#you're setting me up for dozens of new messages

[putellas14]

Timeline, here we go, for you Anon.

Jenni was dating Ana Romero "Willy" when she came to Barça (Ana was already playing for Barça then). They even got matching tattoos (the heart that Jenni has more or less on her right wrist). She came to Barça in January 2014.

I believe they started dating in 2015, at the beginning of the year. Some people say Jenni cheated on Willy, but we'll never know. Maybe there was no cheating and she was simply really hurt. It would make sense as well.

Jenni and Willy appeared in 2019 in a television talk about the WC and it was really awkward, but they seem on good terms now, even spent some time together this summer I believe, because of mutual friends. As you may know Willy is Merel Van Dongen's wife.

As for the break-up, it is speculated that it happened at last year's September. Around the same time, there was an infamous Camilo concert in Barcelona where pretty much the whole team went to, and also Carla (Patri's ex) with some friends (including Alexia's new gf). So yeah, they were iver at the Balloon D'Or gala.

It is funny because I think there are no couples left from that concert and the new gfs were there as well (f.e. AMC-Mapi but Engen went to the concert as well).

Then at the end of December everthing blew up when Jenni posted those pictures with that new girl, but Alexia was possible already dating her new gf as well.

As for things inbetween, when Jenni was at psg Alexia visited her in Paris and also Jenni was punished because she took trips unannounced to Madrid (the see her family) and to Barcelona (to see who we know).

Love that this skipped straight from Willy to breakup with no in between 😂😂

#you're setting me up for dozens of new messages #good lord #but here you go new woso anon #ask

[grasshoppergeography]

Hey All,

I've been away for some time, as we've been working really hard on something quite exciting:

let me present to you the world's first ever global ocean drainage basin map that shows all permanent and temporary water flows on the planet.

This is quite big news, as far as I know this has never been done before. There are hundreds of hours of work in it (with the data + manual work as well) and it's quite a relief that they are all finished now.

But what is an ocean drainage basin map, I hear most of you asking? A couple of years ago I tried to find a map that shows which ocean does each of the world's rivers end up in. I was a bit surprised to see there is no map like that, so I just decided I'll make it myself - as usual :) Well, after realizing all the technical difficulties, I wasn't so surprised any more that it didn't exist. So yeah, it was quite a challenge but I am very happy with the result.

In addition to the global map I've created a set of 43 maps for different countries, states and continents, four versions for each: maps with white and black background, and a version for both with coloured oceans (aka polygons). Here's the global map with polygons:

I know from experience that maps can be great conversation starters, and I aim to make maps that are visually striking and can effectively deliver a message. With these ocean drainage basin maps the most important part was to make them easily understandable, so after you have seen one, the others all become effortless to interpret as well. Let me know how I did, I really appreciate any and all kinds of feedback.

Here are a few more from the set, I hope you too learn something new from them. I certainly did, and I am a geographer.

The greatest surprise with Europe is that its biggest river is all grey, as the Volga flows into the Caspian sea, therefore its basin counts as endorheic.

An endorheic basin is one which never reaches the ocean, mostly because it dries out in desert areas or ends up in lakes with no outflow. The biggest endorheic basin is the Caspian’s, but the area of the Great Basin in the US is also a good example of endorheic basins.

I love how the green of the Atlantic Ocean tangles together in the middle.

No, the dividing line is not at Cape Town, unfortunately.

I know these two colours weren’t the best choice for colourblind people and I sincerely apologize for that. I’ve been planning to make colourblind-friendly versions of my maps for ages now – still not sure when I get there, but I want you to know that it’s just moved up on my todo-list. A lot further up.

Minnesota is quite crazy with all that blue, right? Some other US states that are equally mind-blowing: North Dakota, New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming. You can check them all out here.

Yes, most of the Peruvian waters drain into the Atlantic Ocean. Here are the maps of Peru, if you want to take a closer look.

Asia is amazingly colourful with lots of endorheic basins in the middle areas: deserts, the Himalayas and the Caspian sea are to blame. Also note how the Indonesian islands of Java and Sumatra are divided.

I mentioned earlier that I also made white versions of all maps. Here’s Australia with its vast deserts. If you're wondering about the weird lines in the middle: that’s the Simpson desert with its famous parallel sand dunes.

North America with white background and colourful oceans looks pretty neat, I think.

Finally, I made the drainage basin maps of the individual oceans: The Atlantic, the Arctic, the Indian and the Pacific. The Arctic is my favourite one.

I really hope you like my new maps, and that they will become as popular as my river basin maps. Those have already helped dozens of environmental NGOs to illustrate their important messages all around the world. It would be nice if these maps too could find their purpose.

#maps reimagined #geography #cartography #maps #my art #rivers of the world #ocean drainage basins #ocean maps #river maps

[houseofanticipation]

It's impossible to count the number of times you've imagined this moment. Late at night, under the covers; in the bathtub, and the shower; on slow days at the bookstore, the summer before senior year; during Mr. Madrigal's long, droning lectures. You fantasized so vividly you could see each scene on the back of your eyelids, hear each sound between breaths. Many a time your hand migrated southward, almost of its own volition. If you were in public, you'd hold it against your crotch, pressing it into yourself with the force of your clenched thighs. In private, you'd be far less subtle.

In all those fantasies, you never imagined it would look quite like this.

The hallway smells like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. The haphazardly patterned carpet is coming up at the edges. The yellow tube light overhead might be attempting morse code, the way it flickers. Paint peels from the door in front of you, and one of the metal digits in the room number has been replaced with one that doesn't quite match: room 233. You raise your hand, your knuckles inches from the door, and then you pause. You're not sure if you can go through with this.

Before you can decide, the door opens anyway.

You started posting pictures in your first year of college. It was just your tits at first. You'd been quietly following those subreddits and tumblr blogs for a while, and you thought it would be a bit of fun, a little thrill. You didn't expect the response you got: dozens of people telling you how much they'd enjoyed it, asking for more. So you posted more, and the people asked for different things. Post your ass. Post your cunt. Post your fingers in your cunt. Post audio of you moaning as you came. The more you revealed of yourself, the more attention you got, and the more attention you got, the more you wanted to show. People wanted to send you tips, so you set up a Cash App address. You never got much, a few dollars here and there, but it was nice to get a free coffee now and then.

And somewhere along the way, apparently, you let slip that you were a virgin.

The message came late last semester, from a Cash App user whose name was just a string of numbers. It read, "I will buy your virginity for $100,000. So you know I'm serious, here is $7000 for you to keep, deal or no deal. Let me know if interested."

It was like one of those hypotheticals you talk about with your friends at the dinner table. Would you work nonstop for a year if it meant you never had to work again? Would you cut off your hand if it meant you never had to die? Would you let a stranger from the internet take your virginity for a hundred thousand dollars? You thought about it for weeks. The 7 thousand in itself was a windfall you never could have imagined. It was the new laptop you needed, four times over. It was a large iced coffee ever day for three and a half years. After graduation, if you were smart, it could be your living expenses for the better part of a year. But a hundred thousand might be a house, or a car, or a few years of freedom to pursue your goals. And when you asked how you could trust him to pay when he'd gotten what he wanted, he told you he'd be happy to pay up front.

So here you are, in a dingy hotel, face to face with the broad-shouldered, potbellied older man in front of you. "I saw you through the peephole," he says. There's something impish about him. Maybe it's the toothy grin, or the way his ears stick out from his head, or the obvious glee in his voice as he looks you up and down. "My, you're much better in person. Come in! You got the money then?"

You nod. You didn't leave the Lyft until it was there in your account.

"Good," he says, throwing the dead bolt. "Let's get to it then, shall we?"

"What should...I mean, how do you want to..." you feel yourself talking strangely. Breathing in the wrong places, words tumbling over each other. "Maybe we should...talk first? Get to know each other?"

"No need for that," says the man matter-of-factly, unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is smooth, his skin a mottled pink. He waves a hand at your body. "Go ahead and get those off."

Back in high school, one of your recurring fantasies involved Jason Meier having his way with you in the back of that beat up convertible he used to drive. That old thing used to get you so wet. It was a piece of junk, but something about the exposure of it...In the fantasy, he's driven you out to some secluded spot outside of town. Cicadas drone all around. The night sky shines bright with stars. He cups your face with one hand, strokes your cheek with his thumb, asks you if this is your first time. He kisses the side of your mouth, then your jaw, then below your ear, then down your neck. As his hands undo the top button of your blouse, he tells you he'll be gentle.

The man is watching you expectantly. With his shirt on, he looked like a portly old man. Without it you can see that every inch of that stocky build is hard muscle. That pink skin strains against his mass, muscle rippling beneath it as he moves. "What are you waiting for?"

Your legs tremble. Your knees feel like they're about to buckle. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your body has never done this before. You didn't know you could feel this kind of fear, and yet there's nothing to fight, nowhere to flee. You agreed to this. You decided this was what you wanted. Slowly, you pull your shirt over head.

He groans in the back of his throat, a long, growly sound. His face is a mask of focus, the impish joviality gone, his eyes fixated on your breasts. "And the rest."

You kick off your shoes, pull off your socks. An inch at a time, you slide your shorts and panties over your ass, down your legs, past your trembling knees. You step out of them, and now you're completely exposed. You cross your arms over your chest, then lower them when he grunts disapproval. Almost urgently, he unbuttons his pants, pulls out a long, rigid cock, and begins to stroke himself.

You didn't discover internet porn until your senior year, and before then the only penises you'd seen were a few drawings in your health textbook. In the fantasy, you unbutton Jason Meier's pants and fig. 7.5, "The penis becomes engorged when in state of arousal," pops out of his underwear. You take it in your hands, feeling the weight of it, the girth, and look up into those beautiful brown eyes of his.

This cock is much...realer. It has bounce, texture, even a sound as his hand slides up and down its length. It's longer than the one in that old fantasy, too, and it leans slightly to the left. For years you've wondered what it would be like to see a cock in person, and now that you're here it terrifies you.

"Come here," says the man, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Get on your knees."

You falter. "You didn't...I mean, we didn't agree to that."

"I bought your virginity," says the man. "You ever suck cock before?"

You shake your head.

"Then your mouth is just as much a virgin as your cunt. Get down here."

It's almost a relief to get off your legs, the way they've been threatening to give out. Close up, you can see the purples and blues of the veins under his skin. The head of his cock pulses with anticipation as your lips part, your tongue extends...

You don't think you can do this.

Then his hand is on the back of your head.

You always imagined Jason Meier whimpering as you took him into your mouth. You were never quite able to picture what he would feel like between your lips, on your tongue; the movie camera of your imagination always panned up at that point, to focus on his face. He would let his head fall back in pleasure, eyebrows knit with sensation, lips slightly parted. Now, though, there's no camera to pan. You are here. This is real. And his powerful hand is pushing your mouth onto his cock.

A sound you can't control comes out of you. Your back arches, your hands flail, and then by pure instinct they're on his belly, pushing against him, away from him. Spit runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. "I'm sorry," you say, looking anywhere but at his face. "I'm sorry, I can't, I thought I could do this but I can't."

There's a horrible darkness in his voice. "I already gave you the money."

"I know, I'll give it back, I'm sorry." The words trip over each other on the way out of your mouth. "I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have, I just, I thought I could..."

His hand is on the back of your head again, and this time his fingers are curled tight into your hair. He jerks your head back, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes are cold and predatory. "I'm not interested in returning what's already bought and paid for." He jams himself back into your mouth.

You always imagined yourself savoring it, taking your time to explore every inch of Jason's length with your tongue, but there's no time for that now. The veiny, throbbing thing in your mouth bypasses your tongue entirely, forcing past your uvula. You gag, then gag again. Your stomach churns and you convulse as your body tries to remove the foreign object, but the man just pushes harder. Your eyes water as he slides deeper, deeper, making your throat bulge, your limbs spasm. As his balls touch your chin, you close your eyes and try to relax your throat.

He holds you like that. You gag for a third time, and thick saliva explodes through the gaps around his cock, dripping down your chin and collecting in a long, dangling rope. Tears roll down your cheeks as you try to acclimatize to the feeling, try to convince your body that nothing is wrong. You think you've got it, and then he moves slightly, and you're gagging again. He groans, grips your head tighter, and in the back of your throat you feel his cock swell slightly. He likes it when you gag for him, says a voice in the back of your mind. The motion is pleasurable for him.

You've got another problem rearing its head. You can't breathe. It was fine at first, but the man shows no interest in freeing up your airways, and in all the gagging and crying, you haven't exactly been conserving your oxygen. You pat his leg, trying to signal to him, but all he does is clap you on the side of the head. Your ear rings, you gag again, and his cock throbs. Black walls are closing in on your vision. The effort of struggling against him becomes too much, and your arms fall to your sides. Your eyelids flutter. You're going to pass out. You're going to pass out, and then what will he do to you?

But just before the world fades to black, he pulls your head back again. You feel every inch of his cock as it slides out of your throat. He lifts your face, and your eyes struggle to focus on his as you take lungful after lungful of glorious air. Drool spills across your lips, but you don't care. You're alive.

The man slaps you hard, leaving a stinging impression of his palm on your cheek. You whimper. Two of his fingers are in your mouth, pushing on the back of your tongue. Not knowing exactly why, you close your lips around them and shut your eyes.

"That's better," he says.

The first time you saw a male sex toy in use was in an ad before a porn video you were watching. You were taken aback by the way the performer had pounded it over his cock, barely more than an extension of his hand. You're reminded of that image as he parts your lips again, and the rape of your throat begins in earnest.

You haven't thought about Jason Meier in years, but at this moment he's the only thing keeping you sane. As your face rams up and down, up and down, you retreat to that beat up convertible, and Jason's soft, thoughtful face. As the man tightens his grip, Jason runs his fingers through your hair. As the man grunts and growls with pleasure, Jason coos your name. With each stroke of his cock down your throat, each spasm of your body, you focus on a different part of Jason's body: his large hands, his long fingers, his shoulders, his jawline, his liquid brown eyes. By the time the man finally releases your hair, you can barely feel your body any more. The convertible is far more real than the squeaky motel bed. The hands on your body are Jason's, soft and tender.

He climbs over the center console straddling you. You lock lips, feel your tongues in each other's mouths, kiss so deeply that it feels as though you share the same breath. He pulls the lever to lay your seat back, and then he's over you, on top of you, lifting your skirt, pulling your panties to the side.

This is the part where, in the old days, you would have slipped a finger or two inside yourself. But this time you don't have to. This time you can feel him inside you, really feel him, and he fills you up like your fingers never could. There's some pain—they told you there'd be pain, didn't they, your first time—but it falls away to the thrill, the lust, the pleasure. Jason whimpers as he slides into you, deeper, deeper, and you moan into each other's mouths as his pelvis meets yours. You take a moment to savor it, breathing each other in, and then he begins to thrust.

You feel drunk. It's exactly like you always imagined it, and somehow better than you could ever have expected. Each movement of his hips brings another sensation: a spasm in the arches of your feet, a hitch in your breath, a churning, swirling need in the depths of your abdomen. Deeper you tell him, harder, and he obliges, pulling you into him, and him into you.

You can feel the orgasm building, but it isn't like any you've had before. Every time you've ever cum, you've been in control. This time, Jason is in control. Jason decides when you cum, how you cum. One hand supports his weight as he leans over you, and the other slides up your belly. You used to watch those hands obsessively. The way he held a pencil, the way he bit his knuckles when he was thinking. Now that hand slides up, caresses your breast. Now that thumb brushes your hair out of your face. Now those fingers close around your throat.

You know you're safe with Jason, but the pressure on your throat triggers some animal fear response in you. You try to squirm away, but his arm is strong, and his hand his firm. Your hands go to his wrist. "I don't like that, stop." He just smiles. It isn't his usual sweet smile, either. This one is cruel. Predatory.

Your face feels tight. Your eyes bulge. You're beginning to panic for real now. "Jason, seriously, stop!" You beat at his arm with your fists, but he easily takes both your wrists in one hand and pins them over your head. You try to kick at him, but he's already past your defenses, between your legs, pushing them uselessly apart. His grip tightens, his rhythm increases, his cock swells inside you. He's getting off on this.

All at once you're back in the hotel room. The man's sweaty red face is inches away from your own, and the lust in his eyes is obvious. His cock seems to push deeper with every thrust, and the horrible thing is that the orgasm is still coming. It's close now, you can feel it, and it's like he knows exactly how to bring it out. You feel floaty, tingly, and that awful pleasure is welling up inside you, a pot about to boil over...

"That's right," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "That's what I was waiting for. That perfect mix of...pleasure...and...fear." He punctuates each of these last three words with a long, deep thrust, and it's these that send the orgasm spilling over. A choked moan pushes itself out of you as your back arches, your toes curl, your legs wrap involuntarily around his waist, tears roll down your cheeks. That floaty feeling has combined with the orgasm to create something like how you imagine heroin must feel; a wave of mind numbing, soul deadening ecstasy. Your insides feel hot, and at first you think that must just be what it feels like when you cum from sex, but then you see the look on his face and realize that he's cumming too. His grip relaxes and he pounds away a few more times at your now-limp body. You stare at the ceiling as he moans, buries his face between your tits, pumps round after round of his warm, thick cum into your cunt, your womb. After one final push he collapses onto you, his cock still inside you, his bulk crushing you into the bed. You don't move.

He strokes your cheek. Fondles your nipple. Kisses your neck. Then he kisses your mouth, his tongue pushing your lips open, his breath like damp earth. You barely see him.

It must be almost ten minutes before he finally gets up, his limp cock sliding out of you at last. You can feel his cum dripping from your cunt as he puts on his underwear, then pants, then shirt, then shoes. "The room is paid for the night," he says with his hand on the door handle. "Thank you for struggling. Taking someone's virtue is so much better when you actually get to take it.

You don't respond.

You don't know how long you lie there, motionless, dripping cum. Oddly, the man who just raped you isn't the one burned onto your mind's eye. Try as you might to return to that sweet teenage fantasy, all you can see is Jason Meier as he held his hand to your throat, and that cruel, predatory smile on his face.

#CW im told this one is realer than usual so be warned #r@pe fantasy #cnc free use #cvmdump #cvmslvt #breeding toy #r@petoy #r@pe kink

[confused-pyramid]

You're the Only One Who Knows to Slow it Down | s5

pairing: aaron hotchner x childhood bsf!reader

summary: Hotch and his childhood best friend working together at the BAU: a slow burn across the seasons.

word count: 16.2k

warnings: canon!typical violence, mentions of abuse, major character death, gun violence, drinking, specific episodes mentioned in this part are 5x01, 5x02, 5x06, 5x09, 5x10, and 5x21

a/n: This season was really hard to write at points (I think we all know which eps I'm talking about lol) but I'm looking forward to brighter days ahead:') Also we get some more tangible tension so yay! Title is from Look After You by The Fray

series masterlist

"We're not working a case," Derek states matter-of-factly when you arrive at the crime scene. You were woken up early the next morning after getting back from Canada, and on less than four hours of sleep, your brain is struggling to function.

"Why call us to a crime scene?" you ask, walking up to the front door of the house with the rest of the team.

He shrugs. "I was hoping you knew."

You look around, trying to find Aaron, but he's nowhere in sight. He had promised to put in the team request for a few days of leave, but you presume the call came in before he got a chance to do so.

The local police let you survey the scene, explaining that a Dr. Barton got a threatening letter that someone would be murdered everyday that he didn't give up his own son. Once you're done inspecting the body, you turn to JJ, lowering your voice. "Where's Hotch?"

"He's not answering his cell," she says, her lips thinning. "I assume it's on vibrate."

You nod. "I'll try him again."

You step away from the group and click his number in your speed dial, listening to the rings until it reaches his voicemail. It's unlike him to keep his phone on silent, but you know the previous night was tough on everyone. "Hey, it's me." You tell him the address you're heading to for the case, before turning towards the car and lowering your voice. "I know you're probably just asleep, but I don't know...I have that weird feeling again that you know I get...so please just call me back." You take a deep breath, hoping you're being overdramatic, and that you'll see him pull up in a few minutes. "See you soon."

When you get to Dr. Barton's house, he still hasn't called you back. You sit with the doctor, Prentiss, and Reid in his living room, going through his recent patient files, while Morgan, JJ, and Rossi head to the school to find his son.

"Something set this guy off," Emily explains as you start poring over the records. "Odds are it's in your files."

You manage to get through about a dozen before Dr. Barton stands up with a sigh. "My son is leaving school in five hours. There's no way we can get through all of these patients in time."

You check your phone again, mostly to see the time, but you also note that there aren't any new calls or messages. "He's right. We need more eyes on this. I can get Hotch and be back in a half hour."

"Keep us updated," Emily says, nodding at you. Concern flashes across her eyes for a millisecond, and you're sure it reflects the look in yours.

The drive to his apartment doesn't take long, and you stalk down the hall, all the way to the end, until you find his door. There's no answer the first time you knock, so you reach for the spare key he gave you, but before you can use it, you realize the door is already unlocked.

Your heart drops into your stomach and you pull your gun out, using it to push open the door carefully. "Aaron? Aaron, it's me."

When the door is ajar, the sight before you almost makes you drop your gun. There's a large bullet hole in the far wall, along with a patch of drying blood and bits of broken glass on the floor. His phone is on the ground as well, and his gun and holster are lying on his dining table.

You crouch down on your heels, trying to calm your breathing, as you take in your surroundings. You need to think logically about this, or you'll be no help at all.

A few things come to you as your mind clears.

His car is still outside.

No blood splatter around the bullet hole.

No drag marks.

You dig your hand around your back pocket and pull out your phone, dialing Garcia as fast as you can. "Overtime shift, Penelope speaking."

Her chipper voice usually calms you down, but right now you need to cut to the chase. "Garcia, it's me. Something's happened to Hotch. You need to get an APB out on him."

Her breath stutters. "What do you mean, something?"

"There's blood on the floor," you whisper, willing your voice not to crack as your throat thickens with tears. "There's also a bullet hole in the wall, probably a .44."

"I'll send the whole team," she says before you cut her off.

"No, don't call the team. They need to finish the case we were assigned. Just tell Emily, since she's expecting me back, but send every other agent in the vicinity."

"On it."

The line clicks off and you release your breath, before standing up again. While you wait for the crime scene techs, you poke around his things in the main area, trying to see if anything has been taken or moved. The only thing you notice before they arrive is that a page has been ripped from his address book.

"Agent L/N?" a voice calls from the doorway.

You lift your hand. "Yeah, in here."

They come inside and get to work immediately, so you step out, just in time for Garcia to call you back. "Y/N, I checked local hospitals for his name, and I didn't find anything at first, but then one of them told me something really strange."

"Garcia," you whisper through gritted teeth. You love her, but she needs to hurry up before you explode. "What was it?"

"Someone dropped off a John Doe at St. Sebastian hospital, and that someone's name was FBI Agent Derek Morgan."

Your vision turns black for a moment. He's back. Foyet's back.

You're rushing to your car before she has a chance to hang up.

***

He's still under anesthesia when you arrive at the hospital. He was stabbed nine times. That's what the nurse told you when you flashed your credentials and asked for any information she could give you.

Now, you're standing in his doorway, trying to build up the nerve to approach his sleeping form. Even with all of the bandages covering his arms and abdomen, he somehow looks peaceful. It's been so long since you've seen his brow unfurrowed, his forehead smooth, without the tension that invades his daily life.

After a few minutes, you take a step inside, then another, and suddenly you're right beside him, reaching out to clutch his hand over the bedsheet.

His skin is cold, and you wrap both hands around his to warm it up, if even by just a little. He's usually a furnace, generating his own heat even when it's freezing out, but whenever he gets hurt, his hands turn to ice.

After a minute, your phone buzzes in your pocket and you let him go to answer it. It's just Emily telling you that she's at the hospital with the rest of the team, and you walk out into the hall to talk to them.

Rossi is the first to reach you. He squeezes you into a hug before getting back to business. "You sure it was Foyet?"

"He had Morgan's credentials," you nod, rubbing a hand over the back of your neck. Derek glances at you then, and you press your lips together with a nod.

"Did they catch him on the security cam?"

"You could see him dropping Hotch off," you explain, trying to keep your voice steady, "but the camera's only on the entrance, so I have no idea what direction he went once he left the hospital."

Emily shakes her head. "It doesn't make sense for him to have brought Hotch to the E.R."

The nurse from earlier approaches you then, pulling your attention. "Agents, he's waking up."

You shuffle inside and take his hand again as everyone walks in.

His voice is soft when he opens his eyes. "Where am I?"

"In the hospital," Emily whispers, taking care to be mindful of her volume.

He shuts his eyes for a beat. "How did I get here?"

"Foyet drove you." Rossi doesn't frown often, but the lines of his face are clearer than ever. "Can you remember what happened?"

Hotch shakes his head, closing his eyes. "What did he take? The Reaper always takes something from his victims."

"There was an address page missing from your day planner," you whisper, finally finding your voice. "In the B's."

His eyes snap open and he tries to lift his head from the pillow, but he can only wince. "Where are my clothes?"

Emily hands him a plastic bag filled with his belongings, and he ruffles through them, until he finds his wallet. When he opens it, a photograph is stuffed inside, covered in blood spatter. Haley and Jack.

Your breath catches, and he seems to realize what it means at the same moment you do. "Haley's maiden name is Brooks. I always listed her in the B's in my personal information in case it fell into the wrong hands."

You squeeze his hand involuntarily, and he exhales sharply. "He knows where they live."

***

When the rest of the team rushes off to his old house, you stay with him at the hospital. You get a call soon from JJ that Haley and Jack are just fine, and you are finally able to breathe easy for the first time all day.

"They're okay," you tell him when you hang up the phone. "That was JJ. She said Haley was home and Jack's at a playdate, but Morgan is going to pick him up right now."

He nods slowly, his body relaxing into the bed. "Good. That's good."

"It is," you say, eyeing his movements. It's still enormously difficult to look at him like this, but you won't be able to move forward if you don't know the truth. "Aaron, what happened? What did he do?"

"I don't remember all of it," he says slowly, clearly taking his time with each word. There's no rush, and he knows it. Even if it takes him hours to get it all out, you'll still be here. "I remember him being there when I got home, after I dropped you off. He fired off a shot into the wall, and then I tried to tackle him, but..."

He trails off, and you squeeze his hand tighter, as though trying to tether him to the present moment. After a few shallow breaths, he continues. "I tried to tackle him, and I got him on the ground, but then he overpowered me." You can almost see it in your mind. The picture he's painting as he weaves over the details with startling clarity. "The first one hurt the most."

The first stab. Your eyes close for a beat, like you're trying to hide from his words. The first of nine.

"I don't remember much after that." You can tell he's leaving things out, but you also don't know if you'll be able to handle it if he does tell you everything.

"That's okay," you whisper as his eyes droop down. "You should rest."

He nods slowly as the exhaustion takes over and his grip loosens around your hand as he falls asleep.

You wait by his side for about a half hour, until you spot a familiar face (with a new haircut) dawdling in the hallway.

You stand up in a fervor. "Oh, thank god."

You rush over to Haley and pull her into a hug, which she returns just as forcefully. "JJ called us when she found you, but it's still really good to see your face."

"It's good to see you too," she says with an exhale before letting you go. You look down and see Jack standing next to her, his mouth downturned as his fingers twiddle at his sides. "Do you mind staying with him while I go talk to Aaron?"

You turn around and see that he's blinking his eyes open again. "Not at all." You take Jack's hand with a smile and lead him down the hall.

"I'm sorry if the big men scared you," you tell him once you find a few seats in the waiting area. "I know it was all very sudden."

To your surprise, his face breaks out into a big grin. "Uncle Derek let me turn on the siren!"

"Wow!" you smile, feeling warm laughter echo around your chest. "That sounds super fun."

He nods ecstatically, before leaning his head over to look back up the hall. "Can I see Daddy now?"

Your smile falls as fast as it appeared and you take his hand again, pressing his fingers between yours. "Soon, baby, soon."

***

He wakes up to the sound of faint talking. He can vaguely see you hugging someone, and he blinks a few times to clear his vision as you disappear down the hall.

"How do you feel?" Haley asks as she walks into his hospital room. She doesn't come further than the foot of the bed, but he's just glad to see her here, in one piece.

He clears his throat quietly. "I'm gonna be okay." She doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't want to focus on him right now. "Did they explain to you what's happening?"

She nods slowly, looking at him for another moment. "They said the Marshal's service is taking us straight from here and putting us into protective custody."

She looks upset, and it takes him back to the lowest moments of their relationship. "Haley, I'm sorry."

She looks down and the familiar urge to comfort her returns, even while lying in a hospital bed. "Do you know where they're gonna take us?"

"No, I don't." He tries to catch her eye but she won't look at him. "And that's the point. I can't know where you're going. If you have any contact with anyone, then he could track you."

She finally looks at him then, and her sadness is tinged with exasperation. "Jack has school. He has friends. I have a job now."

He doesn't know what else to say but: "I know. I'm sorry." He hopes he's conveying what he means, but it doesn't feel like enough. "We will catch him, and you'll come back, and I promise that I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you."

She nods minutely, and he takes the small comfort. "Are you sure that we're in danger?"

"Yes." There's little else he's been more sure of.

"And what about you?" she asks, her voice small. "Are you gonna be safe?"

He doesn't want to worry her, but he also doesn't want to lie. "He wants to see me suffer. Knowing that my son is out there and that I can't see him is better than killing me."

Her brow pinches and she pushes her short hair back from her forehead. "Jack wants to come in."

He tries to argue at first, not because he doesn't want to see him, but because it will only make it harder to let him go again, but eventually she convinces him to accede.

She leaves to go get him, and he leans back on the pillows, trying not to let himself sink inside.

~

Haley finds you in the waiting area, with Jack sitting on your lap, in the middle of a game of I Spy.

"Is he ready for him?" you whisper when you see her approach. She nods and you lift Jack off your lap and set him on his feet. "Off you go, buddy. Time to see Daddy."

"Yay!" he cheers before racing down the hall, you and Haley right behind him. She steers him into the correct room, and he jumps onto the bed before either of you can stop him.

There's a quiet chorus of 'be careful's before he grunts, "Don't worry. It's okay. The doctors made sure that I'm completely fine." He turns to the small boy with a smile you haven't seen in days. "Did Mommy tell you that you two are gonna take a trip?"

Jack nods once, moving his chin up and down dramatically. "Yeah."

"So I'm not gonna see you for a while."

Jack frowns. "Why?" The word sounds so small out of his mouth, and your heart cracks in your chest.

"Well, think about it like when Daddy goes away for work. Only this time you and Mommy get to go someplace."

Jack ponders this for a few seconds, before crawling up again and wrapping his arms around his dad's neck. "Are you okay?"

"I'm very proud of you." It's a father's answer. The kind of response that doesn't tell the truth, but hides the pain with love. "Every single day. I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay."

