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prettyboykatsuki · 1 year

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HOW TO BE A DOG. | S. GOJO

⊹ general tags ; fem + afab!reader, reader presents femininely and has some specific character traits (i.e. personality traits, nothing physical), reader is shorter / smaller than gojo but nothing specified, reader is a teacher, gojo carries reader at some point (but he is canonly able to do very insane things physically so)

⊹ content warnings ; dead dove. do not eat, yandere gojo satoru, manipulation, stalking, obsessive behavior, delusional behavior, workplace harassment (not from gojo), victim blaming, canon typical violence, graphic depictions of murder, minor character death, excessive religious imagery, coercion, gaslighting, abuse of power, something akin to stockholm syndrome, graphic depiction of noncon / sexual content, forced intimacy, fingering, hickies / bruises, begging, edging, loss of virginity, size kink, 18+.

all sexual content present in part two.

⊹ wc ; 17.3k / 36.1k

link to extended authors note | ao3 | how to be a dog, by andrew kane.

LINK TO PART TWO

⊹ a/n ; well. its here. i wont ramble too much but i hope you enjoy and if you dont...well don't tell me. thank you to ame for your endless patience. likes and reblogs mean the world. the title is inspired by the poem linked.

⊹ synopsis ; with six eyes to see it becomes clear, you are being watched.

“Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love.” - andrew kane, how to be a dog.

⊹ PART ONE : A CHILD BORN IN WINTER MUST NOT LONG FOR SPRING.

There’s a dog living outside of Gojo’s apartment. It’s a collarless, lonely thing. Clever, too.

Though, Gojo doesn’t know much about its life before it started hanging around the area, he gets glances on occasion. It’s not emaciated and it doesn’t look hungry, but it’s roughened up with matted fur and a healed tear in one ear.

More importantly, it doesn’t bother anybody in the neighborhood. Despite its outward appearance and hostility when approached, its aggression won’t go farther than a warning bark or growl. Most of the adults living in the building know better than to try, but some of the kids living upstairs desperately attempt to befriend it. Of course they fail, and Gojo thinks that that poor thing is growing apathetic to the touches of sticky hands.

The whole building is pretty fond of it, surprisingly. Gojo lives in a upend complex in a metropolitan part of Tokyo and the people here can be snobbish. So it comes as a shock that this dog wasn’t shooed away months ago.

Everyones sort of agreed to take care of it. There’s a food and water bowl outside of the security office - and just last week a sign was implemented of Do’s and Don’ts for what food scraps can be left. There’s a donation box to get some proper shots and paperwork - since it looks like the building's doorman has agreed to take it in if everyone chips in for the expenses.

(Gojo suspects this has something to do with those very kids, devastated by the thought of it being gone.)

Warm welcomes from the residents aside, Gojo hasn’t seen it act friendly before. He wonders about that. It seems hesitant to trust anyone and he’s sure there's a good reason. It’s just that it's clever. To be a stray in this area of Tokyo and be so calm is an impressive feat, so he thinks it probably has some grasp of his own situation. If it acted cuter, it could get a warm house and family too. Though the whole aloof and distant thing does the job just fine, Gojo can’t help but wonder what such a clever creature is doing, turning away from living lavishly.

Much like everyone else, Gojo’s contributions have come in the form of food scraps and some donation money to work towards the 5,000 yen goal. On the occasion their paths cross, Gojo sits near it. Sometimes, they share a moment of silence and Gojo talks just to see if it’ll ignore him. It seems like it’s listening. It always makes a grunt of dismissal when Gojo turns to leave and he’s started to count that as a little victory.

Gojo isn’t intrigued by anything as much as that dog. At least not lately. It’s damn near impossible to seriously pique his interest and yet that clever fellow is one of the few things he stops to ponder at.

Today, Gojo is intrigued by the dog that lives on the street of his apartment and the strange woman who’s petting it like some sort of domesticated baby.

He’s very, very intrigued by that.

The rain comes down in heavy sheets. It’s a Wednesday, and he has no classes to teach so he’s home and preparing to run errands. He’s going about his day as usual, basically. When Gojo isn’t swamped with a mission or the reformation of Jujutsu Society - he likes to play the part of the average man.

The plan for today was to take his unused car out of the lot so he could get some dry-cleaning done, go buy a new pair of sunglasses because his old ones are scratched, and go do some shopping. He needs to buy groceries again ( an uncommon occurrence) so that one's on the list too.

He’s dressed down. A black windbreaker is hanging over his shoulders, tight gray shirt and some comfortable jeans. He’s got on his errand shoes, a nice pair of sneakers and his keys are hanging from a loop in his belt. His hair is styled down and he’s got on his glasses instead of his typical mask.

He has a gameplan, a fully fleshed out expectation of how today will go, and it’s derailed by a woman he’s never seen before. He’s drawn to you so naturally it’s baffling.

You’re crouched just in front of the security office. Dressed in a loose skirt and long sleeves, looking down by the local neighborhood stray. For the first few seconds, he just lingers on in utter awe. You’re carrying a comically cute umbrella, clear with flowers and a pink edge. He kind of thinks you look like a peony.

He approaches slowly, quietly.

When he finally gets close enough to really see, he can hardly believe his eyes. That old, menacing mutt is happily getting his chin scratched by you.

“Oh, uhm. Hello?”

The sound of your voice startles him out of his trance. Snapping back to reality, he glances down to where you are and realizes he’s towering over you. In an effort to be polite, he steps back and gives you his most disarming smile.

“Hi. Sorry for the intrusion, I was just,” He glances at the dog who almost looks offended at the interruption “I noticed you were… petting this dog. Guess I was a little surprised.”

“Surprised?”

And your surprise surprises him even more. He blinks slowly.

“Yeah. He’s not aggressive or anything but uh,” Gojo chuckles, concluding you must be a little new “Well, he’s not exactly friendly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone succeed in well…petting him.”

You’re taken aback by this information. Yeah, definitely new.

“Really?” You glance at Gojo before looking back down at it “I just gave him some treats and waited a bit. He’s such a sweetie. Sure you mean this dog?”

Gojo gets a good laugh out of that. Partially at your cluelessness and partially at your disbelief. He nods, smiling a little.

“I’m very sure, actually. He must really like you,” He says, hands in his pockets. He bends down to join you, but he’s still a little bigger than you at that height “I guess I can see why. You’re pretty friendly.”

You peek over at him. You seem a little shy at the compliment. Gojo feels his interest pique a second time today alone. New record.

“Oh, uh. Thank you. I teach kindergarteners so I sort of have to be.”

He hums. Reaching his hand towards the dog, who sniffs and cuddles his palm (something it’s never done before) in order to win your favor more. It really is a clever little thing, just like he’d always suspected.

“I’m a teacher too. A highschool teacher, though. No need for me to be friendly, I guess.”

You laugh at his joke, smile reaching your eyes as you hug your knees to look at him.

“You seem plenty friendly to me.”

He pretends to think about it.

“Maybe you have a gift for making people come out of their shell,” He says with sincerity, relishing in the fact he’s finally getting to pet the dog in any capacity “I think this little guy could probably attest to that.”

“And you have a knack for flattery.” You quip.

The natural chemistry is noticeable enough for it to catch Gojo off-guard. He grins.

“Hey. I’m not all bad. And what's flattery if I’m being honest right?”

“Sounds like something a flirt would say,” You tease, airy. He laughs a little.

“You seem like you’re having fun giving me a hard-time.” He pouts. You giggle.

“A little,”

“Jeez. How rude of you…” He waits, prompting your name. You smile.

You give him your name. You say it soft and easy. He makes sure to return to the favor.

“And yours?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

You live up to your first impression in the time that Gojo gets to know you as his neighbor.

Friendly. The word he’s looking for is friendly.

There’s other words though. Sometimes meek, typically cheery, oftentimes quiet. You’re quite unassuming, and possibly too gentle when compared to everyone else in the general area. You fit in fine, no worries there. And Gojo knows that for certain because he can’t stop himself from watching over you like a hawk.

He doesn’t really understand it himself. Gojo gets along with everyone. He’s always been a people person who likes to talk and likes to get to know strangers. There’s nothing that special about your connection in that way. You live next to him, directly across the hall. You often knock on his door to give him something that you’ve made too much of or ask to borrow some sugar

And it’s not done with any romantic intent. Gojo is good at reading people. He’s never seen someone so blatantly romantically uninterested in him. You’re not even conscious of him as a man, cemented to him by the one time you came to the door dressed in paper-thin PJ’s. He hasn’t recovered from the shock. One of the many times in his life where he was grateful no one could see where he was looking.

He’s had a few months since your first meeting to get an idea of your personality and what things about you he should keep in mind. You noticed that he’s often not in his house, so you’re relatively aware of your surroundings. You’re often up late because your lights are always on well into the evening.

(He finds out later you’re usually making lesson plans or little gift bags or planning birthdays. You really love your job, something he can commend while simultaneously feeling quite jealous about.)

You favor the lovely spring colors like pink and purple because you have so much of it always on you. You dress brightly in general. And you smile, often, and stumble over yourself trying to be nice to the other tenants. The kids in the building adore you. The sheer amount of propositions you’ve received to be someone's full-time nanny could probably keep you employed for another two decades.

And you always put your best into everything, no matter what.

This is probably the aspect Gojo is most fascinated by. It’s not exactly a novel trait. He’s encountered something like it before. One of his most prized students is Maki Zenin. Her whole thing is kicking ass through sheer spite.

But unlike his students or anyone else he knows - you don’t seem to be motivated by spite or anger or frustration. Even when you are angry or upset - you always force yourself into being more understanding. Into being nice, kind, and still giving it your best if you’ve been shorted somehow. He’s tempted to call you a try-hard. It draws on the line of people pleasing sometimes but it doesn’t matter either way. This is a quality in you Gojo likes all the same.

He's always been drawn to people who are earnest. His company favors such things. He cherishes Yuuji for such a reason, and can say something similar for Nanami. It’s a refreshing perspective. He’s not a bitter person, but he’s not an earnest one either. So Gojo likes that you’re so properly, gently sincere.

For the last few months he’s made a real effort to talk to you. So he’s not just the guy next door, but at least an acquaintance and at best a distant friend. On the mornings you both have classes to teach, he walks you to your car and if he wakes up before you - he’ll bring you a cup of coffee or a pastry he knows you enjoy.

You’ll often do Gojo little favors and he’ll return them - joking to each other about being a good neighbor. An inside joke with each other that Gojo is growing increasingly fond of, all together with leftover cups of coffee and glances that linger too long. Some mornings, he takes out your trash when you’re feeling too tired and you’ll do him the favor of getting the stuff out of his clothes that he doesn’t want to dry-clean.

It’s these little exchanges that make up the bulk of your interactions.

He’s even been to your apartment (another reason he’s sure you’re not attracted to him). He went last week to help you cut out little autumn leaves to put on your classroom walls, and you rewarded him with some lemonade.

He’s still thinking about it days later, how you sit on your legs and the way your cardigan hangs off your shoulder. When you’re focused, you leave your mouth open a bit and poke your tongue through your lips. He’s endeared by it.

By you in general.

It’s all boring and mundane, but that’s what makes it. It’s a luxury he rarely affords. Craves, really, which is why he’s starting to go straight home more often than not.

It’s nice that you’re always there. That you’re usually home and when you’re not - Gojo doesn’t have to guess too hard about where you are. It’s so constant. He basks in the feeling of constancy like an expensive silk.

It’s little luxuries like that, he thinks, that make you so special to Gojo without much effort on your behalf. Being up at the top means he is always fascinated by the place closest to the ground.

What’s heaven to a man born there?

In your fourth official month of residence, the neighborhood dog finally gets adopted.

He’s not there for the big reveal. He hears it from you while he’s on a mission, through a text message and a photo. He acquired your number early on, but you’ve only started doing these text exchanges recently. Reason being Gojo’s had an unusual amount of cases that need his attention and you’ve been very aware of his absence.

(The first time you texted Gojo after 3 days on the other side of the country, he was scarily happy. After all, most times when he leaves - people are expecting his return. There’s an assurance that he will return alive, that he has to. It’s not often people worry.

It was another thing he learns about himself through you. Being fussed about is refreshing.)

Currently, he’s all the way down in Nagasaki. He’s been investigating what the local government has described as an “infestation in the water,” leading to poison and all sorts of hallucination. It’s been causing all of the local hospitals to fill up and the news is advising people to distill their water if possible when at home. Make sure to buy bottled, and double check on your children.

In other words, there’s an unidentified curse wreaking havoc in small towns and rural areas at an unusually fast rate and Gojo has been sent to figure out its origin. What’s really weird is the location. He’s in Nagasaki prefecture, specifically in Hasami - a town in the Higashisonogo district. He really didn’t have much time to do research on the area, save for a few quick google searches and probing questions to his student, the well traveled Yuta Okkutsu who is a hair more familiar with the region than he is.

But there wasn’t much for him to find. Hasami is known for the porcelain it produces. The population is a little under 15,000 and the weather is nicer in spring than it is in summer where it gets too humid. It’s considered a small town, though that number is relative in consideration, and currently the local officials are sending off reports about the water supply.

Even when doing deep research using official means, there was nothing that unusual about the place. No major criminal incidents or occult presence or some other thing that would make this occur naturally. Gojo is no stranger to small town violence or bullying and they can often produce the most volatile curses.

But he’s currently on his 3rd day here, where he’s taken up talking with the locals and he can’t find any specific attitude that would foster a special grade.

It had led him to a conclusion, but one he was deliberately avoiding. That someone planted the curse here in Nagasaki, or maybe somewhere else. Which really complicates the whole affair, because then this is an investigation and not just a situation of fate. It also means that this curse was likely harvested somewhere and that Gojo can’t be sure it’ll be easy to get rid of.

Most importantly, all that fanfare means he’ll be home late.

Given how much he’s longing to see you, it’s the thing he’s been dreading most.

It’s weird. He’s never dying to see anyone, with the exception of an old friend long gone. But Gojo has been desperate to see you for the few weeks he’s been away from home.

(He can’t tell if it’s normal to long this much for a person he truthfully doesn’t know that well.)

But, while he’s away from home, the thoughts of you play on loop in his head. Like white noise, static yet constant - there, all the same. As he walks the rainy streets of Hasami, hands in his pockets - he can’t help but wonder when the next time he gets to see you will be

It’s like some sort of miracle (aren’t you always one?) when Gojo hears his phone ring, buzzing against his abdomen.

He’s drawn back into reality when he feels it. In front of a store that sells handmade plates and glasses, he lets it go for a while. Feels it buzz against his pocket while he settles his thoughts. He examines his surroundings, notices the cars, and the mother with her daughter across the street and the gray sky - all before he picks it up. Your name flashes him on screen, and something itches deep in his chest.

The clouds open up. And it’s still raining, but there’s a ray of sunlight cutting through them. For a minute Gojo feels worldly, grinning with damp skin before he slides his thumb across the phone.

You’ve never called him before.

“Hello?” He greets, wondering if it was an accident. Then you come through the other side of the line.

“Hi ~,” You say, clearly doing something in the midst of talking “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been alright. Very shocked you called me, yanno?”

You laugh quietly.

“Sorry about that. I just wanted to check in. And I wanted to say thank you.”

“I mean… I’ll accept but I feel like I should know what for.” He jokes. Your tone goes sincere, marshmallow soft and twice as sweet.

“You paid the rest of the fees for the dog out of pocket, didn’t you?”

He smiles to himself.

“Ah. Busted. That was supposed to be a secret between me and Mr. Security-Man,”

“He didn’t tell me. I just…guessed. Seems like something you’d do.”

His first instinct is to disagree.

“It’s not like I did it out of the goodness of my heart, okay? It was looking a little sad sleeping during the cold seasons. It was very pitiful. So bad, so sad.”

“Why’d you do it?” You ask, probing but not too deeply “Like… really. It was really nice of you, but it was a couple thousand and that can’t be cheap.”

He relents, head leaning back on the wall behind him.

“The kids, remember?” He murmurs, eyes staring up at the gray clouds “You said they’d be sad if the dog didn’t get adopted soon.”

“The way you’re talking about it makes it seem like you’re doing this for me.”

“And if I was? Would that bother you, hm?”

You wait a minute, hesitating with your words.

“Well…no. I guess not, I just—thank you. I guess I’m just a little… embarrassed about it or whatever.”

“Shy, huh? Cute.”

“Jeez,” You huff. Gojo can practically hear your grinning from the other side; it makes his heart flutter. He wants to go home, to wherever you are “And you always say you’re no flirt.”

“I’m not a flirt. I’m just telling it how it is.”

“Yeah? Well, thanks anyway then. It made them really happy. You should’ve been there to see it. Maybe you can tell them when you get back?”

“Don’t wanna.” He states outright.

“You didn’t even think about it!” You exclaim.

“Mm, because I don’t have to. I definitely don’t want them to know.”

“Why not, though? You’d be their hero, y’know?

Maybe it’s something in the air. The damp weather out closer to the ocean, or the distance between you. There’s a tiny echo in your words, mechanical through the speakers. The word hero leaves a melancholy in his mouth, floating in the back of his throat like liquor refusing to go down. He chuckles.

“Ooo, are you into that kinda thing? Like, super charming knights in shining armor? Or superheroes, maybe?”

