.”

Connor followed you into the kitchen, “Would you like some help cleaning up?”

“It’s just one bowl.”

“Yes but I am here to help,” it nudged you out of the way.

“Are you bored or something?” none the less, you let it take over.

“No,” it paused, brow furrowed as if you had asked it a deep philosophical question. It seemed lost as it returned to the home it had made on your couch.

“Connor are you okay?” Its LED blinked.

“O-of course. I'm fine.” It shook its head, trying to clear it.

“‘Fine’ and ‘okay’ are different things in my book.” Connor didn't respond, instead curling its fingers into the fabric of its pants. You let off a groan. “Look, I'm not CyberLife, I just work for them. Right now you’re stuck with me so if you want to talk--”

“Can I ask you a personal question?” it cut you off.

“Um sure, shoot,” you shrugged.

“Why would you help me?” you opened your mouth to reply, “And please don’t dodged the question.” There was a moment of silence as you tried to explain the reason to yourself. You gripped the back of the couch so hard your knuckles started turning white. You nearly jumped when he spoke again, “Are you alright? Your heart rate has increased and I am detecting a rise in adrenaline.” He had turned half around, resting his arm over the back of the couch. Connors hand had found respite on your wrist, fingers resting on your pulse.

You drew your hand back, “I-I’m okay.” Eyes glued to the floor, your chest tightened up, “The truth is... I don’t know why I helped you. I thought that I did it for myself but I don’t know anymore.”

Slowly, you met his brown eyes a look of concern plastered on his perfectly sculpted face. “I didn't mean to cause you any stress. Please forget I said anything.”

You spent the rest of night in your room after that.

#detroid become human #DBH #connor RK800 #connor #connor x reader #dbh connor #self insert #fem!reader #thx for reading

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