Haley says another goodbye and grabs Jack's hand before leading him out of the room. She gives you another hug, squeezing extra tight for the last second. "It's not his fault."

"Of course it isn't," you whisper, letting her pull back.

"No," she whispers, closing her eyes. "I mean, don't let him blame himself for this."

He's one of the most stoic people you know, but he can also be so transparent sometimes. "I won't. I'll be here."

"He needs you," she says with a sad smile. "He's always needed you, but he especially needs you now."

She doesn't let you respond before she's tugging Jack down the hall. You watch as she exits the side door of the wing, and only turn back when you can't see her anymore. She's one of your longest friends, and you won't be able to see her or her son for god knows how long.

When you step back into the room, you stand at the foot of his bed, trying to gauge what he needs from you, but then you see his expression. Tears prick the corners of his eyes and his mouth twists as you rush forward and grab his hand, squeezing it between yours with the grip of someone holding onto a life preserver.

"They'll be okay," you whisper, trying to keep your own tears back. "We'll get through this."

He nods, his eyes still shining. You move to sit in the chair beside him, but he tugs you back, pulling you closer. You understand the desperate look in his eyes, the need for connection and comfort from someone you care about that you've seen in yourself on so many occasions.

Slipping your shoes off, you tuck the sheet into his side and carefully climb onto the little hospital bed, taking care to avoid any of the wires and tubes. Once you're sure you're not pulling on anything, you curl up beside him and wrap yourself around his arm. His skin is warmer than it was earlier, and you take solace in the fact that he's going to be okay. Maybe not now, but he will be.

Your breaths synchronize with his and you listen to the beeping of the heart monitor as your own heart rate calms down. There's a feeling tugging at your spine, filling you up and threatening to spill over, but you shove it down, knowing it will be too much right now. You don't have the words to describe the emotions circulating through your brain, so you stick with what you know. "I love you." It's quiet, barely a whisper, but you know he can hear you. "Thank you for staying alive."

"You're welcome," he whispers back, his voice barely audible over the monitor. "I love you too."

***

You leave the hospital the next morning with a plan. He's still asleep when you wake up, so you get up carefully and thank the nurses one more time before heading out.

You make two stops on the way to his apartment, and this time, you use your spare key to unlock the front door. The crime scene crew cleaned the blood off the floor, and you told Rossi to get them to spackle the hole in the wall, for at least a temporary fix, but there's still an air about the place. It was just starting to feel like his home, and now it's soiled, once again.

You shut the door behind you and drop your bags to the ground, surveying the place one last time for any damage or mess you missed earlier. When everything seems fine, you get to work.

An hour later, you slump back against the wall and toss the packet of instructions to the ground. In front of you is a freshly installed security system, with a door proximity sensor and keypad for when he leaves the house in a hurry.

You can already hear the arguments coming, but you don't care anymore. You won't be able to sleep knowing he's in here, all alone, without anything to keep Foyet from coming back and finishing the job.

For someone who has as little of a technical background as you do, you're impressed with how quickly you were able to get the system running, and you test it a couple of times, turning it on and off and checking the doors, before you finally pull his door closed and lock it behind you.

***

The doctors don't release him until the end of the week, but once he's able to walk again, he calls you to get him from the hospital. By the time he signs his discharge papers and makes the phone call, you're already almost there, and as much as he hates putting you out on a weekend, he can't help the satisfaction that rumbles through him.

The drive to his apartment is mostly silent, with him just trying to stay still as you take the turns carefully, and drive five under the speed limit. When you arrive, you hold the bag of salves and ointments for him as you take his arm, helping him down the hall and to his front door.

He moves to grab his key, but you stop him with a forceful "Wait!"

"I can unlock my own door," he grumbles, but you just shake your head, taking the key from him and turning it slowly in the lock. The moment it swings open, a loud beeping fills the air, and you rush forward to type something into the keypad by his door. Wait...keypad? "When did tha-"

"Before you argue," you jump in, clearly anticipating his disgruntlement, "it's for me, okay."

He raises an eyebrow and you glare at him, but there's no effort behind it. "I mean, it's obviously for you, but still...it's for my peace of mind too."

You're rambling makes him crack a smile for the first time in days, and he nods slowly. "Okay."

Your mouth snaps shut and you look at him with a meek smile. "Okay."

You help him get settled on the couch, and he waits there as you scrounge up some food from the kitchen. He's not sure he has anything perishable, but you manage to put together a comforting bowl of pasta with jarred tomato sauce that makes him feel a little more at home.

As the evening turns to night, he catches himself glancing at his watch more often than not, and eventually you catch on too.

"Is it time?" you ask, your voice gentle.

After a breath, he nods, and you reach across the coffee table to grab his bag of supplies from the doctor. You lay the salve and extra gauze on the table, and wait for him to make the next move, a decision he accepts gratefully.

He's been injured before. He knows how painful it is to sanitize a wound, and especially one as deep and grotesque as his. He just needs a few moments to accept the fact that he's...scared.

"I can do it," he says once he's ready, before reaching for the salve. The simple motion makes him wince and you jump in right away, grabbing it for him and undoing the top.

"Let me," you whisper, your words somewhere between a statement and a question. "Please."

He can already feel his stitches pulling, just from the simple act of swiveling his body to face you, so he gives in with a quick nod.

He doesn't look at you as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. He's not embarrassed - you've never pitied him, even at his lowest moments - but he needs the semblance of privacy as he exposes his injuries to the open air.

The air feels cold as he pulls his undershirt over his head, and you get to work immediately, peeling back the old layer of gauze as slowly as you can. The sections directly over his wounds stick slightly, and he grits his teeth against the pain as you gently tug them free, making sure to avoid pulling his stitches.

"Do you want a break?" you ask once the gauze has been fully removed. He shakes his head, needing this to be over as soon as possible, but when he meets your eyes, he sees them welling up with tears.

He glances down at his bare torso, his eyes darting over the jagged scars ranging from his stomach to his collarbone. Your breath stutters as you take it in with him, and he looks at you. "He made sure we'd match."

He sees you rapidly blinking away the tears that rush forward, and he wants to comfort you somehow, but he doesn't know what to do. You help him lean back on the armrest, so you can apply the salve around each of his injuries, and as your fingers press into his skin, he can't help but be reminded of his childhood. The pressure of your hands as you wrapped him with bandages, the warmth of your breath when you leaned in to inspect your work.

It's usually a sad memory when he thinks back to his childhood, but with you, it was always good. He watches as you slowly tape the new layer of gauze around his abdomen, and even as tears slide down your cheeks, the way you look at him doesn't change.

"All done," you whisper after pressing on the final pieces of tape. "How do you feel?"

Anxious. Terrified. Lonely. Guilty. "Good. Thank you."

***

"Hey, it's Emily."

"What's up, Em?" you say, your phone pressed between your ear and shoulder as you hop around, trying to get your shoes on before work.

"How was your weekend?"

You pause. "Fine?" The question isn't out of the ordinary, you're just not sure why she called to ask you that when she's going to be seeing you in person in about twenty minutes. "How was yours?"

"Oh, you know." She sounds distracted, and you feel a smile pull at your lips as you realize she's avoiding something.

"Em...is there a reason you called? You know, given that we're both on our way to the same place."

She clears her throat, and you hear the indecision in her voice, even over the phone. "I know this is kind of a weird question, but would you mind if I picked up Hotch for work this morning. I left late last night, so JJ was able to brief me early, and I figured he could use a headstart."

You stop your movements, straightening up and lifting your hand to your cell. It's not at all what you were expecting her to say, but that's not all you're confused about. "Yeah, of course. You don't have to ask me first, though. We're all teammates."

She makes an little noise that you don't recognize. "Yeah...but you two are different."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just wait for her to keep going. Emily was never very good at uncomfortable silences, so after a few moments, she's back. "Anyway...I'll grab Hotch and see you in 30?"

You try to hide your grin, even though no one can see you. "Sounds like it."

"Bye."

The phone clicks off, and you tuck it back into your pocket, still smiling. You're already in a better mood than normal, because after 34 days of medical leave, Aaron comes back to work today.

You finish clasping your shoe and head out the door, more relaxed this time. With Emily picking up Aaron, you're not in a rush anymore. You take the drive at a leisurely pace, and when you arrive at the office, you run into Spencer by the front of the building.

"Wait up!" you call out, jogging over to him before he gets in the elevator. "Let me get that." You slide the strap of his book bag off his shoulder and sling it onto yours. He nods in thanks and tucks his crutch under his arm as he presses the button for your floor.

"I thought I'd be used to the crutches by now, but I keep tripping over everything." You scrunch your brow with amusement as he frowns down at his leg. "The doctors say it's healing well, though."

The elevator doors open and you step in front of him to get the door across the hall. "Does it hurt?"

He shrugs. "It really only hurts when I think about it, which is pretty much all the time."

The statement isn't exactly comical, but his deadpan tone makes you snort as you hold the door, and he smiles as he passes by you. You follow him to Garcia's lair, and she perks up upon seeing the both of you.

"My babies," she grins, pulling out a chair for Spencer. "Sit, sit."

You let out a laugh as you place his bag on the floor next to him. "I'm older than you."

"Who's counting?" she throws back, typing something furiously into her computer. She turns around a moment later, just in time to swat Spencer's hand away from the tin of cookies sitting on her table. "No, no, no."

"What?" he complains, gaping at her.

She swats him again, before pulling the tin away from him. "Get away, you. These are for Hotch."

"Butterscotch?" you ask, glancing down at the box. His preference for butterscotch cookies was something you used to tease him about when you were kids. Butterscotch Hotch.

Penelope nods and lifts the edge of the lid, implicitly offering you a cookie. When you take one, Spencer throws his hands up into the air. "Why does she get one? I get shot in the leg and I still don't get any cookies."

You laugh and break off half of your cookie, which he takes from you the moment it's in your palm. He stuffs the entire thing into his mouth, not bothering to swallow it before he pipes up again. "You know he's gonna hate the attention."

"It's cookies," Garcia pouts, "not cake."

Spencer shrugs. "He's probably gonna pretend like nothing happened, anyway."

"Well, it doesn't mean we have to."

You don't know how to weigh in to this discussion, mostly because you know more about how he's feeling than they do, but also because the idea of speculating on his recovery without him here feels like a betrayal.

"What do you think?"

You look up and realize that Spencer was directing this question to you. Swallowing down the last bit of your cookie, you cough once to clear your throat. "I think he's been through a lot, but sometimes coming back to work is the best way to take your mind off of things. Foyet was in his home. I don't think staring at the same walls that used to have bullet holes in them is exactly healthy either."

Spencer and Penelope both stare at you for a moment, before nodding and looking down. They remind you of two children who have just been reprimanded, and you smile to soften the sentiment. "I love you guys for caring about this, but we just have to trust that he's okay."

"Yeah," Penelope nods, reaching forward to squeeze your hand. "Are you okay? This can't have been easy for you, either."

"I'm fine," you say too quickly. "Nothing happened to me." It's not a lie, exactly. You weren't the one who was stabbed. Nine times. "I've just been keeping him company after work, and helping with some of his post-hospital care checklist."

"He's lucky to have you," Penelope says softly, to which Spencer nods.

"He was great too after I got shot," you add, feeling oddly defensive of your friendship. "He stayed with me for a long time when my dad was gone."

She smiles at you sadly, before holding the tin out for you. "Want another cookie?"

You let out a weak laugh as Spencer chuffs behind you, and you shake your head. "No thanks."

"Do you think he'll like them?" Her voice sounds earnest, and you nod, knowing what it's like to want so desperately to understand someone who's as closed off as he seems at times.

"Spence, Y/N, there you guys are."

You turn around to see JJ, her face lined with tension. "Are you ready for us?"

She nods. "Grab your go bag."

***

He's been erratic all day. When he snapped at Garcia earlier for missing the antipsychotics link, you wanted to throttle him, especially when you remembered the cookies she had waiting for him in her office.

The thought that maybe Spencer was right keeps flashing through your mind as you watch him get frustrated with everyone, including himself. When you all arrive at the Darrin Call's father's house, where he and a young boy he kidnapped are waiting, Aaron instructs Emily to speak with the lieutenant on scene to figure out what you're dealing with.

"The kid's in there," you hear him say, "We've got this. Tactical teams are covering the exits. Call needs a distraction. He's focused on the old man."

Emily glances back at the house as she ties her hair back. "For now. But we're gonna have to figure out the safest way to get that kid out."

"I've got a team in the back and one on the way. We're going to infiltrate."

"You do that and someone else dies."

The man just shrugs. "Either Call or a child murderer...flip a coin."

"It doesn't have to end like that." You can see how hard she's trying to make the lieutenant understand, but sometimes the locals just don't listen. "We get a confession out of Jarvis and he goes away, and Call gets his answers. No one else has to die."

There's movement behind you and you turn around at the last second as Aaron stalks past you and towards the house.

"Hotch," you call out, but he doesn't look back. "Aaron. Aaron!"

He's almost at the front door, and your feet start moving without you realizing it. You make it within a few feet of the front gate before two pairs of arms seize you from behind, halting your momentum.

"Let him go," Dave whispers as he and Derek release you. "We have to trust him."

"He's not thinking straight," you grit out, unable to tear your eyes away from the closed door as you step forward again. He wasn't wearing his vest, and you can't remember if you saw his gun in his holster. You close your eyes, wracking your brain. Think, goddamnit.

Derek grabs you again as you try to make a break for it, anticipating your movements before you even know what you're doing. "Rossi's right. We have to trust him. We can't help him if we rush inside now."

"We can't help him out here either!" Your voice sounds frenzied in your ears, but he doesn't loosen his grip, even as you try to shove him off of you.

"You know we're right." He looks at you sternly, and your resolve diminishes as reason starts to set in. "Going inside will only make it worse."

Emily comes up from behind you and takes your arm, leading you back to the street in front of the house. You back up, but you don't turn around, ready to rush in the moment anything changes.

"What's he doing?" she asks Derek, her voice quiet, like she doesn't want you to hear.

"Stalling," he says simply. "He's got nothing to lose."

Your breath catches and you lift your hand to your chest, clutching the top of your vest like it's a lifeline. You want to scream at them, scream that he has everything to lose. He has a son, and an ex-wife who loves him, and he has you.

"You got the shot?"

"Negative."

He suddenly appears in the front of the door, but you can tell he's angling his body to block the visual of the shot. What is he doing?

The door opens for a split second, and the little boy runs down the porch and into the arms of one of the SWAT members. It shuts as fast as it opened up, and you only manage to see his face for a moment before he disappears into the house again.

For a minute, there's only silence, until the air is pierced with the sound of three gunshots, one after the other. Your body visibly flinches and you throw yourself forward and over the gate, pulling out your gun at the last moment as you breach the front door.

When you storm into the living room, Aaron is putting cuffs on Darrin. The father is dead in his recliner at the center of the room.

"What happened?" Dave asks from behind you.

He purses his lips. "I couldn't stop him." It's then that he finally looks up at you, but all you can do is glare. You don't know if you've ever been angrier in your life, and definitely not at him.

His brow dips with a mix of confusion and remorse, but you just stuff your gun back in its holster, spin around, and stalk out of the house. The fresh air outside feels like a welcome respite from the emotions swirling around inside of you, and you turn your face to the sky as your brain fires off millions of questions at once.

When did he get so reckless?

Is this all because of Foyet? The need to feel like he's getting something done, with his family on lockdown?

He comes out of the house then, and you're practically shaking from the relief that he is okay, but the anger isn't fading. You can feel it flooding your veins with each breath you take.

He hands Call off and approaches you slowly, stopping in front of you with a look you don't recognize.

"This is the job," he says simply, his voice almost cold. "You know what you signed up for."

"I know what I signed up for?" Your face twists with disbelief and you look at him with contempt. "Fuck you, Hotch." His face drops slightly and it only feeds your fight. You know him better than anyone else in this world, and that also means you know exactly how far you can push him until he cracks.

"This is what we do." His voice is tight, and you see your anger reflected in his eyes. "You knew that when you joined the team."

Emily and Dave exit the house, and you can feel their eyes flickering over to you, but you can't bring yourself to care right now.

"No," you grit out, shaking your head. "You don't get to be angry with me. You don't get to say that to me."

He looks at you for a beat before his face falls and you see all the fight leave him. He sighs, his brow pinching. "You're right."

You can practically see the war going on inside his head. The battle between fear and action, where there are no winners.

You nod as you look down at the ground, and he reaches forward to take your hand. He squeezes it tightly, before lifting it to his chest. "Y/N." I love you, I'm sorry.

You nod. "I know." I'm sorry too.

***

You've been looking at the text JJ sent you for the better part of an hour. Something's going on. Strauss was in Hotch's office and it looked bad.

You're reminded of his suspension and the two long weeks you worked here without him, and you internally resolve that it won't be happening again if you have any say at all.

The next morning, you're one of the last people to arrive, and you walk into a conversation that Spencer is having with Emily at his desk.

"You're not gonna believe this," he says, turning to you and lifting his hands dramatically. "Some moron just posted a blog called 'What would Carl Sagan do?' and it's completely illogical."

"L/N, what did I miss?"

You spin around to see Derek strutting into the bullpen, his phone held up in his hand.

"What do you mean?" you ask with a frown.

He looks at you expectantly, and you start to feel like you're on the outside of something you should know. "All the emails from Hotch..."

You yank your phone from your pocket and refresh your email. "I don't have any new ones."

"Me neither," Reid chimes in from next to you.

Derek doesn't wait another moment before he's barreling past you and up the stairs to Aaron's office.

"What was that about?" Spencer asks, a confused look on his face.

"I don't know," you say honestly, "but I think we're gonna find out soon."

~

"You wanted to see me?"

He nods and you step into his office, shutting the door behind you. Ever since his private conversation with Derek this morning, you've been obnoxiously curious about what's been going on with the team, but you also know when not to overstep your boundaries.

"Take a seat." He beckons to the couch on the far wall, and he sits down across from you when you plop down. "We have to talk about something."

"If you say Strauss suspended you again-" He cuts you off with a lift of his hand. You look at him sheepishly and nod. "You were saying..."

"This is going to sound odd, but just hear me out." You're starting to get worried, but he doesn't look anxious, so that's a start. You nod, and he continues. "The bureau thinks that my ability to lead this team has been compromised. They've been questioning me since Foyet's attack, and they're not entirely wrong."

You want to refute this, but you've also been questioning some of his actions as of late. Nevertheless, that doesn't mean that you won't have his back if it comes down to it. "They can't fire you. The whole team will fight back if they even try."

He looks at you with something that resembles concern. Concern? "They won't fire me...because I'm stepping down."

"What?" you burst out, unable to help your volume. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm resigning as unit chief at the end of the week, but I'm not leaving this team."

You think you have an idea of where this is going, but his eyes are still tracking your movements, like they do when he's worried about how you'll react. You don't know how it could get much worse than this, but then you realize he hasn't told you who will be replacing him.

"I told Morgan to take my place until we catch Foyet."

There it is. You don't expect it to sting as much as it does. "Oh."

Your voice sounds small to your own ears, and you clear your throat to keep the emotion out. This isn't a personal decision, it's professional. If Strauss was telling you this now, it probably wouldn't faze you. So why does it hurt coming from him?

"Strauss wasn't happy with your decision to not take the New York position," he explains, his eyes finding yours. "You know I think you deserve more leadership roles. It was her that suggested Morgan for it, and I couldn't argue when she was already so unsure about letting me promote internally."

"I get it," you nod. Your tone a bit sharper than expected, even though you understand where the decision came from. Derek deserves this position too. "I do, I promise."

He raises his eyebrows with a check in, and after a moment, you finally nod. It's okay. We're good.

"I'll see you in the morning?"

You dip your chin. "Good night."

***

"I can't believe Hotch is stepping down."

Penelope, Emily, Spencer, and JJ are all unabashedly watching Derek as he briefs Strauss on the case he chose for today. You've been trying not to look, but every few minutes, something snags your attention.

"Morgan said it's business as usual," Emily adds, her brow furrowed as she watches them converse.

Penelope doesn't seem eased. "So we're just supposed to move forward without any discussion?"

Spencer shrugs. "After Foyet, I think we'd have to be ready for anything."

Derek finishes speaking with Strauss then, and you stand up as he asks Emily to call Rossi for the briefing. He looks official with his ironed button-down, and you can't help but wonder if he's trying to emulate Aaron.

You flash him a cheeky smile as he walks towards the conference room, but he just brushes past you. 

~

Derek steps into his new role effectively, and you even notice him provide extra feedback to everyone throughout the case. Hotch has a bit of a difficult time stepping down at first, but you know it comes from habit, not distrust.

When you're back at the office later that night, you look up to see that he is still in his office, furiously jotting something down, even though his responsibilities have been greatly diminished. You don't know why you expected the demotion to make him want to cut back a bit.

Derek is the only person still in the bullpen when you take a seat again. You finished up the last of your paperwork, so you start to pack up your stuff, but then your interaction from earlier crosses your mind again.

Latching your bag closed, you stand up and perch on the edge of Derek's desk. "Hey, boss, how's the responsibility feel?"

"Fine," he mutters, his tone snippier than you've ever heard it.

"A lot more paperwork than you were expecting, huh?"

He doesn't look at you, so you reach forward to tap the back of his hand. "Derek, come on, what's going on with you?"

You brace for him to snap at you again, but then he just sighs, setting his pen down. "You're not angry with me, right?"

"What?" You don't know where this is coming from, seeing as how he's been the one who's been avoiding you all day. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"Why?" he repeats, his face twisted with disbelief. "I basically stole this position out from under you."

You shake your head forcefully, putting your hand over his on the desk. "Not even close, hon. Anything on my end was bureau politics, but that's just one side of it. You deserve this just as much as I would have. You've even been at the BAU longer than I have."

He's silent for a moment, before he turns his hand under yours and clasps it gently. You give his hand a squeeze before bringing your other one up to his cheek. "You're doing a great job. You were an amazing leader out there today. Hotch picked you well."

Derek leans into your hand for a beat, before letting out another sigh. "Thanks."

"Seriously, Derek," you say with a smile. "This might have been one of his best professional decisions yet."

That makes him laugh, before shaking his head. "Nah, his best decision was bringing you to this team."

Your chest fills with warmth and you lean forward to pull him into a hug. His arms are strong as they wrap around you, and you settle into the hug, turning away from the office light upstairs and trying to ignore the fact that Aaron hasn't looked up from his desk since you started talking.

***

"Agent Hotchner, before you go, there's one final thing I'd like to share with you."

Karl Arnold, the Fox, has been taunting each of you throughout the whole day, and right when you finally thought you were done, he drew you right back in. You follow Hotch and Prentiss back into the interrogation room.

"So you think you found my admirer."

"No," Aaron says simply. "We found the killer."

Arnold grins. "With my help, of course."

"Your admirer is exactly like everyone who contacts you..." Emily sneers, "lost."

Arnold turns to her, and the look in his eyes makes your skin crawl. "My love, your guy is far from lost."

Hotch shakes his head, turning to the door. "We're done."

"So is he." All three of you spin back around, much to his amusement. "'Look at what I have done.' It's quite brilliant, you know?"

"We will find whoever sent you that."

"No, Agent Hotchner, I rather think he's already found you."

Aaron immediately starts flipping through the file on the table, shoving pictures and papers aside as he searches for something. Something about Arnold's tone sends your mind reeling and you grab the journal in front of you and start flipping through it as well.

"What's going on?" Emily asks, coming up behind you.

Arnold just laughs. "He's torturing him."

"Who?"

He ignores her. "It's great to see you squirm, Agent Hotchner."

You reach one of the bookmarked pages, and the symbol that greets you almost makes you drop the journal. "Aaron..."

His eyes snap to your hands as his skin turns white. "Foyet."

The three of you rush out of the interrogation room, accompanied by the disturbing sound of Arnold's laughter echoing behind you.

Just before the door shuts behind you, you hear his final words. "He knew you'd come."

***

The whole team spends days with only one goal in mind: find and capture Foyet. JJ works with you and Garcia to track prescription medications that he would be on given his self-inflicted injuries, and Spencer, Emily, and Aaron put together a geographic profile using the letters from the Fox and the proximity of nearby pharmacies. Derek's role as acting unit chief keeps him busy all on its own, but he manages to keep the team on track as he turns any new cases that come in to other teams.

When JJ returns from a local pharmacy with the discovery that many prescription meds have over-the-counter alternatives, the focus shifts. Garcia narrows down the list, and brings back a list of names that is way too long to feasibly question.

"153 names," you huff, leaning over her shoulder as she scrolls down the list.

Emily frowns. "Well, he's not gonna use his own name."

"What kind of aliases should we be looking for?"

You all consider this, before Derek chimes in. "He could have easily stolen someone's identity."

Hotch shuts that idea down immediately. "No, he's a narcissist in love with his own mythology. He'd use a name connected with the case."

"A victim, maybe," you guess, "or a cop?"

Garcia doesn't find anything on the initial search, but thankfully Spencer suggests another approach. "Guys, Foyet likes things to have meaning to him. The eye of providence, the addresses in blood he wrote on the bus that led us back to him. Maybe he's doing the same thing with the alias."

Emily frowns. "Like an anagram or something?"

Spencer walks over to the white board and writes out George Foyet, before fiddling around with the spellings of possible anagrams. You walk up behind him and follow his movements along the board. "You see something, Spence?"

He shakes his head. "Not yet."

"Spencer," you interrupt as the realization comes to you, "he named himself The Reaper."

He pauses for a beat, before switching over to scrawling out possible anagrams for The Reaper instead. After a moment, he's done. "Peter Rhea."

Penelope is already searching. "There's a Peter Rhea in Arlington."

Rossi nods, a satisfied look on his face. "We found him."

***

Garcia sends out the address of an apartment in his name, and you drive over with Hotch, who doesn't say a word the whole way over. You keep glancing at him, trying to be discreet, but the tension in his posture doesn't fade, even after the breakthrough.

The apartment ends up being empty, but when you all go inside, there's a laptop sitting on the center table. Emily dials Garcia the moment you realize that the files on it are being remotely deleted, and when she hacks in, she comes across a series of surveillance photos that make you gasp out loud. "Oh my god, isn't that-"

"That's the US Marshall protecting my family." His face looks frozen with stress as he dials Marshall Kassmeyer's number. When the call goes to voicemail, Aaron stalks out of the apartment and to the SUVs parked out front. He doesn't wait for you to get in, before he's already driving off.

"Where is he going?" Emily calls out as she exits the building behind you.

"Kassmeyer's house," you say, almost certain that you're correct. With the knowledge that his family is most likely in immediate danger, there is nothing anyone could do to stop him from trying to save them. "I'm gonna follow him."

"Here," Rossi says, tossing his car keys to you. You accept them gratefully and speed off down the road.

~

Kassmeyer is bleeding out when you get to his house. Aaron is already inside, trying to get him to explain what happened, and when he describes how Foyet taunted him and stabbed him, you resist the urge to take Aaron's hand.

"Sam," he says suddenly, leaning over him. "I need to understand. Does he know where Jack and Haley are?"

Your heart rate skyrockets as Kassmeyer mumbles another apology. If Foyet knows where they are, you don't know if any of you will be able to get there in time.

The paramedics rush in then, and they carry Sam out to the awaiting ambulance as he refuses sedation. Aaron runs out after them and throws himself into the back of the ambulance before you can catch up.

~

Without any new leads, there's nowhere for you to go, so you wait out front in your SUV as you wrack your brain for where Foyet would have told Haley and Jack to go. You don't know how long it takes until another agent calls you from the hospital with the news that Marshall Kassmeyer died in surgery.

The news hits you like a ton of bricks. One more body you can attribute to The Reaper. "Is Agent Hotchner there?"

The voice is tinny over the line. "He took one of the SUVs and left a few minutes ago."

"Where?" You can hear how frantic your voice sounds, but you don't care. "Where did he go?"

"I'm not sure," the agent says. "He sped away before anyone could ask."

You hang up the phone and turn the car on, before pulling onto the street and calling the team line. Garcia picks up on the first ring.

"Sam died in surgery," you explain as you turn at the end of the street. "Hotch is already gone, but I'm gonna go to the hospital now in case someone has more info."

"Okay, honey," she says, patching in the rest of the team. When they answer, she repeats your statement, before she gets cut off. "Guys, Hotch is calling Foyet."

"Patch us in," Derek instructs over the line, before going silent. You mute yourself as well, before turning back to the road.

"Agent Hotchner."

Foyet's voice makes you nauseous, and you can practically hear the grin behind his words.

"If you touch her..." Aaron doesn't even finish the threat, but you can feel the rage within it.

"Be gentle, like I was with you?"

Your eyes prick with tears as you remember the scars that are now a permanent fixture on his body. The matching scars. The idea of Haley ending up the same way, or Jack-

"What the hell took you so long?" Foyet complains, his tone playful. "I was beginning to think this phone was dead or something."

Aaron doesn't answer him, and the anger is almost palpable over the line.

"Why so quiet? You usually lash out when you're frustrated."

"I'm not frustrated," he finally responds. "You're more predictable than you think."

"Am I?"

He starts to recount the tale of Foyet's life, weaving in details that you didn't know from his childhood and the pain he was causing before he was even old enough to drive. You suppose this was what all of those late nights at the office were for. You hope they were worth it.

"That's the thing, George," he continues, his voice suddenly softer. It's like he's pleading with him. "This isn't a fairy tale. You don't have to write this story. Haven't you gotten what you wanted?"

There's silence for a few moments, and you can hear your heartbeat in your skull. Eventually Foyet comes back. "You know what I've been thinking? Haley looks pretty good with dark hair."

Your heart falls into your stomach. He has her. He already has her.

"She's lost some weight. Must be all the stress you caused her."

Just when you think that might be the worst of it, he continues. "Where's the little man? Oh. There he is. Does he like Captain America because of you?"

He has them both. You can barely see the road through the anger and fear that is coursing through your veins. Another phone rings and Foyet answers it, leaving his line with Hotch on as well. "Mrs. Hotchner. I'm here. Open the gate and I'll drive in."

You can't hear her reply, before Foyet returns to the call you're listening to. "Aaron? I really gotta go."

The call disconnects, and you can't breathe. Open the gate. The gate. What gate?

Think, think, goddamnit think.

The answer hits you like a truck. "His house. They're at his old house."

Emily whispers something that sounds like "shit" and you swerve across the lanes to make a u-turn. "I'm heading there now."

Assuming Aaron was already heading back after leaving the hospital, he would reach the house before any of you. You can only hope he'll be there in time.

Your knuckles have turned white from how hard you're gripping the steering wheel, and when Garcia patches you all in for another call from Foyet, the tears are already flowing down your cheeks.

"Aaron?"

It's Haley's voice. You gasp out loud from the relief that she's still alive.

"You're okay?" She sounds so scared, but at least she's alive. That's all you can focus on right now.

Aaron answers with a defeated sigh. "I'm fine."