You giggle on the other side of the line. If you notice him avoiding answering you, you have the courtesy not to say anything.

“Isn’t everyone? I don’t know. I think if a really good-looking guy saved my life, it’d probably make my heart race a little, yeah. I’d catch feelings over that for sure.”

He takes a deep breath. Everything smells like rain.

“Is that so?” He says, chest blooming with warmth “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Gojo returns from his mission empty-handed.

He was out there for a long time, at least longer than usual when he’s traveling for a mission. He’s not used to hitting so many dead ends. The problem kept growing, but every trail he’d uncovered went cold in about a day. Just before he gave up hope, he was called in by Yagi. Since the issue has spread into other parts of the city, it’s no longer his solo jurisdiction.

More hands on meant more time for Gojo to be teaching. It also meant that he would finally see you after so long. You waited for him outside the day he returned to Tokyo - wearing a cream colored sweater and the prettiest smile Gojo had ever laid eyes on.

Gojo returns from his mission empty-handed but it’s not entirely pointless. Upon returning - he had a somewhat shallow epiphany about the way you make him feel. About the way he’s affected by you, which is arguably more valuable than some lead.

Being away from you for so long is something that makes him so irritable. He’s had some time between then and now to come into terms with it.

Falling back into his routine, it was obvious. Suddenly there was a gap he’d never noticed before that blew wide enough for him to fall through. He actively avoids not seeing you if he can, and ever since your permissive conversation a few weeks ago - it’s harder to notice the way his desires fester.

There’s not much he wants out of his life. So when anything noteworthy pops up, Gojo is always eager to get a hold of it before it’s too late.

He usually soothes that by reminding himself of your position as a civilian, a kindergarten teacher at that. The responsible thing to do is make sure you’re safe. To play the hero from the sidelines and ensure you don’t encounter anything from his line of work. That’s his whole life's work. To create a life like that, and it helps to stay on that path when he believes you’re sheltered from that reality.

That’s why, when you tell Gojo you can see curses, he feels the entire floor collapse from underneath his feet.

He receives such devastating news over a cup of coffee at that.

It’s closing in to Fall slowly and Gojo has decided to take you out to eat as an apology for his disappearance. He intended to give you another half-truth about his job so you wouldn’t lose any sleep over him.

When it happens, it’s less that you tell him, and more that you keep glancing. Just over his shoulder, with this terrified expression that Gojo couldn’t not notice, even if he tried.

You’ve got your hands around a warm drink, in a white, ceramic mug but your gaze keeps diverting to the place behind him. When he looks over to that same place, a curse is there. Small. More insignificant than a bug, but there.

It’s risky to mention it. Because if Gojo is wrong, it’s not something he can brush off. He’d have to come up with something to excuse himself, and he isn’t sure how to lie out of that (even with his natural disposition of being a trickster.) But when you keep looking, his instinct kicks in. There’s no way you aren’t seeing it.

He doesn’t ask you directly. That’d be too incriminating, so he lowers his tone. Watches you briefly as you tremble in fear.

(A small, small part of him is only asking because he doesn’t like how distracted you are from him. Killing the curse seems like it’d relieve that annoyance too.)

“Can you see it…?”

The question makes you jump out of your skin. You reel back, eyes widened before the realization really sets in.

“....It?”

Gojo looks around the cafe for a minute, to make sure no one is listening before he turns around and points to the cursed spirit behind him.

“It,” He says, thumb pointed at the deformed curse moaning in one of the booths.

When it dawns on you that Gojo sees what you see, you cup a hand over your mouth in shock. He can’t describe the way getting that confirmation feels. It raises so many questions about who you are. More than he had before, at least.

No longer are you the innocent, clueless civilian and that changes every interaction he’s had with you since the start. Though it’s not uncommon for people who can see curses to fall through the cracks, he can feel his own curiosity dig into his skin like seeds taking root. He doesn’t think he should be excited, but he is.

He’s excited watching your fearful tremble. He’s never seen you like that.

“Yes,” You say, voice a little shaky this time “I can see… it.”

He takes the spoon out of his latte and cleans it with his mouth. Studying your expression momentarily, he takes a deep breath before standing to his feet. The terror is so subtle, the kind he can only catch because he’s so familiar.. He knows those emotions better than he knows most.

Curses aren’t phobias. Not illusions or ghosts, but tangible madness. Impactful to those who can see it, but nothing to those who can’t. Fear like that, which can’t be shared with anyone, has a specific look when it shows up in someone. Gojo hasn’t felt that fear since he was very, very little. He watches curses with the same bland expression he might watch a horror movie, but he can understand your reaction at least. He knows it like the back of his hand. All the people he’s saved, who could see them too, always wore the same one.

Still, he’s caught off guard. He feels bad that you’re scared. But the proximity between you and him which was once oceans wide has decreased significantly in no time at all. That feels good. Even better than he would’ve imagined.

“Are you scared?” He questions intently, maintaining a sense of neutrality.

You swallow a lump in your throat, eyes glued to the table in front of you.

“Yes,”

Your voice is a hoarse whisper. The corners of his lips twitch upward.

When he’s sure no one is looking, he stands up and walks over to the table behind him. Pretending to look for something so he doesn’t look out of place. It doesn’t take more than a second to destroy it. It’s tiny, something he’d never think of fighting since it’s so harmless. The curse equivalent to a fly.

He gives it a violent death and sees you look on with horror in your expression. He finds himself pleased with that, wiping his hands on his pants before returning. Maybe you recognize his strength when he sits back down. Still, instead of pulling away again, you fold your hands in your lap.

“T-Thank you,”

He grins at you.

“Of course,” He says “Can I ask you something?”

You nod your head and sip your tea.

“Do you know who I am?”

You look confused.

“...Are you a celebrity?”

He laughs hard at that. Hearing that makes him not want to tell you.

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” He reintroduces. You nod slowly “I’m a sorcerer.”

Another lie of omission. The strongest, he should say. He takes a sip of his latte, frowning at the bitterness. Through his mask, he watches as you fiddle with your hands. He stacks the empty creamer cups together before opening two more sugar packets and stirring them.

“A sorcerer…” You look perplexed. Confusion settles into the lines of your face. Sheltered, Gojo concludes. Only parents, who shelter you wouldn’t tell you what a sorcerer was despite your ability to see them “What does that… mean exactly?”

“It means I kill curses for a living” He replies simply.

“I thought you were a high school teacher.”

He smiles.

“Smart cookie. I am, but the school I teach at specializes in cursed technique and sorcery.”

“Oh.”

You look befuddled.

Gojo thinks he might be an opportunist.

“Do you really not know anything about them? It’s rare for people to be able to see them and not know anything about them.”

You shake your head, eyes peering into your drink. He watches how the image reflects in your eyes.

“Uhm. Not really. My parents told me to do my best to stay away from it. We lived in the countryside but I had to move out into the city for work so I kept… running into them. I can’t like… kill them. And I don't always see them.”

“You can’t use cursed techniques?”

“I guess that’s what that is. I don’t think I can, no.”

Vulnerable.

“Hmm. What circumstances,” He says, purposeful in weaving concern in his words.

“Is it that bad…?”

Not really. His job and the job of his peers is to make sure civilians make as little contact with curses as possible. There are more people like you, and because curses feed off of negative emotions - many dangers can be shafted by just not reacting. Even so, it’s customary for people to have some semblance of protection. A weapon if nothing else, for anyone who can see them.

“Do you carry anything with you?”

“Like a weapon? I have mace for when I take the train late at night.”

“Not that kind of weapon,” He says gracefully. He can tell you’re out of your element, and some small and twisted part of him would like to keep you in the fateful dark.

“What other kind would there be?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” He half answers. Your frown deepens. He puts his palm over the top of his coffee cup but doesn’t feel any warmth “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m just teasing. You’re always so calm and collected, I was surprised to see how scared you got, you know?”

“Everybody gets scared sometimes.”

“Mm,”

His non-committal response leaves you nervous again. Fidgeting with the edge of your cup or the loose threads in the sleeves of your clothes. What a bundle of nerves you are. Gojo puts all the comfort he can in his voice, dredging up some sense of sincerity.

“Well, since it scares you and I’m such a nice guy, I’ll protect you if you get into any trouble.” He says, snapping his fingers and pointing at you.

That makes you relax. Makes your shoulders droop, a smile gracing your pretty face. Gojo can feel the floor underneath him sinking as you tease him. His eyes trace the curve of your neck. He’s glad you can’t see him or where they look.

“Oh, what? Are you gonna come running every time I need help?”

He smiles.

“I’ll be your personal Superman.” He promises, making a silly expression trying to make you laugh. It feels good when he succeeds, the weight of his words softened by it. If you feel how heavy the comment is, it doesn’t show up on your face.

You snort, taking a sip of your drink and there’s something so kind in your expression that Gojo aches over.

“That right?” You hum, smiling over the edge of your ceramic mug “You’re my hero.”

Since then, Gojo’s kept quite busy.

The last time he saw you at all was at the diner a few weeks prior and little has been different since then. You send more nervous messages than before, but aside from that things are the same.

He’s done a good job, he thinks. Partly of ensuring you, partly of instilling healthy fear. Your eyes always widen like you’re caught off guard by his comments - sometimes washed away with a laugh but other times genuine. Gojo likes to keep you on your toes. A bit of harmless fun and endlessly amusing.

Gojo would be there to protect you just like he promised before, so even scaring you isn’t something he thinks of as bad. It’s not untrue that you should be a little more vigilant, but just telling you to do so is no easy feat.

He would like to be spending time with you today just the same as he has before, but he’s home alone instead. There’s been a brief reprieve between cases so he’s on his own to unwind. There’s nothing he wants to do, so he decides on a movie.

Gojo is the only one of his friends who still has cable TV. According to Shoko it’s a luxury purchase but for him it’s one less choice he has to make when coming home to relax.

It’s an American film on now, some psycho-killer classic that he’s already seen a handful of times with Japanese subtitles.

None of the lights are turned on, so the TV illuminates the room in flashes of color. He grabs a soda from his steel-gray fridge and cracks it open, listening to the soft fizz that comes to a slow halt. Pulling it to his mouth, he travels slowly back to his couch. The leather squeaks under the weight of his body. The weight of his back creates a divet that he can be comfortable in. He rests his head, glancing back again at the screen.

A scream rips through the house, agitating his every nerve. He picks up his remote and turns it down just a tad before watching the movie with a sort of disinterest. Horror movies aren’t his favorite, admittedly. He pretends he scares easily, but the opposite is true. Gojo has seen too much for it to be entertaining, no less scary.

He likes movies based on their creative merit. He’ll watch one on its creative merit.

But to be scared? For frights? Not really. Very little gets his heart pumping hard like that. Sometimes the storytelling is good. Other times there’s something cathartic about the formulaic death. The final girl, the call from inside the house. The dependable and clean ending of tropes. Even if it’s messy or sinister, it’s fantastical. Fictitious and detached.

Gojo enjoys that. For anyone else, it’s probably a twisted way to think about it but to Gojo it only feels natural. He doesn’t examine that detachment very deeply. He’s just aware of it, lingering in the back of his head.

He takes a long sip of his drink. The sickly sweet taste slowly coats his mouth. Fizzy and smooth, it goes down easily. He sits up in his seat, making himself comfortable as he tries to pay attention to the movie. The main girl is hiding in the bathroom, and the killers' steps are echoing through the house. The broken, somber string instruments in the background, fill the white noise with apprehension and terror.

Gojo doesn’t feel a chill down his spine. His eyes are still fixed on the screen though, with slight anticipation of what's next even though he already knows. It’s nearing the end and he’s seen this movie before. She’s not going to make it, and Gojo knows that.

He watches intently in spite of that. The door bursts open and there’s a knife in her chest - and screams. It’s horrific and ugly, blood-spattered and graphic.

He doesn’t flinch until the whole way through.

It’s brief, but the thought passes his mind. Lately, the only thing that Gojo seems to react to is you.

But he doesn’t think about it too deeply. There’s no need to.

The TV goes to commercial and Gojo realizes he’s finished his soda. He stands back up, onto his feet to toss the can and grab another. This time, he grabs some snacks too. Piles them onto a plate, dried meats, and something mildly sweet for after before he returns to his living room. Sitting back down on his couch, he scrolls through his phone for anything interesting but comes up short of any results.

He sits up a little straighter as the next movie plays.

Spending time around curses is a necessary part of the learning experience.

Things you can’t learn in all the lessons and tutoring in the entire world. Even though Jujutsu Tech exists, and even given Gojo’s lineage - when he started working officially, he didn’t know everything. You can’t. No matter to what extent you study, there’s some things that you can only gauge through experience. Going through something over and over, like muscle memory.

Gojo spent a lot of his life wanting it to make sense. Wanting curses and the way they showed up to make sense. This is a lesson in truth, divine truth you can only take up in experience. Curses are human emotions, which means that they are finicky and everywhere. And the dangers of them will always look like the aftermath of destruction.

Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do to prepare for why things happen. It’s why Gojo is always grasping for light where he can find it.

Gojo Satoru stands in an empty parking lot all the way in Osaka. He examines the sight in front of him and can’t find anything he’s learned to prepare for what's next.

Fog has rolled in thick clouds over every inch, limiting his vision. The air tastes of smoke, and the earth underneath him is damp. The wet concrete squeaks under the weight of his shoes as he takes in the surroundings. The parking lot of an animal hospital, in particular - where all the staff were reported to have fallen unconscious. After being rolled out by the proper authorities and after all the animals were moved into a different location - Gojo was left to examine the remnants of the incident.

The reports are similar all across the country. Not the location. but the symptoms. People falling sick and ill. The initial reports of a water-borne illness didn’t progress far past the first city. It’s evolved since then. People get sick, pass out and hallucinate and animals lose all control.

The aftermath isn’t very messy so luckily it doesn’t attract too much attention. There’s no bodies, or blood - nothing heinous thereafter. The effects appear later in the people affected, taken over by an unnamed madness that appears to turn their internal experience to ruins. Gojo would’ve preferred the first situation. Violence like that becomes easy to digest with enough exposure.

These kinds of symptoms are always hard to stomach. Civilians get answers that placate them. The truth is that there's something bigger out there at play and they were just so unlucky to bear witness to the terror. With altered memories and the badge of trauma, what they don’t know can’t hurt them.

Gojo knows though, and sometimes he envies their ignorance.

He makes his way into the building. A set of glass doors greets him when he turns the sidewalk, with a blinking sign. Osaka Animal Hospital is written at the top in neon, accompanied by the words 24hr service. Gojo only glances at it briefly before sighing, hands on the bar to push himself through the heavy glass doors. He has to lean some of his weight to get through, and there’s just another set beyond those where he has to do the same.

Then, he’s inside.

The presence of the curse and of cursed energy ignites familiar caution within him. It’s here, in some capacity - or it was recently. The perpetrator is here too. Why that is, Gojo can’t quite understand. It seems a little backwards to linger here after everyones been evacuated and there’s no doubt someone would come to investigate.

All Gojo can think is that maybe they weren’t expecting him. But by now, they must know he’s there too. Gojo’s presence is intentionally oppressive - by nature it must be. Now it’s a waiting game, a quiet one at that.

Hospitals are always echoey and this one is no different. The squeak of his boots bounces off the walls as he takes steps towards the receptionist desk just to see if he’ll find anything.

He leans over it, to stare at the left over records - untouched by the authorities. Everything looks like it was left in a hurry. Strew pens and a corded phone just barely back in place - with computers on a blue idle screen. All the daily documents are still out sitting on the desk with no organization to indicate they’ve been filtered through. No paper clips or post-its telling the next person working about what to do.

Instead of walking behind the counter, he climbs over it with relative ease. Once he’s behind it, he takes better note of his surroundings. He doesn’t find anything completely relevant. There’s painting of animals, and some certifications for bills of health as well - but nothing that warrants his attention. He redirects through the papers in front of him, coming across a stack unexamined. Those answer sheets they give you to fill out so they can assess the situation before meeting you.

They’re split into two piles it looks like, though that could just be some coincidence. Still, he flips through them. Directing his attention to the little comment box with the prompt what are you being seen for?

It’s nothing serious. Normal things an animal owner would be upset or worried about like bowel movements and eating something that shouldn’t have been consumed. A minor injury or a worrisome behavior - but nothing that sticks out. For pages and pages, Gojo flips through the little packets trying to find anything.

It’s not what he sees, but what he doesn’t. A blank packet of papers, with no name for the owner or the pet. Only a description in the prompt box, neat handwriting in a single line.

“Showing signs of anxiety.”

Gojo smiles to himself. Interesting.

He jumps back over onto the other side once he’s seen it. It’s strange. Why would they go to the lengths of premeditating it like that? Whether it’s the curse itself or some third party, it’s an unreasonable thing to do.

“Not like people like this are usually reasonable, but,”

He saves the rest of the thought, sighing. The room has two hallways to go down. Both directions have some lingering cursed energy, but the hallway leading to the overnight area is much stronger. It’s separated by a big metal door, so Gojo braces himself to go through it.

He walks towards it slowly and through the doors even slower. It’s a long, empty hall. The ceilings are low, white fluorescent lights over his head like a falsified halo. They flicker on and off, with the ones at the very end of the hall having fizzled out completely. Gojo can hear, feel, and see everything. He can hear his own breathing and the artificial crackling of electricity. Feel the lingering presence of sickness, the sediments of a curse preparing itself to emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon.