"But...he said that..." The realization hits her, and she lets out a small sob. "Oh, Aaron."

"He can hear us, right?"

"Yes."

His voice is softer then, wet with tears. "I am so sorry. Haley, show him no weakness, no fear."

"I know." Of course she does. She was married to a profiler for years. She knows what all of this means, but she doesn't deserve any of it. "Sam told me all about him. Is he, uh..."

"No," he says gently. "Sam is fine."

Foyet's voice is like the hiss of a snake as it joins the call. "Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. Is that why your marriage broke up, because you're a liar?" His voice is too close to the phone. You want to scream for him to get away from her, but you're not supposed to be listening, and your car isn't moving fast enough.

"He's trying to scare you, Haley." His voice is trembling, and you can hear the tightness behind each of his words.

When Foyet mentions the deal, your stomach roils with nausea. You can picture the exact look on Aaron's face as he blames himself for this entire situation, even though it's happening to him, not because of him.

"Don't react."

Haley's voice is shaking too as she whispers, "What is he talking about?"

"Tell Jack I need him working the case."

"What?" She sounds confused, and that's when you remember the signal he told you about. The words that only Jack knows that are meant to keep him safe from situations exactly like this.

"Tell Jack I need him working the case," he repeats, his voice steadier. But all of it goes away the moment Haley hands her son the phone.

"Hi, Daddy."

"Hi, buddy." His voice cracks and you feel your heart crack with it. The tears are rushing down your cheeks now, and you wipe them out of your eyes with the back of your hand as you get closer to the house. But not close enough.

Aaron tells him to work the case again, and he gives Haley a hug before rushing out of the room.

"He's so cute. He's like a little junior G-Man." Foyet chuckles, before yelling out. "I'll be right up, Jackie boy!"

Aaron ignores him, and you feel his focus return. "Is he gone?"

"Yes." Haley's voice is strong, and you release a single sigh of relief as you press the gas pedal down as hard as you can.

Aaron's voice returns and you can hear the anguish as he speaks. "You're so strong, Haley. You're stronger than I ever was."

"You'll hurry, right?" The fear in her voice breaks your heart, and you want to assure her that you're all doing everything you can, but you're still a few streets away.

"I know you didn't sign on for this."

Neither did you.

She echoes your thoughts. "Neither did you."

His voice breaks into a sob. "I'm sorry for everything."

"Promise me that you will tell him how we met and how you used to make me laugh."

"Haley..."

"He needs to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron." Her words sound so final, and you can't imagine what Foyet is pointing at her right now, but you can only hope that Aaron gets there before it's too late. "I want him to believe in love, because it is the most important thing. But you need to show him." She sounds almost resolute, and your body floods with hope for a split second. "Promise me."

His breathing is ragged as he whispers, "I promise."

Three gunshots ring out and the wheel jerks in your hand as a painful sob wrenches from your throat. No, no, no.

~

You race out of your car the moment you pull to a stop in front of the house. There's only one other SUV outside, and you don't give yourself a moment to think as you rush inside, lifting your gun at the last second.

The front foyer is empty, but then a jagged thumping fills the air and you dart around the corner to find Aaron beating Foyet to a pulp. You can tell from where you're standing that he's already dead, but that doesn't seem to matter to him.

"Aaron!" you yell, hoping to break his reverie. His hands are covered in blood as he pounds the man's face in, and he doesn't look up until you grab him from behind and yank his arms back. "Aaron, he's dead. He's dead."

He stops moving, and for one single second, everything is still. Then his body pitches forward and he breaks down as he sobs, his hands coming up like he's begging for the pain to go away.

You clutch him as tightly as you can, like if you hold him close enough, he won't fall apart. You can hear the voices of your teammates as they enter the house, but then his head lifts and he pulls himself up, dashing down the hall. You follow after him, rushing past Morgan and Rossi, and you realize where he's going in real time as he runs into his office and kneels down beside his desk.

Please, please, not him. Just not him. He opens the cabinet and you all share a gasp of relief as Jack's little face peeks out, his skin unmarred.

"I worked the case, Daddy. Just like you said."

Aaron reaches in and picks him up, before squeezing him tightly, his little face glancing around the room in confusion.

"You did a great job, buddy." He releases him after a few moments, before handing him off to JJ to go outside and away from the carnage littering the house. You press a kiss to his forehead before she lifts him up and walks out of the room.

Emily looks at you then, concern flashing in her eyes, but you just nod, and she follows JJ, pulling the door closed behind her.

You turn back around just in time to catch Aaron as he collapses to the floor. The weight sends you both to your knees, and he crushes you to him as you hold him as tightly as you can. His sobs mix in with your own, and you try not to let your body shake from the force of your crying, because you need to be strong for him.

He buries his face into your neck, his tears mixing with the blood on his face as it soaks your shirt and vest.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper into his hair. It doesn't feel like enough, but there's nothing else to say. "I'm so sorry."

~

Derek and Emily come back with the paramedics eventually to take him outside to check for injuries, and you're about to follow after them when something catches your eye. A pair of feet invade your periphery as you glance through a doorway down the hall. Oh god.

Your knees buckle and Derek catches you before you stumble forward into her room. You fall to your knees beside her, and you vaguely hear Emily whisper something behind you before there's just silence.

Her eyes are already closed, and if you really wanted to, you could try to pretend that she was just sleeping, but there's too much blood. You reach out to push her short hair back from her forehead, so that you can see her face one last time. One last time.

A sob rips out of you and you take her hand, pressing it to your lips. The scene is suddenly too much, and you close your eyes before letting out a shaky breath. You don't know what your life is going to look like without her presence. What Aaron's life with look like, or Jack's.

You squeeze her hand again before laying it on her stomach, and Emily comes forward then to help you up. Derek holds the door open as she leads you outside, and helps you tear your vest off the moment you hit the fresh afternoon air.

You bend over, hands on your knees, gulping back fresh air and trying not to throw up. Emily pats your back as you take in deep breaths, rubbing comforting circles that help to calm down your heart rate.

When you look up, you spot Aaron sitting on the edge of an ambulance. The medics are cleaning his cuts, and one of them is holding an ice pack to his head, when you walk over to survey the damage.

He doesn't look up when you approach, instead staring at his bloody hands with a look you can't discern. You can't imagine what he must be thinking right now, but if you know him at all, you know that sometimes you don't need to talk.

You reach down and take his hands, holding them in yours with a tight grip that forces him to look at you. Neither of you says anything, but it's okay, because there is nothing left to say. There will be soon, but not right now.

***

"We'll be back in a couple of hours," Jess tells you as she slings her purse over her shoulder.

You nod at her as you pick Jack off the ground and swing him up into your arms. "Take your time. We'll be hanging out here."

Aaron beckons for Jess to walk out in front of him before he dips his chin at you. "Thank you again."

"Of course," you smile, shaking your head. They're going to make the last arrangements for the funeral, and the absolute least you can do is watch Jack while they're away.

"Can we watch cartoons?" Jack asks the moment the front door shuts behind them.

"Soon, baby," you laugh lightly, before placing him on the ground and leading him to the kitchen. "We gotta make lunch first."

You throw together two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and bring them to the breakfast table, where Jack is obediently scribbling away at his coloring book. "Here you go, Jack-o-lantern."

He takes a massive bite before you can sit down, but over the next ten minutes, he only manages to finish about half of the sandwich. "I'm done."

"You sure?" you ask, scrunching your face into a playful frown. "I think you got at least a couple more bites in you."

He shakes his head forcefully, before dropping the sandwich onto his plate. You know he doesn't usually eat much, but he hasn't eaten since breakfast hours ago. "Come on, hon, at least another big bite."

"No!" he yells, pushing the plate away from him. Before you can stop him, he jumps off of his chair and races out of the kitchen, towards his bedroom.

You hear the door slam shut behind him, and you heave out a sigh before clearing away both of your plates and wiping down the counter. You don't fault him for anything, you just can't believe he has to go through something like this.

He's so young. Younger than you were when you lost your mom. There's some comfort in the fact that he likely won't remember this pain when he's older, but then comes the nausea. The sickening reminder that one day he'll forget about her. Haley, his mother, your best friend's wife, your friend.

You slowly make your way to his room, knocking on the door twice before calling out his name. When he doesn't answer, you twist the knob and gently open the door. "Jack?"

He doesn't say anything as you cross the room and sit on the floor in front of him. He's fiddling around with a set of colorful wooden blocks, and he only looks at you once you pick one up yourself. The edges have been worn smooth from being tossed around, and you run your fingers against them as you wait for him to speak.

"Did Mommy want to leave?"

You can practically hear your heart crack in two as the block falls from your hand. Tears spring to your eyes, but you blink them back, not wanting to scare him.

"No, baby, no," you say quickly, reaching forward to rub your thumb over his cheek. "She loved you more than anything in this world."

He still doesn't look convinced, so you rest your palms on his cheeks, trying to get him to look at you. "If it was her choice, she would have never left you."

After a moment, his lips jut out into a pout, but he nods once. "Is Daddy gonna leave too?"

The tears rush forward again. You want to tell him that Aaron would never leave him, that he may be gone most nights until after Jack is asleep, and sometimes even before he's up for breakfast, but he would never leave. But you also know that Haley didn't want to either, but sometimes the job takes more than you're willing to give. "He's not going to leave you. Not if he can help it."

That seems to calm him down for the time being, so you take his hand and lead him back to the living room. Once he's situated on the couch, you switch on his cartoons for him, turning the volume down low.

He settles into the cushion next to you, his arm resting on your thigh as he focuses on the screen in front of him, while your eyes wander down to the small tv stand. They land on a framed photo of Haley and Jess together, smiling at the camera as the sun shines down on their faces, and you lift your hand to your mouth to stifle the tears that rush forward.

When your eyes pan over to the photo of you and her, with Aaron and Jess right behind you, the tears stream down your cheeks, and you wipe them away quickly, trying to be quiet so as not to call away Jack's attention. But the cartoons are too quiet, and when a small sob escapes, Jack looks up, his brow furrowing with a look reminiscent of his father. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay, baby," you nod, forcing a smile onto your face as you look down at him and press a kiss to his temple. "I just loved your mom very much."

***

The ground is still wet from the rain. It squelches beneath your feet as Jess clutches onto your arm, letting you lead her across the cemetery for the service.

You walk behind the pallbearers as they bring Haley to the top of the open grass and set her down carefully with a reverence that brings tears to your eyes again. You don't know if your eyes have been dry at any moment today, but the tears haven't spilled over yet. It's only a matter of time.

Aaron is ahead of everyone, looking down at the small sheet of paper in his hands, with Jack by his side. The young boy looks so small in his suit, and his eyes dart around the procession with a mix of confusion and sadness that pierces your chest.

When Aaron is ready to begin, Jessica lets go and walks up to stand on his other side, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Your arm feels cold where she used to be, but it doesn't last long as another hand takes its place. You turn your head to see Spencer, one hand on his cane, and the other on your arm, as he holds you tightly to his side, his eyes brimming with tears as well. You don't expect that there's a dry eye in the crowd.

Aaron starts his speech with a quote, but the steadiness in his voice starts to waver the moment he says her name. "Haley was my best friend since we were in high school."

You remember how fiercely he loved her, even back then. The tenacity with which he pursued her when he realized that she was someone he wanted to spend his life with.

His voice continues as his eyes dip down. "We certainly had our struggles, but if there's one thing we agreed on unconditionally, it was our love and commitment to our son Jack." Your tears surface again, but you suck them back with a deep breath. "Haley's love for Jack was joyous and fierce. That fierceness is why she isn't here today."

Aaron looks up then, and his eyes land on the casket in front of him. "A mother's love is an unrivaled force of nature. And we can all learn much from the way Haley lived her life."

His hand flexes at his side, and you wish desperately that you were up there with him, holding his hand like he held yours when your mother died.

"I will make sure that Jack grows up knowing who his mother was and how she loved and protected him and how much I loved her."

His voice breaks and he reaches into his pocket for the scrap of paper he was looking at earlier. "I met Haley at the tryouts of our high school's production of 'The Pirates of Penzance'. I found our copy of the play and was looking through it the other night, and I came upon a passage that seemed appropriate for this moment."

The quote comes back to you as he recites it, and your mind flashes back to those adolescent afternoons when you would watch him make a fool of himself trying to impress Haley at play practice. You can't help yourself as the tears finally fall, and you feel Spencer squeeze your hand tightly, acting as the lifeline you so earnestly need.

When he finishes his speech, everyone comes forward to place white roses on her casket before it is lowered into the ground. You wait as the crowd slowly dissipates, as everyone heads to the repast, and you hold Jess's hand while Aaron picks Jack up, holding him tightly.

"Blow Mommy a kiss," he whispers, before leaning over to let Jack place a rose on the casket.

His brow furrows as he straightens again, and you watch as the familiar stoicism returns to his posture. He isn't pushing all of his emotions down, exactly. He's just tucking them away, so as to be there for his son, who needs a solid figure in his life, now more than ever.

And that's what he'll be.

***

The repast is bustling with people from all eras of Haley's life, and you sit with the team at a large table, staring at your plate of food. When Dave pulls Aaron outside to talk, you watch them leave, noting the stiffness in his shoulders as he's forced to leave Jack with Jess again. She has been nothing but grateful to see her nephew more often than usual, but nonetheless, he wears his guilt like a jagged scar across his face.

Penelope clutches your hand under the table and you give her a weak nod, unable to do more with all of the energy drained from you.

"It was a beautiful service," Emily says, her eyes big and soft as they look at you.

You nod again, before turning back to your full plate. You can't bear the thought of stomaching any food right now.

Then just when you think the day can't get any worse, Derek and JJ's phones chirp with a message at the same time. No. No.

"They can't be calling us in," Emily sighs, her lips thinning, "not tonight."

JJ shakes her head. "I'm on it." She returns from her phone call a minute later with a forlorn look. "There's no other team available."

Derek gets up with a sigh. "I'll get Rossi."

When he returns with Dave, leaving Aaron alone on the deck, you squeeze Penelope's hand before walking outside. The air is cold, and you wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you approach him.

"It's okay," he says before you can open your mouth. "I'll see you when you get back."

Mind reader, you think for a split second.

He has already given you the blessing you assumed you needed when you came out here, but it still doesn't feel right. "I don't want to go."

"It's your job," he shrugs. Like it's that simple. "It's okay."

"Are you sure?" You won't be able to do your job with him here, but even less so if you're feeling guilty the whole time. "I can take time off."

"No," he says quietly, shaking his head. He looks out into the night air, and you take his hand, squeezing it between both of yours. "It'll be good for me to have some time with Jack."

You can understand that. You pull him into a hug, before dipping your chin into a nod and leaving him out there again.

***

His return to work hasn't been easy. When Strauss gave him the option to retire with full pension and benefits, it should have been an easy decision, but something was tugging at his gut, telling him that would be the wrong choice.

Now he's sitting in his office, and all of his recent life choices are swirling around him like a hurricane ready to close in. He misses Jack like he's missing a limb, and he feels terrible for how often he's been relying on Jess to take care of him, even though she readily offered her help.

His emotions are a tumbling mess, and he doesn't notice that his fingers have been tapping the edge of his desk until you enter his office.

"Coffee?" He looks up with a nod, accepting the steaming cup you hand him, before you flop down on the couch across from him. "What are you thinking about?"

He swallows back a scalding gulp that likely scorched his throat on the way down. He wants to push his emotions down and say something quippy that won't distract you for more than a few moments, but tonight he needs reassurance more than he's willing to admit. "Did I come back too early?"

He expects an immediate and bombastic denial, but you just sit there, stirring your black coffee as you tuck your legs under you. "I can't decide that for you."

It's a diplomatic answer, but he needs guidance, and he doesn't have anyone else to go to. Not that he would go to anyone else even if he did. "Do you think I'm jeopardizing the team by being here?"

This time, the answer is immediate. "Of course not. You've been doing your job effectively, and no one can say otherwise."

He pauses for a moment, ruminating over your words. He knows he's not asking the right questions. He's just delaying until he has to accept what he's feeling.

With a shaky breath, he sets his coffee down and looks at you. "Am I jeopardizing my family by being here?"

Your brows pinch. "Jack will be okay. He's young, and he'll miss you, but you're his hero, Aaron. He loves you because you keep him safe."

"But I'm never home." His voice sounds ragged to his own ears, and he's certain you can hear the pain clawing out of his throat. "How am I doing my job as a father if I'm never there?"

"Aaron," you whisper, drawing his eyes back to yours. "You're keeping him safe by catching the bad guys. He knows that. And that's what he needs." You fix him with a look that makes his back straighten. "Okay?"

After a moment, he nods. "Okay."

***

"Hi, Hales."

You sink down onto the bench in front of her headstone, before pulling the baggie of peach rings you brought from your pocket. They were the only candy you liked from your high school's vending machine, and the two of you would share them between classes during your senior year.

"I should've come sooner, but work's been really busy."

You've only visited her once since the funeral six months ago, and you wish you could've come by more, but sometimes being here is just too much. It's too stark of a reminder that she's never coming back.

You pop another peach ring in your mouth, before breaking into a grin. "Jack's growing up so fast. He's so resilient, it's amazing." He has already adjusted to living in his father's apartment full time, and he seems to like hanging out with you or Jess whenever he's stuck at work late. "I wish you could be here to see it all."

You wish for a lot of things these days. The loss seems to keep piling up, and you don't know what to do or how to feel most of the time, but time keeps passing. And with it, so does the grief.

"Aaron's starting to get better too." You don't know what you believe, but a part of you suspects she knows all of this already. "The transition back was hard on all of us, but he doesn't look as defeated all the time anymore." Your lip twitches. "He even smiles at my jokes sometimes."

You swear you hear her laughter over the rustling of the wind, but it's probably just in your head. "Anyway, I just wanted to come see you. Let you know how much we miss you."

You stand up, grabbing the bouquet from next to you, and walk over to the headstone. Without thinking, you reach into your bag of candy and drop a peach ring into the dirt. It feels juvenile, even as you're doing it, but you can't help yourself. She would find it funny. You know she would.

You tuck the rest into your pocket and walk across the grass to another row of stones. It's not a quick stroll, but it gives you enough time to take a few deep breaths before you face him again.

Jeff Adler. The letters jump out at you like flashing lights, and you blink a few times as the magnitude of your loss washes over you. So many lives, so much love and warmth gone from your life.

Bending down, you place the bouquet of carnations in front of his headstone, before kissing your fingertips and pressing them to his name.

***

"You've got to be kidding."

He just shrugs, but there's a small smile tugging at his lips. You make sure to keep your voice down as you toss your cards into the center pile and lean back against the bottom of his couch.

After putting Jack to bed, neither of you could think of anything quiet to do until Aaron pulled out a deck of cards from below the tv stand.

"I hate that you're so good at this," you grumble, watching as he deftly splits the deck and starts shuffling again. This being Go Fish.

"You're good, too," he concedes, flashing you an amused look that you don't share.

"Yeah, but you're better."

"As with most things."

You throw a card at him, but he dodges it easily. When he's finished shuffling, he deals out a card, before pausing. "We can play something else if you don't think you can beat me."

"Just deal the cards."

He lets out a low laugh and deals out another card, just as both of your cellphones chirp at the same time. You share a look before dropping the cards on the table. He stands first and gives you a hand up, which you accept.

"I'll call Jess," you whisper as he strides over to his bedroom to get his go-bag. You dial her quickly, and get the confirmation that she's coming over, before grabbing your own bag and heading out to his car.

***

"Sorry to ruin your night."

Everyone is in casual clothing when you walk into the briefing room with Aaron on your heels. JJ shoots you an apologetic look which quickly turns to surprise when Rossi walks in wearing a full tux.

"What, are you working on, wife number 4?" Derek laughs as he sets his bag down.

Dave just grumbles. "I see you people way too much."

"I hear that," you grin before taking your usual seat between Aaron and Spencer.

"Let's get started." JJ hands out the case files and clicks the screen on. "All right. Anchorage field office is asking us to investigate a series of murders in Franklin, Alaska. There's 3 people dead in less than a week."

You scan the file as fast as you can, but Spencer beats you to it. "For a town with a population of 1,476, that's fairly significant."

JJ nods. "It's their first murder investigation on record."

"Who are the victims?" Dave asks, his eyes darting back and forth between the file and the screen.

JJ looks down at her notes. "Uh, Jon Baker, a hunter. Dedaimia Swanson, a schoolteacher. Brenda Bright, the first mate on a fishing boat. There's a new victim every 2 days."

Everyone seems to be thinking the same thing, but Emily gives it a voice. "Any connections?"

"Unfortunately, in a town this small, everyone's connected."

When JJ finishes up the briefing, Aaron stands up and grabs his bag. "We'll fly out tonight. Everybody can sleep on the plane. Garcia, I need you with us."

She shoots him a confused look. "Sir?"

"I've tasked a satellite uplink and it's your job to keep us connected."

"Yes, sir."

"This town's already on the brink," he continues with a sigh, "and if this pattern continues, we've only got another day until the next murder. Let's finish this fast."

***

After barely getting any sleep on the plane ride over, and a long day in the cold, the team holes up in the lobby of a local inn, warming up around the fire.

"I'm gonna pull an all-nighter," Garcia announces when you stifle a yawn behind your fist. "I'll finish going through the town records. Should have background checks by sunrise."

"Good," Aaron nods, sitting up on the couch. "The rest of us should get some sleep, start fresh in the morning."

At his suggestion, the innkeeper steps out from behind her desk. "I've got four of the upstairs rooms available."

"Uh, 4?" Spencer squeaks, his eyes darting around the room.

"Come on," the sheriff sighs as he stands up, "that's the best we can do. Your team is double the size of my department." He glances at Aaron and they share a nod. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night."

The sheriff walks out of the inn and you lean back on the couch, turning your head to the side to look at Aaron. The question in your eyes is implicit. What's the plan?

"It looks like we'll have to double up," Emily answers for you, her lips stretching into a grin.

Derek speaks up immediately. "I'm not sleeping with Reid."

Penelope reaches over and grabs Derek's arm. "Dibs."

Emily and JJ stand together and head upstairs, and you glance at Aaron with a nod. "Let's find one of the double rooms before Emily snags it."

"Guess it's you and me, kid," Dave says to Spencer as you grab a key from the front desk and pick up your bag. The inn is so small that all of your rooms end up being in the same hallway. You leave the door open behind you as you step inside and toss your bag onto the nearest bed.

Aaron enters after you and locks the door, before wordlessly moving your bag to the other bed, away from the door. It takes you less than a second to realize why. His protective nature was always strong, but over the past year, it has kicked into overdrive, especially around you and Jack.

"Do you want first shower?" you ask as you unzip your bag and pull out a tee shirt and some sleep shorts.

"You take it," he says, shaking his head. The chilliness of the outside air hasn't left your bones, so you don't wait for him to change his mind before grabbing your toiletries and rushing into the bathroom.

While you're in the shower, Aaron takes his time fluffing out the comforter and pillows on his bed. The room itself isn't very spacious, but he doesn't mind sharing with you. The close quarters remind him of his youth when he would sneak into your room late at night to get away from his family. Just the sight of the lights through your bedroom window used to bring him peace. When he glances over at your side of the room, a tranquility washes over him, and he realizes that the feeling hasn't really gone away.

"Your turn," you say a little later when you emerge from the bathroom. Your skin is still slightly damp, and your cheeks are pink from the heat of the shower, and he has to tear his eyes away as he nods and steps around you.

The tiny mirror in the bathroom is still steamy when he shuts the door behind him and pulls off his shirt, and he lifts his hand to wipe it off, before pausing. His scars aren't something he likes to think about often, but after saving Jack, they took on a different image in his mind. He felt less like a victim.

He rubs his hand against the mirror to wipe off some of the condensation, and his reflection looks tense as it stares back at him. Back in the room, your presence felt warm and comfortable, but in here, with the steam fogging up the glass, and the scent of your perfume lingering in the air, something else roils in his gut.

It's a not-so-unfamiliar feeling that used to be commonplace when he was younger. It hadn't reared its head in years, but lately, it's been so much harder to push it down. When he sees how much his son loves you, how much he looks forward to finding you in his apartment when he gets back from a late meeting. It's been...hard.

He turns on the shower and steps in, letting the hot water wash away the notions tickling the edge of his brain. When he walks back into the room, you are tucked into your bed, the covers up to your chin.

"You look like a burrito," he notes with a small laugh.

You shrug, though it's barely visible from under the comforter. "I find this is the best way to keep out the Arctic chill that seems to have invaded our lodgings."

"Fair enough."

He slides into his own bed and clicks the switch on the wall to turn the lights off. He tries to sleep for a few minutes, but even though he's exhausted, it won't come.

It's dark enough that he can't see his fingers in front of his face, but the uneven sounds of your breathing let him know that you're still awake.

"You should really sleep," he whispers into the darkness.

"You first," you say after a moment, before your voice lowers. "How are you doing? How are you holding up, I mean."

"How are you doing?" he asks, knowing he's being unfair.

You don't let it slide this time. "You're deflecting."

"I know."

There's a pause before he finally concedes. "I think I'm okay. The normalcy is coming back, and Jack is doing a lot better, which helps immensely."

"Me too," you say after a beat.

He wants to let the subject go and try to sleep, but the words are pulling at his throat. "I miss her all the time."

"Me too," you repeat. You huff out a husky laugh, but there's no humor behind it. "God, me too."

There's a tinge of bitterness in your voice that he recognizes in himself, but it's not something he knows if he can explain. He remembers how a small part of you blamed Jeff after his death, but that's nothing like what he's feeling. He blames himself for everything but the act itself, knowing that if he had just gotten there quicker, or taken the deal, or taken the transfer-

His breath catches and he hears you rustle under your covers. He imagines you turning to face him, and as his eyes slowly adjust he sees that he was right.

"Do you remember that time in high school," he says suddenly, not entirely sure where he's going with this, "when I got detention."

"I'm gonna need you to be more specific."

He laughs, in spite of himself, and turns over to face you as well. You're so far away, but he can just barely make out your face from across the room. "When you broke me out."

Your laughter is sudden and it echoes around the small room as the memory hits you. "I do remember that. I told them your grandfather was in the hospital so that they would let you out. God, Mrs. Parker was so upset when she went to get you."

"I think my favorite part of the story was that both of my grandfathers died before I could walk."

You chuckle, your voice softer now. "I know."

His chest warms at the memory of the two of you running out to your car and driving to get a scoop of chocolate at your favorite ice cream shop. Even afterwards, you had driven around town for hours, without a complaint, and he hadn't mentioned the time once. It was so soon after his dad's death, and he hated going home for so many reasons. Sean hated him, and his mother was sad all of the time, and it was like you just knew.

"You were good at reading me," he whispers, almost to himself.

"Were good?" you ask with mock offense.

He snorts. "Fine, are good at reading me."

"That's more like it."

***

You drop your empty glass back on the table, feeling the burn of the liquor as you swallow it down. It's your second drink of the night, and while you usually don't indulge in more than one, you welcome the chance to let loose.

Everyone else seems to be in the same mindset, because JJ, Emily, and Penelope are in various states of drunkenness around the booth, and the men are either nursing a drink or driving.

"Let's dance," JJ shrieks, lifting her head off of Will's shoulder and pushing herself up from the booth.

"Hell yeah," Emily grins, pulling you and Penelope up with her.

JJ tries to corral the guys to join, but they all stay firmly seated. Dave and Will look content as they sip their whiskey, and Spencer doesn't budge, citing his leg hurting (a lie). After a bit of targeted shoving, Derek chuckles and gets up for one dance, following Penelope and JJ onto the dance floor.

"Aaaaaron," you slur, tugging his arm. He doesn't move even an inch, but the corner of his lip twitches when you don't give up.

"You used to dance in college," you point out with a frown.

Emily hoots as she saunters over to the floor. "This I need to see."

Aaron just shakes his head with a smile, and you eventually oblige, joining the ladies (and Derek) for a few dances. The dark atmosphere of the club has you feeling looser than you have in a long time, and after the next song, you join Dave over at the bar to get another drink.

You down half of it before you leave the counter, and by this point, JJ has coaxed Will out of his seat, while Spencer rushes off to find the bathroom. The tiredness hits you as soon as you finish the drink, and when you spot Aaron by himself at the booth, you glide back to keep him company.

He doesn't notice you at first as you walk over to him, and you can't help but register that he looks good in his undone button-down. You take another step forward and a thin glint of metal around his neck becomes visible. A jolt of heat shoots down your body and you set your glass down on a nearby table without looking as you approach him.

When you reach the edge of the bench, someone walking by bumps into you and you stumble forward. Aaron grabs onto you as you fall forward, and you end up crushed in his arms, your face just inches from his. Your thoughts cut out and you don't make a sound, your breaths coming out in quick spurts.

Neither one of you moves as you look at each other, so so close, so much closer than you've ever been, than you've ever gotten to be. The faintest impression of a thought - the thought - crosses the deepest edges of your mind as you lean in infinitesimally. He doesn't notice, and you barely register it either, but you can't help but notice how easy it would be to just close the gap and kiss him.

Kiss him?

Your brain short-circuits and you just barely manage to keep your eyes from widening. You have no idea where that came from, but then again, if you are honest with yourself, it has always been there, buried deep down beneath years of friendship and history.

The question invades your brain again, and this time, you're unable to stop it. What would it be like to kiss him?

You can't keep your breath from catching, and he pulls back immediately, tugging you to the side and depositing you on the booth beside him.

Your mouth falls open as you try to meet his eye. "Aaron-"

His head turns and he stands up, his eyes dark under the soft lighting. "I'm sorry."

Before you can get another word out, he's gone.

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#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #hotch x reader #hotch x female!reader #aaron hotchner #hotch #criminal minds #penelope garcia #spencer reid #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #david rossi #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner series #criminal minds series #criminal minds season five #hotch fic #criminal minds fanfiction #anchor series #anchor

[isawritesshit]

The Color Blue - Chapter 2

image taken from @ lovevivianne on pinterest

Synopsis: As the only daughter to the leader of the Kamo Clan, you were trained and protected to one day bring your father honor through your marriage to the heir of the Gojo Clan. However, your husband ended up being something that your family never prepared you for. As you come to navigate a new world of politics between the clans, your husband convinces you that there is nothing wrong with honoring yourself too. MDNI WITH THIS CHAPTER.

Warnings and Content: fem! reader, slightly ooc! (?) gojo, mostly fluff with a hint of angst, smut (gojo fantasizes about fucking the reader, body worshipping, marking, fingrering, fem receiving! oral, taking reader’s virginity in mating press), mentions/anxieties of marriage consummation, themes of arranged/forced marriage/familial expectations, cursing, themes of mentally abused/anxious reader, male masturbation

Author's Note: Chapter 2 woo woo! Had a lot of fun writing this one. Please keep in mind that there is smut in the chapter so minors dni! I will add that reader's father in this series, along with other family members, are not canon and are created for the purpose of the story, as well as the beliefs/dramatization of the Kamo clan. If you have yet to read the prologue or chapter one, please do so!

Word Count: 7.3k

___________________________________________________________

Satoru folded his arms as he stood before your father, waiting for him to say something. Instead, the man held Satoru's gaze while sitting on the foyer's couch, not breaking it even when one of the household staff set a cup of steaming tea on the table before them and left.

Arao Kamo was a gruff man, and stupidly proud. His clan was the largest of the three major jujustu clans. Where Satoru and now you were the only Gojo members, the Kamos had dozens interwoven into their bloodline, and Arao oversaw them all with an iron fist. Just as Yaga had said, this was a family rooted in deep tradition, and Arao upheld it just as the other Kamos had done for centuries. Though he was past his prime as a sorcerer, wrinkles dotting his once handsome face just like the gray in his hair, he was widely respected across the jujustu community.

"Where is my daughter?" Your father asked lowly, clearly tired of waiting. Waiting for you, Satoru realized.

"She's sleeping. She had a pretty bad fever this week, so I'm making her prioritize her rest. I was just about to make her breakfast when you arrived, actually," Satoru replied with equal calm, cocking his head and giving him a smirk. "Though, I'm assuming you're not here for breakfast."

"I came to see (Y/N)," your father grumbled, now taking the tea into his hands. "I messaged her this morning notifying her I would be here, but it seems she didn't see it. That girl can be so insolent sometimes..."

That set Satoru off a bit. No wonder you were always so focused on pleasing him if you had to cater to this prick. "Well, forgive me, sir, but like I said, she's asleep, so she wouldn't have been able to read your texts. Maybe next time give her a further notice. And, contrary to your definitely valued opinion, I find your daughter quite charming and very polite. But hey, what do I know, she's only been living with me for a month and a half," Satoru shrugged, firing at him with his usual attitude. He was peeved to even refer to this man as his father-in-law, so he avoided it as much as he could.

Satoru almost snickered when he saw a vein fire off in the Kamo leader's head as he gripped the ceramic cup so hard it almost cracked. What was even more fun was knowing that the man couldn't even tell Satoru to watch his tone. They were equal in position, but Satoru greatly outweighed him in power, even if your father was a retired special-grade.

Your father only released a breath, trying to calm himself before saying, "Right. Well then, since she's preoccupied, I'm sure you wouldn't mind telling me that you both have consummated your marriage?"

Satoru tried and failed to hide the disgust on his face. Why would he need to know that? You being his daughter or no, he had no right to know what went on in your marital bed. Satoru decided in that moment that he wanted your father out of this house before he made him leave. "Oh, yeah, definitely. Don't know why that's any of your business, but of course we have," Satoru lied, though the smug grin on his face made it look like he was telling the truth.

"Well then, I congratulate you both," your father said, now standing. "I expect good news in the coming weeks. I suppose I'll be taking my leave now."

"Oh, please do," Satoru replied wittily, moving a little too quickly to open the front door for him. "I need to get back to breakfast before my poor dear wife starves."

Arao gave Satoru a sneer before walking out the door. "Oh, and the lawn care guy should be outside if you need help getting down the stairs!" Satoru shouted as he watch the man leave, closing the door and laughing to himself.

He stood at the door for a moment, sighing and running a hand through his hair, all while trying to ponder the reason why your father felt the need to show up in the first place. Suddenly, Satoru felt a little guilty for not trying to move up the marriage date himself, now getting a more vivid image of what you probably had to deal with.

Speaking of you, he needed to get back to cooking. He turned to walk back up the stairs, but you were already standing at the top, looking down at him. He smiled at the sight of you, your usual silk robe covering your nightgown as you folded your hands in front of you. It seemed like you had just washed up, too. Satoru jogged up the steps to greet you.

"Satoru-" you started, a small pout on your face.

"Don't worry, (Y/N), I took care of it," Satoru interrupted, putting his hands on your shoulders to usher you back to the kitchen. "By the way, your father is a lovely individual."

"I know it was him you were talking to. I just saw his texts and rushed down to greet him, but you got there before me," you explained. "I was listening to your conversation, but I should have showed my face. Forgive me?"

"That's perfectly okay. You have nothing to be sorry for. You don't have to talk to him if you don't want to," Satoru reconciled. "To be honest, I was already ticked that he just invited himself over."

"Well, he is my father. He should be able to see me when he wants to," you replied. Satoru looked at you and furrowed his brow as the two of you walked through the doors and towards the kitchen.

"(Y/N), that shouldn't mean anything. You're his daughter, sure, but you're also an adult and someone that's capable of making their own decisions, so you have a right to refuse him, especially in the state that you're in. Not to mention, you should be in bed," Satoru argued. Did you really stop resting to go downstairs and see him? How much of a hold did this man still have on you?

"But as your wife and the matron of the house, I should be the first to greet guests-"

Satoru only snickered and shook his head. "(Y/N), just because that was something your father taught you doesn't mean you have to do that. You realize how ridiculous that statement sounds?"

He suddenly regretted his words when you gave him a worried look. "But, that's my responsibility-"

“But it doesn’t have to be!” Satoru interjected before you could say anymore. He sighed before continuing. “Look, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. What I mean is that… you’re recovering from an illness, and we both know you need rest. So, since something like this came up and because I’m the one taking care of you, I went to go answer the door because you’re still in bed. I was happy to do it, (Y/N)…”

After a few seconds, he added, “I understand what you think, and please don’t take this like I’m trying mansplain something to you or what not… but the whole husband-wife relationship dynamic that I think you have in mind… it’s not… healthy, so to speak. At least, I don’t think it is. You don't always have to break yourself down trying to handle so many things. The same goes for me too. So we help each other, right? You don’t even have to think of it in a married way either. Just see it like I’m doing you a favor, yeah?”

"Still... he won't be happy with me," you murmured as the two of you walked the rest of the way to the kitchen in silence. The ingredients still sat on the counter, the batter ready but unused. Satoru decided to get started on that right away while you watched from the entryway.

"Satoru?"

"Mhm?"

"Why did you lie...?" The stove reached a crescendo of sizzles as Satoru poured the batter onto the pan, his back turned to you.

"Because he has no right knowing about private stuff like that," he replied, his shoulders moving slightly under his t-shirt as he fiddled the batter with the spatula. "And because I knew he would be furious with you. I knew he would find a way to blame it on you... as if it was your fault that I decided not to force myself on you because you were obviously nervous and scared and we had practically just met. I would never do something like that unless you wanted me to."

"But I do."

"Do you? Or do you want to because you know it's what your family expects of you?"

A beat. "I don't know."

Satoru moved the done pancakes onto a paper plate and poured more batter on the pan. "(Y/N), what do you want us to be?"

"You're my husband-"

"No, just... putting all that aside for a minute. Disregard what I want, what your family wants, what jujustu society wants... what do you want us to be, as two human beings?"

You didn't answer his question. In fact, you didn't say anything until he had used up all of the batter and made a semi-okay stack of blueberry pancakes for the both of you. Maybe you have never been asked something like this before. After all, your whole life you were told to be dedicated to your father and your family name, and then eventually to him. Your opinions thus didn't ever matter in any situation, so no one probably bothered asking. Did you even know then what it was like to want something? To want to have a goal or a sense of identity that was truly your own?

It wasn't until he opened the silverware drawer to grab forks that you spoke up.

"A friend. I want us to be friends."

Satoru smiled, shutting the drawer before handing you your plate. "You got it, pretty girl."

___________________________________________________________

"So what do you like to do for fun?" Satoru asked, observing you as he sat backwards on one of the many chairs of the library.

"Read," you replied, not even looking up from the book in front of you.

"Yeah. I gathered," Satoru grumbled. Whatever you were reading, you seemed really immersed, pages in your face and curled up all nice and comfy on the couch. He reached forward, barely able to put the tip of his finger on the top of the cover to pull it down a little and look at you. "What else?"

"Have we not had this discussion before?" You moved the book back up, a placid expression on your face.

"Yeah, but there's a difference between hobbies and things you do for fun..."

"Okay then. I do my hobbies for fun."

Satoru sighed. "So you're telling me you've never like... gone to the movies? An amusement park? Maybe a club or something?"

He barely saw you shake your head as you said, "Aside from going to see a movie once or twice, I've never done any of those. There are more ways to spend my time that do not involve spending money or wearing indecent clothing around indecent people."

Satoru chuckled at your response. You did seem like the type of person to frown upon things like parties and alcohol. "Hmph. Now that has me thinking... what is the most rebellious thing you've ever done as a teenager?"

You set your book down at his question, gently marking the page as you hummed. "I was able to procure a romance novel when I was 16..." you murmured.

Satoru only raised an eyebrow, shifting in his seat. "And? What did you do with it?"

"I read it of course," you replied matter-of-factly.

"That's... it? What, was it like hardcore porn or something?"

"Goodness no! It was... just a romance novel..." You picked up your book again, clearly flustered.

Satoru snickered, moving a chair around to sit on it normally to look at you as you read. "Well then, what was so bad about it?"

"Well, the fact that it was a romance novel," you shrugged.

That made Satoru pause for a moment, considering what your words were implying. "So... you weren't allowed to read romance novels? That seems kinda harsh... Is that why you read so much non-fiction type stuff?"

"To begin, I do read fiction, just not a lot of fiction prose. And secondly, yes, I was not allowed to," you explained. "My father believed reading stories of that nature would give me fanciful ideas to go out and try to experience romance and tamper my chastity before my marriage."

That stunned Satoru to silence for a moment. "Wow. Not gonna lie, your dad's a dick."

Your brow furrowed as you looked at him from over your book. "Satoru, that's rude."

"What? He's not in the room with us. And besides, it's not like you were shooting heroin up your arm and getting pregnant at 16 because you read a romance book," he argued, crossing his arms over his jacket. "What was it even about anyway?"

You sighed, setting down your book again. "I don't really remember. Something like... a girl running away from her kingdom to escape marriage, and she somehow ends up falling for the man she was supposed to marry anyway." You leaned back against the couch, setting your book on the table nearby. "I never read it again. I was too afraid someone would find it and tell my father."

"What was the book called?"

"I don't... I don't remember," you muttered, looking down in your lap.

"Did you like it?"

You only shook my head with a smile. "You ask a lot of questions, Satoru."

He only smirked and raised his arms up in a 'guilty as charged' motion. "Well, forgive me for just trying to know more about something that you obviously enjoyed. But seriously? Your dad wouldn't let you read something like that?"

"N-no..." Your eyes wandered before landing on the clock on the other side of the room, standing when you realized what time it was. "I should start on lunch-"

"Ah, ah, ah," Satoru ticked, standing up to stop you. "We're going out for lunch."

"We are?" you asked, looking up at him confused. "Did I forget?"

"Nope, I just decided," Satoru chirped, now putting a hand on the small of your back as he led you out of the library. "We're gonna go to lunch, and then we're going shopping."

"But we have food here... and what do we need to shop for?" you inquired, a puzzled look on your face. "I had just run to the market this past weekend..."

"Well, dontcha think it's kinda odd that we're married yet we haven't really gone out to do something fun together? I think it'll be nice. And you can't shop for books on an empty stomach," he replied, patting his own stomach for emphasis. "You can get any romance book you desire, all on me. It doesn't even have to be a romance book, either! I can tell you've been reading those same poetry collections over and over so you must want some new ones..."

Your silence was a clear indicator of your hesitation, making Satoru look at you for a moment. You were biting the inside of your cheek, eyes trained down, second guessing. "Hey, if you don't want to, we won't go," he said, voice softening. "We can make lunch here and find something else to do later, if that's what you'd rather do..."

"I... I'm just..." you started.

"What's on your mind, pretty girl?"

You looked sheepishly off to the side, now stopping in the center of the private living room in both you and Satoru's shared part of the estate. "It's just... my father visited here less than a week ago trying to see me, and I didn't even greet him. And now... now what you're proposing is... something he most definitely wouldn't...uhm..."

Admittedly, the first thing Satoru felt was frustration. How much of your life did your father dictate before he married you? Too much, Satoru knew now. Too much to the point where you're thinking of his approval long after you were grown and married. Too much to the point where your father could have demanded an answer to the same question he asked Satoru a few days ago, and you would've answered him truthfully despite the fact that you knew you would suffer. What more could this man want from you besides your total devotion?

However, that frustration melted to empathy and heartache when looking at your face. Now, because of your consideration of rejecting his offer, you looked guilty. He felt the urge to reach out and hug you; to hold your head to his chest and tell you it was okay, and that he understood; to let you know that he didn't take any offense to what your concerns were or what you were feeling. After all...

He can't blame you for knowing any different.

"(Y/N), I understand that you may feel that way but... I'll tell you the same thing that I told you before: I'm not your father. I don't plan on being like him, either. You can do whatever you want when you're here. So, if you want to stay here and not go get anything, that's fine. But, I want you to know that I would be very happy to take you to go get a few books and some food, and I think you'll be too. It's your decision."

You swallowed, picking at the skin of your fingers, likely a nervous habit. Your eyes darted to a few different spots: the carpet, his socks, the wooden wall, the window. You tried to calm your breaths, your chest rising and falling, rising and falling...

"Maybe... maybe one new thing on my bookshelf... wouldn't hurt?"

___________________________________________________________

One new book turned into two, two into three, and three into ten. Of course, Satoru got a few for himself too. He wasn't a big reader, but he figured he'd try a few to keep him occupied when traveling.

Traveling was part of the reason he took you out today. You both already knew that he had been assigned an upcoming mission for a while now, one that was going to keep him away for about a week. He wanted to do something for you before he left, and he couldn't have thought of anything more perfect.

After your shopping, the two of you went to a little café tucked between the stores of a nearby shopping center. You both talked for roughly two hours, enjoying baked sandwiches and coffee and muffins. It was the first time he had ever seen you talk so openly with him, like he was having a conversation with any of his other friends or colleagues. But it was so... different at the same time? You had this grace to the way you spoke, which he had already noticed, but what was new was your cute mannerisms: the way your eyes looked upward when you tried to think of something, or the way you smiled nervously when you suddenly forgot what the two of you had been talking about...

And if that wasn't icing on the cake, there was what he was now referring to in his head as The Miracle. A little blonde girl, no more than five, had been running around the café with her other sister, friend, whoever, for most of the time the two of you had been there. However, amidst trying to run away from the other girl she was playing with, the little blonde had run into the chair you were sitting in, causing her to fall over. Satoru choked on a laugh while you just bent over in your seat to help the girl up.

However, when you helped the girl to her feet, a hand on her little wrist, the kid just stared at you, starstruck. When you asked if she was alright, the girl only answered with a dazed, You look like a princess.

And what he witnessed was the best part of his day. You laughed. Loudly. Eyes crinkled as your cheeks expanded from a wide smile. You thanked the little girl, told her she looked like one too, before the kid ran back over to her parents.

He had laughed too, of course. Usually kids give him weird stares, but seeing it happen to someone else was funny for a change. Satoru couldn't have agreed more with the kid, though. You did look like a princess, even if you were wearing just a typical floral dress, and he had the fight the urge to rub it in the kid's face. She's my princess that I get to see everyday because she's my wife, so eat it.

That laugh was a broken record in his head the entire drive home, replaying over and over. It was so... unlike you, in a sense. You were so timid, yet your laugh had come out loud and roaring up from the pit of your stomach like a long awaited eruption. What he wouldn't give to hear that again...

And that's what led him to your bedroom. The two of you just got back 30 minutes ago and he was craving your presence again already. He stood in your already open doorway, leaning against it with his sunglasses slung low on his nose as he watched you put your new books on your bookshelf. You even rearranged some of the ones already on there to make a different section for your three new romance novels.

You seemed content, fulfilled. Satoru considered that a mission accomplished.

He spoke up when you were done. "Tired of me yet, or do you want to find something else to do?"

You turned to face him from where you were sitting on the floor before standing and straightening out the skirt of your dress. There was something... extremely attractive about your modesty, your adorable and considerate manners. He knew they must have been drilled into you since childhood, but the way you did it- the little bounce when you stood, the slight shift of your weight from one foot to another, your wide eyes looking at him- that was all you. He loved it.

"Uhm... if you don't mind me asking, Satoru..." you began, one of your hands picking at your fingers- a nervous habit, he now knew. "Why did we go out today... or why did you take me out? I don't think I did anything to... necessarily deserve this-"

"Let me stop you right there," he interrupted, a small chuckle as he took his glasses off and placed them on the collar of his button-up shirt. "You don't need to do anything to deserve something like this. I just wanted to hang out, have fun, take your mind off of things that might be worrying you. After all, you're the one that said you wanted to be friends, am I right?"

"Yes, but... I didn't know that that would entail shopping sprees..." you replied, a mix of bashfulness and thankfulness crossing your features.

"Well, it does when you're friends with me. And don't forget, my money's all yours anyway, so really then you don't even need me to take you out to splurge. If you end up hating me enough, you could buy your own house on the other side of the world and never see my face again," he shrugged, smirking a little.

That smirk grew when your face changed from bashful to worried. "Why would I do that? And... and how do I have access to any of that?" you exclaimed.

Satoru stepped off the doorway, making his way over to you. "Well, you're legally my wife, so my money is also yours. And as for hating me, while I will do everything in my power from getting you to do so, I know I can be a lot for people to try and handle. So if you end up disliking me, that's totally understandable."

You only looked up at him anxiously. "I think it would be rather crude of me to dislike you after everything you've done for me..."

"I guess you're right, but you're still allowed to from time to time. I'd rather you express yourself than cover it up," Satoru replied with a smile, crossing his arms over his chest. "So then, based off of that logic, how do you feel about your father?"

You opened your mouth, but then shut it, looking away. "I can understand why you feel loyalty to him and your family, but from what I can gather, he treated you terribly. And while I don't clearly know everything, I can tell. Really, I can. Were you happy to let him... indoctrinate you like that?" he asked, eyes soothing into something more comforting.

"I..." you started, as if trying to find the words. Then your breaths rose and fell slightly faster, your bottom lip began quivering. Satoru's eyebrows raised as he took note of what was going to happen-

His arms shot forward to steady you as your body seemed to cave in a little, a small no cracking from your throat before the tears started. His heart broke to pieces.

"Hey, hey, hey... shh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you something like that without warning you..." he whispered, ushering you to sit on the bed while he stood in front of you. "Hey, talk to me. You can talk to me..." Satoru raised his hands, one placing itself on your shoulder, the other wiping the tears that trickled down your face.

Through your sobs and shaky breaths you were able to get out, "Scared... I was always... so scared and frightened by... by the thought of what... w-what he would do... if... if I... but I had no choice-"

"Yeah... and you shouldn't have to feel that way around your own father. What he was teaching you, and how he treated you, was wrong," he consoled, brushing more tears and stray strands of hair away from your face. Snot began to drip from your nose. "Shit, uh... here."

You grimaced as he held up his forearm for you to blow into his sleeve. You just pouted and shook your head.

Satoru chuckled lowly. "C'mon, it's fine. I can take it off and wash it later. Unless, you want me to take it off now?" he added with a wink and wiggled eyebrows shot in your direction.

That only caused your face to redden a little, giving him a sniffle as you moved you head forward and used his shirt as a tissue. "Don't be afraid to blow. I got another sleeve too," he quipped, smiling weakly when you eventually did as he adjusted more of your hair behind your ear.

"(Y/N)..." Satoru moved to sit next to you on the bed. "I'm not going to make you tell me everything about yourself. What you want to share is up to you. But, I'll promise that you'll never have to be afraid of me... okay?"

You nodded once, your breaths staggering as you forced yourself to get calm.

"And... can you look at me please?" he whispered, gently cupping one side of your face to turn your attention to him. "You can come to me for anything. Even when I'm not here, you have my number."

You only sighed. "I'm sorry..."

"Sorry? For what?" Satoru retracted his hand from your face.

"For... for that. For feeling like you... for having to... coddle me like this," you muttered. "It's... deeply unfair to you..."

"It's really not..." he tittered. For a moment, he considered telling you just how much he had been wanting, waiting for a moment like this so he could show how much he cared for you. He wanted to tell you that he would rip his whole shirt to scraps for you to blow your nose in to prove it. "Emotions... aren't meant to be something transactional between people. Trust me, I know. If you want me to go to you for something, I gladly will, but right now it's not about me..."

"Are you sure?" you voice cracked, brows furrowing.

"Sure that's it not about me? Well, perhaps not everything can be. But I guess it's okay to give away my spotlight once in a while," he sighed with his usual sarcasm, causing you to giggle a little.

"I meant... are you sure that... that you'd be okay if I... talked to you about... anything?" you questioned again, trying to find your words.

"Absolutely, 's what I'm here for," Satoru assured. "And each time I'll remind you that you're a wonderful, talented, kind, and good-looking individual," he added, giving a little boop on the tip of your nose before continuing with a flare in his voice. "And that-" that I love you "-that, well, I think everything is going to turn out just fine. After all, I'm the strongest sorcerer alive. I can handle anything you throw at me."

You smiled softly, looking down in your lap, your eyes caught between melancholy and meditative. "I suppose you're right about that..."

"Oh, I know, pretty girl. A little therapy session is nothing compared to a special grade curse," he sniggered. "But that doesn't mean I take it more lightly."

You only hummed in response. Satoru just continued to look at you as you stared forward into the carpet, probably thinking about something to say. Even after you had just finished crying, you looked so lovely. Hell, he could never catch you at a time when you weren't that. Or maybe he just saw you that way no matter what.

When you looked back to him, he prepared himself to listen. Instead, all you said was, "Have you packed a bag for your mission?"

He just laughed. "Yeah, I should probably get on that..."

"I'll... probably just get ready for bed early, then," you stammered. "And... uhm..." You turned to him, breathing in as you brought an arm close to his side, making a motion as if you were going to wrap it around him, before ultimately deciding to rest it on his elbow. "Thank you..."

Satoru gave you a knowing smile. He could tell what you were about to do, but chose to not say anything about it. What was important was that he at least noticed. "Anytime..." With that, he opted to leave you alone while he returned to his room.

He could see you were trying. He knew you were, and he knew it was hard. Your whole life, you had been terrified of messing anything up. Hearing you say that set off something deep in him.

As he packed, he realized he had been stupid, so idiotically fucking stupid. He had the power this whole time, for years, to take you to be with him earlier, yet he never acted on it. And those years that he had figured it was best to keep his distance from out of fear of what you would think of him were years you had spent in literal fear of your father and family. Even if he technically would have had to strike an agreement with your father for an earlier marriage date and there was no guarantee that he would agree to it, he could have at least tried.

Someday, Satoru knew he would have to apologize for it.

___________________________________________________________

Satoru got up to leave at 4:00am for his morning flight to Osaka. Once his bags were securely in the trunk, he got in the backseat as his driver took off.

He immediately noticed the container already in the middle seat, a sticky-note on it with your perfect cursive written in blue pen:

Couldn't fall asleep last night, so I made these for you.

- (Y/N)

Satoru grinned, lifting off the cover to be greeted by the smell of fresh, mouthwatering butter cookies. As expected, they tasted just as good too.

He took out his phone, taking a quick selfie with one of the cookies in his mouth, and sending it you with his thanks.

For good measure, he also sent you Suguru's number, saying that if your father came back or if you needed anything that he couldn't get there right away for, you could call Suguru and he would be able to stop over. You texted him back in the middle of his flight, glad that he liked the cookies and letting him know you would call Suguru if the need arises.

A few hours later, you sent him a picture of yourself smiling in the garden, hand marking a page in one of your new romance novels as you sat on your usual bench between the cherry trees.

Satoru made it his lockscreen in a heartbeat.

___________________________________________________________

This mission was by far the hardest he had ever had, and not because of the curses themselves.

Normally, Satoru would repeat the same thing throughout a mission week: wake up, go investigate the site of a supposed curse, find it easily, beat it with no sweat, spend the rest of his day sightseeing and buying food to splurge on back at his hotel suite, and then pass out.

However, this was the first mission he had ever spent away from you, which made the seven days ahead feel like a year. As much as he wanted to to finish all the curses off and go home, he knew that he had to take it easy and let his cursed energy replenish each day for a possible worst case scenario. Not to mention, the longer he was out, the more he was likely to get paid if it made it seem like he was actually trying.

Needless to say, Satoru did text you a few times throughout the day to check on you, seeing what you were up to and how you were entertaining yourself. You both would occasionally send photos back and forth. Satoru would send you a selfie of himself with a thumbs up and a defeated curse, and you would reply with whatever you were doing at the moment.

Because of your photo exchanges, he now had a small album in his phone titled Wifey (^ω^). His favorite so far was actually a video you sent of you playing the grand piano in one of the few estate galleries. He would play it over and over before bed, not to listen to the Debussy piece (thought you did a marvelous job playing it), but to watch you as your fingers floated across the keys with a pleasant, satisfied smile on your face.

He was imagining that face now as he was laying in bed, waiting for exhaustion to overtake him. He wished he could reach into his phone screen, brush the curve of your lips with his fingertips, trace along your eyelashes with his thumbs, and place kiss after kiss on your forehead until he got that smile of yours to come out.

Better yet, Satoru wished you were right here next to him.

He wished he could pull you close to him. He already knew your body would fit perfectly against his. Your head would rest against the crook of his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around your waist. He wouldn't leave any inch of your face untouched by kisses, especially those delicate lips, the same lips he had to try his best not to stare at when you spoke, but would catch sneaky glimpses of...

They always looked so soft, and he knew they would feel that way against his own. He thought about what it would be like to kiss you for the first time, how shy and nervous you would be, but that is what would make it so much more enjoyable. He would guide you through it, one hand tangled gently in your hair while the other squeezed your waist closer to him.

And the two of you would lay there, the only sounds being the ones you exchanged between one another and the slight rustling of the sheets. Maybe if he got far enough, he would test the waters a little, barely teasing your lips with his tongue as his hands would start roaming against the silky fabric of that lavender nightgown he thought and a little too often, and then-

Satoru groaned, now staring up at the ceiling. He ran his hands over his face once, twice. He tried to think of anyone or anything else...

Nope. His cock was still hard in his boxers.

"Fuck," he seethed, pulling down his waistband. He was painfully hard. And all because he thought about kissing you-

He immediately drew his hands away, letting the waistband go with a snap. No, he shouldn't. He shouldn't. Even if you were married to him, he told you he would be your friend. Nothing more, nothing less... unless you wanted to.

And frankly, Satoru couldn't even tell if you wanted him, not that he would demand or expect you to, of course. He never wanted to come off as the guy that felt they deserved your affections just because he was nice to you. He just... wanted to express his love and attraction as platonically as possible.

Even if that meant going through the rest of your lives remaining this way: living in the same house, sharing the same income, spoiling one another, going to each other for anything and everything and providing a shoulder to cry on...

God, the lines felt blurry, even if they were straightforward: married by status, friends by relationship. He'll keep it that way, and he'd never beat his dick to any of his friends.

Granted... he's never been attracted to any of his friends the way he's been attracted to you. He's never been attracted to anyone the way he's attracted to you.

To him, you were so much more than a body, a hookup for whenever he wanted to get laid and that he could discard when he was finished. He didn't want a friends-with-benefits situation either. He wanted all of you.

Satoru turned over with a sigh, burying his face in the pillow as he cursed himself and his stupidly horny brain, which was something he usually didn't mind. But when it's now starting to think about you in this context...

The reason it probably felt so wrong was because you were so innocent. Hell, you blushed and shied away from the prospect of him with just his shirt off. And he understood what the jujustu community expected, what you expected: for the two of you to produce an heir. But he couldn't care less. To hell with the Gojo bloodline if it meant he was going to have to defile you to appease someone else.

But then again, there's no saying that you didn't want him either...

Fuck. And it's not like he couldn't see the effect he had on you. The way you would smile and flush nervously whenever he teased you, whenever he called you pretty girl. He loved calling you that, almost as much as he liked calling you by your name. (Y/N).

"Fuck... (Y/N)." Satoru turned over and reached his hand into his boxers. He was caving, but just for tonight. Just for tonight, to get the edge off.

He raised his hand briefly to spit in it before bringing his hand back down and hissing at the amount of pre that was already leaking. With a shaky groan, he wrapped his palm around the tip and dragged down slowly.

What if this was your hand instead of his. You would be so shy, at least, maybe at first, before you got comfortable. He would coax you through it, telling you how good you were doing and praising you from how good your perfect hands felt. He'd show you everything. Where he was sensitive, what movements and actions felt the best...

Oh, but what about you.

If you were any other girl, he would have taken your outfits as you trying to entice him with your gorgeous curves. He would've fell for it, dragged you to his room, and ripped those cute dresses and tights to shreds in order to admire those curves properly before he fucked your brains out.

But he could never do that to you, not unless that's what you wanted. He was prepared to do anything for you, of course, but with what he felt for you, what he yearned to do, was to make love to you.

He wanted to make love to you gently, slowly, show you exactly what he was feeling in the most physical way possible. He needed to protect you, make sure nothing would ever hurt you or cause you any discomfort.

He would get all that tempting skin of yours on display for him and put his lips all over it, worshipping you, listening to all those cute noises you would make. He'd run his tongue over your breasts, sucking on them and marking them as his own, before moving down and down-

His hands would push your succulent thighs up to your chest to give him a full view of your sweet cunt, just before he ate you like the tasty little dessert you were. He'd prep you with his mouth and fingers, make you cream a few times to get you all pliant for him-

And that's when he would descend on you, working you through the pain with sensual words and even more sensual touches. He'd get you to take as much as you could, as much as you wanted, because he would be all yours. You would finally belong to each other.

He would be assured of that with each moan and whimper he drew from your throat as he worked you to orgasm, crying out his name over and over- Satoru, Satoru, Satoru- until...

Satoru spilled his cum into his hand with a low mewl of your name. His breaths slowed, one after the other, as the haze of his orgasm, the hardest orgasm he'd had in a while, faded to a quiet thrum in his veins.

He shouldn't have done that. If you had found out about this, he knew you'd probably be disgusted with him.

Or just maybe... maybe you'd feel the same. Somehow.

Satoru was hard again.

___________________________________________________________

tags: @leonora13x @cole-silas @feeiry @mysuperrainbow @tw0fvced @emptybrain01 @xixiwang @drilled-brain @lvieee @xxkoyukixx @we-loveebony @sereniteav @ilovecoyotepeterson10 @baby--vera @jebemticeluporodicu @louannfox

#isawritesshit #jjk #jjk smut #jjk fluff #jjk angst #the color blue #female reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo x reader smut #jjk x reader #arranged marriage #forced marriage #geto suguru #suguru geto #anime

[devildomwriter]

Christmas Family Photo Fiasco

❗️Chaotic energy

Lucifer: "A family Christmas photo? Is this really necessary?"

Diavolo: "MC mentioned it as a holiday tradition." MC: "Yeah, but it's mostly for parents obsessed with their new baby or their dozens of kids."