He peeks into the different rooms of the hallway. One half of the hall is kennels, once again empty and left in the same messy state as the front desk. The other half of the rooms look like surgery rooms, with a storage closet tucked into one corner. The hall comes to an abrupt stop at the end, a painted gray wall with nothing to offer at the end.

But when Gojo is half-way through, he hears it. A heart-beat. A human one, slow and steady like it’s not worried at all. Not moving or running, just there. Thump, thump, thump.

Gojo perks his head up as he walks, leaning over to get a look at every room. Empty, empty, empty.

Then, in the very last one is a shadowy figure. The sound of the heartbeat is louder and the feeling of cursed energy is so strong it’s nauseating. Gojo pauses when he peers in, waits for there to be any response to his presence. There’s no way whoevers lurking doesn’t know he’s there, but there’s nothing that makes him react. He frowns.

His hand reaches for the handle of the door with a sigh, the mechanism inside clicking to let Gojo know it’s open. He takes a deep breath before opening it, stepping inside and shutting it behind him.

Even with the room as dark as it, the person inside is clear to his vision. A young girl. Probably no older than 17 with…

He furrows his brow. With a dog, from what it looks like. No ordinary dog, obviously. A curse in the form of a dog, with teeth too sharp for its mouth and fur that looks like a smear of charcoal and nothing like hair at all. It’s on a long leash, the chain wrapped around the young woman's palms.

The dog seems to tense up at the sight of Gojo. The eyes are empty and white - almost transparent. It’s a snarling thing, muzzle over the mouth and clearly on edge. Gojo looks at its owner, the perpetrator in this instance. Who looks calm, black mask tucked over face and long dark hair with bangs cut sharp.

Gojo doesn’t know what to say here. He wasn’t expecting to make contact this easily with a curse and its master. It’s been months now, the authorities chasing after this special grade from city to city. She’s obviously strong, and so is that curse that’s strained against its collar like it’s ready to rip him in half if he moves. Not stronger than him, because no such thing ever happens - but strong enough for him to be cautious.

He doesn’t step forward. He stops by the door and tilts his head. He’s sure she can’t see his eyes, but they make eye contact all the same. None of it makes any sense, but making sense of it isn’t Gojo’s job.

Instead of introducing himself, he opens the conversation with a question.

“Why’re you still here?”

“I knew I was going to get caught soon.”

An answer he couldn’t predict even if he tried. Gojo huffs.

“There was some time between the authorities coming and this investigation. You could have left before then, no?”

“Doesn’t matter. Something would’ve stopped me.”

“What a weird kid. What led you to that?”

There’s a minute where the dog (?) starts barking, but the noise is nothing like a bark. It’s cosmic and strained, and sounds more like a distorted radio than an animal noise. It’s in the shape of an animal but it isn’t one, like it couldn’t complete itself to be one. Gojo winces at the sound, intensified in the closed walls of the room. It’s piercing, and a little annoying.

When she soothes it, it calms down quickly. It’s obedient.

“Uh. A vision. Closer to a premonition. Fate.”

“Fate said you were going to get caught today. Right.”

“Aren’t you a shaman? Shouldn’t be that hard to believe.”

“Point taken. How did you know I was a shaman and not some murderer?”

She gives Gojo a pointed look.

“Look at you. Plus, I can feel that you’re a shaman.”

“Another premonition?” He asks, this time sincerely. She shakes her head.

“No. Your aura.”

Gojo stares ahead.

“...Right, yeah. It doesn’t look like you’re planning on attacking me.”

“I don’t think I’d win. I’ve never met anyone stronger than me.”

“I’m the strongest there is, so I guess not. How did you wanna go about this, then? Famous last words?”

“You go first. I’d rather talk to you than the other officials.”

“Hm. Don’t know if I have any questions, kiddo. My job is catching you, not interrogation. I guess I am a little interested in why.”

This makes her deflate a little. It’s hardly noticeable, but Gojo sees it anyway. The dog seems to react, snarling at her discomfort. He’s starting to understand the connection between them.

She thinks for a minute longer before sighing.

“Well. I guess I should start about why, right? It’s an old story. I came from a small village. I used to walk miles to school everyday and I’d get bullied a lot since my granny was a shaman. It was just us growing up. A nice old house with not a lot of modern anything,”

Gojo crosses his arms, leaning back on the wall and nodding his head. He figures she’ll tell him top to bottom, so he doesn’t give any input.

“My granny died a few years ago. I didn’t have any family so I moved on my own. Even back then, the only other thing I cared about were animals. I started working at a shelter and then I met Senbei.”

The more she talks, the worse he feels. Gojo already knows how this story will end, but he doesn’t interrupt her as she pauses between her sentences. Being 17 and bearing the burdens of loss is something he regards as a nightmare.

“Senbei was my best friend. Most loyal dog ever. And you know, I started my job with high hopes and kept him by my side. I wasn’t always angry. Working in that shelter and watching animals come in trembling every time I fed ‘em made me angry. How cruel and sick people could be.”

Her explanations are jumbled and clumsy. She sounds angry but it’s not that simple, curling in on herself the more she talks. Noticeably, she doesn’t try to justify it. She says it easily, with acceptance that it happened. He thinks that acceptance is harder to bear than delusion. Gojo can’t help but commend her silently.

“I’m sorry you went through that.” Gojo replies.

He’s being sincere.

“Should you be sympathizing with me?”

“Doesn’t matter. I just do.”

Her expression softens. She looks sad, and it’s not like Gojo doesn’t understand. She keeps going though, hands shaking in her lap. Gojo thinks she might’ve been waiting to tell someone.

“I don’t know when I stopped seeing the good in people….I always thought about—about my granny and how no one—no one came to see her. She was always taking care of everyone and no-one—“

“I know, kid,” Gojo says with a sigh “I get it.”

“Then you know,” She pauses, taking a deep breath. There’s frustrated tears pouring down her cheek this time. What a strange, sad thing she is: “That you can’t go back. Even if you forget. It just—it changes you.”

Yeah. Gojo knows something about that, too.

“I was already pretty desperate when Senbei was alive. Just trying to hold on. When he was killed, I lost it. I just fucking— I lost it. I’m sure you understand. You get it right?”

Gojo looks at her confused. She shakes her head, looking down in her lap at the curse in her hands.

“I can tell you're like me. That's why your aura is so tainted and… fucked up and malicious. It should be crystalline blue kinda like spring water—but it’s muddy. Rigid.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The fact you’re hanging on by a thread. You can feel it too, right?“

Gojo remains quiet at her observation. He doesn’t know how to react.

“When you want something so bad, it just— does something to you. Either because it won’t happen or because it needs to take your life to exist. Happened to granny, to me. It’ll happen to you, too.”

“I doubt that,” Gojo says, your face flashing in his mind. He shakes his thoughts away.

“You’re thinking about it too literally. You want something, so you chase it and lose yourself in the process. You’re dead. No longer you, all tangled and in ruins. It’s not too late, but if you keep going—that thread is gonna snap.”

“A premonition?” He says, partially sarcastic. She shakes her head.

“No, a prediction. You don’t have to consider it if you don’t want to. I just thought I’d tell you since you gave me some last minutes with this Senbei.”

Gojo shakes his head.

“I don’t have any reason to be forceful if you comply. Take your time. I don’t have anything better to do.”

Gojo glances at her as she pets it, having resigned herself to silently gazing upon it. He can’t stop himself from thinking about everything she’s said, so he averts his gaze to the ceiling and pretends otherwise.

The silent stretches, a pregnant pause before she speaks one more time. She has a look on her face Gojo can’t read.

“You know, it’s funny. Everyone thinks dogs are loyal to their masters, but that’s because we made them that way. We can’t stand being alone or unloved so we made something that can do both without ever seeing any less of us.”

“You’ve had a lot of time to think about it.” Gojo says, unsure of how to reply. She isn’t expecting anything, but remaining silent fills him with a sense of dread.

“Guess so. You should take some time to think about it too,”

She says to him, petting the curse that whines like it’s been hit in her small hands. Gojo takes a deep breath.

“…Yeah. I’ll do that.”

The case ends anti-climatically.

Gojo finds it funny. The officials came and the young girl was promptly arrested. He never even got a chance to ask her name. He learned through some probing that she only made two asks before being taken.

The first, to keep her curse dog with her, and to send her thanks to the sorcerer who had apprehended her in the first place.

On the news, much later in the week - a news report surfaces. “Danger in the Deep,” giving reasonable and logical explanations for the events that occurred in cities across Japan not even a few weeks ago. New studies show, experts say, here’s a word from your local—a barrage of fancy language to pad the publishing, add depth and realism. The public is none the wiser.

Gojo has to admire the commitment to keeping the peace. The case ends, and the girl gets arrested and put on trial. He doesn’t know if he’ll be seeing her again any time soon, though he’s sure he has the power to intervene.

He’s hesitating to do so. Why stick his neck out for her in a situation like this one? Over other situations, more dire ones at that. She’d make a good ally.

Their last conversation hasn’t left the back of Gojo’s mind. He’s conscious of it, albeit it hasn’t slowed him down. He’s not looking for another assessment of who or what ghosts are haunting him. He’d prefer to put it all behind him now

So life, in some capacity, has returned to its baseline. It’s normal. He has cases but they don’t take him more than three days. He’s able to do his usual chores without anything impeding them. He’s been teaching, no longer forced to make his students fend for themselves.

He’s been seeing you again regularly, too.

He’s getting ready now to do just that. Scheduled to get another coffee together (something of a tradition now) and pick up some conversations. You’ve been busy, though Gojo doesn’t know the details of what.

He wants to know. He’s even tried asking but as soon as he gets close to the subject, you slink into yourself like you’re trying to disappear. Besides, he doesn’t want to intimidate you into telling him.

(Though, it would be so easy to do. You’ve got a record for being a scaredy cat, and as much as it endears him - he is entirely too hung up on the potential for exploitation to admire it kindly. It’d be easy to turn the notches up, pressure you. With how easy going you are, you’d let him do it. Gojo bets you’d cave. He thinks the face you’d make would be entertaining too.

Above all, the offer is tempting.)

In spite of your refusal to discuss the specifics, Gojo does want to cheer you up in whatever capacity he can. So, he’s taking you out for a while and hoping a comfortable environment and the presence of other people will soothe your nerves a little.

He’s getting dressed for it now, rifling through his closet for decent casual attire.

He’s got his hair styled down, a pair of new sunglasses on the table and his clothes folded on his bed before he tries them on. Most of his closet is uniforms, plain black and boring. For now, he’s settled on a black crew neck and blue jeans - ripped at the knees.

He looks over his appearance in the mirror, posing in it. Arms flexed and stretched over his head before putting them out in front of his body.

He takes his time to take part in the ritual. He slips his boxers up over his legs, waist band tight around his torso and clinging to the curves of his thighs. He pulls his jeans up, low at his hips with a belt buckled through the front. Then comes his sweater over his abdomen.

He wants to look nice. Though, he could be deluding himself - lately you seem a little more aware of his appearance. It makes him happy that his good looks haven’t failed him in the instance they matter most.

As he puts on his accessories (in this case a watch and a ring) his phone buzzes atop his dresser. He stops to pick it up, a message from you on the screen. He peers over so his face can be read, then smiles.

(sent 11:15am) Ready ~

He laughs to himself.

(sent 11:16am) Almost ready. Need to look my best for such a tremendous occasion.

(sent 11:16am) For coffee?

(sent 11;17) For coffee with my favorite kindergarten teacher ofc ♡

You send back a simple reply telling him to hurry and come out. Gojo chooses to interpret your embarrassment as a sign. It puts some pep in his step, and he hurries to finish dressing up.

He steps out of his house, locking his door from the outside before shuffling down a single flight of stairs and out into the front entrance of his complex. He notices you waiting at the front gate from where he’s standing.

The neighborhood dog (officially named Pokupan) is asleep by the security office. You’re the same as always. Today's outfit is a dress with long sleeves and colored tights. It suits you. A splash of warmth in an otherwise dreary world, Gojo stands in place as he watches you for an unidentified amount of time. Minutes feel like seconds as you pace back and forth. Your phone must be in your purse because he can’t find it anywhere on you.

He’s delighted when you finally turn your head to look at him. You cup your hand and give him a kind wave which he laughs at and returns enthusiastically. His stride is long, walking towards the gate.

You have to tilt your neck up to look at him (making his chest squeeze unhelpfully) but you smile when you do so.

“Hey,”

“Hello there Miss. Waiting for a special someone?” He jokes. You flush.

“They’re an important friend,”

He tries not to let his smile falter. Friend.

“Then, is it a bother if I ask to take you out?”

This time you falter. Gojo notices it out of the corner of his eye, the briefest brush of nerves that makes it seem like you’re warming up to him after all. It’s gone as quickly as it came but it’s there and Gojo etches it into the back of his eyelids for memory. He smiles at you as you look away, flush

“Not at all,”

He grins, again, even brighter. Then he sticks his arm out for you to loop in. You hesitate again. This time Gojo can’t be sure why.

“I’m just being a gentleman, you know?” He pouts. His frown takes effect as you loop your arms together. He keeps it friendly. Too much pushing and you’ll skitter away right before his eyes. Still, even this much progress feels good. It feels whole and light and good.

It’s a pleasant sort of day.

Not that it’s warm, or even sunny. It’s cold, on the edge of Autumn that dances into Winter. Freezing but bright out, the kind of sky where everything is clear. During the day the sky has no clouds and no stars when it comes to night time.

Nonetheless it’s nice. The cold is the kind that makes you want to cozy into someone for warmth, so Gojo doesn’t mind walking in. The walk itself isn’t very long either. The cafe is near your complex, just about 15 minutes worth of walking. There’s no snow or ice to trip on, and because it’s freezing - you shiver every time you stray too far from the heat of his body so the walking is done exceptionally close together

There are kids and parents walking together on the street alongside you, dogs and their owners, street vendors with hot tea. It’s that kind of day where the cold doesn’t keep anyone indoors, in fact everyone seems to relish in the fact they can run and run and run without overheating. It feels like everything is in sync with each other, comfortable and harmonious in spite of everything else.

After 15 minutes, you’ve arrived at the store front. Not long enough for Gojo, but that’s okay. There’s next time he has to look forward too.

(He tells himself this every time. It’s never enough for him. He can never get enough of listening to you talk. He could probably mimic your cadence without having to try. It’s a sound he doesn’t get sick of―a miracle, another one, because Gojo hates so many sounds―yet there’s one he always looks out for.

There has to be a next time. If he forgets to tell himself as much, he gets so restless he can hardly stand.

The cafe is nice. It’s one of those places that you see on Instagram often with plenty of sweets for Gojo’s taste and plenty of fancy teas for yours. The outside has beige-colored brick and a brown sign decorated with cutesy drawings. You spend a good amount of time crouched beside it, taking a picture or two to later post on your story.

“You have to tag me, okay? It’s your payment for wasting our precious time together,” He jokes.

You stand to your feet and brush off your pants, the material of your coat rustling as you do.

“Yes, yes ― I promise. I’ll have to ask who drew them when we get in there.”

Gojo smiles at your enthusiasm before opening the door for you. Another one of those glass ones with a logo printed on the top half and the metal tinted brown. A little bell chimes above your head as you head in first, and Gojo heads in after you. He has to duck not to his his head on the top of it.

It’s not too crowded at this hour. A handful of people sit among the many tables and booths. Your head is turned to the menu and Gojo trails behind you like a shadow. One to compliment all your light.

It smells delightful inside. Like warm cookies and vanilla and tea. Gojo feels his sweet tooth kick in the minute you two stand in line. The barista is a doe-eyed blonde college student. There’s another employee with long dark hair and thin, narrow eyes. It reminds Gojo a lot of that girl he met a few weeks ago but he tries to put that thought out of his mind.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and eyes the menu. The special item is a yuzu cream cake, the picture of it hanging on the wall like employee of the month. There’s a glass display of all the other items and the menu matches the rest of the decor.

“This was a good choice,” Gojo says, entranced by all the desserts around him. You laugh, turning your head slightly to look at him.

“Are you complimenting yourself right now?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Your sweet tooth is so bad,” You say through giggles “Your poor dentist,”

He gasps in offense.

“I will have you know I keep my pearly whites pristine. Not a single cavity for the record.” He says back, placing emphasis on the last words. You snort a laugh.

“I’ve never had one either,” You repeat back, perhaps mindlessly before saying “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other yet.”

Yet. Yet. Gojo’s subconscious will hold onto that word for too long. It makes his heart beat too loud. He’s relieved that you’re nothing like him. If you were in this very moment, you would hear the thunder raging inside of his ribs.

Instead of saying anything, he scoffs playfully.

“I bet you were such a goody two-shoes that you never ate sweets before bed-time.”

Your eyes widen in surprise followed by embarrassment, where you tuck your chin into your sweater.

“Ugh,” You say, so weakly Gojo can’t stop himself from laughing “What’s wrong with being a goody two shoes, huh?”

Gojo feels almost feline in his self-satistication. “I didn’t say anything was wrong with it, just that you were one.”

Your frown deepens.

“I don’t care for your tone, mister.”

“Are you gonna scold me like one of your students?”