Diavolo: "Well, we can do it too! We can send them to the nobles, and the angels too. In fact, this photo could make history!"

Lucifer: "Aren't you exaggerating a bit-"

Diavolo: "The first official Christmas photo of the exchange program students and the program founders? This will be a historical treasure!"

Diavolo was light on his feet and very giddy as he hovered over Barbatos, setting up the camera. Mammon looked like he was scheming something. It probably had to do with the photos being of historical importance-potentially.

Lucifer straightened his collar and smoothed his hair down as he looked at himself in the mirror. Asmo stood next to him, touching up his make up and glossing his lips every minute to make sure they stayed perfectly shiny.

Belphegor: "MC, you need to stop sharing Christmas ideas..."

MC: "No."

Leviathan: "But why?!"

MC: "Because I like sharing my culture, and if I'm getting dragged down to hell every few months, then I'm gonna make it fun whether you like it or not."

Mammon: "Selfish, much?"

MC: "You have literally no room to talk."

Mammon: "Heh? No, don't get me wrong, I'm real proud of you!"

Mammon patted MC on the back, smiling cheekily, and MC rolled their eyes and walked away from him to the couch on the other side of the room.

Barbatos: "MC, have you heard from Solomon and the angels?"

MC: "Umm...let me check my messages real quick."

MC unlocked their D.D.D. to find they had twenty missed messages.

MC: "What the hell?"

Barbatos: "Is something troubling you?"

MC: "I don't know yet; I just have a lot of missed messages."

Mammon: "Is it, Solomon?"

MC: "Yeah, it's the purgatory group chat, Solomon, Simeon, Luke, and I."

Asmodeus: "What? Can be invited into the group chat?"

MC: "Exchange students only."

Asmodeus: "Hmph!"

Asmo angrily twirled back around to the mirror and began applying his gloss again, to which Lucifer sighed dramatically and sat down on one of the soft chairs.

[Exchange Students]

Solomon: On our way

Luke: See you soon

Solomon: Luke tripped in a puddle and is crying, see you in twenty

Luke: I was not crying!

Solomon: Are shorts acceptable for the photo?

Simeon: Probaboy not

Simeon: Probably

Solomon: XD

Luke: I don't like pants!

Solomon: Just finished getting dressed

Simeon: I forgot MC was in this chat, sorry MC

Solomon: On our way

Luke: See you soon

Simeon: :)

Solomon: Is Luke allowed to wear a hat

Luke: I AM NOT GOING ANYWHERE WITHOUT A HAT

Simeon: Calm down, Luke

Solomon: Are top hats acceptable?

Luke: MC, help me!

Luke: I'm not wearing a top hat!

Diavolo: "MC, any news on the others?"

MC: "Luke tripped in a puddle and had to get changed and won't wear a top hat."

Diavolo: "Top hat? They do know we're just wearing Christmas sweaters?"

Barbatos: "It would appear they don't. I'll inform him."

MC: "No, don't!”

Barbatos: "Oh? Why not?"

MC: "It's gonna make a hilarious photo."

Barbatos: “…”

Lucifer smirked and laughed to himself, imagining Simeon's embarrassment and the chihuahua's tantrum.

Beelzebub: "We should probably tell them..."

Mammon: "No way! MC is right; that'll be hilarious!"

MC: "Okay, if Mammon agrees, then we probably should just tell them."

Mammon: "Hey!"

Diavolo: "We could do different kinds of Christmas cards!"

Belphegor: "One picture is enough."

Diavolo: "You can never have too many pictures."

Mammon: "That ain't true at all! What if ya got some ass disease and you're doctor needs a picture for the medical profile. If ya send him twenty-five, then that's just creepy."

Everyone: "..."

Diavolo: "I'm not sure how to respond to that."

Barbatos: "I'm not sure I've ever been at a loss for words..."

Mammon: "Why are ya looking at me like that? It's not based on a true story!”

Belphegor: "Are you sure?"

Mammon: "Of course, I'm sure! I'm not sending my ass pics around; people gotta pay for that shit."

MC: "Do you sell pictures of your ass?"

Mammon: "No!"

Mammon: "...interested in buying some-“

Lucifer: "Maaaamoooon."

Mammon: "Eep! I don't, I swear! I swear-Ack-“

Lucifer proceeds to drag Mammon from the room but the collar of his fuzzy green Christmas sweater.

Asmodeus: "I think that's the first time I haven't wanted to talk about ass..."

Belphegor: "How did we get to this?"

MC: "Um...anyway, Diavolo, you were saying we could take different kinds of pictures?"

Diavolo: "Ah, yes! We could take some formal pictures, some in our true forms, and some in our Christmas outfits! Oh! We could even do some as characters from a Christmas movie."

Belphegor: "Which one?"

Beelzebub: "How about a Christmas Carol."

Everyone: "No."

Beelzebub: "But why?"

Satan: "You can't possibly have forgotten what happened when we went to see the play?"

Belphegor: "Hehe..."

Beelzebub looked dejected, which immediately made everyone change their minds. He may be a demon, but he was a gentle giant.

Barbatos shook his head at the memory.

Barbatos: "You caused so much chaos we got calls from Michael."

MC: "That was bound to happen."

Satan: "That shouldn't be the case."

MC: "Don't pretend you didn't threaten the security-"

Before they could continue to argue about the biggest scandal they'd had that month, the doors opened, and Solomon, Simeon, and Luke walked inside dressed elegantly.

MC: "Oh, wow, you guys look great!"

Solomon and Simeon blushed, and Luke smiled proudly.

Luke: "MC, do you like my hat?"

MC: "Uhh....I have to say you're gonna regret wearing a fedora in a picture sent to three different realms."

Luke: "There's nothing wrong with fedoras."

MC: "Okay, buddy."

Luke: "Huh?"

Diavolo: "Welcome, gentlemen."

Diavolo grinned joyfully as the three looked at him in confusion.

Diavolo wore a red sweater with a reindeer whose nose glowed when you pressed on it.

Solomon: "MC...was this not a formal event?"

MC: "Nope."

Solomon: "And you didn't tell us?"

MC: "Nope."

Solomon: "..?"

Having heard them arrive, Lucifer came back into the living room, tugging Mammon behind him, who wore a grim expression on his face.

Lucifer: "Okay, let's get this over with."

Diavolo: "Don't be like that, Lucifer, this is going to be so much fun!"

Satan: "Did anyone arrange the seating positions?”

MC: "Seating positions; it's a picture?"

Simeon: "Who will be taking our pictures?"

Diavolo: "The camera."

Simeon: "What? All by itself?"

Barbatos: "It has a timer."

Luke: "Where am going to stand?"

Asmodeus: "I think what matters most is making sure you match.”

MC: "I think the clash in outfits really sums up the chaos of our friend group, and that's a beautiful thing."

Lucifer: "MC, please be quiet."

Diavolo: "First, I'd like to take a picture together dressed as we are right now!"

Leviathan: "First?"

Solomon: "How many pictures do you plan to take?"

Diavolo: "As many as I want."

Mammon: *cough*"Entitled "*cough*

Diavolo: "Did you say something, Mammon?"

Mammon: "Huh? N-No."

Barbatos gave Mammon a grin, which was clearly just a mask to hide his fury towards the demon, although Diavolo remained blissfully unaware he was just called out.

Barbatos stopped behind the camera and set the timer for one minute as they arranged their seating positions.

Barbatos: "Diavolo, you'll sit down in the middle of the sofa. Lucifer stand behind him on his left, Mammon stand behind him on the right. Levi, stand next to Lucifer, Satan, stand next to Mammon."

Satan: "Dammit."

Mammon: "Hey!"

Barbatos: "Beelzebub, stand next to Satan, and Belphegor stand next to Levi. Good, now don't look so murderous.”

Mammon scoffed and was elbowed in the gut; he bent over in pain as Barbatos continued arranging everyone.

Barbatos: "Asmodeus, sit at the end of the sofa; I'll sit on the other end in a moment. MC sit in between Asmodeus and Diavolo, Solomon, sit in between Diavolo and where I'll bit sitting. Lastly, Luke and Simeon, lean against the arms of the sofa and face the camera....good."

Barbatos stepped in to make adjustments to how everyone was positioned before starting the timer on the camera.

Beelzebub: "My stomach...I'm hungry."

Lucifer: "Just be patient and smile."

Mephistopheles: "Oh, hey, what are you guys up to!?"

Lucifer: "Grrrrrr.”

Belphegor: "I'm sleepy.”

Leviathan: "Someone kill me; I want to go home already."

Luke: "Eek, a rat!"

Barbatos: "What!?"

Simeon: "Luke, don't fall!"

Mammon: "Ahahahah-ow! Satan, you don't gotta punch me!"

Asmodeus: "MC, let's blow a kiss to the camera!"

MC: "No."

*flash*

After hundreds of photos that resulted in Luke crying to go home, they finally stopped taking pictures and changing outfits. Simeon carried Luke over his shoulder as they walked home, and everyone looked forward to seeing how nicely the photos turned out since they took hours trying to take the perfect one.

In the end, Diavolo and MC decided on the picture they wanted to send to thousands of people wishing them a happy holiday from the exchange students.

They both immediately agreed on their favorite and kept it a secret from everyone else. MC laughed the entire week as they helped send cards to people like Michael, the Demon King, Diavolo's court, the archangels, and famous witches like Madi.

After the week passed and all the cards were sent out, the friends agreed to meet together to open them at the same time.

They counted down, and MC called out their phone, smiling mischievously, which gave Solomon the suspicion they were about to witness something chaotic.

Asmodeus: *screeching*

Lucifer: "Diavolo, why in the devildom did you choose THIS disaster photo!?"

Leviathan: "Oh, no..."

Mammon: "I'm not sellin' this, and that's the first time I've ever said something like that!"

Luke: "Why!? Michael is going to see this!"

Lucifer: "What!? DIAVOLO TAKE THEM BACK!"

Diavolo: "No thank you. I find them charming."

Solomon: "Haha, I'm putting this on devilgram.”

Lucifer: "Do NOT!"

Solomon: "Hmm,....fine, but only if you make a pact with me."

Lucifer: "Grrrrrrrrrr."

Diavolo: "Hahaha! Barbatos, look at my eyes!"

Barbatos: "My lord...you sent this to all the nobles?"

Diavolo: "Yes."

Barbatos: “...”

MC: "This is amazing."

Lucifer: "Shut up, no, it's not!"

Diavolo: "I think it sums up our chaos perfectly, and that's beautiful-"

Beelzebub: "Didn't MC say that earlier..."

Lucifer: "MC..."

MC: "Yes?"

Lucifer: "Diavolo, don't tell me you let MC choose the photo...."

Diavolo: "MC loved it! There's no way I could refuse; besides, I love it too. I can't stop laughing when see it."

Lucifer: "Dammit, MCCCCCC!"

That's how the three realms ended up with a picture displaying Lucifer's grimace, Mammon bending over it pain as Satan punched him, Levi looking dead inside, Beelzebub drooling onto the couch, Belphegor mid-fall as he fell asleep, Luke mid-fall as he was scared by the rat, Barbatos looking horrified, Asmodeus blowing a kiss in the wrong direction as MC glared at him, all while Solomon and Diavolo smiled while their eyes glowed from the camera flash.

As Diavolo had thought it would, the picture became famous and was placed in the devildom treasury for historical significance, and Lucifer spent every Christmas after complaining about it.

It was in newspapers for months and was framed on Michael's wall where unbeknownst to the demon brothers, the angels laughed at it every day.

MC, of course, regretted nothing and smiled at the chaos caused by a simple Christmas card.

#obey me skit #obey me 25 days of christmas #25 days of obey me christmas #obey me shall we date #obey me diavolo #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me simeon #obey me satan #obey me solomon #obey me asmodeus #obey me leviathan #obey me belphegor #obey me beelzebub #obey me barbatos #obey me luke #obey me drabble

[kitashousewife]

my love

an: first piece for my lovesick event! i can't wait heehee it's so cute also yeah maybe a little heids coded but !! idc

pairings: timeskip!sakusa x fem!reader

warnings: fluff!! lots of fluff, sakusa is shy but very sweet, uni friends to lovers, food and eating mentions, drink mentions & consumption, confession of feelings

-

every week has been about the same since the new year. working at your internship, working your regular job, coming home, just to do it all again the next day. everything was beginning to blend together into a confusing haze, one where every day feels the same. january had come and gone and before you knew it, february was knocking on your door.

the past two weeks, though, things have been a bit sweeter.

it started with a small gift bag on your doormat when you arrived home after work. there was no note, no message, not even a text about it. but, after a long first day back from the weekend you brought it inside without a second thought.

you plop down on the couch and pluck out the baby-pink tissue paper to reveal a few of your favorite candies resting at the bottom of the bag. you can't help but smile, deciding to snack on one before you started dinner.

the next day you came home to a card stuck in the door, signed with only your name. while you set your things down, you opened the card to hopefully get a clue of who it's from, which causes some money flutter out.

i hope yesterday and today feel a bit sweeter. get your favorite drink tomorrow, on me.

you hum, a little confused as to who this could be. it had to be someone you knew, considering they knew where you live. your first thought was a co-worker, but that theory proved wrong when you asked them about it the next day. you considered family, but they quickly denied.

the next week is filled with other small gifts and notes. dinner from your favorite restaurant delivered shortly after you got home, a small box of chocolates, and many other little treats. it's now only a couple days before valentines, and you're itching to find out who these could be from.

"i can't figure it out 'omi," you sigh, placing your newest gift in a vase on your kitchen counter. a dozen roses, with a printed note.

because you deserve them.

"i can't recognize the handwriting, and everything arrives before i get home, so i never see them!" you huff, grabbing a couple plates out of your cupboards for the pizza sakusa brought over.

"weird," he sighs, scrolling through his phone. you shake your head.

"yeah, weird. i just don't have any clue as to who it could be. i'm not even seeing anyone,"

"trust me, i know," sakusa teases, smirking when you throw a napkin his direction. "but seriously, i'm sure you'll find out soon. it's almost valentines day."

"so?" you raise an eyebrow, reaching in the fridge for a couple drinks. "what if they continue after that, and i'm stuck in this cycle for weeks?"

he snorts. "oh man, receiving presents every day for weeks on end? how awful,"

you roll your eyes, setting his drink down in front of him. scooting next to him at the table, you sigh. he grabs you a piece of pizza, your favorite one, and nods toward the flowers.

"i bet you'll find out soon. they look beautiful, by the way."

"yeah, i hope so. and thanks, i hope i can keep them alive for more than a couple of days."

"doubt it,"

"enough about me," you wave at him dismissively, which he grins at. "what are your valentines plans this year?"

he chews for a second before deciding what to say. really, he could give this entire act up right now.

"nothing. practice and going home. we have a few away games next week,"

"lame," you tease, grabbing his used plate for him. "the famous, star athlete, sakusa kiyoomi doesn't have a da-"

"shut up," he groans. he shuffles behind you and towards the couch, before throwing himself on it. "i'm fine," he turns on your tv and gets comfortable. "by the way, i brought dessert. it's in the fridge."

"what would i do without you, 'omi? you spoil me."

that sentence echoes throughout his mind over the next day. like he said to you, the day is almost here. his last two gifts are sitting on his kitchen counter, mocking him from where they are placed. for the last two weeks, he has tried to back out. tried to stop it all, return everything to their respective stores and forget anything even happened. but this year, he didn't want to chicken out. he wanted things to be different.

thankfully, he has some teammates who feel the same way. at the beginning of the month, they helped him create this plan. two weeks of gifts, leading up to the big reveal.

"excited for tomorrow?" hinata wiggles his eyebrows as they walk out of the gym.

"excited isn't the word i would use," sakusa rasps, kicking the rocks in the parking lot.

"it's gonna be fine! nobody can resist ya, 'omi." atusmu winks, jogging ahead of the two men. "what's the gift today?"

sakusa pulls on his car door, not even looking at his teammates.

"a dress."

"the one we showed you?" hinata's head tilts to the side. sakusa nods, firing up the ignition.

"she'll love it. i'm positive."

"i sure hope so. i'll tell you guys if i hear anything," sakusa waves and shuts the door. he drives to your apartment slowly, trying to calm any nerves that he has swimming around in his stomach.

as he pulls into the parking lot of your complex, he can tell something is a little different. he grabs the box, shallow but wide, and heads up towards your door. this is for sure the most lavish of the gifts you've received thus far, as well as the largest. he adjusts the shiny red bow on the top and steps out of the elevator.

"no, nothing today. at least not yet anyway,"

sakusa stops. his heart races immediately. that's your voice, he's sure of it. she must be home early today. he turns on his heels to go back down the elevator, deciding he will wait a few minutes to deliver it.

"oh, just going downstairs to check the mail," your keys jingle in your hand as you shut your door. "mom, don't be ridiculous, i'm sure whoever it is isn't a creep," your phone is pressed to your ear. he begins to panic. he slips into the stairwell, hoping to avoid you. thankfully you head into the elevator.

he walks quickly to your door, placing the gift up against it as he has done many times before. he heads down the stairwell, slipping through one of the side entrances before reaching his car and leaving as quickly as possible.

he groans, palms sliding down his face while he waits at the red light. he thinks to the first time he met you. you sat next to him four years ago in some business class he can't remember. you seemed shy, not speaking much for the first few weeks other than to ask for a pen. after working on a group project, you finally blossomed. the two of you became quick friends. sakusa was grateful to find someone who cared about him, not his career. someone who understood what his silence meant and what his humor was. someone who appreciated him, for him.

that's what makes this so scary, he thinks. possibly losing the only person who understands.

you hang up the phone and walk to your door, almost laughing out loud when you see the box.

"of course," you mumble to yourself. possibly your last chance to catch whoever it was and you just so happened to be out. even after getting off early.

as your front door clicks shut, you walk towards your couch. this box is much nicer than anything else you've gotten. it's light, you note, and you shake it a bit. muffled sounds of paper fill your ears, quickly making you too curious. your fingers pull the red bow, putting it off to the side. when you lift up the top, you're met with a note.

be ready by tomorrow at 7. i hope you like it.

your eyebrows thread together, moving the carefully folded tissue paper back to reveal rather expensive-looking fabric. you can't help the gasp that leaves your lips when you pull it out of its confines.

a floor-length, silky, black dress with thin straps and a slit on the thigh, and just your size. it's outstanding, both in quality and appearance. you're shocked. something you've only seen in photos and on numerous pinterest boards now rests between your fingertips. your lips part as you feel the dress once more.

excitement sets in quickly after as you realize you will be soon meeting this mystery person. you scurry to your room and hang the dress in your closet like a secret, one you can finally share tomorrow evening.

sakusa is a wreck.

it's 6:40 pm, he needs to leave in five minutes, and he still isn't sure what to wear. none of his friends will answer, not even his sister. he moves things around in his closet, pulling out the suit he wore to the last event the team was forced to go to. a plain black suit with a black tie. simple, but he's out of time. you teased him about it before, and he hopes you feel different in a few minutes.

you aren't feeling much better. your hair and makeup are finished, your shoes and purse picked out, and you're just pulling the zipper up on your dress when you check the time. you have only two minutes until your mystery admirer is revealed.

your pacing is cut short when there's a knock at your door. your heart is racing, you've never felt so nervous in your entire life.

"s-sorry! i was-kiyoomi?"

you're met with your best friend, standing in front of your door in a rather expensive suit, holding a small box in his hands.

"oh my god," he breathes, taking everything in. he thought the dress may be too much, but god was he wrong. "you look...incredible."

"thanks," you mumble. you too dies on your tongue as he walks by you and into your apartment. realization hits you like a train. "wait,"

"yeah, it's me."

"kiyoomi, i don't-"

"just listen for a sec," he looks up from the box and meets your eyes, and you nod. he clears his throat.

"i just, i didn't know how else to do this. i knew that if i tried to tell you, i would just give up like every other time," he runs a hand through his hair, pouting immediately when he remembers the time it took to style it. "i thought this would be something special,"

"it is," you step closer to him, but he only fidgets with the box.

"here," he hands it to you. "this is the final one,"

you let out a small gasp. a set of earrings and a matching necklace sparkle almost instantly in the light. two simple studs and a lone diamond rest on a dainty chain. you immediately put the earrings on and pull the necklace out of the box.

"'omi, wow. these are," your voice trails off as he grabs the necklace and stands behind you. he fastens it from behind, hands shaking slightly. the diamond falls right below your collarbone.

"they match your eyes," he looks at his shoe, before looking at you. "i saw them and couldn't stop thinking about you."

"omi, i-"

"i like you. i really, really do and i just wanted to-"

"i like you, too."

he stops, mouth open. you repeat yourself and take a step towards him. you continue.

"but, i'm me and-"

"that's kind of the whole point," he grabs your hands and chuckles. "you have always cared for me, you understand me, and you don't treat me differently like others do. you get me, and i can't explain it, but i don't want anyone else."

you smile, the prettiest smile he's ever seen.

"are you asking me out?" you tease, poking the knot of his tie. he rolls his eyes.

"yes," he laughs dryly. "what do you say?"

you begin walking toward the door.

"i would love to, kiyoomi. nothing would make me happier, to be honest,"

sakusa can breathe again. he meets you at the door and takes you by the hand, finally lacing his fingers with yours.

"any other surprises?" you ask, pressing the elevator button to the lobby.

"i can't tell you."

"why not?"

he smiles, something rare and usually only seen by you.

"gotta keep you on your toes."

#heidslovesickevent #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa fluff #sakusa x reader fluff #sakusa x reader imagine #kiyoomi sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi #hq fluff #hq x reader #haikyuu fluff

[sardonic-the-writer]

CHUCKLE SANDWICH HEADCANONS ☆

• Being on the podcast for the first time is—an experience that's for sure

• Charlie Schlatt and Ted had all reached out to you before for collabs of certain kinds, so you knew them fairly well through the experiences (ie. minecraft videos, to be a beta tester for big projects of theirs, asking help with new editing software even if you were as clueless as them, etc etc.)

• But they'd never once mentioned bringing you on Chuckle Sandwich. Which you were fine with. It's not like they had time to bring everyone on the internet to it at some point, so for now you were content sitting at your computer listening to the new episodes while they dropped

• In fact, that's exactly what you had been doing when a little discord notification popped up on your computer, clicking on Ted's profile picture after pausing the video

• "hey. a bit last moment, but we have a spot open for the podcast right now and wanted to know if you'd like to be a guest"

• Attatched to the bottom of the message was a random meme you had seen him, and multiple others, send dozens of times before. But it still coaxed a snort out of you as you typed your answer back

• "yeah! no problem, mr. milk. just give me some of the details and I'll be all set. also, get some new memes loser"

• Four days later and you were sitting at your streaming set up with your hands behind your head, smiling lightly as they introduced you to the audio listeners. Who by now Ted had made clear he loved to death

• "So! First things first, gentlemen, any questions for our esteemed special guest?"

• "What's the weirdest thing you've shoved up your ass."

• "Alright, that's enough talky time for you, Schlatt."

• Honestly, the podcast went great. You often highjacked the conversation to go on a separate tangent without even realizing it, snapping your fingers with a "Hey! That reminds me of—" before continuing on

• Charlie especially had a great time. For once he wasn't the only one that uncontrollably giggled throught the entire—and I mean entire—games no games or bacon no bacon question

• I picture Ted trying desperately to keep the episode a salvageable one, trying to have at least one decipherable conversation to keep in the final cut before giving up when you Schlatt and Charlie started arguing about which gum flavor was the best

• "It's fucking cinnamon you neanderthal! You fucking pussies dont know how to handle a real mans stick of gum!"

• "First of all, the h in neanderthal is silent, Schlarengitus. If you're going to insult me do it right. And secondly, any answer other than mint is a pure crime."

• "Guys, guys, I think we can all agree that grape is the best flavor. Also, (Y/n), what in the actually goopy shloopy fuck did you just call Schlatt?"

• After most of the episode had been filmed, everyone was in agreement that this needed to be done again. If not for the views, then for the shit ton of fun you all had

• "Hey who knows? Maybe we can do a vlog in real life together and have a beat (Y/n)'s ass for liking the most basic bitch flavor of gum there is."

• "Say that to my face you little—"

• Yup. Good times

#chuckle sandwich x y/n #chuckle sandwich imagine #chuckle sandwich headcanons #chuckle sandwich x reader #chuckle sandwich #chuckle sandwich x you #ted nivison x you #ted nivison x y/n #ted nivison x reader #ted nivison #schlatt #jschlatt #schlatt x y/n #schlatt x you #schlatt x reader #charlie slimecicle #charlie slimecicle x y/n #charlie slimecicle x you #charlie slimecicle x reader

[m0chaminx]

Peter Parker | Snow Storm

*•.¸♡Request: hello! can i please request ps4 peter fluff? maybe just peter coming back from a long night of patrolling and being really needy and tired <3

*•.¸♡Prompts: none

*•.¸♡Warnings: none

*•.¸♡Paring: ps4 Peter Parker x GN!reader

*•.¸♡Summary: Peter comes back from a night on patrol in the middle of winter. (This is straight up fluff)

*•.¸♡Words: 784

You raced around your small New York apart. Winter has surged through New York like it was intent on ruining your happiness and warmth. The heaters were broken, thank the landlord for that, and the small heat van had fallen from its place on your desk and broken against the hard floor in your hurried search. Search for what exactly? Peters's extra large black hoodie with a small spider symbol on the back, which you would never let him live down.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you found the hoodie in the stash of clothes you had stored in case Peter had decided to swing by. Just as you pulled the hoodie over your head your phone buzzed, its light shining through the darkness of your apartment. As you unlocked your phone you smiled softly, Peter's picture popping up in your messages. 

Is your window unlocked? 

It can be

PLEWASDE ITRS FREEZIUNG!!

ARE YOU SWINING AND TEXTING

IKLL BE OVER IN 5

You rolled your eyes and opened the latch to your apartment window before walking to the kitchen and putting a dozen pizza scrolls in the oven. As you walked back to the living area as Peter landed on the fire escape with a groan. He slipped through the window and flung his mask off. "Hello, hi, yes, you can kick me for this later," Peter rambled as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders. You squealed as the cold of his suit chilled through the hoodie and your now freezing cheeks.

"Peter! Peter, you're freezing!"

"But you're so warm!" Peter ducked his head and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. 

"Go have a shower you creepy bug," You hissed, slipping from Peter's arms. "Get warm!" Peter groaned and threw his head back. "I'll set up a movie, I already have food on."

"You're the best," Peter cooed before turning towards the hall.

"Uh, Peter. Mask." Peter paused to grab the mask that he stuck to the side of the window sill before locking the window and rushing to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later you had set up the living room, most of your night had been spent on the couch with Peter anyway so most of the pillows were out there.

The living room was arranged to create the ultimate movie-watching experience. The centrepiece of the room was a plush, oversized sofa, adorned with soft throw pillows in mostly black and blues shades. In front of the sofa, a sleek and modern entertainment centre stood proudly, housing a large high-definition television. Netflix already set up on the movies section, the remote tossed thrown onto the table in between.

The small coffee table was placed within arm's reach of the sofa, holding the pizza rolls and whatever else you had found in the pantry. A bowl of freshly popped popcorn, still warm and smelling of salty butter, was surrounded by an array of snacks and hot chocolate.

As you set up to sink into the sofa Peter hopped over the back of the couch, stealing your spot. One of the hot chocolates almost split but Peter quickly caught it. "Hey-"

Peter pulled you down into the couch, your chest falling against his as your legs kicked up over the arm of the couch. "Hello to you too." Peter laughed and in a moment of pure affection, his eyes met yours. With gentle anticipation, his lips drew closer, the world around you both fading into the background. Time seemed to stand still as their hearts beat in synchrony, brimming with tender emotions.

Peter's lips finally met yours in a soft, delicate kiss, a sweet connection that sent sparks of warmth and joy coursing through your bodies. It was a gentle caress, filled with tenderness and an undeniable sense of belonging. In that fleeting instant, everything else ceased to exist, and their love spoke volumes in the quiet language of that sweet, innocent kiss.

Slowly Peter drew back, but still closer enough that his nose brushed against your forehead as he pressed a quick peck to your skin. "Tough night?" You asked softly, your hands coming up to trace a small cut above his eyebrows that had already healed to a small mark.

"Just long," Peter complained, his head dropping onto yours. "Evey second mission Yuri sent me on was on the other side of the city. I spent most of the night swinging in the freezing snowstorm."

"Well now..." You pulled yourself closer to Peter so you could curl against his chest. "You can just relax and watch The Princess Bride."

"We watch that every time," Peter complained, his head falling back against the couch.

"You can choose next."

ﾟ°☆Page Navigation

#m0chaminx #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker #ps4 peter parker #peter parker ps4 x reader #ps4 peter parker x reader #ps4 spiderman #ps4 spiderman x reader #marvel spiderman #spiderman

[swap-and-possessions]

Renting to Muscleheads: Transaction (Sunday)

Story commissioned by: Valagon37

Delve into the life of Gerald, a contractual body swapper, as he offers body-swapping services to bodybuilders seeking a break from their strict routines. One frequent client is Devin, a famous Filipino bodybuilder in Canada. As the summer vacation sets in, they find themselves in each other’s bodies throughout the one-week holiday. Gerard continues Devin’s life of being a famous bodybuilding vlogger while Devin enjoys his vacation in Gerard’s body. •·················•·················•

Gerald stretched his arms as he rose from the bed. It has been months since he moved to Canada, but he still couldn't get used to cold mornings such as today. The first thing he does every morning is look for new messages on his Swappr profile. As expected, there were already a couple invites for his services. Back then, weeks passed before Gerald could get a single message. Now? People are clamoring for his body. Not his body, to be specific. But it was the niche in this saturated business he was in. 

One must have knowledge of what Swappr is to understand Gerald's niche. It is an application that utilizes body-swapping technology and compartmentalizes it on everybody's smartphones. A person could swap bodies with other people with a single press! Of course, it is human nature to progress and innovate. Several businesses and gigs popped by the dozen to capitalize on this advancement. People started renting out their bodies to the highest bidders, and this was a region where hot male and female superstars found great success. But as the years went by, the market became saturated with the same handsome hunks and beefy bodybuilders. For a not-so-handsome twink like Gerald, scoring a client seemed impossible. The only clients he had were cheapskates and scammers. He was lucky his body was unharmed during this period of his life. There were rumors about body-lenders returning to their bodies with wounds or bruises. Or worse, addicted to illegal drugs.

For months, Gerald left his account open while he worked other jobs. It was left untouched for months until his colleague saw his profile and introduced Gerald to his colleague's cousin, Ray.

As you can see, Ray is a famous bodybuilder/cosplayer in the Philippines. He has commercials, sponsorships, etc. He earned money by flexing his muscles on camera during his popular live streams. It was a life Gerald could only dream of. But it wasn't all roses and peaches, as Ray explained to Gerald. To have this body means a regimen of daily exhaustive exercise and a strict protein diet. Months have passed since he last ate chocolate, and years have passed since his tongue tasted soda. 