“If it gets you to be nice,” You say firmly, in that Teacher voice that Gojo has caught glimpses of over the last few months. He does a fake salute.

“Yes, ma’am!,” He proclaims, soft enough so only you hear it. You break out into another set of his giggles, melting his cold heart. It’s not the smile so much as it is yours. The line moves up just a little bit. Gojo steps in front of you before you have a chance, his figure shadowing you.

“What do you want?”

“I think I’m gonna get one of those fruit teas and some cake.” You say absentmindedly. He smiles at you playfully.

“Heard,”

Gojo turns to order for you both, laughing through your obvious protests about his paying for you. He’s able to block you from getting in the way as the cashier looks on the both of you bemusedly. When the order is placed, Gojo taps his phone against the reader before moving aside where you stomp your feet and follow him.

“I told you I would get it this time,” You whine. He hums.

“Mm, there’s always next time?”

“You say that every time!”

“So you never know? Maybe it’s next time for sure.”

You seem to realize that this is a fruitless conversation and that he’s not going to relent. With a flush on your face, you cross your arms and pout.

“I’ll get you back one of these times, I swear….Anyway, thank you.” You add the last part quietly. He hums.

“It’s only fair, you know. After all, who else would come here to eat sweets with me?”

You look taken aback but Gojo doesn’t retract his statement. He’s sure there’s someone he could ask. But there’s no one who would agree to it as easily as you have. The environment wouldn’t be so welcoming, either. Someone who would do something like this with Gojo is long lost. It almost feels foreign to him now.

In order to ease the tension, you look up at him warmly.

“Then, I’m glad you asked me.”

There it is again. That warm, sort of fluttery feeling he gets in his chest being around you. He wonders if he’s allowed to be so happy.

The food arrives at the counter, the young woman calling out for Gojo. You and Gojo split the task of carrying the plates, picking a nice booth in the corner with the top covered, You slide in across from him, situating your bag.

You and Gojo go back and forth, setting up everything so it looks nice under the lights. Gojo takes on taking the photos this time, clicking from a few different angles and stopping to show you after each photo.

“I’ll send you the picture later, okay?”

“Don’t forget.”

“I won’t, I won’t. Let’s eat, okay?”

You nod enthusiastically.

You and Gojo eat and chat comfortably for a while.

He’s not sure how much time passes. He wasn’t checking because why would he? He’d like to be with you a bit longer, so he refrains from thinking about it and hopes you do the same. Just a bit more, he tells himself. Until you really, really have to go.

There’s nothing major to catch up on. You tell Gojo about your job, mostly and how you saw some friends from out of town the week before. Winter is coming and you want to do something nice for the holidays. You’re getting along well with your fellow teachers which is good. He was worried about that, but he can’t keep eyes on you at school.

(Not for not having tried. He’s thought about it, but his presence would be too noticeable and he doesn’t trust anyone else to the task)

So it’s relieving. Your only complaint has been that some of the students have the sort of parents you can’t handle. Pushy and involved in a way you can’t ignore but can’t tolerate either. Gojo jokes to take care of them, gesturing to his arm like he’s ready to knock someone's lights out.

That makes you laugh, and following it you have this melancholy look that sends alarms blaring in Gojo’s head. You don’t broach the subject at all afterwards. You talk about everything else you can. The sale on radishes at the market, thinking about getting a car just to have it, maybe visiting your parents sometime soon.

Gojo listens. He doesn’t have much to add. His work is strictly classified to people who aren’t in the field and it’s nothing fun to begin with. He does tell you what he can - usually about some antics his students have gotten into during training. He can at least talk about that.

He tells you about the movies he’s watched, how he went drinking with his co-workers last week, and how he thinks Pokupan is starting to act friendlier to him.

It’s fun because it’s you. Gojo likes feeling like he’s involved with you intimately. He likes hearing you talk. The sound of your voice is such a pleasant contrast to his own. You talk with a kind of joy Gojo could never hope to carry, all gestures and smiles and interjections - trying to make sure your point comes across. How you don’t think the kid sitting in the front is a bad kid, just needs guidance. How the material of your sweater isn’t really cashmere but more of a blend.

Time passes comfortably that way. The drinks and food have been reduced to crumbs and cold drops of tea, glasses emptied and phones abandoned.

But neither of you have made any move to leave, and Gojo is still listening to you talk with a pleased smile on his face. It was a pleasant sort of day, remember?

“So it was fine in the end, but the classroom was such a mess seriously―”

So, it throws Gojo off when you stop speaking so abruptly. How easily the atmosphere melts, and what an unpleasant film it leaves behind.

It feels like an axe hammering on a stop, a sharp and near violent thud that cuts off the end of your sentence. The air becomes tense in the blink of an eye. Gojo can feel it, the sensation of cursed energy. It’s stagnated, little like pebbles at the bottom of a creek. But it’s there, and Gojo can feel it creep over your shoulders like a sixth sense. Like someone skipped a stone over that same water. He senses it in the air like dust in the light.

He sits up straight, focusing his attention on you.

“Hey,” He calls out, softening his voice as much as he can. Trying hard to identify what's wrong exactly “You okay?”

Your hands shake as you lay them flat on the table. You’re almost completely spaced out by now. It all happens in the blink of an eye.

Gojo stares at you, calling to you a second time.

“Hey. Hey, look at me?”

When you finally hear him, you jump in your skin. Your shoulders relax when you realize it’s only Gojo. Normally that would make him happy, but not like this. Your hands are shaking. A nervous fidget in all of your movements that he’s never seen before, like you’ve been shocked with electric wire. He hates it. The taste of your fear (this fear) is different and unfamiliar.

He doesn’t like it.

You turn your head to look at him then avert your eyes again. He can’t follow your gaze as it shifts. It’s too erratic.

“No, uhm. It’s just, uhm.”

“Woah! Hey, Miss. I wasn’t expecting to see you here,”

Everything feels like it slows down as Gojo watches your eyes snap up. Your expression drops again, even lower, and if he listens close enough he can hear the sound of your heart. Your discomfort is tangible. It leaves a metallic taste in Gojo’s mouth as you suddenly curl in yourself, shoulders hunched and peeling skin off your nails.

You don’t even look to Gojo for help. Instead, your words go soft. You become helpless in front of his eyes.

“Oh. Yes, hello.” You bow your head trying to say as little as possible. Gojo stares as you shake like a leaf in the wind. Something ugly curls up inside of him, a knife twisting in his chest.

“Aw, c’mon? What’s with the unfriendly act? Is it ‘cause you’re here with your boyfriend?”

You look up at him panicked. Not because of the comment, but because of his tone. Gojo hears it too. How sinister it is. Like he’s blaming you for it somehow, like you’ve wronged him. The feeling inside of him is so ugly, it’s so wretched. His knuckles turn nearly white from how hard he’s closing his fist. You put your hands up and go to explain yourself anxiously.

It makes Gojo sick. He smiles, turning his head just a little so he can see. He opens his eyes and stares, focusing his vision on remembering every detail of the bastard's face.

“I’m not her boyfriend. We’re neighbors,” He explains, tone as cold as ice but smiling.

Gojo puts pressure in the atmosphere. His natural and suffocating aura returns to him easily. He smiles and remains unnervingly still, waits in quiet for the man to respond. He scratches the back of his head, still indignant.

“Uh. Okay. I guess that’s good. Wouldn’t be appropriate for a teacher to be out on a date like this huh?”

Again. This guy, whoever he is, turns his head like he’s trying to talk down to you. Diverts his perversion and sadism towards you that leaves Gojo wondering what his head would look like against concrete. A bitter, heinous feeling waits inside of him, nesting into his ribs as the sound of every voice in the room comes to be muffled. All Gojo can hear is his heart. How long it's been since he’s heard it.

It’s loud. A cacophony, or a hymn. Divine rage in the sound of his soul leaves has him unsure of how to proceed.

Gojo glances at you. Your eyes are rounded, full of desperation. Pleading.

Gojo hates whoever this is. Gojo wants to save you. He thinks you deserve to be saved.

He stands up. He has enough height on the guy to be intimidating, the guy just barely coming up to his shoulder. Gojo stares down wildly, pulling his glasses to the bridge of his nose to peek briefly over the edge. The bastard stops talking immediately, words coming to a stutter, It’s satisfying.

“Who are you?” He asks.

“Wh-why is that any of your concern? Can’t you see I’m talking to―”

“I didn’t ask about who you were talking to. I asked who you were,”

He hears you from behind him “He’s a parent from my school,”

“Ah, okay. Interesting. Since you’re a parent, we wouldn’t want to make this a confrontation right?” Gojo says, bemused “It’d be a real issue for everyone if it turned out that way,”

Gojo puts a hand on his shoulder, tightening his grip hard enough to hear him gasp. He’s weak, but that’s to be expected.

“So, I suggest you turn around and head home, hm? Since we wouldn’t want it to be a big fuss.”

Gojo can see it now. With a little pressure, he could turn the blade of his shoulder in sawdust and watch him fall to his knees. He’d let out a cry, a sharp pathetic wail like a hit dog. Gojo would make him say sorry to you before he lets up his hand from his skin. He’d do it infront of everyone in the store so they could hold a little fear in their hearts.

He won’t do it. Just for now. If it complicates your work then you wouldn’t be able to support yourself. What would he do if you ended up somewhere far away? Out of his sight, something like this could happen again and Gojo wouldn’t be able to take care of you.

So he doesn’t crush it. He pushes his palms into his shoulder blades and whispers quietly, just so the two of them hear. He pulls away and watches as his face goes pale, a simple stutter leaving his lips. Something about how he’ll see you later and that somethings come up before he turns around and leaves.

Gojo watches as he does. The door chimes again, and the man disappears. The patrons who might’ve glanced turn away again like it was just a simple altercation, which is good. Then finally, Gojo looks at you where you are. Your hands are trembling so hard, a shake of relief in your shoulders as you cover your face. You look like you’re getting ready to cry, so Gojo takes it into his own hands. He cleans up all the food, wipes the table, and even grabs your jacket and bag as you take a minute to collect yourself.

He taps your shoulder lightly afterwards, waiting for you to look up. Once you do he smiles, reaches a hand out to you so you don’t have to think twice.

“About time to get out of here, huh?”

You nod, so slowly. You look so relieved, even as you sniffle. Your hand is so small compared to his. He squeezes it protectively as you slide it into his own, and helps you walk out of the store together.

The air is cold, the same as before, the temperature having warmed just a bit. The bell above the door rings as the two of you finally leave, standing in the street. Unlike before though, there’s something bitter in the air. The sun has hidden itself completely in the clouds and the streets feel emptier, lifeless.

Gojo turns to you with a somber expression, trying to smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Do you want to go somewhere to talk about it, maybe?”

You chew your lower lip then sigh “...Yeah. Probably should, huh?”

You and Gojo decide on a place not too far from where you are. It’s a small park, a good place to end off an otherwise good day.

You have to take the bus to get there, but there’s not many people. Gojo eventually gives you back your things, lets you slide your jacket on and fix your face - but ultimately takes your hand and holds it on the ride there. He brings it to his lap and you don’t pull away even though you seem to fidget the whole time.

The bus finally stops in front of the park. It takes hardly any time, but Gojo finds he’s unable to let go of your hand so he doesn’t. Instead, he holds tight and lets you trail behind. You let him lead you quietly out back in the street. You give your thanks to the driver as the doors close.

He can’t let go of your hand, though he knows now would’ve been a good time to do it. His grip only grows tighter.

“Let's go find somewhere to sit,” He offers. You squeeze his hand this time and don’t look away.

“Okay,”

He tries to keep pace with you this time, instead of walking ahead. Your strides are shorter than his so he’s careful that you don’t fall behind. Your eyes still have that watery look to them but you’re no longer trembling from fear. Just the cold, if anything.

And your heartbeat no longer sounds so hazardous. Gojo is still restless, still fidgety. His thumb is rubbing circles into your skin but it’s not really for you.

You find a bench, eventually - in the middle of the long walk-way just a distance away from a playground. Gojo juts his chin out towards it, before turning over to look at you.

“Let’s go sit,”

You nod as you walk together towards it. You sit first, and Gojo finally lets go of you. He sits besides you. There’s a minute where the whole world is deathly quiet. There should be something calm about it, but it isn’t. You’re no longer terrified, and a distance away. There’s no danger lurking in the dark and there’s no cars passing or children crying.

Everything is calm and silent, but Gojo couldn’t feel more unease if he tried. He thinks he hides it well. But there’s that itch again, in a place behind his ribs he can’t reach into and he finds it hard to breathe.

“So,” He starts, breaking the tension “I’m guessing it’s not a friend,”

The stupid joke makes a smile appear on your lips. It’s small, but Gojo takes some comfort in it anyway. You wipe away your lower lash gently, a wet laugh leaving your mouth.

“No, not a friend. He’s uhm… a parent from my school.”

“The one who’s been bothering you for all these weeks?” Gojo supplies. You turn your head, eyes widened in surprise. Gojo lets out a breathy laugh.

“You….knew?”

“Not about him specifically, but I could tell something was bothering you,” He admits, and then adds “I always pay attention to my favorite person, you know?”

The addition has you looking away, but Gojo doesn’t mind. You sigh, rubbing your face with your palms before leaning back against the bench with your head hanging off the edge.

“He’s the parent of one of my students. Akio, he’s a good kid. A really well-behaved one but… too well-behaved. Never raises his hand, never complains or says he won’t do something.”

“I’m guessing that sent off an alarm bell, huh?”

You nod softly.

“Yeah. I figure it was something at home, but I’d met his mom prior and she was a real angel. Then, his dad came to visit. The man we met at the store, and I knew right away.”

Gojo feels his jaw clench listening to you talk.

“But still, you know, my job as a teacher is to be as respectful as I can. I always politely declined him when he would make comments and remained professional. Eventually, his mom stopped coming altogether and—I tried, I really—but he…” You trail off, a lump in your throat. He watches as tears form in your eyes, his anger getting more and more tangible. He tries not to express it, putting a hand on your knee “He just… kept pushing. A-and once, he looked like he was gonna get violent. I made a report, you know, to the school. But you know how they are,”

“They never even bothered investigating huh,” Gojo sneers. You laugh a tired sort of laugh.

“Of course not. After that, I just tried to endure it. And I know he hasn’t done anything technically, but it doesn’t really feel like a matter of if but when,” You explain haphazardly. Gojo squeezes where his hand rests.

“I believe you. It’s okay,” He says as soothingly as he possibly can “It’s okay. I’m here,”

There’s a sense of relief that washes over your whole body and before he knows it, you’re breaking down. He feels a lot of emotions all at the same time, watching your little frame as you lose it so easily in front of him. A part of him is so furious he wants to make it everyone's problem. Another part of him is so deeply sad knowing you’ve suffered all on your own.

And the most notable part of him is the sense of protectiveness, burrowing inside of him. A sense of possession. It sinks into him like teeth, seeps into his blood like the venom of an animal so that he bleeds and breathes it. Gojo can’t shake that deep sense of urgency, a nameless and faceless desire that consumes him. He shudders.. He holds it in, all of it. Cups his hands so desperately so that it doesn’t spill over and touch you, the ink of ruining the soft white of your clothes.

In a world that you have made beautiful, desire is ugly. Hideous and infectious, it tears Gojo limb from limb. It makes Gojo feel on edge. Gojo should not desire for any more than what he was. People always die when he does.

But maybe they don’t have to. Maybe, he can protect you. He can keep you safe. He wants to keep you safe. He wants to keep you all to himself.

It’s in an effort to soothe those feelings that his arms find themselves around your form. It’s the first time you’ve hugged in such an intimate way. Where expects you to turn away - you don’t.

Instead you cling, your arms around his jacket and your face in his chest. You cry and weep and sob and you look so small like that. You look like you’ll collapse and Gojo holds you. Says it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay as you let it all out. It must feel good to finally let it all out, after everything and he doesn’t intend to stop you.

“I promise I’ll always protect you from now on,” And he says it, and means it. If you feel the weight of his statement, you don’t let it show “It’s okay. You can cry if you need too,”

You cry and cry and cry.

And Gojo thinks the call of heaven is nothing in comparison to the sound.

In the end, Gojo can’t forgive him.

It’s not without effort. He tries to do it at your request, because after all the tears he wants to help. He says he can maybe pull some strings. But that gentle heart you have declines. You don’t want it to become a big deal. You feel a little better knowing he knows. In the end, you don’t want it to affect that brats reputation.

“You know how kids can be,” You say, voice full of concern for everyone but yourself “I don’t want to make school life anymore difficult than his life at home must be,”

So, Gojo tries to listen to you. But days pass, and days turn into weeks. In the end, a month goes by and Gojo is full of terrible and divine anger.

In the end, Gojo won’t forgive him. Gojo can’t let it go. He feels so righteous in it, he starts avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. There’s something inside of them he has no desire to look at. Eyes that tell all, Gojo turns away from their gaze. Gojo is angry for you, and it’s not in his character to do nothing about it.

He decides on less of a whim that it looks. He wonders about alternatives, if there’s anything that can stop this feeling from imploding inside of him but nothing comes.

When he decides that nothing can be done, Gojo goes out of his way to start watching him.

Like any mission, he needs enough background information to map out a plan. He wants to make sure that it has virtually no pushback for you. There’s always a possibility you’ll get caught in the crossfire and that’d be the worst possible outcome. Gojo can protect you from a lot of things, but he’s not as confident about the law.