"I'm this close to falling into temptation," Ray stressed. He couldn't think how he'd act if he saw someone eat chips in front of him. Upon hearing those words, Gerald got an idea when he saw the chips he was eating. 

"How about you swap with me for a bit?" Gerald suggested. "I have chips here. It won't harm you if you eat them in my body."

Ray perked up like a lightbulb lit inside his head. "You know what? That is actually a good idea. I don't know why I haven't thought of that before."

With a single button press, Gerald was swept from his seat and transported to a place he could only see through Ray's streams. It was his private gym! All these machines and equipment were bought by the massive muscles he flexed on camera on the daily! And those muscles are now attached to his arms! Gerald wasn't thin by anyone's standard, but he never had muscles this massive. The power! The overwhelming strength! God almighty. This is amazing! 

"People pay to experience a minute in my body. You're lucky I'm desperate to swap with you," Ray chuckled with Gerald's voice on the camera. He seemed to find the bag of chips beside the computer and ripped it open in a second. Gerald could only watch as his old body feasted on the crispy chips and chugged on the 1.5-liter soda. "God! I forgot how good they taste. Do you have other chips? I'm starving for chips!"

"I have a couple hidden on the desk cabinet," Gerald said. "Do I still need to pay after swapping bodies with you?"

"Letting me engorge on all your chips is payment enough. And damn, dude! Your cabinet is filled with chips! Do you eat these daily?"

"Those are actually my month's supply," Gerald said, but it seemed Ray didn't hear him. He was off camera as he ravaged Gerald's stash of snacks. 

With Ray preoccupied, Gerald took the time to acquaint himself with this new fantastic body in front of the mirror. It is not every day that one finds himself in the body of a famous bodybuilder. Gerald might not get this chance again.

In front of the mirror, Gerald touched his face and admired how smooth yet brusque his definitions were. He swapped bodies with other men before, but seeing a different reflection felt like a whiplash he would never get used to. His fingers traced downwards to the bulge of his muscles and the crests between them. He felt how deep they were, how heavy they felt on his body, and how much strength they exuded even though he hadn't flexed them yet. And he did. He flexed them until his muscles were bulging beyond his expectations. He marvels at the chiseled physique exuding more power than he could release from his old body. Sweat dripped from his forehead as he relaxed his muscles. He ended his inspection with a gaze on his pecs and squeezed them as his body slowed to a breathing simmer. 

"You seem to be having with my body," Ray said before burping.

"Oh. I'm sorry if it discomforts you,"

“No. I'm not inconvenienced in any way. I'm already used to it since I lent my body to people before I became a famous streamer. Anyway, I'm ready to swap us back now. I'm sorry for the mess here. I was so eager to do things I couldn't do in that body." Ray opened the Swappr app on Gerald's phone and swapped their bodies in the blink of an eye. Gerald felt he was in touch with greatness by inhabiting Ray's body, but that sense of connection vanished instantly. His stomach was near to bursting, and an overbearing taste of sugar hung in his mouth. Without a break, Ray continued talking before flexing his guns in front of the camera. "Thanks for letting me eat the foods I wanted while I'm in your body." 

"Hnnggg..." Gerald felt like puking after that abrupt change. "No worries, man."

With that, the call ended, leaving Gerald to deal with his emptied stash, chip crumbs all over the floor, and three empty soda bottles rolling under his feet. Gerald could've peeked or jerked off if Ray was to leave his body and place a mess. But, hey! He had the body of a bodybuilding superstar, even if it was only brief.

Gerald's experiences didn't end after his brief touch with Ray. A day after their swap, Ray's next vlog talked about finally getting the chance to eat junk food again. Of course, he preferred doing it in the middle of his strictest diet to clickbait impressions. Without Gerald's permission, he was mentioned in the vlog about how he gave Ray the chance to do this thing for him. Then Ray also linked Gerald's Swappr profile at the end of the video. 

After that? Well... Gerald's cheap Android phone lagged from the flood of notifications on his Swappr profile. He had to turn off notifications and set the privacy to registered users to cut the message invitations to a quarter. By then, his bidding notifications were still popping every minute or so. To score a potential swapper, clients must bid for the highest price. Right now, the highest bid for the daily rate was pushing beyond 1,000 PHP (17.67 USD) and was only getting higher and higher. Gerald checked his messages and saw hundreds of profiles leading to men with muscular bodies asking him to swap bodies. Many availed through the official bidding channels, while others proposed a higher bid but wanted the swap to go under the table. They didn't explain why, but Gerald had an inkling of a thought as to why. These men, who wanted to mask their swapping history, were men who touted to have the most disciplined and resilient minds in their bodybuilding vlogs. They bragged about how few people could follow their strict regimens and diets. Knowing they swapped bodies with Gerald to eat junk food and drink fizzy colas would tout them as great hypocrites in their community.

Gerald wanted none of that mess, so he resorted to the official bidding channels on whose body he would swap with. Since then, Gerald's niche has become known to the bodybuilding community. He was the go-to guy when a bodybuilder wanted to taste junk food or sodas. These guys are so desperate for junk food that they'd spend twenty bucks on something that costs barely a dollar. They also spend an hour of privacy since Gerald demands complete control and view of the people he swaps with. That means he could strip naked, jerk off, take videos and pictures of his masturbating body, etc. That seemed to shy away some of his possible clients. But many were too desperate to experience indulgences they couldn't fulfill in their bodies. 

Since then, Gerald's rate has surged to $50. He had clients lining up his profile for days! It was good that medicine advanced to the point where it could make people immune to electrolyte imbalance disease due to overeating junk food. But it still wasn't enough to prevent people from getting fat, which is what these bodybuilders are avoiding. Gerald had no issue gaining weight since his body efficiently burns calories with a simple cardio workout on his bike. 

Gerald's rate wasn't the only thing that increased. Some of his clients also increased the days on how long they would be in Gerald's body. Eating junk food wasn't the only thing they would do. They would bring Gerald's body on vacations around the Philippines. Gerald may not be buff, but he had looks that bodybuilders need to score men and women on beaches and resorts. Then, they also have the leniency to eat whatever they want. Gerald spent days without returning to his body. He was entertained enough with hourly jerk-offs and photoshoot sessions of his muscular body, but that still left him with more hours to his days with nothing to do.

That was when Gerald started practicing how to act like the body he swapped with. Ray was his usual client and often watched his vlogs, so it was somewhat easy to replicate his strict regimen and confidence in the camera. Ray saw it, and for an additional hundred to his usual daily wage, he requested Gerald act like him and act like he hasn't swapped bodies to eat junk food again. Whenever Ray switches bodies with Gerald, he has to stop his schedule, which translates to frustrated viewers and less money. That wasn't a problem anymore if Gerald could act like Ray. 

And to Ray's surprise, Gerald could replace him one day, and nobody would notice the difference. The guy was a natural-born vlogger/streamer. 

Gerald found his niche. He gave respite to bodybuilders seeking freedom from their strict lifestyle while continuing their life for them. Gerald always grew tired of the taste of soda and junk food after every ‘body swap,’ so the plain and slightly bitter flavor of protein shakes and chicken breasts was a welcome change for him. He also found immense joy in lifting weights and pushing himself until his muscles were aching and pulsating. Gerald relished being a bodybuilder and took even greater delight in displaying his borrowed physique to audiences worldwide. He found his niche and was perfect for it. 

But life has a funny way of curving your tracks. Gerald thought he was comfortable with how everything was going. Gradually, his highest bidders turned out to be foreign bodybuilders. Local bodybuilders couldn't compete anymore with how the bids could go. Most of these winning bids came from the West, particularly in Canada. Gerald was surprised at how many bodybuilders were in Canada. On certain days, as much as a quarter of competing bids for his body came from Canadians. After every transaction, many would comment how it would be better if Gerald lived in Canada. They could eat Canadian junk foods instead of the salty and savory junk food prevalent in the Philippines. 

Many would argue that Gerald's decision was too hasty. That includes Ray, who literally begged on his private call for him to stay in the Philippines.

"Who am I going to swap with if I want Piattos?" Ray begged.

"Ever since you made me famous, many body lenders with a niche similar to mine have appeared. You could ask them," Gerald said on camera as he busily packed his clothes for tomorrow's flight. "I know a few who you'd like."

"I don't want them. I want you!" Ray cried. "I tried others, but they don't act as well as you are. Many of my viewers noticed the shift in personality, and they bashed me in the comments section. That has never happened before!"

"I'm sorry, Ray. My decision is final." Gerald chuckled. "I don't understand why you're crying to me. You could still swap bodies with me even though I'm in Canada, you know? You'll get to eat Canadian junk foods like donuts or poutine."

"Those are good, but I want Piattos or Cheese Curls!" 

"You could send them to my address before swapping bodies with me. It's expensive, but that is the price you must pay if you want a break from your diet." 

"Hmph!" Ray pouted. "Fine. Good luck on your trip to Canada. I wish you great success in that cold, frigid country."

"You know I will,"

With that, Gerald flew to Canada. Driven by sweet promises and opportunities, he continued doing his niche with the Canadian bodybuilder community. But to his surprise, the community was a hotpot of cultures and ethnicities. They helped him settle down and acquaint him with the local populace and culture to better prepare him for his future acts. But he knew knowing the local culture meant little when Gerald simply had to act confident while boasting about his exercise and diet in front of the camera. Many people in his niche have problems in the confidence part, so that leaves Gerald as the best person in his field. 

In time, more and more clients lined up for Gerald's services. But one prevailed over the harsh bidding contests most of the time. His name is Devin. He is a renowned Filipino bodybuilder who found more significant success on foreign shores than in the Philippines. Gerald was like him in a way. Perhaps it was this connection that prompted him to become a frequent client, or maybe it was because Gerald was also Filipino.

"So, it's just a week?" Gerald asked as he sipped on the dark chocolate Devin prepared for him after driving for an hour under that frigid weather outside. Devin was a client who preferred his body swaps to happen face-to-face. 

"A week and a day. We swap today, Monday. Then again next week on Monday. My family and I are going to Boracay, wouldn't you believe it?" Devin said as Gerald gave him a puzzled look. Why wouldn't it happen? Devin was rich, and going to Boracay was possible for him. "We're going to Boracay, that overrated tourist trap. We could've gone to Coron or Siargao. Those beaches are way better, and they have world-class seafood cuisines. You're not allergic to crawfish, right?"

"No. I'm not allergic to any food; last I checked with my allergologist." Gerald had a skin test, and none of the allergens reacted to his body. It was a thankful blessing because of the varied foods his clients would make his body eat. "Overly spicy foods might be a problem for your stomach, though."

"I think I can handle it," Devin scoffed after a brief laugh. "Can you handle a week of my life? It's our most extended transaction so far."

"Given my track record, I can handle it," Gerald said confidently. His most extended stay was three weeks, and it was uneventful, except for forgetting to turn off his stream camera and nearly jerking off in front of twenty-thousand viewers. "If you forgot, our deal means I can jerk off, take pictures of you, etc. My other clients seem to forget that."

"You don't have to say that every time. We swap bodies at the end of every month. I think we're already way past privacy and all that shit. Are you ready?" Devin asked, and Gerald nodded. A single press. A single blink. Both woke up in each other's bodies and acted without a pause in their actions. They've done this countless times already. Devin jumped down from the kitchen island seat and continued doing his prior task of packing his clothes. Since he and Gerald swap bodies often, he already had a set of clothes in Gerald's size. Once done, he went toward Gerald, who was already busy flexing his guns, and swiftly cusped his old body's dick and balls. Gerald grew hard instantly.

"You're going to use my dick a lot this week, don't you?" Devin said with a breathy voice. "God! I could feel how excited you are to use my meat."

"Do you want to have a go, right now?" Gerald smiled. Devin kept his tight hold over his balls. He squeezed Gerald's meat, marbled the testicles between fingers, and kept it warm. He had several experiences with fucking his original body, and half was with Ray in the Philippines. A couple of cocks and his hole remains tight. Maybe it was because the cocks he used to penetrate it were just so big.

"I wish I could, but I can't. My mom called me hours ago, even though our flight won't be until this evening. You know how impatient Filipino mothers are?" Devin let go of Gerald's balls and smelled it. He had grown used to his own aroma, but being in another person's body erases all that. The smell filled his lungs and enthralled his shorter cock to life. Even with an erection, he picked up his baggage and set off for the airport. 

Gerald was left alone in the mansion. He had tasks but was still free to do anything he wanted per the contract. This week will surely be fun.

<<End of Chapter 1 of 8>>

•·················•·················• Subscribers on Discord can read the rest of the chapters on the links below;

✅ SUNDAY - Transaction

🔒🔞 MONDAY - Gym Livestream

🔒🔞 TUESDAY - Gym with Andrew

🔒🔞 WEDNESDAY - Personal Leisure

🔒🔞 THURSDAY - Fashion Photoshoot

🔒🔞 FRIDAY - Gym Livestream

🔒🔞 SATURDAY - Party

🔒🔞 SUNDAY - Fun's End

•·················•·················• Join my Discord Server and read 130+ SFW and NSFW shorts and stories! Join now by clicking here! Paid subscribers could also read my stories on Blogspot. Read them by clicking here.

#Body Swap #Male Body Swap #Body Switch #Male Body Switch #Body Switching #Male Body Switching #Male Swap

[miscling]

old pinned

I was working on a new pinned post, but it's so long and has so many words, so maybe I'll just stick to this one...

You can give me a name yourself (or just Lin is also fine). I also respond to toy, slut, kitty, cow, and similar (but never call me a puppy or a bitch). I like to get to know people and talk (lots). I am a good girl and like being praised ^^ I use the queue so if I'm posting and you message me and I don't respond, you know why! I try to answer everyone ^^

I mostly follow trans and/or horny blogs that post horny blog things. If you're queer, trans, in the UK, have a dozen freaky kinks, toppy, and between 30-45 I'd very much like to hear from you, but I love talking to and making friends wherever they are! As a weird trans sub, I need more weird trans doms in my dms. I describe myself as non-specifically queer, with the specifics coming up as someone gets to know me ^^

This is a very horny place. I blog about edging, hypno kink, bdsm, fetishwear, tickling and masochism, petplay (I'm a kitty), hucows/lactation, monsterfucking, CNC, and a lot of generally weird horny shit. I'm an exhibitionist, submissive, and easily controlled. I was a changed woman when I learned how to edge and ran a poll to get permission to cum: here then here and here, now I'm just a dumb horny girl who is controlled by her cunt. I have since given up on trying to cum at all and just edge. I was forced to cum on january 13th 2023 and hope to never cum again. I'm also going to slip this in here: if this intro post gets 100 notes, I'll start sharing my edging recordings on my blog ^^

You can send me tasks with my ask tasks meme! (or look below the cut) I will take tasks from anyone ^^ you can see tasks I've done here! If you like or follow my blog, think about sending me a task as a little gift!

I love to write, and I especially like to write about kink. Read bits about my playtimes with Miscling Writes. Use my ask box liberally, anon or not. I'll answer near anything and you can use my ask meme tag and miscling answers to find questions to ask me (scroll the tag and use any meme you like, but copy in the questions or link the meme!) and I will answer pretty much everything. You can also find pics of me in Miscling Appears and little bits of me in Miscling Rambles. I also strip for notes in my thursday stripping threads.

I have a lovense wishlist: https://www.lovense.com/wish-list/939q and it would be amazing if someone were to gift me toys you can control from anywhere. I already have a lush and ferri, and I'll give out control codes if I'm able to anyone who asks. I'm a slutty set of holes, a toy for others to use. Fill my mouth, cunt, and ass.

This is still so many words... 😵‍💫

I am a toy for others to enjoy!

TASKS ARE CURRENTLY: OPEN

Pick an emoji and send it to me, and I'll go off and do it as soon as I can! If it comes with additional instructions, send those too! I will accept tasks from anyone (including anons), and love to get ask tasks so I can show off how good and obedient I am.

(Most tasks recieved and completed in one day: 12)

🫴 edge for 5 minutes (Send me porn or a post to edge to or a mantra to repeat while I do it, you can use my mantra tag for ideas.) (nothing involving anyone who looks under 18 or scat, I like affirming mantra) 😈 No touching! Don't touch myself for an hour, unless I ask someone for permission first or I get a task. 🤏 play with my nipples for 5 minutes. Mooing optional. 🗜️Nipple clamps, 5 minutes, go. 🥶 put ice on my nipples for as long as I can hold it. ⛓️ Get tied up in self bondage for 15 mins. (send me ideas!) 🕳️ Fill up a hole for 10 minutes! (Choose to plug my cunt or/and ass) 🎁 Share a lovense control link for one of my toys. (no account needed to use, tell me which one or let me pick, 5 minute run) 💋 go practice deepthroating for 5 mins 🤐 no talking! Gag yourself for half an hour! (tell me what kind of gag to use and if I have it I'll use it, otherwise I'll pick) 🖐️ slap myself or get someone to slap me 5 times! (tell me where to get slapped) 🏓 Choose an implement to hit myself with 5 times! (name an implement and location, and I'll do my best) 👗 Get undressed! Be naked for the next 30 mins! 👙 put on your sexiest lingerie for the rest of the day. 💄 Do/touch-up your make-up! I can always make it a lil' sluttier 😉 ✏️ pick a spot for me to write what you want on my body (tell me where, but I won't use anything that won't wash off easy on my face) 🤖 Be a good robot and complete one thing on your to-do list! 🚰 Go get some water and drink it! 🍇 Go get a snack and eat it! 🌊 Fill up a tub of warm water and soak my feet for a bit! 🤗 Put on a big hoodie until I feel nice and cozy! 🦾Magic wands were designed to be back massagers, so use it that way (use my magic wand to massage my back and thighs) ❌ Go take a Break! (go stand outside for 5 mins) 🖼️ take and post a selfie! (I won't post a face pic or anything nsft, mutuals I've been talking to can ask for spicier things in private) 🗣️Speak! Give me a topic to write about (kinky or otherwise) and I'll infodump about it. 📝Post! Give me some text to post to my blog, and I'll copy it out of the ask and post it without editing, changing, or indicating I was told to post it. 😵‍💫 Stare at a spiral for 5 minutes (send me a spiral to use) (I won't use spirals that give me bad vibes, but I'll use any I've already reblogged) 🪆 Be a doll! for the next 30 mins cup your hands, stay on your tip toes, and arch your back. You want to be a good doll after all. 😺 Who's a pretty kitty? (for the next 30mins, keep off the furniture and only move around on all fours, and only talk in meows.) 🐮 Be a good Moo! (pump my udders for 30mins, only talk in moos) ⁉️ Give me a task not listed! (You can find the contents of my toybox here for ideas) (I reserve the right to safeword, but I'm very open and obedient, so shoot your shot)

#about Miscling #misc pinned post

[inafieldofdaisies]

WIP Wednesday | Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat

This Wednesday we have more of John's misadventures from his and Sabrina's AU as a treat. Starting up with a little snippet involving her mother, then moving onto his arrival for an impromptu dinner. Don't ask what happens inbetween to rattle the gremlin, that bit is still under construction.

Upon the call's end, John dropped his phone on the bed, finding himself unable to wipe off the grin that had taken over his face despite the noises next door continuing, and that only grew wider at the new message notification as he finally took out his newly purchased clothes from the bags he had spent a good while ignoring. "Wearing the suit from today again is out of the question.", he reasoned to himself while laying down pieces of clothing on his bed. He wasn't one to women's houses for 'dinner'. Hell, he usually avoided invitations like those like the plague, choosing to spend the night in a neutral place for both parties instead. His current predicament was definitely throwing him for a loop, especially since he had no idea what she'd greet him in. The thought Sabrina might not even have been asking him over for food made him forget the task at hand for a beat. "No. She insisted it's not like that. But what if… what if it is?", his eyes narrowed at the wicked possibility just when something crashed loudly in 310, putting an end to his embarrassingly long attempt at deciding what to wear, "Focus. And you can't sleep with her anyway, Duncan." The last part came off in a tone matching Clive's, yet the reminder did little to banish the desire within him. He settled for a dark gray wool suit and quickly decided to forego the matching vest and tie to go with them. Underneath, he threw on a simple dress shirt with a couple of buttons unbuttoned at the top since he still felt he could breathe easier without anything snaking around his neck like his father's iron grip from the olden days. "Don't think of them. It just makes you feel worse after.", John hated how his voice shook as he regarded himself in the bathroom mirror and did his best to focus on styling his hair in place instead of entertaining memories that belonged in the past.

"You're twisted, wrong. But we can fix it. You won't turn into a disappointment, John.", the words materialized on their own, a deafening cacophony of his parents voices that threatened to hang over him as a dark cloud. He slammed the bathroom door, set on leaving them back there to keep company on the persisting grunts of his neighbors, refusing to let anything ruin whatever his night with Sabrina would bring. On his way out, he grabbed his coat and came to an abrupt halt at the heels sounding in the hallway as he anticipated an unpleasant run-in with a certain redhead. When both the silence aside from the couple's usual noises and a look through the peephole hinted at the coast being clear for him to make his escape, he promptly exited his room and for once luck seemed to be on his side with the elevator remaining empty. The ride down to the lobby seemed to last an eternity and the second the doors opened, he was greeted by another unpleasant sight: the brunette that had checked him in on his first night was deep in animated conversation with another employee, both appearing completely oblivious to his approach as she let out a sigh after saying way too loudly, "He called to complaing about the noise like dozen times. I don't know what he expected me to do, and I swear, Lucas, anytime 310 would pick up, they were still doing it while talking to me." "Shit.", the man whispered before asking, "When are they checking out? Do you think it maybe turns them on to have an audience?" "I don't know. But I'm not paid enough for any of this. Let alone being forced to listen to a man half-talking, half-moaning over the phone. I've never wanted to hang up more." "Want me to go get you something sweet?", a hand grasped hers, and she finally cracked a smile at the suggestion. "At least I have you here." John shook his head at the display of affection and blantant discussion of guests out in the open, drawing closer to the two and clearing his throat to grab their attention.

The gleam in the receptionist's eyes evaporated when they moved to his and she quickly shook off her collegue's hold, smile dropping for a second before she forced it again. "Good evening, Mr. Duncan", the name made the man spin around and echo her greeting with narrowed gaze. "I will be right back, Jules." She nodded despite looking like she wanted anything but for him to leave all of a sudden. "Good evening.", John muttered evenly as he leaned against the reception desk. "Is 310 still giving you trouble? I'm really sorry about-" "Yes. For two hours now, miss.", he cut off her apology, "But I'm not here because of that." If he didn't have other plans, John's next course of action would have been to ruin her night like his had been, especially after the way nothing had actually been done to ensure the noises from the room next to his would cease. Not to mention gossiping about me to your colleague. Still, for once he pushed down the urge to put someone in their place with Penny's drunken call fresh on his mind, trying to imagine how Sabrina would take on the situation. With kindness, most certainly.

His words seemed to put her at ease a little, "Oh, I truly am sorry to hear that, sir. How can I assist you then?" "I need you to call a car for me." She reached for one of the hotel phones, "Cab or personal driver?" "Whatever would get here faster." She nodded and dialed a number, talking in a hushed voice into the receiver as his baby blues shifted to the hotel's entrance, giddiness making his body feel lighter. "30 minutes for a driver, sir. Would you like me to call you a cab in that case?", the news were a proverbial cold shower to the desire he felt at the thoughts of Sabrina, and he took a deep breath before facing the woman as she held the phone to her ear, clearly waiting for his answer. "I-" "Mr. Duncan.", heels sounded behind him before Candice Donovan was at his side, standing way too close for his liking. If he had to guess she was doing a little observing on her own, just like he had done minutes prior. "A cab.", he replied hurriedly, before turning to her and mirroring her smile, taking note of the expression she wore even better than the no doubt expensive dress that peeked through her unbuttoned coat. He had no doubt what it harbored. Intent to strike. "Nonsense, darling.", a hand landed on his forearm when she addressed the woman across them, "Julie, no cab would be needed." "I'm-" "My driver is waiting out front, Mr. Duncan. I will be more than happy to drop you off wherever you need to be.", her sweeter than honey tone put him on edge. "I appreaciate the suggestion, but-" She cocked her head, "I don't bite, Mr. Duncan. It's a simple gesture for a collegue." There's nothing simple or innocent about this 'gesture'. Yet accepting her offer meant getting to Sabrina faster and not having to climb into a cab and potentially get into more trouble on his way. Her arm wrapped around his elbow, pulling him towards the exit as the receptionist muttered a quiet, "Have a great evening." Candice released her hold the second they were on the curb, slipping into the backseat of her car when John pulled open the door for her in place of her driver and silently cursed the manners instilled into him. Don't do it. "You coming, darling?", she questioned with a smirk and despite all of his instincts warning him how bad of an idea it was, he climbed in, too, putting as much distance as he could between them. "Reginald, we will be making a stop on the way. Where are you headed, Mr. Duncan?"

[John's] hand rapped on the door, heartbeat picking up again when he heard footsteps approaching and it swung open. "Hey.", Sabrina uttered out with a smile and he wasted no time in crossing over the threshold and wrapping his arms around her. He pulled her in his embrace, face burying in her soft hair as her scent invaded his senses. "John?", she asked in confusion, amusement instead of alarm coloring her tone at the brazen greeting, "Are you okay?" "I had the worst night imaginable… just humor me for a second. Then you can tell me how strange it is." Her hands that had stayed by her side to that moment gingerly encircled his waist, "I was starting to wonder if something had come up or maybe that you had decided to ghost me." No matter that he knew the hug was dragging for far too long, he couldn't bring himself to let go, until she spoke up again, "John? I'm kind of freezing here." Her words were his wake up call, eyes swooping over her form, the denim shorts, top and thin knitted oversized cardigan she wore as she wrapped her hands around herself. "Sorry.", he muttered before moving out of the way so she could shut the door and stop the cold from entering the house further. He watched her head down the hallway as he remained glued to the spot, feeling absolutely out of place and realizing he had, in fact, overdressed.

"You gonna stand by the front door the whole night?", she asked quietly, eyes shining with mischief. "No. Of course not.", her bare feet and shoes lined on a rack at the entrance told him he was expected to take his off, too. Her attention remained on him, making him worry he was fumbling with something as simple as that, and she was seeing through his poised act and how nervous he felt deep down. Get yourself together. He quickly stored his loafers by the door, deciding it would be too far to put them among her own, then shed his coat and threw it over his arm. Silently, he followed her deeper into the house, the same way he had at her precinct, and just like back then, her oversized cardigan did its hardest to conceal his view. The first thing to hit him about the living room, he found himself entering, was how it felt like a home, not the sterile spaces he had grown up in where everything had been for show, but meaninglessness if you glaced at it for too long. "Is it what you expected?", Sabrina asked, taking note of how he was looking around. "I-", he hesitated, not really having thought of what her home might look like, instead, his mind had been preoccupied with other less innocent things, "It's lovely." "Sit.", she pulled out one of the chairs at the dining table before disappearing into what he assumed was the kitchen. He slipped into the seat after placing his coat over the back of one of the empty chairs.

"Now, I know it's not fine dining.", there was uncertainty in her gaze when she rounded the table with a dish in hand, "But-" "I didn't come for fine dining, Detective. As long as Oliver doesn't jump out from behind the couch, I'm happy." He meant it completely and even more when she placed his dinner in front of him, his mouth watering despite the fact he had eaten already. "I was worried I would have to reheat them twice." "Sorry." She grinned, "Don't be. I just wanted to make a good first impression. Wine or are we behaving tonight?" He suspected he would probably feel tempted to agree to drinking poison if she asked with the same gleam in her eyes, "I could use a drink." She returned shortly with a bottle of red and two glasses, and before she could pour it, he got up, "Let me." "You're the guest-" Her argument was cut short when his fingers brushed hers, and he grabbed the wine, pouring a glass for her first, then for himself before sitting back down across from her. "To-", he paused as he raised his hand in a toast, "saving me from having to listen to whatever performance they had prepared for me as encore back at the hotel." Sabrina let out a laugh and clicked her glass to his, "Think they're still going at it?" "I'm not a betting man, but I would certainly bet on that." "That's some stamina, I'd give them that." "That's one one to look at it." "And you're a patient man.", she added after taking a sip from her wine. Not exactly.

She propped her head on her hand, focusing on him as he picked up his fork and took a first bite from what she had deemed "leftovers". The sautéed potato melting on his tongue with flavor that resulted in an embarrassing noise of satisfaction escaping him. "It's-" "Cold? Did it get cold?", her frown was another level of adorable. "Better than fine dining." She huffed, "You're pulling my leg now." "I'm not." The look on her face told him she wasn't buying the genuine compliment. "I mean it. The company is even better." He wasn't holding back by then, trying to blame his bluntness on the wine when he had barely taken a sip himself. "Right back at you, Mr. Duncan.", her smile was intoxicating enough by itself, he realized. Her fingers breezed over the stem of her wine glass, lashes fluttering before she added, "I got the flowers." His lips twisted into a smirk, yet something in her tone piqued his interest more, he took his time working on next bite then asked, "Did you like them?" "They were beautiful, but John," "Yes?" Her eyes rose up from her glass to his, "It was too much." "Nonsense."

"I hardly did anything to warrant you sending me a giant bouquet like that." "You stayed on the phone while a bat made an attempt on my life. Sending you flowers was the least I could do." She quirked up a smile, "A kill attempt? A tad bit extreme." "Not if you were there." "I did for a second wish to be a fly on the wall, not gonna lie." Her words made him shift in his seat, especially with the knowledge they wouldn't have been facing a bat issue had she been there, instead probably giving his neighbors a show of their own. "What did you do last night before I called?", the question left his mouth before he could shove more food into it. She laced her fingers together and bit her lip in contemplation, muttering nonchalantly, "Be good, and I might show you after dinner." Fuck. Don't go there, brain. It was too late, his mind drank her words like a starving man. Her playful grin didn't help the situation as John blinked slowly and did his best to keep his composure in check while on the inside he pictured taking her right then and there on the table, "It's nothing spectacular, so don't go expecting too much." You're killing me here. "Detective." "Mmm?" "I look forward to it.", his voice dipped, and she appeared completely oblivious to the effect her words had on him as she took a sip of her wine. More than you could ever imagine.

He finished his meal in record time while Sabrina swooped into telling him how excited she was about finally getting a development in one of her cases without actually revealing any sensitive information. As she did that, it took him a minute to remember he wasn't casing a witness and looking for weak links or potential violations of code of conduct. At least not yet. Her features lit up differently when she talked about her work, all of her emotions and dedication shining through. With nothing to keep him distracted, he eventually reached across the table and grabbed her hand, thumb caressing the inside of her wrist where her pulse picked up in a similar pace to his own heart. "Desert?", she asked slowly, adding more fuel to his desire. I'd take you. Gladly. Thankfully, he didn't say that, instead replying a simple, "What do you have in mind?" "I stopped by the diner again after work. Sav loves their chocolate pies, so I got us some. I know I told you how delicious they are, and then Ollie stole the only slice left…" "I'd love that." She nodded and rose up quickly, gathering his empty plate on her way out, "Be right back." John felt glad she hadn't asked for him to follow her because his pants were growing tighter by the minute in her presence to the point he was trying to picture himself in the freezing shower back at his hotel in place of all the fantasies plaguing him currently. So far, he was failing miserably. Sabrina reappeared next to him, startling him a little, "Your pie, Mr. Duncan. With a tiny delay." She placed a piece of the pie whose taste he had been trying to picture throughout the day after the show Oliver had made out of eating it. "And you?" "Me?" "Where's yours?" She shook her head as the realization hit him, "There's only this slice, all yours, Mr. Duncan. I've had it plenty of times."

Of course you're giving me your desert. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist when she made a move to retreat to her seat, "Sit here instead." Hazel eyes darted from him to the chair next to his, and after a few beats, she complied. He dropped his hold on her arm to lift up the fork and gather a bite of the pie, bringing it up to her mouth first, "We're splitting it then, it's only fair." Her lips parted to accept his offering, the way they closed around the cutlery haunting him as he scooped some of the desert for himself next. Truly killing me here, Detective. The chocolate, whipped cream, and mousse tasted even sweeter, making him wonder if somewhere inbetween he was picking up on her own taste, too. "I will grab another fork.", she muttered, and before she had the chance to get up, he lifted his hand to her mouth with another serving. "We can share this one." His worry about taking things too far was short-lived when she let him feed her again. "Delicious, right?", her tongue absently breezed over her bottom lip when he took a bite. "Absolutely." The next time he brought the fork to her mouth and she licked at the whipped cream left upon the cutlery's retreat, he completely forgot about taking a bite for himself. His intrusive thoughts took over, the fork cluttering against the plate as he dropped it to grasp her cheek. "Remember that kiss from earlier, Sabrina…"

The look she gave him was a knowing one before nodding quickly. He didn't have to be told twice, leaning in closer to cover her mouth with his. The kiss began innocent enough with his lips moving at a slower pace over hers, testing the waters until he couldn't hold back any longer. Not with how sweet she tasted - far better than the goddamned pie on its own. Or the way she let out a sigh of content and kissed him back. His tongue used the first presented opportunity to sneak in, setting on exploring her mouth before meeting her own. Slow down. His hands had other ideas as one of them hoisted her by the waist until she was out of her chair and onto his lap while the other angled her face to deepen the kiss. Her fingers traveled up his arms until they came to rest on his shoulders, and she seemed just as lost in the sensation and dance their tongues had slipped into. Until she pulled back as if finally remembering herself. "John.", his name was a whisper when she leaned her forehead against his, sounding as breathless as he felt while his heart carried on the reoccurring faster rhythm. Go ahead. Ask me… I'd take you to bed, Clive, Mooney, anyone be damned. He waited for the anticipated question to come as they remained in their position until a phone decided to ruin the mood. Sadly, not his. Otherwise, he would have thrown the pesky device across the room, not caring who had decided to call, or if it would survive the flight.

"Tell me you're going to let it go to voicemail.", he said against her lips before diving in for another kiss while the ringing persisted. Whoever had chosen the worst moment to require something for her, was dead set on reaching her. "I can't.", she broke their liplock and gave him an apologetic look, "It might be important." Sabrina clambered off his lap and rushed out of the living room as she pulled her phone out of her cardigan. "I will be right back.", she called out quietly before greeting the person on the other line. Minutes ticked by, the tingling in his lips fading away while he sat at the dining table with his gaze pointed at the kitchen doorway, hoping she'd reappear and pick up where they had left off. Eventually, he got up and walked over to the unlit fireplace, taking the opportunity to take a closer look at the photographs she had on the build-in shelf above it. A dimly lit group shot of Sabrina squished between what he guessed were fellow Detectives at her presinct, if Oliver's presence was anything to go by. The man from her phone homescreen was among the unfamiliar faces and had his hand over her shoulder, the look he wore leaving a bad taste in John's mouth. He forced his attention to a different frame - her and presumably her sister smiling brightly at the camera with an impressive lake surrounded by pines behind them. Another vacation shot stood next to it - a photograph of a young, dark-haired girl hugging a man, the gray in his hairline matching Sabrina's. "Sorry.", she mumbled as she came to stand by John's side, having sneaked up on him yet again, "I'm the worst host." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye as he returned the frame he had picked off from the shelf. "Nonsense. I was keeping myself occupied." "I can see that."

"Your father?", he guessed as he nodded at the picture in front of him, noting the absense of her mother. "Yeah.", the way she hugged herself made him think he should have picked a different question, the fact she offered nothing more just cemented the theory. "Everything okay with the call?" She nodded, "Yeah." God. That word again. The moment is totally gone, isn't it? He turned to face her fully, "It's getting late… I should probably get going, Detective." It was the last thing he actually wanted to do, but the call had inevitably broken the spell between them, leaving an air of awkwardnes to lurk around. Sabrina shifted her weight from one foot to the other, seeming uncertain at the announcement, "Oh, okay." Yet, instead of marching over to the table and grabbing his coat then wishing her goodbye, he took a step forward, his hand grasping hers, "Do you want me to?" Her gaze searched his face, and he held his breath as he waited for her answer, "Not really. No." "Really?", the corner of his mouth quirked up, pride taking over at the fact he had read her correctly and he still had a chance. "I mean, I assume you plan on grabbing a cab to your hotel?", he nodded, so she continued, "And there's no guarantee your lovely neighbors won't be continuing with their shenanigans in the early hours, especially with what you told me…"

He bit back a smirk at her explanation, seeing clearly how she was trying her best to explain her reasoning behind whatever she had on her mind, when he would have all the right to complain if 310 were still going at it upon his return. "It's probably too forward. Hell, it's definitely too forward. But I was going to offer you to stay here, I would be less concerned, especially with your track record." "You're worried about me?", another step brought him closer to her. "About you getting back in one piece after dragging you across town to see me. I was confident you would be just fine at your hotel yesterday, and then the bat happened." "Ask me.", he whispered as the air around them grew heavy, excitement coursing through his body. "You could stay here… if you want.", Sabrina tip-toed over asking him plainly. Close enough. "Are you going to make me sleep on the floor?", he pushed further, the worry he had been too direct dissipating when she smiled at the remark to her previous joke about her "harem" of men. You certainly have enough potential candidates in the photo. "Nope. As long as you behave yourself and don't get my house infested with critters." A smirk broke free, "The couch?"

"I was going to offer you the guest room, Mr. Duncan. It would be gentler on your back. Just on one condition…" Her smile was quickly pushing through all the conviction he had for holding himself back, pulling him in. He chuckled as he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, "Yes?" "You have to promise me to take no legal action for anything potentially going wrong while you're residing on the premises." His eyebrows shot up in surprise, "You really are worried." "Can you blame me?" "Absolutely not." "I will need it in writing, by the way…" John groaned, "Sabrina." "Kidding." "I promise.", his face drew closer to hers until their lips were almost touching, "As long as you promise you'd come to my rescue again if needed. Civilian status and all that." Before she had the chance to respond, his mouth descended on hers while he pulled her into him by the belt loop of her pants. Her hands locked around his neck, slipping into his hair and setting on undoing all the efforts and time he had put into styling it as their lips fought to prevail over the other. John kept his fingers from working on taking off her clothes the way "that wicked side" of him beckoned them to do. Patience. Or you'd actually sleep on the floor or worse, she'd change her mind completely. He doubted the usual methods would work, reminding himself he wasn't threading in familiar waters, that she didn't exactly fit in the category of women he usually dated. This time around, it was him who broke the kiss, stroking her cheek while he backed away a little, enough to gaze into her eyes. Self-control. You have it somewhere within yourself, Duncan. "How can I refuse to help after that?", Sabrina said with another smile, skin flushed where his beard had rubbed against it. "I'm torn if perhaps I should wish for trouble now." "Hilarious.", she smoothed a hand down his suit jacket, "Come then." She aimed for another doorway across the kitchen just as he returned to the table and pulled a pen out of his coat's inner pocket, scribbling away at his unused napkin from dinner. "John?", she noticed he wasn't following and moved behind him in attempt to take a peek over his shoulder. "Almost done." "What are you-" He slid the napkin and pen over to her with a smirk, "All you need to do is sign on the dotted line and the contract would be in place." Her eyes scanned his make-shift agreement before she let out a laugh, "I truly was joking."

Tagging, @adelaidedrubman @strangefable @florbelles @unholymilf @corvosattano @onehornedbeast @jillvalentinesday @voidika @nightbloodbix @quantum-lover @wrathfulrook @trench-rot @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @cassietrn @theelderhazelnut @harmonyowl @thesingularityseries @the-silver-chronicles @simplegenius042 @purplehairsecretlair @dumbassdep @g0dspeeed

#I'm still laughing at John taking forever to choose an outfit; silly little man <3 #he's so damn sus of Leslie's existence... i just can't #Oliver did such a good job at lunch he will now look over his shoulder for a while ... #the agreement part continues later on too <3 <3 <3 #wip: a trial of errors #john x sabrina #ship AU: lady luck and lady justice are both not on your side #ship: the diviner and the baptist #tagged <3 #wip wednesday #oc: sabrina donovan #fc5 au #far cry 5 oc #fc5 ocs #fc5 deputy #wip snippet #character dynamics #wip whenever #ocs #snippets #john seed #john duncan #mygifs #wip stuff #wip tag

[darthvaderofmiddle-earth]

My father ain't getting his Christmas present today. Everyone in the house will get presents, multiple. But he won't get a damn thing from me now or probably ever again for that matter. He doesn't even love me. Why should I spend anything on him?

When my brothers and I went to go get my wheelchair I bought, my father pulled me aside and didn't even look at me as he said, "You can become magically able bodied if you just exercise and lose some weight. If you buy that thing, it has to go into storage and you have to pay for storage. You're making a big mistake." I told him then and there I don't appreciate him and he does nothing for me. Then I left.

On our way home, my father tried to physically blockade my brothers from pulling into the driveway, and said we have to take the wheelchair directly to storage. We... don't have a storage unit anywhere, and it's New Year's Eve, so none are open. Additionally, we have a double garage which you can park 2 vans inside of. We've done it before. And here was father, yelling at us that we can't fit a wheelchair inside...

A few months ago, my father tried to obtain legally confidential information from my therapist which I legally signed documents to make sure he could never get. And he sent lawyers after her and her staff, angry phone calls, and it got to the point the staff texted me and asked for assistance. Twice.

What's more is, I've gotten dozens of blood tests from half a dozen different doctors over the years. All of them confirmed I have high numbers for lupus and arthritis. There's no denying it. And yet, my father said they're wrong. My doctors are wrong, my therapist is wrong, and science is wrong. There is nothing wrong with me. He asked me, "How did you get around Universal Studios?" I told him I limped and complained about my leg pain the entire time. He said, "I don't remember that." But considering he gaslights me on a daily basis, I can promise he remembers and is lying.

And then, I remembered something else. My father has a cousin who was born with a deformed spine. She cannot walk, never has been able to, and yet, whenever my family visits her or she visits us, my father will make offhand comments when she's not looking or isn't in earshot, that she doesn't need to be in a wheelchair and she could walk if she just tried hard enough and that it would straighten out her spine if she did. She... has a shifted spinal column that's missing discs. I uhh... I don't see how you can fix that by walking.

Anyway, yeah. I'm not going to give anything to my father today, tomorrow, next year, ever. He takes my money each month just to turn off my electronic contact with the outside world whenever he's angry (he disables my phone, wifi, TV, data, etc. on all devices). You know, I learned to hack so I could hack his account to gain that access back. He somehow found out, and set up 2FA which I don't know how to get around (my guess is he was tracking when the account was logged into, from which IP, and checking the trace logs).

There's a reason I send all my messages to friends through encrypted apps, or untracked accounts, and hide all my social media posts from my father. I've learned the sounds of everyone's footsteps in the house, so I know when to be silent if my father comes around. I know to lock my door if he does. I fear him and everything he says. Nobody should have to live this way. But I do.

And sometimes, I ask myself if it's worth it to live at all when these are the conditions I'm forced into.

Here's to 2024. Maybe, somehow, it'll lead me to freedom...

[genuine-wrestleboy]

the attraction (5/5)

words: 8,333

You know immediately, with iron certainty, that Mike has gone to Fazbear’s Fright. It's a little while longer than that before you realize he's taken your car keys with him. You pace the tiny kitchen, surrounded by everything you'd torn out of your bags in the search, listening again as his phone rings out to voicemail.

“Come on, Mike,” you hiss into your phone. You've chewed the nail on your thumb down to the quick. “Please pick up.”

What would you even say to him if he did? Would you ask him to turn around? Tell him to be careful? Warn him that he's walking into a trap? You seriously doubt that he'd listen to you at this point, and you can't even blame him for that. If he's walking into a trap, it's one that you willingly helped set.

Just let me be there, you think, frantically tapping a new number into your phone. It feels like the only thing the dozen overlapping voices in your mind can agree on. Please just let me be there.

Your friend picks up on the second ring. Your name is half a question on their tongue, like they hadn't ever expected to say it again.

“I need your help,” you say by way of a greeting.

“What does that mean?” they ask, already wary.

“It means you have a car that's not totaled and a leg that's not in a cast,” you tell them. “And you owe me for ditching me at Fazbear’s.”

“That wasn’t my idea,” they say defensively.

You let the moment hang in silence. Guilt might be the only real tool in your arsenal right now, and even if you don't feel great about employing it, you can't afford the time required for anything more diplomatic. Your friend makes several sounds that want to be protests, but none of them can quite commit.

“What do you want me to do?” they ask finally, weakly.

“Nothing—I, well, I need to borrow your car.”

“Don't you have a car?”

“It's a long story.” You do your best not to snap, but every second they stall, Mike's headstart on you gets longer and longer. “I don't really have time to explain. Please, this is important.”

“Shit,” they say, then with feeling, “shit, okay, are you home?”

“No.” You tell them the name of the town and hope that might be it, but they make a confused noise and ask, “Wait, what are you doing there?”

“That's also a long story.” You can hear the exhaustion in your own voice. “Can you get here?”

Your friend breathes out tightly through their nose. “Send me the address.”

A rush of relief fills your lungs, and the breath you pull in leaves you light-headed.

“Thank you, really. You're saving my life, here.”

“Yeah, well. As long as I live to regret it, we're square.”

They hang up without further word, and you swipe a hasty hand across your eyes and dial Mike's number again. Again, he fails to pick up. You think about leaving another message, but the box is full. You open your texts and stare at the last two he sent you, hours ago now.

Are you hungry there’s not much food in the place…

I could order a pizza? Or I make a mean spaghetti and meatballs if you’re into that

You think about it, sitting at the shitty little table with a plate of spaghetti instead of standing here cutting crescents into your palms with your nails. Simple, easy, mundane. Utterly impossible now. The thought makes the knot of tears tighten behind your eyes.

You reach up and touch your throat, bruises fresh and hot under your fingertips. Something inside it constricts nastily. You tear your hand away and dial Mike's number again.

By the time your friend pulls up, it's full dark outside, and a frigid, misty rain hangs over the lot. You sprint out to meet them, hood pulled up to shield your face. Everywhere the rain touches feels like a thousand chilly little pinpricks, and you throw yourself into the passenger seat just to get out of it.

“Sorry,” you say, shaking yourself like a dog.

“For what specifically?” Their voice has the forced lightness of someone who isn't joking doing their best to make what they're saying sound like a joke. Another pang of guilt goes through you.

“Getting your seat wet,” you reply hollowly, and their mouth thins.

“It's fine. Where are we headed?”

“I—” It takes you a beat for the implication of their question to slide through to your brain. “You don't have to come. I didn't—you can stay here, if you want.”

Your friend looks at you like you just started stripping next to them. “Why would I do that?”

Right. They don't know. You study their face, their vaguely annoyed expression. The distance between you feels suddenly like miles, like years.

“It's—” You wave your hands, at a loss to sum up everything that's happened since the two of you parted ways. “—dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” they say flatly.

“I have to go back to Fazbear’s,” you elaborate, though you’re not sure it actually clarifies anything.

Their eyebrows climb towards their hairline. “Fazbear’s Fright? It burned down, dude.”

“I know that,” you snap, ire rising. You have to remind yourself again that they don’t know, couldn’t know. “I was there.”

Your friend at least has the good grace to look taken aback. “Did—you didn’t do it, did you?”

“No,” you assure them tiredly. “It’s a long story.”

They nod. “So you keep saying. But we’ve got a long drive.”

“You don’t understand,” you insist, but they’re already shifting the car into gear.

“Save it. I’m not ditching you again, okay? That’s the whole, you know, the whole fucking thing. Explain it to me or don’t, I’m driving you to Fazbear’s.”

“Okay,” you say weakly. Despite yourself, you can’t deny that the prospect of having company for the drive is a welcome one. You don't think you can be alone with your thoughts much longer before they start to unravel and take you with them. “Thanks.”

“Mhmm.” They ease the car into motion, knuckles white on the wheel. 

“I'm not sure how much I can actually tell you,” you admit after a moment, mostly to break the pull of tension. Still, it's not untrue—you're not sure how much they'd actually believe. You wouldn't believe half of it yourself if it hadn't happened to you.

Your friend glances over, unimpressed. “Sure. What's at Fazbears?”

“Uh.” Your thoughts scramble around the question. What is Mike to you? What is Springtrap? “A…friend.”

“A dangerous friend?” they prod.

“Maybe.” You pretend not to notice the way their eyes go wide at that. “A friend in danger, at least.”

“Jeez,” they say, clearly aiming for a lighter tone than they manage. “Can't leave you alone for two seconds.”

“Sorry.”

They click their tongue. “Don't do that. It was just a joke.”

Both of you falter into silence after that, broken only by the occasional ping from your friend's GPS. You start and abort a dozen sentences in your head, the easy normalcy of smalltalk more appealing now than it's ever been, but all the words sit in your mouth like marbles, garbled and clacking.

Mindlessly, you scroll back through Mike's texts, through the unanswered line of your own. You can't even tell if he read any of them. From there you flick through the usual distractions, dismissing notifications from all the frivolous apps that used to seem so important. It works, for a little while at least, to keep everything else at bay, quickly melting ice over the white-water roar of emotions at the back of your mind. 

But it doesn't last, and the silence does. Doubt starts to creep in at the edge of your thoughts, furling out dark and unending as the road beyond the windshield. At the end of it, the phantom of Fazbear's looms shrouded and huge, the staring windows, the gutted mouth. Empty and expectant, hungry and cold. 

Are you stupid for this? What’s stopping you from having your friend turn off at the next exit, turn around, forget any of this ever happened? Springtrap was right—Mike should never have involved you in the first place, so who could blame you for walking away? You kept your promise, by all rights you should be able to wash your hands of it and leave the two of them to whatever awful fates they have planned for each other. What can you even do, really, for either of them, other than get in the way?

Fuck, you think emphatically, gut churning, and briefly consider asking your friend to pull over so you don’t get sick all over yourself. They must be able to tell that something is wrong, because they shoot a glance sideways at where you slump in your seat, mouth slanted.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just thinking.”

As if to prove it—to them or to yourself, you can’t quite tell—you readjust your posture and casually return your phone. You’re scraping the bottom of your available distractions, cycling through the home screen until you’ve opened and closed your email three separate times, when you remember the pictures you’d so hastily hidden from Mike earlier. Tapping open your gallery, you flip through them, tilting your screen judiciously, one by one deleting images of the inside of your pocket, the seat of your car, a blurry glimpse of one crooked rabbit ear. 

The final picture seems to have been taken just before your phone slipped itself into the folds of your backpack. You have to turn the screen sideways to make out what it is, but eventually the muzzy details resolve into glass-glare and gilded frame, the corner of the prize you’d wrested from Fazbear’s burned-out remains. Just the photograph is visible, the waving yellow rabbit suit, big mitted paws and one long, crooked ear.

A thrill goes through you. You zoom in on the photo, drinking in the familiar details with the giddy glee of a schoolgirl with a crush. If there’s a caption, it’s been cut off, but you know what you’re looking at all the same. Springtrap stares out from the screen, heavy-lidded and grinning, across the span of the long, rotting years that brought him to you. Nostalgia sits bittersweet on your tongue, the sort you get for stiffly posed sepia-toned portraits from a hundred years ago. Lives you'll never lead, people you'll never meet. Real the way stars are real, blazing and beautiful and impossible to reach.

You touch the image with careful fingertips, and it twitches and snaps back to original size, then flicks away entirely. You start to swipe back over, then stop. The picture on your screen is not one you remember taking, but you recognize it all the same. It's a newspaper article, one of the many pasted on the walls of Fazbear's before the fire. You must've accidentally taken a picture while you were using your phone as a flashlight. The angle is a little weird, but you can still read all the words.

Five Children Now Reported Missing. Suspect Convicted.

Five children are now linked to the incident at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, where a man dressed as a cartoon mascot lured them into a back room. While the suspect has been charged, the bodies themselves were never found. Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza has been fighting an uphill battle ever since to convince families to return to the pizzeria.

Understanding rips through you like a blade. The nausea from before returns with a vengeance, acid burning through your sinuses, and you swallow thickly as the back of your throat floods with sick-tasting air.

“Hey.” You aim for casual and end up somewhere in strangled. “Can I ask you something?”

Your friend inclines their head in your direction. “Go ahead.”

“What happened at Freddy Fazbear's?”

Their eyes dart to you briefly. “The real stuff or the stories?”

You twist your fingers together to stop them shaking. “What's the difference?”

“The real story is that some kids went missing there in, like, the eighties. There were never any bodies, but they never found them, either. They arrested a guy, but he never even went to trial, I don't think. The others would know more,” they add, which gets a hollow laugh out of you. You don't want to know any of this, but the question burbles poisonously up and out of you anyway.

“What about the guy they arrested?”

Your friend shrugs. “Like I said, I don't know that much. It might just be the stories, but I think it was one of the owners? The legend is that he wore one of the Freddy's suits while he did it.” They wave a hand vaguely, waggling their fingers, spoooky. “That's what the Springtrap was supposed to be, the undead remains of the killer or whatever.”

You remember, with sudden, perfect clarity, the body of the guard in that dank back room, the horribly bent neck, the dark spreading blood, the glassy, vacant eyes.

You’ve known all along what Springtrap is capable of, but it hadn’t seemed real, and then when it had he had been there too, so much realer, so much more. Caught here, staring down the truth, you feel like some woozy woodland creature, leg shattered by a snare, your vision swallowed by the unfeeling muzzle of a gun.

“God,” is all you can manage. Your breath feels thin in your lungs.

“Yeah, it's pretty nuts,” agrees your friend mildly. They seem happy to end it at that, blissfully unaware that the floor has dropped out of the world.

Mike hadn’t mentioned any of this—why? Did he not know? But Springtrap is his father, if he really was arrested, how could Mike have missed it?

Maybe, suggests a venomous little voice at the back of your mind, he didn’t think he had to. Maybe he thought the murder you already knew about would be enough to keep you away. Why wasn’t it?

The sob that punches its way out of you seems to catch you and your friend both equally by surprise. They flinch, regret seeping into their expression like oil on water. You cover your mouth with both hands. Grief and terror vye for the top spot in your horrified mind, and you can’t even explain why, because there’s no world in which your friend doesn’t turn around once you tell them that they’re driving you to meet a murderer. You can’t even blame them for that. You like to think you’d have done the same, in their place, before Springtrap became the gravitational pull at the center of your spinning world.

“Still just thinking?” they ask warily.

“Sorry,” you rasp, “It’s nothing.”

“If you say so.”

This time, you have your friend pull straight up into the main parking lot, yellow tape catching from the branch of a tree and flailing desperately from the side mirror. Mike’s car is predictably already here, pulled up sideways along the curb, the door hanging ominously open. Something about it puts the steel back in your spine, and you start unbuckling your belt before your friend has even cut the engine.

“Holy shit,” they say, “that’s the security guard’s car.”

“Thank you again for this,” you say distractedly, “but you should probably go now.”

“You want me to leave you here?” they ask, like that’s somehow the strangest thing you’ve said so far.

“I told you, it’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, which isn’t exactly making me feel good about leaving you here alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” you remind them.

They drag a hand down their face. “Right, the weird security guard is in there, how comforting. Is he your dangerous friend?”

“No. Can you just trust me and get out of here? I’m trying to keep you out of another ditch.”

“Another—what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out later,” you suggest, unkindly, but your patience is a ragged thing right now. Being back here has ignited all the nerves in your body, and you feel like you might explode if you stay in this car for another second.

“No—no, you know who ran us off the road last night.” They jab a finger in your direction, accusing. 

“So do you!” You catch yourself right before you shout, hissing it through your teeth instead. “At least everyone else seems to.”

There’s a desperate edge to the careful skepticism they level at you. “They were imagining things. They had to be, I—he tore the door off the car.”

“So you understand why I think it would be a good idea for you to go.”

The panicky fear in their eyes sharpens to anger. “Are you serious? You’re gonna sit there and tell me the fucking Springtrap almost killed us and not even try to explain why?”

He wouldn't kill you, you want to argue, but you realize that you can’t.

“I don’t have time,” you tell them instead, guilt rising. “Please, I promise I’ll tell you whatever I can later, but for now I really need you to not be here.”

“Whatever you can,” they say, without much hope. “You get yourself into the weirdest shit, you know that? Fine, fine, I’m going. Tell the security guard we all say thanks.”

With that blessing, you swing yourself out of the car, pausing for a moment to lean through the door. “Get home safe.”

“You too, crazy. Don’t die, okay?”

“I'll do my best.”

You can’t let yourself consider it any longer than that, can’t see your last chance to change your mind racing away from you like flame eating a wick. You avoid your friend’s eyes and set your teeth together, half certain they’re going to start chattering. The door slams with a muted thud, and you hit a sprint before your mind catches up to the fact that you’re moving. You don't look back.

Even from a distance, it's clear that the front door has been forced open. The glass is smashed, the rest all but wrenched loose, hanging from the frame by a single straining hinge. It sways miserably back and forth, screeching under the strain of its own weight. You step carefully around it, hands out, as though you'd have any chance of safely catching it should the inevitable occur while you're in the way. It feels far longer than the handful of seconds it actually takes before you successfully stumble through, the air whooshing out of you in a relieved exhale.

The relief doesn't last. Something has changed since you were here earlier. The air is charged and still, like the whole building is holding its breath. It's not the silence of a mausoleum, or even of waiting, but of a forest where every living thing has fled moments before the wildfire catches up.

You think about calling out, but no name comes readily to your tongue. Instead, phone clutched in your hand like a protective talisman, you edge your way forward. There’s at least something of a path here, presumably cleared by the cops and firefighters. The charred hulk of what was once the front desk has been shoved against the wall, a shadow amongst shadows. Without the daylight streaming in from above, the whole place is nothing but.

With shaking hands, you turn on your phone's flashlight and sweep it along ahead of you. Your ears strain for any sounds above your own nervous breathing, the catch of your footsteps. Debris crunches under your boots, equal parts glass and ash and, unexpectedly, a sparse trail of fallen leaves that trickles on ahead into the ruined dark. Other than that, nothing, and nothing, and then—

From somewhere up ahead, you hear the faint snatch of an impossible sound. It's so impossible that at first you assume you imagined it, your frazzled nerves conjuring ghosts. But then you hear it again, and your body floods with deep, panicky adrenaline. Care sets itself aside in service of speed as you rush forward, pulled as if by a string tied to your ribcage, towards a room where you can hear a child laughing.

Your thoughts slam hard into the memory of your friend's words in the car, five children missing and no bodies ever found. You're not sure what your stance on ghosts actually is, but if there were going to be haunted buildings, Fazbear's is definitely a strong contender. The alternative is somehow even harder to explain, that a child managed to get themselves here on their own. Or that somebody brought them here, you suppose, but that's stranger yet, why would anybody—

Oh god. Please, not that.

Nausea roils in your throat as you catch onto the doorframe and swing yourself into the room just in time to watch Springtrap snap a cheap little bluetooth speaker in halves. The laughter cuts out immediately, but he still closes his mitted fists on each half in turn, crushing the black plastic into fragments.

The sight of him is riptide, a sudden, grasping, drowning emotion, half terror and half joy, and both so strong you can barely breathe past them. He turns to you with a quick snap of attention, as though he was expecting someone else, and though the mask doesn’t change you watch all the lines of his broad, battered body relax with guilty gratification.

“You came.” He tosses the speaker aside and holds out both hands to you expectantly.

“What was that?” you ask instead. You need to keep your head right now, and if you go to him, you know, you’ll be his.

He scoffs. “A nasty trick of Michael’s. There’s an AI override in the suit designed to make the animatronics move towards sound. Apparently, he’s discovered that he can activate it using these ridiculous things, and turn me into no more than a helpless passenger running around this cursed place while he does whatever it is he thinks he came here to do.”

“The AI is still active?” It seems like a stretch that anything so delicate could still be up and running after all this time, and all that damage.

“It’s a very well-built suit,” Springtrap tells you smugly.

“Maybe too well built,” you laugh despite yourself.

Springtrap closes the distance between you in two long strides. His hand is firm but gentle when it cradles your chin, and where it touches your skin, the metal is freezing cold.

“I was starting to think you weren’t going to show up.”

“Mike took my keys,” you explain.

“Of course,” he simpers. “Your good friend, Mike. Trying to keep you safe from me, was he?”

He drags a sharp thumb along your jawline, and you thrill, grasping at his wrist. Under your palm, you feel the mechanisms shift, gristle and metal and bone.

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No, of course not,” you say.

Springtrap hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps he should.”

“What?” That clears your head as well as a shake, and you edge back on your heels.

Springtrap tightens his grip, nearly to the point of pain, and tugs you back towards him. He seems like he's about to speak, but then he goes still, head tilted cautiously to one side. His broken ear twitches.

Then you hear it too: a small, shy voice, floating in from somewhere deeper in the building.

“Hello?”

Unlike the laughter, or maybe just because you know to listen for it now, there's a cold, mechanical echo to it that gives away its artificial origin. The word repeats, eerily identical in its delivery, and gooseflesh prickles along your arms. Another of Mike’s speakers, you tell yourself, but you can't help thinking again about ghosts.

You see the control go from Springtrap when it happens. The suit shudders and jerks, servos shrieking as they kick in, and as he spins away his hand rips away from you so quickly that it snaps your head to the side. It leaves you with a shallow scratch along your cheek, and a moment of struck dizziness sparking stars behind your eyes.

Springtrap lurches forward, great unsteady steps that belie the slow, deliberate grace you've come to associate with him. Every part of him moves as if with a motive of its own, shoulders rocking forward as the torso pulls back, arms shuddering as they swing. You watch him attempt to turn to you, to speak, but whatever’s left of the suit’s speaker system crackles with overwhelming static. Here and there come what might be words, barely audible and distorted like a toy running low on battery.