(Not that he can’t. Just not in the good, right way he’s sure you want him to protect you in. Gojo’s love is divine, not right. There’s nothing in this world Gojo can’t shield you from, because he’s the strongest.)

He also can’t make anything obvious or leave any room for interpretation. If there’s anything that feels off when the reports go live - you’ll stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. He thinks in the instance you find out (about all of it, the premeditation especially) you’d probably tuck your tail and run.

(Gojo would find you. But the chase means there’s some time you’re apart. The thought is almost nauseating.)

He likes that you’re curious about everything. In most instances anyways. But he thinks it’s better to leave you in the dark sometimes. Having you worry about it would ruin the point of this. And sometimes, it’s better not knowing every detail. Honeytraps are more ethical than nets.

He’s doing it for you in the end, like he does most things. And the kid will benefit, maybe even get some sympathy from his classmates for a while about the tragedy that befell his father. Gojo thinks it’s a good plan because no one loses. It’s a lot like killing a curse.

It only takes two weeks to learn virtually everything there is to know. A guy like that doesn’t have much he can hide.

The name of his target, he learns, is Nobu Watanabe. Father to Akio Watanbe and ex-husband to Akiko Watanbe. He’s a recently released felon (let off on good behavior) with a battery and assault with a deadly weapon charge. He’s a college drop-out, and has been working a lot of odd-jobs since he was 16.

His personality is bad, worse is his drinking and smoking habits. He’s often found drunk in the street, and has a track record for single nights spent in a cell. His ex-wife is usually the one bailing him out. Gojo can’t help but feel sorry for her. Somehow, he doubts that he’s good to her. He’s a deadbeat father through and through. He only offers to pick up his kid to harass you. At least from what he can tell.

He isn’t as awful to his kid as everyone else. Gojo doubts that was always the case. Akio isn’t a bad kid, but it’s hard not to notice the way the light in his eyes disappears when his father comes around to pick him up. A head always looking towards the floor, hands tucked in his pockets.

It’s difficult for Gojo to feel any guilt about what he’s doing. After everything, he can’t find it in himself to feel any regret.

His target is currently working at a dock, not too far from the city. He seems to work there most days, working at a bar on the weekends. It’s a big company that handles foreign goods that he does physical labor for. Lifting and moving boxings, checking inventory - it’s not a complicated affair.

If there’s not a major shipment, he still seems to clock in so he’s definitely paid some kind of hourly wage. He smokes often on the job, but works diligently when there is something to do. An easy but physical job, he’s strong. Gojo can understand what intimidates you about him.

Gojo, though, isn’t intimidated by him at all.

He waits a week before he takes action. To shake off anyone or anything that might be trailing him, and to make sure that everything is the same as he observed. That his schedule wasn’t going to change. A week passes, and when Gojo has confirmation - he decides to do what he does best.

Gojo Satoru decides to play God on a Sunday.

Sunday is a day shipments come in and a day he often works alone. The pay is better on Sunday and Nobu is the only one on his shift who takes it. He’s not expected to finish the strenuous work because he’s alone for such a long stretch of time - just to make a dent in it. The people at the next shift are the ones who finish the job.

He starts his day as early as 6am. It’s near winter, so the world is painted in a miraculously melancholy blue. Gojo follows him that morning. He knows the route well enough to trail behind him and not attract any attention. They pass together, turning corners and taking bus rides until Nobu’s finally in at his job.

There, they part briefly. His target goes into the big white building and he goes on top. Gojo has to teleport to the roof because everything is gated with security cameras covering every inch of the property. Following him puts Gojo at risk. So he waits on top of the building, hands in his pocket and pacing until Nobu comes out the otherside to the docks. His jumpsuit put on haphazardly, only half-pulled up to his waist, with a clipboard and pen as a bunch of boxes waiting for him to check them.

After Gojo confirms that he’s alone, he lies in wait. He sits and waits - watching as the clouds pass. Watching the open sea, how it remains unchanging no matter what boats pass through to shore. He looks at his phone every now and again to check the time.

It shouldn’t be too difficult to actually do it.

You know, if Gojo turns his infinity on, there’s nothing in the world that can touch him. He can touch it, but it can’t touch him. There will always be a barrier between his hands and the world. Between him and the known universe, a bridge that started burning the minute Gojo was born into it. If Gojo turns on his infinity, there’s no way to leave traces of him behind.

Did you know? If Gojo turns on his infinity, his fingerprints don’t show up. There’s no DNA to find. Not a trace of him in the world that he hasn’t left purposefully. Even if Gojo chokes him with his hands bare hands - he wouldn’t be touching him. But Gojo can feel it. Feel his pulse, feel his breathing come down slowly.

If there’s such a thing as heaven or hell, Gojo wants to ask God about being homicidal. If it was a flaw of human design or their Lord reflected inside of them.

He lies in wait on top of the roof until 7.

When 7 hits, the world around him is still so dark. No one kills in broad daylight. The heavens are murky, sky full of black clouds like puffs of smoke. It’s freezing cold, a spine-tingling chill making its way up Gojo’s skin and hardening his hands. . Gojo waits for the doors of the garage to creak open. When the sound echoes into the air, a metal screech in the void, Gojo stands to his feet.

He jumps to the ground, landing with a dull thud. He comes out unscathed, a cat on his feet. He dusts off the front of his pants. Nobu hasn’t taken notice of him. Gojo takes a look around them. There’s no cameras in the warehouse. Gojo waits alone in the dark.

Five minutes. It’s five minutes when all of the lights go out.

“What the fuck?” Nobu mumbles, dropping his clipboard on top of a bunch of boxes, running a hand through his hair. Gojo waits in silence, watches as he turns around.

When he finally does, he jumps back in shock. Gojo feels a cold chill run through his body.

“What the fuck? Who the hell are you?” Nobu asks. Gojo grins.

“Ah, you don’t remember? We met a few weeks ago! We had a nice little exchange and everything.” He says, voice going higher by an octave. The man in front of him stares, off put by Gojos’ presence. He stumbles in his thinking, his body tensing up.

“Who the…what the fuck is going on?”

“Hey, don’t be so scared,” Gojo says, then uses his teleport to phase himself closer. Nobu’s eyes widen, shocked. Scared out of his wits, with the story of heartbeat like he’s being hunted. “Tough guy like you has nothing to be scared of, does he?”

“W-w-what…how did you…”

Gojo shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it, man.” He says, voice calm and smooth and even. He’s surprised by how his emotions feel in his body. Like he’s so angry that he’s not. There’s something inside of him, the white waters that wade, that Gojo can feel. It’s strange “We’ve got about 5 minutes till the lights come back on.”

For a while, they stand at a draw. No one moves. Not him, or Nobu, or the open oceans. It’s quiet for a dock. Even quieter for a dock in Tokyo, and Gojo’s not even using his abilities. He probably won’t need too, other than infinity - there’s not any good reason for him to exert himself any more than he must.

Weeks of planning, weeks of watching, weeks of waiting. Nothing feels like it matters at the moment. He wants it to be over soon-ish.

It’s not that Gojo is particularly sadistic.

It’s just that, everything feels like it’s teetering over this very moment. He thinks it to himself quietly like someone trying to remember where they last left their keys.

Briefly, Gojo thinks “I can’t go back,” after this. In the back of his head he just knows.

He envies this aggravating strangers' ignorance, too.

“What do you want from me?” He says, stuttering - a gasping breath of fear in his lungs that snaps Gojo out of his thoughts. Gojo shrugs.

“Nothing, really. I’m not short on money, you know? I make a good living,” He says, spouting off about nothing as he closes the gap between them. Stepping closer infinitely until Gojo backs him into the garage, into the tall tower of boxers where there’s no cameras and no witnesses “Hm…is there anything you can do to fix this?”

No, Gojo answers mostly to himself, But wouldn’t that be nice?

“P-please, I have—”

“A son right? And an ex-wife, and a dead mom in Saitama. You didn’t think I came here without doing any research, did you? We’re the same in that way you know, I might be a frivolous - but hell if I’m not diligent,”

He looks like he’s going to throw up. Gojo remains indifferent.

“Who are you?” He asks, this time really wondering. With that hoarse voice of curiosity, of defeat.

Gojo hums.

“Good question. Who do you think I am?” Gojo poses and lifts his hands up. He puts them around his neck, pushing hard until his back is against the stack of boxes. It’s dark but Gojo can see everything. He keeps his open, tightening the grip of his hands slowly.

Nobu tries to spit something out but the words get sputtered, muffled by lack of oxygen.

“Do you think I’m a devil? An angel? God? I wonder,” Gojo says, staring. With his mask on, but his eyes opened wide. “Guess I’m kind of like a boogeyman,”

Gojo can feel it. His body underneath his palms, gasping and struggling for air. He can feel his hands try to pry his hands off. He can feel his body slowly start to lose its air, how he deflates like a balloon. Gojo is unmoving, unfazed, unworried. He’s near motionless except the hard grip of his hand on his neck and the pulse that slows gently under his palms.

It takes 5 minutes, maybe less, with all the strength in both his hands. Gojo isn’t counting. He holds on for maybe 2 minutes after that, just to make sure it’s not a fluke. He waits till the heart stops sounding in his ears and until the body is completely limp except for where Gojo is holding him away. He goes out sad. Useless, even.

When Gojo stops, Nobu’s body drops to the floor with a dull thud. He stares at it for a while, then sighs. It’d be nice if he could just leave it there, but he does his due diligence. Picks it up from the ground with relative ease, over his shoulders.

He walks it out towards the dock - the very edge, before tossing it in water and watching it sink. When it disappears from his sight, Gojo is left with his reflection in the deep blue. He meets his eyes for the first time in weeks, and knows he’s seeing exactly what he thought he would.

His anger has settled, just barely. Just enough to be able to see the change in his own vision. With his Six Eyes, Gojo can see that there’s no turning back.

With his mask on, he looks at himself, warped in the vision of the sea. The vision of him—crystalline and white and blue—murky and moving.

Gojo jumps to the roof and turns the light on again. The power comes back.

A dog barks distantly, over and over and over. Gojo watches the sun rise alone.

The following weeks pass without a hitch. Gojo feels like nothing has changed.

(But that’s not true. Everything is different. The same but different)

At the two week mark, winter has set in and Gojo is spending time with you in your apartment together. Currently, you’re cooking dinner (after carefully instructing Gojo to stay put in the living room.) Gojo is sitting watching T.V. He’s helping you grade papers at the coffee table, humming to himself.

It’s about 7 when the news starts to play. A local news channel and a familiar face on the T.V. Gojo is surprised when the breaking news report airs.

“Two weeks ago, a missing persons report was filed for ex-convict Nobu Watanbe. Sources say he was last seen working at a Dock in Tokyo - which experienced a power outage. It’s reported that Nobu seemed to have gone missing at the time, and hasn’t made contact with anyone since then. Could this be the work of a…”

The rest of the report Gojo tunes out. He turns his head slightly to see if you’ve noticed. Your eyes are glued to it., standing and staring silently. You place your spatula on a towel on the counter.

“We got word about a week prior to this,” You say, breaking the silence after some time without Gojo prompting. He looks at you “Akio started coming with his mom again and she gave me the story. It wasn’t unusual for him to up and disappear, but he hadn’t done so since Akio was born,”

“That so?” Gojo says, nonplussed. You nod.

“I feel guilty but,” You trail off, rubbing your arm anxiously “I can’t help but be… relieved. Just a little. I don’t want the guy to be dead or anything, but it,”

Gojo stops you in the middle of your sentence.

“You don’t have anything you need to feel guilty about,” He corrects, voice stern. You give him a sad look but he remains firm in his stance “He was harassing you for weeks. It’s only natural that you feel relieved, you know?”

You’re not entirely content with the response, but you seem to know well enough this isn’t something Gojo will compromise on. You sigh, looking down at the floor.

“Yeah. That’s true I guess, but still. I wonder what happened to him, or if he just decided to run away,”

Gojo pretends to think about it.

“Maybe. Otherwise…guess it was God’s divine punishment,” He says, continuing to grade papers. He doesn’t even look up as he says it. You let out a puff of air through your nose in amusement .

“Yeah,” You say, “Maybe. I should thank him some time,”

Gojo hums.

“I don’t think that’s a bad idea,”

#gojo x reader #jjk x reader #manipulation cw #writing tag #dark content cw #yandere cw #noncon cw #murder cw #yandere!gojo #stalking cw #i tried to add the most major tags #lmk if you need more #ok. gn #part two will be out whenever ame has read lol

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doumadono · 3 months

Note

Hi, sweets 🍭 I'd like to request deaf Bakugo headcanons - just him interacting with his little girl that demands his attention as she wants him to play with her (she is aware dad is a little off because he can't hear)

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

As Bakugo's hearing begins to fade periodically with time, his little girl starts noticing the subtle changes.

The little girl, at the age of 5, struggles to understand why her dad doesn't always respond the way others do. When you, her mom, gently explains Bakugo's hearing challenges, the girl takes it all in, absorbing the information.

To bridge the gap, the little girl asks you to teach her some basic signs. With wide-eyed enthusiasm, she practices and learns the signs, eager to communicate better with her dad.

She comes up with creative ways to catch Bakugo's attention - a gentle tap on his lap, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze, or sometimes just grabbing one of the merchandise plushies you collect at home and presenting it to him.

deaf!Bakugo, in turn, has developed a keen sense of visual awareness to understand all of his little girl's signals.

Despite being aware that her dad is a bit different, she continues to demand his attention for playtime! deaf!Bakugo, unaware that his daughter is learning sign language, is pleasantly surprised one day when she excitedly signs to him, asking him to play with her. His heart brims with love and pride, witnessing the earnest effort she's making to connect with him, and he finds it challenging to hold back tears in the middle of the living room.

deaf!Bakugo often engages in games that don't rely heavily on sound but thrive on shared moments. Building intricate block towers, drawing colorful masterpieces, and playing with dolls become their cherished activities!

When it's playtime, Bakugo's face lights up with a soft smile as he watches his daughter's enthusiasm. He might not hear her words and laughter, but he feels the warmth of her joy radiating through the room.

deaf!Bakugo has developed a set of creative signals and cues to respond to his daughter's requests. Whether it's a gentle tap on the shoulder or a specific hand gesture, they have established their own silent language.

As deaf!Bakugo gradually loses his hearing completely, his daughter's ability to communicate with him through signs becomes an invaluable bridge that allows them to share laughter, love, and a world of understanding.

Despite being a hero and handling the challenges of his job, there are moments when deaf!Bakugo, alone in his office while working from home, breaks down. The silence around him reminds him of the laughter of his beloved little girl he can't hear anymore, and it hits him emotionally.

The very first time they finish playing with his daughter's dolls and plushies, Bakugo's heart melts and he can't hold back tears as his little girl approaches him, using sign language to say, "Thank you for playing with me. I love you, Daddy."

The girl is a little scared seeing her dad crying as it is an extremely rare sight. So, she climbs onto his lap, strokes his rough cheeks marked by many scars from the battles he fought, and signs at him, "Daddy, don't cry, I love you. I'll hug you, and it will be okay."

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months

Text

Conspiratorialism and the epistemological crisis

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me next weekend (Mar 30/31) in ANAHEIM at WONDERCON, then in Boston with Randall "XKCD" Munroe! (Apr 11), then Providence (Apr 12), and beyond!

Last year, Ed Pierson was supposed to fly from Seattle to New Jersey on Alaska Airlines. He boarded his flight, but then he had an urgent discussion with the flight attendant, explaining that as a former senior Boeing engineer, he'd specifically requested that flight because the aircraft wasn't a 737 Max:

https://www.cnn.com/travel/boeing-737-max-passenger-boycott/index.html

But for operational reasons, Alaska had switched out the equipment on the flight and there he was on a 737 Max, about to travel cross-continent, and he didn't feel safe doing so. He demanded to be let off the flight. His bags were offloaded and he walked back up the jetbridge after telling the spooked flight attendant, "I can’t go into detail right now, but I wasn’t planning on flying the Max, and I want to get off the plane."

Boeing, of course, is a flying disaster that was years in the making. Its planes have been falling out of the sky since 2019. Floods of whistleblowers have come forward to say its aircraft are unsafe. Pierson's not the only Boeing employee to state – both on and off the record – that he wouldn't fly on a specific model of Boeing aircraft, or, in some cases any recent Boeing aircraft:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/22/anything-that-cant-go-on-forever/#will-eventually-stop

And yet, for years, Boeing's regulators have allowed the company to keep turning out planes that keep turning out lemons. This is a pretty frightening situation, to say the least. I'm not an aerospace engineer, I'm not an aircraft safety inspector, but every time I book a flight, I have to make a decision about whether to trust Boeing's assurances that I can safely board one of its planes without dying.

In an ideal world, I wouldn't even have to think about this. I'd be able to trust that publicly accountable regulators were on the job, making sure that airplanes were airworthy. "Caveat emptor" is no way to run a civilian aviation system.