“H-– ki–s! My n— —s Spri–g Bon–ie! W— y—s?”

As he reaches the doorway, Springtrap lets out a roar of frustration that cuts through the static like a knife, keen and hot with rage. Both hands catch the doorframe and hold on, fingers splintering into the fragile wood. You can see him trembling with the effort of it.

“What am I supposed to do?” you ask him helplessly.

His shoulders hunch as he takes another staggered step forward, the wood creaking in protest. Ashy remnants flake to the ground between his fingers.

“The kitchen,” he grinds out, or at least enough of the syllables that you can piece the rest together. 

“I don't—do you need me to go there? To bring you there?”

Springtrap doesn't answer. With a final crack, his hands bite clean through the damaged wood of the doorframe and swing free, the momentum forcing his whole body forward several steps. You rush to his side, struggling to keep pace as the suit takes over in earnest. You watch his fingers clench into fists as the voice calls again from the distant speaker.

“Go!” he hisses, and you have to dodge the misfiring gesture as his arm almost makes contact with your chest.

“Okay,” you say, hands held out placatingly. You get the distinct sense that he's less angry with you than with being seen in this compromised state. “I—”

‘Good luck,’ you want to say, or ‘be safe’ or ‘please find me’. They all fall laughably flat.

“Okay,” you say again, miserably. You don't want to leave him like this, which makes you want to laugh and scream and cry all at once—maybe you’re wrong about everything, all the terrible things he’s done, maybe some mad, coincidental circumstances have all conspired to make a monster of him where there isn’t one. But you’re beginning to understand that as long as you’re around him, the truth will never matter as much as the way that he holds your heart in his rotted rabbit’s hands, and that puts a cold despair in your gut that you can’t scrape out.

Springtrap sets his shoulders and turns away with a growl, striding as if in full control as he knocks aside a mutilated carousel horse and disappears around a corner, into the pitch black halls of the attraction. You stand and listen to his thunking footsteps carry him further and further away.

Where do you go from here? To the kitchen? You don’t even know where that is. You press your face into your palms and breathe, in and out, until the world feels less like it’s lurching beneath your feet. With a slightly clearer head, the options lay themselves before you in insulting simplicity: you can do what Springtrap told you to, or you can do something else.

What else would you even do? You’re so far out of your depth you can’t even see the bottom anymore, who could blame you for clinging to the only thing keeping you above water? And what harm could it do, really, just to see what’s there? If it’s something horrible—and what does it say about you, that you’re fully prepared for it to be something horrible, and determined to do it anyway—then you can stop there, can. Well, you can take it one step at a time. Springtrap has his own plan; that can be yours.

So, back into the labyrinth. Ignoring how badly it’s shaking, you put your left hand against the wall and start picking your way through the ruins.

As before, you have to weave around the cluttered carcasses of ceiling beams and the black maws of collapsed flooring, stepping carefully across the weakened wood. Eventually you come to a doorway blocked by a fall of rubble, chunks of concrete crisscrossed by charred wooden slats and what look like the stacked remnants of chairs. You climb up into it far enough to peer through the gaps and your heart sinks. 

Darkness hugs the unmistakable shapes of countertops and piles of moldering pizza boxes, seeping silver vats and a huge oven on the far wall. The kitchen, obviously, but how the hell are you supposed to get in? You shift a slat of concrete aside with no small force of effort and crane your neck as far as it will go, but too much of the room is lost to shadow. You can't even clearly make out how big it is.

Your fingers are starting to ache from where you're clinging to the debris, splinters under your nails and your knuckles scuffed and bruised. You'll have to keep going and hope there's another way in. The failure rankles in you like bad food, but you don't know what else to do. There's no more than an inch or two of give anywhere, and even where there is, half of the debris weighs more than you do. You try not to see it as a sign as you start the perilous climb back down, nearly losing your footing when something beneath you scrapes loose and clatters away. You hear it roll and drop, cracking against something else that cracks in turn.

Then you hear the mournful groan of wood bending to snapping point, and the rubble shifts beneath you as the floor starts to give way.

Panic makes you mindless. Instinct kicks in, and you scramble for the top of the pile even as it tumbles down around you like the beginnings of a rockslide. You don’t let yourself look back, but the sound of the floor caving in is deafening, and the pile starts to disappear more and more quickly. In turn, though, it means that the doorway to the kitchen is starting to clear; you can make out a gap at the very top that’s probably large enough for you to squeeze through. But the more you try to climb, the more everything just falls away under your hands. It's like treading water at the edge of a waterfall. 

If you could only get close enough to reach the doorframe, close enough to risk a jump—

The floor cracks a final time and gives out. There’s a brief, delirious moment where you’d swear you’re fully airborne, and then a hand snatches your arm and hauls you bodily up onto solid ground. Without thinking, you throw your arms around your rescuer, struck through with a heady combination of gratitude and stringy, lingering terror. It's like hugging a coat rack.

Mike hisses in pain and tears himself away.

“Shit,” you say, “I'm so sorry, I—oh my god, what happened?”

The left side of Mike's body is black with burns. The worst of it seems to be his arm and shoulder, which hang limply at his side, but the marks lick up the side of his neck to his jaw and down his back as far as his waist. Through the sleeve of his sweater, his skin is a vivid, angry red, raw muscle cut here and there with the yellow white gleam of bone. His mask has been torn aside, and his expression is tight with pain.

“My father happened.” He sounds more tired than angry, though the anger is certainly there. “How did you get here?”

“I asked a friend to drive me, from the other night. They asked me to thank you,” you add, feeling small.

“Please tell me they're not waiting for you outside.” 

“No,” you assure him hurriedly, “no, I made them leave.”

“Are you here to help him?”

You start guiltily at that. “No, I don’t know, I—why didn’t you tell me, about the missing kids?”

You wonder if keeping it covered most of the time has lost Mike the knack for keeping his emotions off his face; you see the surprise clearly as it comes, and a helpless, hopeless sadness that makes him look, briefly, unbearably young. Then it all darkens, and he passes a hand over his eyes.

“I thought—I’m sorry, I should have. You already had so much to deal with, I don’t know. I guess I hoped I could spare you it.”

Part of you wants that desperately, to be spared that still unspoken truth. Your heart plummets into your gut even as your racing thoughts refuse to settle on the words. They sketch broad, hysterical strokes around them, a flock of frightened birds fleeing into the air, and you want to slap yourself, take yourself by the shoulders and shake out every cowardly, lovestruck softness until the harsh reality can clatter coldly into place.

“He killed them.” You feel a small gutter of triumph for not phrasing it as a question.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” says Mike.

You feel your nails bite into your palms, and a hollow shudder of sorrow folds you forward over yourself. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

He reaches out, pauses with his hand hovering right above your shoulder. “No, it's not your fault. He’s fooled a lot of people. Unfortunately he’s very good at it.”

You’re not sure that actually makes you feel better, to be the most recent in a long line of fools.

“What am I supposed to do?” You wish he would touch you; you feel untouchable.

“That's up to you,” says Mike gently. “There’s another door that leads out back. I have to see this through, but I can still get you somewhere safe before it really hits the fan.”

“No,” you say automatically. “Don't ask me to leave, not now. Please.”

Mike turns away. You watch the line of his jaw tense. “Come with me, then. I want to show you something.”

The scorched shell of the kitchen's massive walk-in is the most intact thing you've seen in the building so far, so the last thing you're expecting when Mike hauls open the door is the stench of gasoline. It hits you in an acrid, metallic wave so strong you actually take a step back. Inside, the walk-in is full of the expected, bare metal shelves bolted to the floor, the strong hint of black mold, but there's more than just that. The trail of leaves you'd seen earlier starts to make sense, because nearly every flat surface is covered with them, leaves and twigs and huge dead branches dragging canopies of matted plant matter behind them, draped and littered over bits of half-burnt furniture, all soaked nearly to dripping in gasoline.

“What is this?” you ask, looking at Mike.

Mike stares straight ahead. “My father was expecting me. He had traps set up all over the building when I got here. Some of them I noticed—” He gestures to his arm. “—some of them I didn't. But I think this is really where he wants me.”

“I don't understand,” you admit.

“The handle is broken off inside,” he says. “If I had to guess, I'd say he wants to force me in there with a lit match and slam the door.”

The thought of that makes you woozy. “What is it with you two and setting each other on fire?”

Mike doesn't laugh. He just studies you, and you realize with a terrible start that he's trying to decide whether or not to trust you again. What's even worse is that you're not entirely sure that he should. Then he pulls a lighter out of his pocket, flicks a flame to life, and snaps it out. He tosses it to you, and you send up a silent prayer of thanks that you manage to catch it without incident.

“From what I've read of my father's research,” he says finally, “high heat is the only thing that can permanently destroy Remnant. I can't risk him surviving anything else. It would seem that he feels the same way.”

“Oh,” you say. “So is your arm…?”

“Permanently fucked?” He gives you a wry smile. “I don't know. But I've come back from worse. I'm not the one I'm worried about.”

“Yeah.” You are patently aware in this moment that you would not come back from worse, that you have a pretty good chance of not coming back from much better.

“Whether or not I leave this building tonight,” says Mike, “I could never forgive myself if something happened to you because you got caught in the middle of this.”

“I don't think it's that simple anymore,” you tell him.

Mike sighs heavily. It's sort of impressive, since you know he doesn't technically need to breathe. “You're probably right about that.”

He still insists on making sure you know where the door is, just in case, and informs you that the fire damage makes it stick.

“There's a trick to it,” he says, lifting the knob as he twists, clearly struggling to do it one-handed. Eventually, the door swings open with a shriek of protest, and Springtrap reaches through and seizes Mike by the throat.

“Knock knock,” he says conversationally, before hurling Mike across the room. 

Momentum carries him to the far wall, against which his skull makes audible, crunching contact. Some sound leaves you, but whether it’s a cry or a scream or a word, you can’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears. Every synapse in your brain fires at once, and you feel your body try to move in three different directions without your permission—to Mike, to Springtrap, to run—all entirely without success.

Instead, you stand there uselessly as Mike staggers stubbornly to his feet, fumbling for something in his pocket. Even from your distance you can see that he's unsteady, and a small shape drops from his hand and skitters across the floor to where you stand.

“Pick that up,” snaps Springtrap, as Mike swears and calls, “Don't let him get it!”

Still on autopilot, you bend to retrieve whatever it is, and find yourself holding a palm-sized black remote. The face of it is dominated by a round purple play/pause button, flanked by the familiar symbols of stop, skip, and reverse. Your finger hovers curiously over the smooth plastic glint of the play.

Springtrap takes a step towards you. “Well done, darling. Now, give it here, if you'd be so kind.”

You start to obey, then stop, though you couldn't yourself say why. Your grip on the remote tightens, and Springtrap says your name, very quietly, and so sweetly it makes your heart ache in your chest.

Behind him, Mike catches himself on the countertop for balance. “Don't,” he says again, though if there's more to the sentence he can't quite seem to gather it.

Springtrap laughs. It's not a pleasant sound, and gooseflesh sears its way up the back of your neck even as the beginnings of heat prickle between your legs.

“Don't,” he mimics, mocking. “Honestly, Michael, what do you think is going to happen here, hm? Because if you believe that this ends with anything but your death, then our dear mutual friend has not been entirely honest with you.”

“You'd know about dishonesty,” snaps Mike, but his voice is surer than his expression. His eyes flicker over to you; you stare back at him, frozen as a deer in the headlights of a car.

“Shall we all be honest with each other, then?” suggests Springtrap airily. “I claim the blood on my hands, Michael.”

“The blood on your hands is of innocent children,” Mike reminds him, seething.

Springtrap tilts his head to one side. “Your brother wasn’t innocent?”

“That was an accident,” says Mike immediately, in the practiced tone of someone who has had to repeat it to themselves for a long time, and still doesn’t quite believe it.

“And which part, precisely, was that? The part where you tormented him on his birthday? The part where you roped your ghoulish little toadies into it? The part where you dragged him kicking and screaming to the stage? Or was it the part where you stuffed your baby brother’s head into the hydraulic jaws of a moving animatronic?”

“I didn’t know—” Mike sounds like he’s about to be sick. “I was just a kid, I just wanted to scare him—”

“And he died terrified,” says Springtrap coldly. “I hope you take comfort in that.”

Mike’s expression collapses like a rotting house. “There hasn’t been a second since his death that I—”

“That I have not spent cleaning up your mess!” Springtrap slams his hand down on the countertop. The metal gives way beneath him, leaving a dented shape as perfectly aligned to his fingers as the one on your neck. You flinch.

Mike finally glances in your direction. Something like embarrassment bleeds out onto his face, like he’d forgotten you were even there.

“Jesus,” he says, “shit, I—”

“Don’t mind us,” interrupts Springtrap smoothly, no trace that he had forgotten at all, “bring me the remote, please.”

There it is again, that awful tearing sensation in the cradle of your chest as your body processes the simultaneous urges to go to him and shrink away. You don’t want to make this choice, don’t want the stain of its consequences on your hands. It pushes the tightness of frustrated tears under your skin, not least of which because you’ve never considered yourself a coward before.

Mike says your name with an edge of desperation. “I’m so sorry that you were forced into this, but—”

“Forced?” Moonlight glints off the edges of Springtrap’s teeth. “Oh, but I assure you, Michael, anything that’s happened between our good friend and myself has been done with enthusiastic consent.”

Self-conscious heat slaps itself onto your face. This time, when Mike looks at you, you can’t meet his eyes in return. This is not—well, no, you  hadn’t intended to have this conversation with him at all, had you? You’re still pretty determined not to have it right now. And you’re doubly determined not to let the knowing cadence of Springtrap’s tone bring back the murmur of compromising memories tapping at the glass of your mind.

“I don’t—” Your throat feels like sandpaper.

‘Help me,’ you want to say, ‘please someone tell me what to do,’ but that’s the problem all over again, isn’t it? Too many voices and no clear right answer, no way to resolve this in a way that means that you’ll be able to live with yourself when it's all said and done. You gnaw anxiously at the inside of your cheek. What happened to Mike’s brother, the way he’d looked when his father brought it up—Springtrap had implied before that something terrible had happened there, but looking back at it now you can see that he’d only done it to distract you from your questions about Elizabeth. Is that what he’s doing now? Trying to throw you off a line of questioning you may be getting too close to?

“You don’t have to,” says Springtrap, all sympathy. “I haven’t forced you to do a single thing you haven’t wanted to, have I? I would very much appreciate if you afforded me the same courtesy.”

Wouldn’t it be a shame, says his voice, if you forced me to do something terrible? If I had to clean up your mess too?

You don’t recognize the emotion that spikes down your spine, only that it’s cold, and ugly, and that it's been inside you for a long time now, waiting for its moment to hatch. It hollows out a home in your chest with neat, precise teeth and lays there to roost, well-fed and content.

Springtrap takes another step towards you. Over his shoulder, Mike opens and slams a drawer, groping for what only registers to you as a faint gleam in the sparse light. Springtrap turns just in time to have the knife forced into his chest rather than his back. He grunts dully, pain or annoyance or both, and grabs Mike by his uninjured arm. You can hear the crack of bone from where you stand, and the way Mike hisses in through his teeth so tightly it's almost a scream.

“I always knew you'd die doing something stupid,” Springtrap sneers. Mike’s arm is impossibly thin in his mitted fist.

Panic like a camera flash, sudden and blinding; your thumb finds the purple play button, and presses down.

“Hello?” says a voice from the walk-in.

Several things happen in the time it takes you to register what you’ve done. Springtrap’s head snaps in your direction, silver eyes blazing. Mike takes advantage of his father’s distraction to pull himself free and stumble backwards, arm crooked protectively across his chest. Springtrap rallies and rounds on him. The knife makes a sick wet sucking noise as he yanks it from his own chest and slashes at Mike in a broad, desperate arc, sloppy with fury. It doesn’t catch Mike, but it does drive him back another step. A high, sweet laugh floats out of the walk-in, and you watch Springtrap’s arm twitch and flail into a wave, the knife falling from his fingers and clattering to the ground.

“H-– ki–s! My n— —s Spri–g Bon–ie! W— y—s?”

Mike goes still and pale at the sound, memories like old wounds reopening messily on his face and in his posture. He wheels backwards, dazed, as Springtrap lunges for him, ruined paws twisted into claws. Too late you notice how close he is to the door—not the exit outside, but the one where he’d rescued you earlier when the floor collapsed, the dark empty doorway that drops away to whatever black labyrinth lies beneath the building. His back is to it, the distance quickly closing, but neither Mike nor Springtrap seem to notice. 

You have to fight out enough of your voice to shout his name, but even then it’s strangled and weak. Laughter comes again from the speaker in the walk-in, and Springtrap shudders and twists and backhands Mike viciously across the face.

Mike hits the doorframe hard, one hand scrabbling for purchase against the wood. His arm crooks at an angle that makes bile rise in your throat, and he lets out a bitten-back cry of pain as his whole body jerks sharply.

You can’t make your brain comprehend it. One moment he’s there, and the next there’s nothing but you and Springtrap and the deafening empty space where he last stood. Icy shock seizes your fingertips, a weight like clammy grasping hands.

“Oh my god,” is all you can manage.

“Turn it off,” hisses Springtrap. His voice is low and crackling with bare-toothed violence.

Grief seeps through you like spilled ink, thick and black. It fills the ventricles of your heart, sits its slick weight in your stomach. Oozes up your throat, over your tongue, between your teeth. Stains the whorls of your fingerprints as you raise the remote and pause the speakers.

“I’m sorry,” you say, choking on it.

“You’re sorry,” spits Springtrap flatly. “Well, that makes it all alright then, doesn’t it?”

You don’t want to cry, but your body has other plans. Tears cling to your lashes as you blink them rapidly back, feeling like an idiot.

“Oh, come now, darling, there’s no need for all that. I’m not angry.” Springtrap spreads his hands, freezing when you take several steps back at his approach. “You believe me, don’t you?”

You want to, is the horrible thing. But you want a lot of things right now, and they’re looking less and less possible with every passing moment. What you need is another story entirely, and with every impossible beat of your heart, every unwanted tear shed, things begin to fall into place. Something clarifies in you, calcifies, settles. The truth will never matter, you know. And you need it to matter.

“You have to leave,” you realize.

You watch the words pass through Springtrap with bitter understanding. He doesn’t even seem all that surprised.

“Come with me.”

An order, more than an offer, but it pangs through you all the same. It’s the closest to unsure you’ve ever heard him sound. You shake your head, stepping back again. Springtrap looks between your face and the remote clutched to your chest. He makes a short, aborted gesture, like he wants to touch you, then thinks better of it.

“I’ll find you,” he says, a promise.

“I know.” You don’t say that you hope he does.

You watch him go, teeth clamped tight against the urge to call him back. It isn’t until the sticky outer door thunks shut behind him that you let yourself fall to your knees and sob.

By the time you hear Mike calling up from the basement, you’ve managed to recover yourself enough to turn the speaker back on, flick your borrowed lighter into the walk-in, and slam the door. Just enough sound escapes, just enough smoke to sell the thing. You drag the metal skeleton of a shelf over to the hole in the floor and wrangle it into something Mike can climb, though there’s some satisfaction in being able to repay the favor of hauling him up to safety. He doesn’t ask any questions when he sees the state of the walk-in, just lets himself lean on you as you half-carry him back out to the parking lot.

“Thank you,” he says finally, propped in the passenger seat of his car. “I know that wasn’t easy for you.”

“Don’t mention it.” It comes out a little more sharply than you’d intended. “You hungry? I could really go for some pizza.”

“I don’t get hungry,” Mike reminds you with good humor, “but pizza sounds good.”

#my fic #springtrap #springtrap fnaf #springtrap x reader #thank you all for your patience i hope you enjoy and i love you

[fioreofthemarch]

Finding Her - Chapter 5

Link makes notes, takes photos and keeps time on his quest across Hyrule, in the hopes of finding Zelda and staying sane until he does. [ Previous | Next | First | AO3 ]

Purah Pointer: This time of year is commonly referred to in Hylian nomenclature as Summer Rising. Savvy travellers will avoid Eldin or Gerudo at this time of year due to extreme temperatures.

Log date: 20:25. 6th month, 1st day 104AC Location: Lindor’s Brow Cave, Hyrule Ridge Weather: Warm. Showers easing.

Circling back to Lookout Landing, then onto Eldin. Ran into Impa again on my way out of Rito Village. She said there was another geoglyph in Eldin Canyon. Plus there will be something troubling the Gorons, no doubt. Going to go straight there. Don't want to get distracted. 

Spent all my rupees on a full Snowquill set for Winter so sleeping in this cave instead of the nearby stables. It's surprisingly warm. There are brightblooms on every wall and the brightcap mushrooms growing here don't taste too bad. Bought some goat butter in Rito Village so throwing together a mushroom risotto -- it's glowing, which is hopefully a good sign.

Wondering if there were always caves here. Probably has something to do with the Upheaval. Since it happened everything is just a little different. Things aren't quite where I remember. Places aren't quite what they were. Old friends are on new paths, while others just aren’t around these days. There's something that can't be described happening to Hyrule. A change, a mystical kind, that can't be named.

Case in point — there was a large, magical frog in this cave. It was bright blue, had half a dozen eyes and long feathery antlers, and looked nothing like any frog that could or should exist. Was setting up my bedroll and cooking pot when it jumped into view. Acted by instinct and shot it with an arrow. But then it… exploded? And dropped something shiny. And somehow none of that was a surprise.

A photograph of a bubbul gem — a six-pointed crystal that is a cross between a snowflake and a fern. It is held up for the camera with and is no bigger than a rupee. It glows softly.

Caption: What am I meant to do with this?

---

Log date: 11:00. 6th month, 3rd day 104AC Location: Nihcayam Lightroot, the Depths Weather: Not Applicable 

Might have gone off course. Josha wanted me to investigate more of the statues down in the Depths and I thought, sure. I've survived Gloom before. I’ve done a couple dozen Shrines of Light so I’m feeling stronger. And Josha is what, seven? If they're letting a kid oversee research into the Depths, it can't be that bad.

Wrong. It is bad. It's dark, the air is sticky (somehow), my arm is cramping up from throwing so many brightbloom seeds and the monsters down here hit a lot harder. One so much as throws a rock at me and I can feel my blood turning to stone. (Gotta thank Tulin for his avatar next time I'm in Hebra, it has gotten me out of a few scrapes now).

There's a Lightroot in the distance. Just need to survive long enough to reach it. Whatever it is that Josha is looking for down here, it can’t be far.

A photograph taken from the underside of a Lightroot, its sturdy vines wrapping around the central orange tuba and rising up towards the surface above.  

Caption: Where there is dark there must be light. 

---

Incoming transmission… Processing… Transmission received. Downloading information packet and installing to the Purah Pad. Please stand by.

Message Medallion activated.

Connection established.

12:09 JSH| Link, can you see this message? Link, it's Josha. There should be a prompt on the Purah Pad for you to respond. Sorry if this is sudden. Link?

12:13 LNK| What is this

12:14 JSH| Oh good you're alive! This is the Message Medallion, it's still a prototype. Goggles came up with it. Don't tell him about this, okay? 

12:14 LNK| Okay Why

12:16 JSH| He doesn't know I'm borrowing it. It's still volatile. We can't talk long. In the alpha stage of the project, it caused the Purah Pad to explode 85% of the time.

12:18 JSH| Link? Are you still there?

12:20 LNK| Yes Afraid to type

12:21 JSH| It's not going to explode now, silly. In the beta stage, Goggles got the explosion rate down to 45%.

12:21 LNK| Great

12:22 JSH| You're probably wondering why I borrowed it to contact you.

12:22 LNK| Yes

12:24 JSH| Okay. So we've just discovered that Sundelions, those strange flowers that grow near sky rubble, have a cooling effect on Gloom. When applied topically they seem to completely negate its effects. No one was brave enough to try and go down to the Depths to tell you, but I thought you should know. I swiped the Message Medallion while Goggles wasn’t looking. Have you seen any Gloom yet?

12:24 LNK| No none at all

12:25 JSH| Wow, really? Goggles said the Depths is covered in it, and that I’m not allowed down there for at least another ten years. Or until I get my doctorate, whichever comes first. But maybe this will change his mind!

12:25 LNK| I am kidding 12:28 LNK| Sorry  

12:30 JSH| It's okay, it’s fine! I'll just have to work extra hard! I really appreciate you doing this for me, Swordsman. It'll cut a year off my thesis at least!

12:31 LNK| Anytime You are doing great All the best researchers break the rules

12:33 JSH| Really? Do you have a source? 

12:33 LNK| What

12:33 JSH| Dr. Purah says everything needs to be backed up by a source.

12:34 LNK| It is my opinion

12:35 JSH| Oh, well in that case I agree! Anyway, looks like time's up. Goggles is done with his cryptic crossword, so I gotta go. I have to disconnect the Medallion too, sorry. Remember Link, sundelions!

Connection terminated. 

---

Log date: 14:15. 6th month, 3rd day 104AC. Location: Great Abandoned Central Mine, The Depths Weather: Not applicable 

Just going to sit here a while and catch my breath. Wasn't expecting to find at the end of Josha's long line of statues a madman and his horseless Zonai carriage. But I did, because somehow Master Kohga is back. 

The years since we last fought have done more for his theatrics than his combat skills. Tempted to chase him to the very edge of this damned place and drive him away for good, but… can't get distracted. Gotta get to Eldin. Gotta find the next geoglyph, gotta find Zelda.

The Steward Construct here is making me some crystalised charges while I rest and finish this Sunny Veggie Porridge I made. I'll have enough charges for a whole new battery soon. Maybe it's time to dig more into the Zonai tech. Kohga made some impressive (and deadly) creations. Could do the same. Make myself some kind of self-powered cart, or a glider for exploring the sky islands, or a sentry turret to take out bokoblins. Or even a trebuchet.

No. Can't get distracted. Eldin tomorrow. Going to take my horse and not turn off the road for anything alive or dead.

A photograph of Master Kohga on an oversized Zonai-powered automobile, with spikes on the front. The vehicle is advancing on the camera at a brusque but non-fatal speed. Master Kohga is visible from behind the control stick and appears to be waving a fist.

Caption: Portrait of a dork. 

---

Log date: 17:50. 6th month, 5th day 104AC Location: Woodland Stables, Eldin Weather: Warm, clear skies.  

Goddess preserve me. I've been here a day and a half. And in that time I have: 

Ferried some musicians to the Great Fairy Tera 

Proofread Penn’s article about it (not sure what he wanted — underlined some bits at random)

Helped Kilton with his brother Koltin, who for some reason wants to EAT the bubbul gems I've been finding

Promised the stable owner to get a photograph of some hot springs for advertising 

Explored three shrines and two caves (still don't have enough rupees for a bed)

Put down a boss Bokoblin

Put up a sign with Addison 

I'm no nearer Eldin or the next geoglyph than I was the day I left Rito Village. Everyone everywhere needs help and everything everywhere is calling out to be explored. But it's nice. To feel needed. To discover new things. Despite the detours I have to admit, maybe I'm not having the worst time. Hold fast, Zelda. The road back to you might wind a little, but I'm going to get there, by Hylia I swear it. 

A photograph of a group of Hylians sitting around a fire; musicians, stable workers, even a tall white Rito, his flying mask worn around his neck to reveal small but inquisitive eyes and a long cheery beak. The next photograph is of Link, smiling and sitting at the fire too, a bowl of stew in hand. In the corner of the photograph, the camera lens appears to be partially obscured by a blurry white feather. 

Caption: As close to home as any can be. 

#totk #legend of zelda fanfiction #tloz #tears of the kingdom #zelink #tloz fanfiction #my writing #finding her #sorry to post this unbelievably late #ch 6 tomorrow lol

[cyberpsychotic-purgatory]

H Y P E R L A N E

Music: Skeler - ID

After checking in with Mara, and restocking on supplies from his safe house tucked away in Santo, Jack gets into his modified Mitzutani Shion and makes for the nearest Hyperlane entrance.

Setting the Hyperlane auto-driver to the Northern Industrial District Sector 12 exit.

The steering wheel retracts, his seat moves and leans backwards to a 45 degree angle as the vehicle engages it's mag-lev guided system and launches forward, pulling 2gs, pressing him into the syn-leather seats. The skin on his face distorts ever so slightly, but only takes a few seconds to adjust to this new accelerated norm. 300 mph, driven by a supercharged BMW E30 engine, a swap out from it's stock 5-cyclinder; a twin turbo aspiration for better usage in his races as opposed to a single which would be better off the line. Lastly, the piece that makes this all possible on the Hyperlane, a mag-lev system installed on the bottom of the car that acts like a rail-gun accelerator. Using an advanced Electro-magnet, it works in tandem with the Hyperlane's electro magnets built into the road. I would direct you to this link for in-depth information on how Mag-lev propulsion works if you're not familiar.

It'll be 20 minutes before he reaches the NID at this speed. With the Hyperlanes having a diameter of roughly 100 miles give or take a dozen here and there.

During this time, Jack call's Gordie "Optic" Dockett. A Media out of Watson's mega-building 10. He'd done work with him before, specifically the Dynalar gig with Mara, and the guy seemed capable. Though he didn't like the idea of splitting the pot.

The holo rings…."Jack, Mara tells me you might need a hand?"

"Yea I've got this guy in NID that owes a bookie in Watson money."

"Bookie in Watson? Who?"

"No idea, wasn't in the deets. Anyhow, I'm not sure what I'm walkin into so if you don't mind being an extra body.."

Gordie cuts him off, "I got you Jack, no worries. Just slide a piece of that 10 thou when you're done."

Jack curses to himself. Why the fuck did Mara tell him how much it was?

"Sure, let's call it a flat 2 and see where it goes from there."

Jack rolls a 17 for Persuasion vs. Gordie Dockett's 23

"Woah woah. 20%? Maybe it's cause we haven't worked together enough but I ain't some hired muscle. You call me, shits getting done. I want 40 flat, and 50 if there's issues."

Jack grits his teeth. He rolls a crit success 20 for Cool. He avoids being argumentative.

"Gouging me man. Alright whatever, fine 40 it is. I'll see you there."

Jack sends him some meet-up cords in NID and closes the call.

Jack messages Mara

Way to hand out too much info. The guy is takin half the pot …just let me explain the deets on the gig next time please.

Well fed hands, Jack. He did a lot of work pro-bono for me on my next gig.

For you. This is my gig with a different fixer. Just saying respect the boundaries.

Mara sends a confirmation but doesn't reply.

#cyberpunk #lonc #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk red #water on mars #cyberpsychotic purgatory #cyberpunk 2077 photomode #cyberpunk red campaign #dreadmed #legends of night city #my: oc jack ' dreadmed' adams #story telling #roleplay #Hyperlane