But even though I don't have the specialized expertise needed to assess the airworthiness of Boeing planes, I do have the much more general expertise needed to assess the trustworthiness of Boeing's regulator. The FAA has spent years deferring to Boeing, allowing it to self-certify that its aircraft were safe. Even when these assurances led to the death of hundreds of people, the FAA continued to allow Boeing to mark its own homework:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8oCilY4szc

What's more, the FAA boss who presided over those hundreds of deaths was an ex-Boeing lobbyist, whom Trump subsequently appointed to run Boeing's oversight. He's not the only ex-insider who ended up a regulator, and there's plenty of ex-regulators now on Boeing's payroll:

https://therevolvingdoorproject.org/boeing-debacle-shows-need-to-investigate-trump-era-corruption/

You don't have to be an aviation expert to understand that companies have conflicts of interest when it comes to certifying their own products. "Market forces" aren't going to keep Boeing from shipping defective products, because the company's top brass are more worried about cashing out with this quarter's massive stock buybacks than they are about their successors' ability to manage the PR storm or Congressional hearings after their greed kills hundreds and hundreds of people.

You also don't have to be an aviation expert to understand that these conflicts persist even when a Boeing insider leaves the company to work for its regulators, or vice-versa. A regulator who anticipates a giant signing bonus from Boeing after their term in office, or a an ex-Boeing exec who holds millions in Boeing stock has an irreconcilable conflict of interest that will make it very hard – perhaps impossible – for them to hold the company to account when it trades safety for profit.

It's not just Boeing customers who feel justifiably anxious about trusting a system with such obvious conflicts of interest: Boeing's own executives, lobbyists and lawyers also refuse to participate in similarly flawed systems of oversight and conflict resolution. If Boeing was sued by its shareholders and the judge was also a pissed off Boeing shareholder, they would demand a recusal. If Boeing was looking for outside counsel to represent it in a liability suit brought by the family of one of its murder victims, they wouldn't hire the firm that was suing them – not even if that firm promised to be fair. If a Boeing executive's spouse sued for divorce, that exec wouldn't use the same lawyer as their soon-to-be-ex.

Sure, it takes specialized knowledge and training to be a lawyer, a judge, or an aircraft safety inspector. But anyone can look at the system those experts work in and spot its glaring defects. In other words, while acquiring expertise is hard, it's much easier to spot weaknesses in the process by which that expertise affects the world around us.

And therein lies the problem: aviation isn't the only technically complex, potentially lethal, and utterly, obviously untrustworthy system we all have to navigate. How about the building safety codes that governed the structure you're in right now? Plenty of people have blithely assumed that structural engineers carefully designed those standards, and that these standards were diligently upheld, only to discover in tragic, ghastly ways that this was wrong:

https://www.bbc.com/news/64568826

There are dozens – hundreds! – of life-or-death, highly technical questions you have to resolve every day just to survive. Should you trust the antilock braking firmware in your car? How about the food hygiene rules in the factories that produced the food in your shopping cart? Or the kitchen that made the pizza that was just delivered? Is your kid's school teaching them well, or will they grow up to be ignoramuses and thus economic roadkill?

Hell, even if I never get into another Boeing aircraft, I live in the approach path for Burbank airport, where Southwest lands 50+ Boeing flights every day. How can I be sure that the next Boeing 737 Max that falls out of the sky won't land on my roof?

This is the epistemological crisis we're living through today. Epistemology is the process by which we know things. The whole point of a transparent, democratically accountable process for expert technical deliberation is to resolve the epistemological challenge of making good choices about all of these life-or-death questions. Even the smartest person among us can't learn to evaluate all those questions, but we can all look at the process by which these questions are answered and draw conclusions about its soundness.

Is the process public? Are the people in charge of it forthright? Do they have conflicts of interest, and, if so, do they sit out any decision that gives even the appearance of impropriety? If new evidence comes to light – like, say, a horrific disaster – is there a way to re-open the process and change the rules?

The actual technical details might be a black box for us, opaque and indecipherable. But the box itself can be easily observed: is it made of sturdy material? Does it have sharp corners and clean lines? Or is it flimsy, irregular and torn? We don't have to know anything about the box's contents to conclude that we don't trust the box.

For example: we may not be experts in chemical engineering or water safety, but we can tell when a regulator is on the ball on these issues. Back in 2019, the West Virginia Department of Environmental Protection sought comment on its water safety regs. Dow Chemical – the largest corporation in the state's largest industry – filed comments arguing that WV should have lower standards for chemical contamination in its drinking water.

Now, I'm perfectly prepared to believe that there are safe levels of chemical runoff in the water supply. There's a lot of water in the water supply, after all, and "the dose makes the poison." What's more, I use the products whose manufacture results in that chemical waste. I want them to be made safely, but I do want them to be made – for one thing, the next time I have surgery, I want the anesthesiologist to start an IV with fresh, sterile plastic tubing.

And I'm not a chemist, let alone a water chemist. Neither am I a toxicologist. There are aspects of this debate I am totally unqualified to assess. Nevertheless, I think the WV process was a bad one, and here's why:

https://www.wvma.com/press/wvma-news/4244-wvma-statement-on-human-health-criteria-development

That's Dow's comment to the regulator (as proffered by its mouthpiece, the WV Manufacturers' Association, which it dominates). In that comment, Dow argues that West Virginians safely can absorb more poison than other Americans, because the people of West Virginia are fatter than other Americans, and so they have more tissue and thus a better ratio of poison to person than the typical American. But they don't stop there! They also say that West Virginians don't drink as much water as their out-of-state cousins, preferring to drink beer instead, so even if their water is more toxic, they'll be drinking less of it:

https://washingtonmonthly.com/2019/03/14/the-real-elitists-looking-down-on-trump-voters/

Even without any expertise in toxicology or water chemistry, I can tell that these are bullshit answers. The fact that the WV regulator accepted these comments tells me that they're not a good regulator. I was in WV last year to give a talk, and I didn't drink the tap water.

It's totally reasonable for non-experts to reject the conclusions of experts when the process by which those experts resolve their disagreements is obviously corrupt and irredeemably flawed. But some refusals carry higher costs – both for the refuseniks and the people around them – than my switching to bottled water when I was in Charleston.

Take vaccine denial (or "hesitancy"). Many people greeted the advent of an extremely rapid, high-tech covid vaccine with dread and mistrust. They argued that the pharma industry was dominated by corrupt, greedy corporations that routinely put their profits ahead of the public's safety, and that regulators, in Big Pharma's pocket, let them get away with mass murder.

The thing is, all that is true. Look, I've had five covid vaccinations, but not because I trust the pharma industry. I've had direct experience of how pharma sacrifices safety on greed's altar, and narrowly avoided harm myself. I have had chronic pain problems my whole life, and they've gotten worse every year. When my daughter was on the way, I decided this was going to get in the way of my ability to parent – I wanted to be able to carry her for long stretches! – and so I started aggressively pursuing the pain treatments I'd given up on many years before.

My journey led me to many specialists – physios, dieticians, rehab specialists, neurologists, surgeons – and I tried many, many therapies. Luckily, my wife had private insurance – we were in the UK then – and I could go to just about any doctor that seemed promising. That's how I found myself in the offices of a Harley Street quack, a prominent pain specialist, who had great news for me: it turned out that opioids were way safer than had previously been thought, and I could just take opioids every day and night for the rest of my life without any serious risk of addiction. It would be fine.

This sounded wrong to me. I'd lost several friends to overdoses, and watched others spiral into miserable lives as they struggled with addiction. So I "did my own research." Despite not having a background in chemistry, biology, neurology or pharmacology, I struggled through papers and read commentary and came to the conclusion that opioids weren't safe at all. Rather, corrupt billionaire pharma owners like the Sackler family had colluded with their regulators to risk the lives of millions by pushing falsified research that was finding publication in some of the most respected, peer-reviewed journals in the world.

I became an opioid denier, in other words.

I decided, based on my own research, that the experts were wrong, and that they were wrong for corrupt reasons, and that I couldn't trust their advice.

When anti-vaxxers decried the covid vaccines, they said things that were – in form at least – indistinguishable from the things I'd been saying 15 years earlier, when I decided to ignore my doctor's advice and throw away my medication on the grounds that it would probably harm me.

For me, faith in vaccines didn't come from a broad, newfound trust in the pharmaceutical system: rather, I judged that there was so much scrutiny on these new medications that it would overwhelm even pharma's ability to corruptly continue to sell a medication that they secretly knew to be harmful, as they'd done so many times before:

https://www.npr.org/2007/11/10/5470430/timeline-the-rise-and-fall-of-vioxx

But many of my peers had a different take on anti-vaxxers: for these friends and colleagues, anti-vaxxers were being foolish. Surprisingly, these people I'd long felt myself in broad agreement with began to defend the pharmaceutical system and its regulators. Once they saw that anti-vaxx was a wedge issue championed by right-wing culture war shitheads, they became not just pro-vaccine, but pro-pharma.

There's a name for this phenomenon: "schismogenesis." That's when you decide how you feel about an issue based on who supports it. Think of self-described "progressives" who became cheerleaders for the America's cruel, ruthless and lawless "intelligence community" when it seemed that US spooks were bent on Trump's ouster:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/12/18/schizmogenesis/

The fact that the FBI didn't like Trump didn't make them allies of progressive causes. This was and is the same entity that (among other things) tried to blackmail Martin Luther King, Jr into killing himself:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FBI%E2%80%93King_suicide_letter

But schismogenesis isn't merely a reactionary way of flip-flopping on issues based on reflexive enmity. It's actually a reasonable epistemological tactic: in a world where there are more issues you need to be clear on than you can possibly inform yourself about, you need some shortcuts. One shortcut – a shortcut that's failing – is to say, "Well, I'll provisionally believe whatever the expert system tells me is true." Another shortcut is, "I will provisionally disbelieve in whatever the people I know to act in bad faith are saying is true." That is, "schismogenesis."

Schismogenesis isn't a great tactic. It would be far better if we had a set of institutions we could all largely trust – if the black boxes where expert debate took place were sturdy, rectilinear and sharp-cornered.

But they're not. They're just not. Our regulatory process sucks. Corporate concentration makes it trivial for cartels to capture their regulators and steer them to conclusions that benefit corporate shareholders even if that means visiting enormous harm – even mass death – on the public:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

No one hates Big Tech more than I do, but many of my co-belligerents in the war on Big Tech believe that the rise of conspiratorialism can be laid at tech platforms' feet. They say that Big Tech boasts of how good they are at algorithmically manipulating our beliefs, and attribute Qanons, flat earthers, and other outlandish conspiratorial cults to the misuse off those algorithms.

"We built a Big Data mind-control ray" is one of those extraordinary claims that requires extraordinary evidence. But the evidence for Big Tech's persuasion machines is very poor: mostly, it consists of tech platforms' own boasts to potential investors and customers for their advertising products. "We can change peoples' minds" has long been the boast of advertising companies, and it's clear that they can change the minds of customers for advertising.

Think of department store mogul John Wanamaker, who famously said "Half the money I spend on advertising is wasted; the trouble is I don't know which half." Today – thanks to commercial surveillance – we know that the true proportion of wasted advertising spending is more like 99.9%. Advertising agencies may be really good at convincing John Wanamaker and his successors, through prolonged, personal, intense selling – but that doesn't mean they're able to sell so efficiently to the rest of us with mass banner ads or spambots:

http://pluralistic.net/HowToDestroySurveillanceCapitalism

In other words, the fact that Facebook claims it is really good at persuasion doesn't mean that it's true. Just like the AI companies who claim their chatbots can do your job: they are much better at convincing your boss (who is insatiably horny for firing workers) than they are at actually producing an algorithm that can replace you. What's more, their profitability relies far more on convincing a rich, credulous business executive that their product works than it does on actually delivering a working product.

Now, I do think that Facebook and other tech giants play an important role in the rise of conspiratorial beliefs. However, that role isn't using algorithms to persuade people to mistrust our institutions. Rather Big Tech – like other corporate cartels – has so corrupted our regulatory system that they make trusting our institutions irrational.

Think of federal privacy law. The last time the US got a new federal consumer privacy law was in 1988, when Congress passed the Video Privacy Protection Act, a law that prohibits video store clerks from leaking your VHS rental history:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2008/07/why-vppa-protects-youtube-and-viacom-employees

It's been a minute. There are very obvious privacy concerns haunting Americans, related to those tech giants, and yet the closest Congress can come to doing something about it is to attempt the forced sale of the sole Chinese tech giant with a US footprint to a US company, to ensure that its rampant privacy violations are conducted by our fellow Americans, and to force Chinese spies to buy their surveillance data on millions of Americans in the lawless, reckless swamp of US data-brokerages:

https://www.npr.org/2024/03/14/1238435508/tiktok-ban-bill-congress-china

For millions of Americans – especially younger Americans – the failure to pass (or even introduce!) a federal privacy law proves that our institutions can't be trusted. They're right:

https://www.tiktok.com/@pearlmania500/video/7345961470548512043

Occam's Razor cautions us to seek the simplest explanation for the phenomena we see in the world around us. There's a much simpler explanation for why people believe conspiracy theories they encounter online than the idea that the one time Facebook is telling the truth is when they're boasting about how well their products work – especially given the undeniable fact that everyone else who ever claimed to have perfected mind-control was a fantasist or a liar, from Rasputin to MK-ULTRA to pick-up artists.

Maybe people believe in conspiracy theories because they have hundreds of life-or-death decisions to make every day, and the institutions that are supposed to make that possible keep proving that they can't be trusted. Nevertheless, those decisions have to be made, and so something needs to fill the epistemological void left by the manifest unsoundness of the black box where the decisions get made.

For many people – millions – the thing that fills the black box is conspiracy fantasies. It's true that tech makes finding these conspiracy fantasies easier than ever, and it's true that tech makes forming communities of conspiratorial belief easier, too. But the vulnerability to conspiratorialism that algorithms identify and target people based on isn't a function of Big Data. It's a function of corruption – of life in a world in which real conspiracies (to steal your wages, or let rich people escape the consequences of their crimes, or sacrifice your safety to protect large firms' profits) are everywhere.

Progressives – which is to say, the coalition of liberals and leftists, in which liberals are the senior partners and spokespeople who control the Overton Window – used to identify and decry these conspiracies. But as right wing "populists" declared their opposition to these conspiracies – when Trump damned free trade and the mainstream media as tools of the ruling class – progressives leaned into schismogenesis and declared their vocal support for these old enemies of progress.

This is the crux of Naomi Klein's brilliant 2023 book Doppelganger: that as the progressive coalition started supporting these unworthy and broken institutions, the right spun up "mirror world" versions of their critique, distorted versions that focus on scapegoating vulnerable groups rather than fighting unworthy institutions:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

This is a long tradition in politics: hundreds of years ago, some leftists branded antisemitism "the socialism of fools." Rather than condemning the system's embrace of the finance sector and its wealthy beneficiaries, anti-semites blame a disfavored group of people – people who are just as likely as anyone to suffer under the system:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antisemitism_is_the_socialism_of_fools

It's an ugly, shallow, cartoon version of socialism's measured and comprehensive analysis of how the class system actually works and why it's so harmful to everyone except a tiny elite. Literally cartoonish: the shadow-world version of socialism co-opts and simplifies the iconography of class struggle. And schismogenesis – "if the right likes this, I don't" – sends "progressive" scolds after anyone who dares to criticize finance as the crux of our world's problems as popularizing "antisemetic dog-whistles."

This is the problem with "horseshoe theory" – the idea that the far right and the far left bend all the way around to meet each other:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/26/horsehoe-crab/#substantive-disagreement

When the right criticizes pharma companies, they tell us to "do our own research" (e.g. ignore the systemic problems of people being forced to work under dangerous conditions during a pandemic while individually assessing conflicting claims about vaccine safety, ideally landing on buying "supplements" from a grifter). When the left criticizes pharma, it's to argue for universal access to medicine and vigorous public oversight of pharma companies. These aren't the same thing:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/25/the-other-shoe-drops/#quid-pro-quo

Long before opportunistic right wing politicians realized they could get mileage out of pointing at the terrifying epistemological crisis of trying to make good choices in an age of institutions that can't be trusted, the left was sounding the alarm. Conspiratorialism – the fracturing of our shared reality – is a serious problem, weakening our ability to respond effectively to endless disasters of the polycrisis.

But by blaming the problem of conspiratorialism on the credulity of believers (rather than the deserved disrepute of the institutions they have lost faith in) we adopt the logic of the right: "conspiratorialism is a problem of individuals believing wrong things," rather than "a system that makes wrong explanations credible – and a schismogenic insistence that these institutions are sound and trustworthy."

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/25/black-boxes/#when-you-know-you-know

Image: Nuclear Regulatory Commission (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/nrcgov/15993154185/

meanwell-packaging.co.uk https://www.flickr.com/photos/195311218@N08/52159853896

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic #conspiratorialism #epistemology #epistemological crisis #mind control rays #opioid denial #vaccine denial #regulatory capture #boeing #corruption #inequality #monopoly #apple #dma #eu

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confused-pyramid · 4 months

Text

Tell Me Some Things Last | s3

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: 23.1k

warnings: canon!typical violence, mentions of abuse, mentions of death, specific episodes mentioned in this part are 3x01, 3x02, 3x03, 3x06, 3x08, 3x09, 3x14, 3x16, 3x17, 3x19, and 3x20

a/n: season 3! The slow burn continues:) This was really fun to write, so I hope you enjoy it! (and I promise the chapters won't keep getting longer, this one just got out of hand LMAO) Title is from Heal by Tom Odell

series masterlist

"Excuse me?"

Section Chief Strauss doesn't falter. "You can't expect me to believe you think Agent Hotchner has done an effective job leading this unit."

"You can't expect me to believe that you think I'd willing spy on my unit chief for you."

She sighs and you want to throttle her. "Agent L/N, I know you two share a history, but this is bigger than that. People have died on his watch."

You have been trying to remain neutral since you were called into her office, but every word that comes out of her mouth makes you see red. Yes, this past year has been tough, but none of it was in his control.

"I think you know my answer," you say coldly, straightening your back in her chair. "I have to go, we have a case in Arizona."

She holds your gaze for a second, before nodding and turning back to her computer. You stand up and leave her office without another word, hastening your pace to a light jog the moment you're out of her line of sight.

You want to talk to Hotch as soon as possible, but by the time you get back to the bullpen, the whole team and their go-bags are gone. Grabbing your own bag, you rush over to the airstrip where everyone is settled inside the jet.

He glances up with a thin smile when you take a seat across from him, and you return it, not wanting to raise his concern when everyone is around.

The Flagstaff police meet you at the airport when you land, and everyone jumps into the awaiting SUVs to get to the crime scene as soon as possible.

The victim is another brunette woman on the college campus, but luckily her body was found after curfew, so students aren't milling around.

You step closer to examine the woman's body as JJ glances down at her hand. "She had her Mace out, but she didn't use it?"

Morgan nods, looking around. "And it's well-lit. He's not afraid of being seen."

A bus stop sign catches your attention and you turn to Detective Griffith. "How often do the shuttles run?"

He answers immediately. "Every 10 minutes."

"Were all the other victims posed like this?" Reid asks, bending over to get a better look. "With their arms crossed."

Griffith frowns. "Yeah. Why?"

"It's a classic sign of remorse," Morgan responds, stepping in to take over the explanation. "The unsub kills the victim then immediately feels bad about it, so he poses them like this, so they'll rest in peace."

"You can tell that just by the arms?"

"It's why you called us here. To build a psychological profile of your killer."

After inspecting the crime scene, Gideon and Morgan leave to talk to the dean of the school, and JJ and Reid go to meet with the students living in the victim's dorm. Hotch is still back at the station, and you haven't gotten a chance to talk to him since meeting with Strauss, but you push it out of your mind as you accompany Emily to the coroner's office.

You're so lost in thought that the drive over is entirely silent, and it's not until you've parked that you realize she didn't say a word either.

When the coroner leads you to the victim's body, you notice how much clearer each of the markings and cuts are. Hotch doesn't assign you to speak with the coroners very often, usually sending Prentiss, because of her incredible attention to detail, but not that you're here, you appreciate the second chance to examine the victim.

"Did the other victims have this much overkill?" she asks, pulling out her camera as you flip open your notebook.

"Death was caused by a single, very forceful stab wound to the heart," the coroner confirms.

You lean in closer to see the insertion point and notice the lumpy discoloring on the victim's chest. "Yeah, it looks like he broke through the breastbone."

"And after that he just lashed out at random," he adds.

Emily hums in agreement before snapping a couple of photos. "Well, no defensive wounds. She didn't even hold her hands up to fight him off."

"The first two victims were the same."

A shudder runs through you as the two of you leave the cold room and emerge into the warm sunlight. "Why is it almost harder to look at the victims when they're cleaned up and no longer covered in blood?"

Emily considers your question for a moment. "Maybe it's because they look less human that way."

You remember Jeff's funeral, how lifeless he seemed in his casket, and how you could barely look at him during the proceedings. It was somehow worse than seeing him at the crime scene, blood everywhere. At least then, you could still see the warmth in his skin. Later, he just looked cold.

"I think you're right," you tell her just as her phone chirps with a call.

She stiffens imperceptibly when she sees the number, but you only notice because of how hyper-vigilant you have been about your own tells since speaking with Strauss. "I need to take this. Give me a second."

She walks away from you and answers the call, her tone hushed so that you can't hear her. You know it could easily just be a personal call about something private in her life, but there's something almost familiar about the look in her eyes when she saw the number.

"Everything okay?" you ask her when she returns, but she just sighs and starts walking to the SUV. "It's nothing."

You haven't known her for as long as the other members of the team, but it's not hard to tell that she's hiding something. She looks distracted as she avoids making eye contact, and when you remember how you did the same with Hotch on the plane, the pieces fall into place.

If Strauss gave her the same assignment she tried to give you, then you need to keep an eye on her. You don't believe that she would sell out the team, but you also know how terrifying you thought Strauss was when you first joined the bureau.

***

The profile leads you to take Nathan Tubbs, one of the campus security guards, into custody, and while Gideon interrogates him, you walk with Reid, JJ, and Emily through the quad to get back to the station.

"Everyone is so much younger than I remember being," JJ says, as you all pass through a crowded part of campus. Word must have spread that the team arrested someone, because you can't imagine why else there would be so many students hanging outside after dark.

"Yeah, it's a weird age," Emily chuckles. "You want to be treated like an adult, but you're still used to someone else solving your problems for you."

"All I remember is trying to figure out who I was."

That makes you laugh. "I had no idea what I wanted to do when I was in college."

"Didn't you go to college with Hotch?" JJ asks, her eyes twinkling. You expect she's hoping for an embarrassing, or at least interesting, story from those years, but your past with him feels almost like sacred territory: something you can't breach when he's not around.

"Not college," you correct, "just everything else before and after."

"What was he like then?" Emily asks, genuine curiosity in her tone. You still can't believe that she would spy for Strauss, but you also can't help your suspicions.

"He was completely different, but also the same." You smile as you think back to the early years of your friendship. "He was kind of a cool kid in high school, but he was just as focused and determined as he is now."

"Hotch was popular?" Reid asks in disbelief.

JJ snorts. "Why can't I imagine that at all."

"He was trustworthy," you shrug, "and kind. Even when people weren't kind to him."

The three of them go silent, and you suddenly feel extremely self-conscious, but you're saved when your phone rings with a call from Derek. "Hey."

"There's been another murder."

***

The case ends in a murder-suicide that a part of you believes Gideon should've seen coming. JJ calls the jet to take off at first light, and everyone looks exhausted when you arrive at the airport. You sleep most of the flight back, but when you step into the field office again, you know you can't ignore the talk you've been avoiding all day.

You go to his office in the hopes of having this conversation privately, but he isn't inside when you look through the open door. You turn back with a frown and are about to head down the stairs again when you see him leaving Strauss's office across the hall.

He spots you immediately, and before you can say anything, he says, "I just got suspended."

Your mouth falls open. "What?"

"Two weeks."

You blanche as you follow him into his office, where he immediately starts packing up his essentials into his briefcase. "Hotch...I have to tell you something. Something I should have mentioned yesterday."

"What is it?" he asks, his voice slightly distracted.

"StraussaskedmetospyonyouandIthinkshealsoaskedEmily!"

He blinks. "Can you say that again?"

You press your lips together, before trying again, slower this time. "Strauss asked me to spy on you, and I think she also asked Emily."

He closes his eyes for a beat, but it feels like years. You can feel the disappointment wafting off of him, but he doesn't say anything, giving you the time to explain in more detail.

"She asked me right before we flew to Arizona," you tell him, your chest aching at the defeated look on his face. "I told her I wouldn't do it, of course, and that you are the perfect leader for this team. But I was watching Emily the whole time we were there, and I think Strauss might have threatened her or made her some kind of offer."

His hands pause their packing and for a moment, you're worried that he's going to be angry you didn't come to him sooner, but then he just sighs, a deeply dejected sound. "I figured she would. It's basically in the FBI playbook."

"You knew?" you say, your voice almost like a gasp.

"I didn't know for sure," he amends, "but I believed so. And I'm usually right about these kinds of things. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. You guys will be fine without me."

You want to shake him; to reach forward and rattle his shoulders until he realizes that this is it. This is exactly why he makes such a great unit chief.

He doesn't get angry, even when he may have cause to be. He trusts his team so wholeheartedly that even under the suspicion of spying to the higher-ups, he still treats everyone the same. He puts the team above himself in almost every aspect, and the intermittent calls you get from Haley when you're in the middle of a long case prove that it may be to his own detriment, but he still does it. Because he cares so deeply, about each of you, and about each victim, and about catching each killer.

"We need you," you say, emphasizing your words as though that will make him understand you better.

"Morgan and Prentiss will be fine," he says pointedly, as though trying to prove a point. "I'm sure they'll even be better off. And Reid and JJ can look to you for guidance. It's practically what they do already."

"Fine," you sigh, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "They'll be okay. But what if I need you?"

He looks at you then, and there's a sadness behind the stern set of his eyes. "You'll be okay."

***

You have to drag yourself out of the house the next morning. The knowledge that Hotch (and most likely Gideon) won't be at the office sucks the motivation out of you, especially because you have no idea what will happen once the team is given another case. Will they assign you a new unit chief? Will they temporarily promote someone on the team?

You push your questions out of your mind as you mindlessly get through security and flop down at your desk. There's a palpable difference with half the team gone, especially since Emily doesn't seem to be anywhere in sight either, and the emptiness of the office somehow feels more claustrophobic.

You finished all of your paperwork the night before, because you couldn't sleep after hearing of Hotch's suspension, so sitting at your desk now, you have nothing to do until a new case arrives.

Reid and Morgan dive into their own paperwork the minute they sit down, and they don't look up except to grab a new pen or refill their mugs.

You can see the tension lining everyone's shoulders, the stress about the future of this team, with its two senior-most members gone.

When you can't take the lack of work anymore, you head over to JJ's office, where she is poring over a stack of case files so tall that you can't see her face until you step in front of her desk. "Hey, JJ."

"Oh, hey," she says, looking up at you. "It's been really quiet out there."

You nod, dropping onto the sofa across from her. "Half the team's gone. It doesn't feel the same."

"I wish I could come out there and sit with you guys, but I have so many new case files to look over."

"Need any help?"

She looks up in surprise. "Actually, that would be great. Can I leave you with a few of them? There's a checklist for what I need you to note down at the top of that stack."

"Of course," you say before she hands you a thick stack of files. "I'll get them back to you soon."

"Take your time," she says, waving you away. "I have like a billion more to go through anyway."

When you're back at your desk, you set down the stack with a small thud and open the first file. You're bombarded with gory images of men who have been brutally stabbed to death, and you read over the case history quickly before opening the next one. This time, the images are of live women, all of whom share a skin tone and hair color, and have been kidnapped in the last week.

You slam the file shut and close your eyes in an effort to keep your head from spinning. You don't understand how anyone could classify these cases. How they could decide that one of these unsubs is worse than another. But there aren't enough teams like yours to cover every case that comes through the door, so someone has to.

You glance up at Hotch's office again, a force of habit, and the darkness in his doorway reminds you of the emptiness in the office. It's the same with Gideon's office, and Emily's desk.

You miss them all.

***

The first week of Hotch's suspension is hell. Gideon still hasn't turned up, and you can see his absence clawing at Spencer, who hasn't gone more than an hour without glancing at his office since he left. Derek doesn't admit it, but you can tell he misses Hotch's leadership over the team.

Strauss has come by periodically to "check in" on your team's work, but with the other units available to take on any new cases, she hasn't assigned you anything. You know she doesn't trust your team, but you're surprised that even with Hotch gone, she's still treating all of you like extensions of him. Not that she's wrong about that.

Without getting called in, you stay at home for the first few days, and even get some use out of your Peloton for once. You've been missing him all week, but it's not until the following Monday that you decide to actually do something about it.

Grabbing the files JJ gave you to look over, you stuff them in your bag and drive up to his house. Both cars are in the driveway when you arrive, and you belatedly realize that you should have called first.

You knock on the door hesitantly, and are surprised to see Jack in Haley's arms when she opens the door. She looks excited to see you, but you still feel bad about just showing up. "I'm sorry, I should have called."

"Not at all," she says, opening the door wider for you to enter. "You know I love seeing you."

"Y/N's here," Haley announces as she leads you into the kitchen and sets Jack back into his high chair. She shoots you a pointed look. "And she's not here to talk about work."

"Of course not," you say with a laugh. "I just wanted to see how the suspension was going. The team really misses you."

He acknowledges you with a small nod, and you take a seat opposite him at the table, where he is feeding Jack his cereal.

"I miss everyone, too," he says, "but it's also been nice to have some extra time at home."

"This suspension has been a blessing in disguise," Haley jumps in, ruffling Jack's hair. You don't miss the way Hotch's jaw twitches.

You aren't sure what to say to that, but Haley just pulls Jack out of his chair and turns to the doorway. "I'm gonna put him down for his nap. It was nice seeing you, Y/N."

"You too, Hales," you say earnestly, before smiling at Jack. "Bye, buddy."

When she's out of the room, you shoot Hotch a look that makes him lean back with a frown. "What?"

"You miss work, don't you."

He huffs, and you take that as an admission. "I've loved being home," he says, his words slightly more emphasized than necessary.

You can hear the candor in his voice. You don't doubt that he loves spending time with his family, you just also know the pull of the job. The fulfillment of saving people from unimaginable horrors, and the desolate ache that comes when you know you aren't doing everything you can.

"You can feel both things," you whisper as he exasperatedly runs his hand through his hair. He got a haircut.

The thought pops into your head against your will, and you glance up at his hair as you realize this is the shortest it's been in a long time. It suits him, but it also emphasizes the hard furrow of his brow.

"Haley doesn't understand that," he says simply, no ill intention in his tone, "but I can't expect her to. I barely understand it, and it's what I'm feeling."

To the outside listener, his words could be construed as complaints, but there's nothing but deep empathy in his voice. He loves her so much, and even though they're having differences about his work life, she loves him too.

You spend the next half hour talking him through each of the cases that JJ left you with, and when Haley returns to the kitchen after putting Jack down for his nap, you pull out a chair for her and tuck the files away.

"We need to have you over for dinner sometime soon," she says as soon as she takes a seat. "I can't believe we haven't done it yet." She looks to Hotch with an earnest sigh. "I guess Jack has been kind of a handful, but I can't believe this is your first time coming to the house since he was born."

"It's been too long," he agrees, draping an arm over the back of her chair. The sight of their casual intimacy is a reminder of what you once had, but the usual mistiness doesn't come when you think about Jeff. Your chest just fills with a liquid-y warmth that feels like melted chocolate and syrup.

"Likewise," you smile, patting Haley's hand. "I don't know if I can handle another night out, even with the mid-evening interruption."

She laughs heartily, and you see Hotch's lips curve up involuntarily. "I think I'm partied out for the year."

His arm slips down to rest against her waist, but she doesn't lean into him like she usually does. You avert your eyes, glancing up at their kitchen wall clock and faking a gasp. "I've taken up too much of your family time. I should go."

"It's okay," Hotch assuages at the same time that Haley says, "I'll walk you out."

They share a small glance, and you suddenly feel intrusive in their home. "I'll see you in a week."

He nods and you follow Haley to the door, where she gives you a quick squeeze and another promise to have you over for dinner soon. The sun starts to set as you drive home, and before you can second guess yourself, you're turning into a local farmer's market that is about to shut down for the night.

You rush through the stalls and stop in front of the flower shop, where you buy a dozen pink carnations. The vendor ties the bouquet with a silky ribbon and you hold the flowers close to your heart as you walk back to your car and start driving.

This time, you're more aware of the direction you're headed. You don't stop your car until you're in the parking lot and you don't stop moving until you're past the front gates and up the grassy hill where Jeff's headstone sits stoically under the waning sunlight.

You take a deep breath as you sink down to your knees, blissfully unaware of the grass stains coloring your slacks. You set the flowers down in front of his headstone, which you haven't seen in months.

Jeff Adler

Beloved Son, Husband, Brother

Until we meet again

The carnations look bright against the gray stone, and you arrange them neatly so that they don't get blown away.

He loved flowers. He knew they were impermanent and likely a waste of money, but he still loved all of the different emotions they symbolized, and how beautiful they could be for as long as they lasted.

He brought you a bouquet of heliotrope almost every week after you got married, and when you asked him what it meant, he insisted that it was something you had to find out in your own time. That time came a quick Google search later, and when the words 'eternal love' flashed on your screen, you knew you had picked the right man.

You brush your finger against the petals of the pink carnations you brought, remembering the rest of what the search yielded. Angelica for inspiration, calla lily for beauty, and pink carnation for gratitude.

You're so grateful you met him. So grateful he loved you as much as you loved him.

"I love you," you whisper, suddenly needing to say the words out loud. There's no one around, and the sun has set far enough that there's barely enough light to see, but your words feel strong as they come out of your mouth. "Thank you for coming into my life. Thank you for giving me 10 beautiful years."

You wipe away the tear that falls from the corner of your eye. "Goodbye."

***

He takes his time as he walks through the halls of the Virginia field office on Monday morning. He hasn't been inside in two weeks, and after he and Haley agreed that he should request a transfer, he likely won't be back again for a very long time.

When he walks past the glass doors of the bullpen, he spots you at your desk, pointing out something to Morgan in a case file. He hastens his pace so you don't see him. He still doesn't know how to tell you that he isn't coming back.

"Good morning, ma'am," he says when Strauss beckons him into her office.

"I was hoping you'd do the right thing," she says, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Have you given any thought to what department you'll request?"

He shakes his head. "I was under the impression that if I left the BAU, I'd have my choice of posts."

"Well, I'll consider it after I fully complete my investigation."

She pauses before looking at him again. "You were a prosecutor. What about heading up a white-collar crime task force? That'll get you home at night at a reasonable hour."

That sounds like exactly what Haley wants for them. They spent hours over the last week discussing what the best path forward would be post-suspension, and after countless late-night arguments, they finally agreed on a transfer. It would be best for the team, and best for his family. So why does he feel so guilty?

"Sorry to interrupt."

Prentiss barges into the office, as though she had an appointment. She glances over at him, and he can't read her expression. "Sir, I've decided to resign from the FBI, effective immediately."

"I don't understand," he frowns, taking in her rigid posture. He remembers your suspicions, as well as his own, but this can't be where it ends.

"I'm taking the foreign service exam. With my connections, I'd stand a good chance of landing in the State Department."

"Prentiss," he urges, trying to convey his understanding in his tone. "I think that's a mistake."

She shakes her head with a sigh. "Well, don't try to talk me out of it. Garcia saw my name on the list, and she already tried."

That makes him pause. "If she can't talk someone out of doing something, no one can."

"Sorry for the interruption, but, sir, it's good to see you back." She turns her gaze to Strauss, even as she continues speaking to him. "The team needs you."

She stalks out of the room after a quick "Ma'am", leaving him alone with Strauss, who looks like she's up to her last nerve. "I'll be overseeing this next case until I can assign your replacement."

"You don't have any field experience, do you?" He doesn't mean for the words to come out so critically, but his emotions are a jumbled mess that he can't decipher well enough to fix his mood right now.

"My job is to protect the Bureau. If I have to hold the team's hand for one case, so be it."

Hold the team's hand. He can't imagine that Strauss will be of much help in the field, but he keeps his mouth shut. He's been around enough authority figures to know when to keep his criticisms to himself.

"Ma'am," he says gently, hoping he can turn his thoughts into useful advice. "In order to function effectively, this team needs stability."

She clasps her hands together on her desk, and he knows it's done. There's nothing he can do to fix this for the team, at least not on this case. "The BAU has some very talented people, and they're Bureau assets, and I believe it's time that they were out from underneath the leadership of you and Jason Gideon."

***

Hotch was supposed to come back today. It's not until you're on the plane that Derek informs the team that he's requesting a transfer.

"What?" you burst out, unable to keep your composure even with Strauss seated a few rows behind you.

"He didn't tell you?"

You shake your head with a forlorn frown, and Derek jumps back in quickly to remediate the situation. "I only found out because I ran into him on the way to the jet. He didn't seem like he was in the mood for talking."

But he tells you everything. At least you thought he did.

"It's okay," you say, forcing your face into a neutral expression. "This isn't about me. I just can't believe he's leaving."

"Yeah," JJ grimaces, "and I can't believe we're stuck with her now. You know, from this angle, she looks almost human."

You all glance behind you, but thankfully, her face is still buried in the case file.

"Emily didn't come in today, either," you point out, turning to the empty seat next to you. "We're down two agents, and Gideon's MIA."

Reid blinks, and you curse yourself for being so cavalier. You know how hard Gideon's absence has been on him.

He recovers quickly and leans in to the center console with a raised eyebrow. "Has Strauss ever even been out of the-"

A chorus of shushes come from Derek and JJ and he shuts up as Strauss walks down the aisle and sits across from you all. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it's protocol to brief everyone before we arrive at the crime scene?"

JJ turns red and she nods hastily, opening her file. "Yes, ma'am."

Strauss has only been here for ten minutes and you already want to strangle her. JJ explains the case details succinctly, and when the plane lands, you all head over to the crime scene to find Detective Wolynski, who called your team in when the murders got out of hand.

Within minutes of meeting them, Strauss manages to ruin your relationship with the local police by questioning their decision to wait so long to call in the BAU. JJ immediately takes matters into her own hands as she explains that we have to work with them if we want to be included in the investigation at all, but she doesn't seem to care.

You get a call from Penelope as you're heading back to the SUVs, and you step aside to get out of Strauss's earshot. "What's up, Pen?"

"I tried everything I could," she wails. You can hear the distinct clicking of her keyboard in the background. "I tried to convince him to stay, but he's so stubborn."

You sigh, glancing over at the scene, where Strauss looks positively nauseous. You can empathize with her emotions, because you know how hard it was for you to see your first crime scene in person, but this just further proves how unfit she is to understand what being on this team really means. "If he made up his mind, there's gonna be no changing it, unless he changes it himself."

She huffs, before audibly perking up. "I gave him the Milwaukee case file before he went home, and I also, uh, saw that his transfer hasn't passed through the system yet."

You're almost certain she had something to do with that, but your mind immediately starts going through the possibilities of what this could mean. If his transfer isn't in the system, then that means he technically still works on this team...which means him not being here is in dereliction of duty. If there's anything that can convince Hotch to show up, it's duty.

"You've been more help than you know," you tell her, before hanging up and hopping into the SUV.

***

When he arrived at his house with the case file Garcia gave him, he immediately stuffed it in his bag and tossed it onto the floor. He definitely didn't think about reading it the entire time he was changing out of his suit, and making a quick lunch for Haley and himself. When she went upstairs to put Jack down for his nap, he couldn't help himself any longer.

Reaching into his bag, he pulls out the file and flips it open slowly, being careful to angle the gruesome photos away from the stairs in case Haley came down without him noticing. Women taken in the afternoons and killed. Bodies dumped in the morning. Hearts cut out of their chests. The words pop out at him as he skims the page, and he's so engrossed in the material that he doesn't hear her until she's standing over him. "I thought this was over."

"It is," he sighs, closing the file. "I'm just curious." He doesn't know when he started lying to his wife, but he doesn't like it. The bitter taste of it in his mouth.

He can see her gearing up for a fight when their home phone rings. He picks it up and clicks the button to answer, but even after saying 'hello' a couple of times, no one responds. For a split second, his mind flashes back a year to the Fisher King and the secret message left on his home phone, but he pushes the thought away.

He clicks the phone off, looking up at Haley again, but then a shrill ringing sound starts again, this time from her purse across the living room.

An unfamiliar queasiness fills his stomach, and he maintains eye contact with her as her eyes flicker back and forth a couple of times. He promised himself he would never profile his family, but the analyses come before he can shut off that part of his brain. Shifting eyes. Rigid posture. All indications of lying and shame.

"What did the Section Chief say?" she asks, her hands going to her hips. Stance of power to overcompensate for-

He shakes the line of thinking from his head. "She suggested that I transfer to a white-collar-crime task force."

"Would you have to travel?"

"No, I'd have a nine-to-five life."

She nods, and he can see the finality in her stance. "Then, it's a no-brainer."

***

You haven't been able to focus as well as you'd like to with the knowledge that Hotch isn't coming back hanging over your head. When you get a spare moment at the station, you step out of the conference room where all of the evidence has been scattered around and press the first number on your speed dial.

"Hello?" It's Haley.

You stumble over your words as you say 'hello' back. You weren't expecting it to be her who answered. She clearly wasn't expecting you either, because she sighs dramatically when she hears your voice and you hear a quiet "It's Y/N" before the phone is handed over.

You can understand where she's coming from. When Jeff was about to start his undercover assignment, you were so angry at him for choosing to be away from you for so long. But then rationality won over, and you remembered why he was doing it...for the same reason you are.

"Hey."

He sounds guilty. You can imagine.

"Hey," you say simply, waiting for him to fill in the gaps. He owes you at least that much.

"I'm sorry," he says after a long pause, "but you knew this was coming. You know Haley hates what this job turns me into, and you know sometimes I hate it too."

That wasn't really the explanation you were expecting. Not willing to let him off the hook, you turn your face away from the conference room windows to hide your expression and lower your voice. "You should have told me, and you know it. That's why you're hiding behind this false justification...but I guess you know that too."

There's a small rustling sound over the receiver and you can imagine him running his hands through his newly cropped hair. "This doesn't change the fact that I'm leaving."

Sometimes you forget that he was once a young boy with an alarmingly developed moral compass that didn't always point in your direction. It's times like this that remind you.

"Fine." You feel like an irritable teenager again, but you can't contain yourself around him. Even when you want to hide a part of yourself, you can't.

"How's the case going?" he asks finally. His voice has gotten softer and you know he feels bad about how this call has been going, but with neither of you willing to concede, you decide to ignore it for now.

"Well, Strauss just offended the lead detective 45 seconds into her first crime scene."

He chuckles softly. "I'm not surprised."

"This isn't about to get any better, is it?" you ask, huffing out a forlorn sigh.

"I doubt it," he agrees. "I'll keep looking at the file from my end. Any idea how he's getting control of these women? Is he blitzing them or coercing them?"

"So far, we're coming up blank," you admit, glancing back at Morgan and Reid, who appear to be in a productive debate.

"All right. Keep me posted."

***

Another victim turns up and you're not any closer to figuring out who the unsub is. Derek steps away from the group a few minutes after you and you see him pacing the halls of the precinct, his phone pressed to his ear.

A break in the case comes when Garcia identifies school records of children who exhibit signs of perfectionism and co-dependence, leading you to a profile for the unsub. You're all listening to Garcia as she reads off the records when the door opens, with two figures standing in the entrance.

"Look who's here," Morgan grins, shaking Hotch's hand. Emily looks sheepish as she glances over at Strauss, who is downright fuming.

"How fast can you get us up to speed?" Hotch asks without another greeting.

Morgan scoffs. "How fast can you sit down?"

Strauss opens her mouth to say something, but Hotch beats her to it as he takes a seat next to you. You ignore the gesture. "We're only here to help."

She sighs. "We'll deal with this later."

With two more members back on the team, at least for the time being, the SUVs are split more evenly, and you join Emily, JJ, and Strauss in the first one as you head to the crime scene. Strauss is the first one to walk up to the scene, but the moment she sees the mangled body, she breaks down, her face contorting into a sob that she tries and fails to hold in.

You make a move to go and help her, but you're surprised when Hotch is the first to step in. "If you need a second, take a second. This is what it is. Just don't let the public see you break down."

He's so kind to her, even though she's the reason for all of his professional stress. You suppose she's not the only reason, but that isn't something you get to have an opinion on.

The devolution of the dump sites leads to an update of the profile, which gets you an address for a young boy who left school early with the nurse on duty. It doesn't take long to get to the house, and Derek and JJ coordinate some of the local police and SWAT as you strap on your kevlar vests.

After an initial argument about the probable cause of entering a house you don't know is dangerous, Emily pipes up with an idea. "Let me go in alone."

"Wait..." you start but she steamrolls over you, clearly needing to compensate for not being here before. "The boy's in the family room. He's looking for female authority figures. If he lets me in, I can signal as soon as I see anything that gives us cause."

"Technically, you're not even in the FBI," Reid points out.

She nods. "All the better."

Strauss steps in with a frown, to no one's surprise. "She's interfering with a federal investigation."

"Well, if I'm no longer in the FBI, then you have no authority over me." Emily shrugs and turns to Hotch for the approval she actually wants. "I'm just a civilian knocking on a little boy's door."

He nods and she pulls her hair back into a ponytail. Derek hands her his gun, and you suddenly remember that Hotch doesn't have his gun either. Reaching into your other side holster, you pull out your second firearm and hand it to him without a word. He doesn't lift his hand at first, but then he nods at you and takes the gun, his eyes filled with an earnest gratitude, and you know you've forgiven him.

Once she goes inside, you all wait in silence for the signal to breach the home. It takes almost too long, but eventually your earpieces fill with a loud beeping, and Derek yells "Go!"

You find her in a back room, where she's on the floor, her forehead bleeding from a thick gash. You enter just in time to see Hotch leap forward and take Emily's weapon from the little boy, before lifting him up and carrying him out of the house.

"I can't officially approve of how that transpired," Strauss says when you all come outside. You sit next to Emily and squeeze her hand as the paramedics patch up her forehead.

Hotch shakes his head, clearly done with the bureau politics. "The arrest was clean. It would be a mistake to break up this team."

She looks at him pointedly. "None of you will ever move up the chain of command, you know that."

"Why would I ever want to leave the BAU?"

You almost believe him. It's not that you don't think he wants to stay. You know he does. You just also know how much his family means to him, and how thin Haley's patience has worn.

Morgan asks if he means it, and he gives a vague answer that you expect, before turning to look at you.

"Here." He reaches into his waistband and pulls out your gun. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

His hand brushes yours when you take it back, and the warmth of his skin makes you shiver against the slight breeze. "You're welcome."

***

When he gets home, the lights are off.

"Haley?" he calls out into the empty silence. He tries to convince himself that he didn't see this coming, but after her last words to him before he left, it's a futile exercise.

"Make sure to give your son a kiss before you leave."

He left, even when she begged him not to. Now his wife has left, and she took their son with her, and once again, he is utterly alone.

***

Gideon's resignation comes through and you find yourself missing him more than you thought you would. If Hotch is the backbone of the team, he was the stoic foundation. He formed the roots of the BAU as a unit altogether, and you owe your life's work to his intelligence and foresight. But more than that, you can't help but remember the fact that out of all the members on the team, Gideon knew Jeff the best.

He attended countless lectures about past unsubs that Gideon put on at the academy, because he believed understanding why people do things was just as important as knowing how or what they were doing. He even went to Gideon's home for the occasional dinner, and he brought you along once after you got married.

You're not sure what the team will look like without his guiding hand, but you don't have to wait long to find out when JJ calls you with the notice that you're going to Portland.

Spencer is reading a piece of paper over and over again when you get to the office, and when you peek over his shoulder, you see the familiar scrawl of Gideon's handwriting.

Taking a deep breath, you reach forward to put your hand on his shoulder for a moment of comfort, but think better of it and pull back at the last second. Derek sees your indecision and cocks his head towards him.

You walk over to his desk and perch on its edge with a sigh. "I can't believe he would leave just like that."

"I can," Morgan shrugs, his eyes hard with contempt. When you shoot him a look, he softens. "I just mean that he's been showing signs of withdrawal for a while now. It still sucks for the kid, though."

You both look up at Reid across the aisle, where he is still scanning the letter. "At least he got a letter." You try to bring humor into your tone, but it doesn't work.

"It's not about us," Derek says gently, in a show of empathy for the older agent that is unfamiliar coming from him. "He did what he had to do to keep himself sane. We just have to let him."

You nod, just as JJ emerges from the hallway with Hotch on her heels. "We're starting the briefing."

***

"You must be the BAU."

A handsome man with a thick East Coast accent comes forward to introduce himself when you all enter the Portland field office. "Special Agent Bill Calvert."

"Hi, Jennifer Jareau," JJ smiles, extending her hand. "This is SSA Aaron Hotchner. This is Dr. Reid and Agents Morgan, Prentiss and L/N."

He smiles at each of you but his eyes linger on yours for a moment before he takes JJ's hand. "I appreciate your help on this case."

"You're from Boston?" you ask, trying to place his accent after having heard nothing like it since you landed.

"The accent's kind of hard to miss in Oregon, right?" he grins, before reaching his hand out to you. "Agent L/N, was it?"

You shake his hand, shooting him a thin smile. You can already see Emily and JJ's smirks behind your back.

"We'd like to take a look around Jenny Wittman's apartment," Hotch steps in, moving forward to stand beside you.

Calvert nods. "I'd take you myself, but I'm waiting to meet her family, so I'll have another agent drive you."

"Thank you." Hotch rushes off with Reid and Morgan, and you stay back with JJ and Prentiss to work the victimology.

"Can we set up in here?" you ask Calvert as you start moving the boxes of case files and evidence onto the conference room table.

"Of course," he says, before leaving the three of you alone.

The first ten minutes of looking through the evidence is silent, and for a second, you nearly let yourself believe the other women won't bring up the elephant in the room, but then JJ lets out an involuntary giggle and they pounce.

"He's definitely into you," she says, making no effort to hide her gaze as she unabashedly stares at Calvert through the window. You want to retort immediately, but after seeing her check her phone about a dozen more times a day than she usually does, you suspect she may actually know what she's talking about when it comes to love these days.

Emily nods, biting her lip. "He couldn't stop looking at you."

"You're profilers," you argue, tossing the file in your hand onto the table. "You notice all kinds of insignificant stuff."

"So are you," JJ points out. "What do you think, then?"

They have you boxed in, and you can't think of any answer that would sufficiently appease them so you just groan.

"She's into it, too," JJ grins at Emily, who replies with, "I can't believe Y/N's gonna date someone from Portland."

Without thinking, you huff. "He's from Boston." All three pairs of eyes widen as you realize your slip in not denying her statement.

Emily laughs. "Ohh, it's so happening!"

***

When the men return from Jenny Wittman's apartment, Hotch instructs JJ to televise a statement warning possible future victims who fit the unsub's victimology. When Emily and Derek later find an ad hung up in a local laundromat that suggests he's been killing for longer than you'd previously thought, you decide to head back to the trail where the first bodies were found.

When you arrive on the scene, a dozen new bodies have been found further down the trail and near the water.

"How did we miss this before?" you think out loud, not realizing that Calvert has come up behind you.

"The trail's 40 miles long."

You jump when you hear his voice, and he apologizes after a small chuckle. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Special Agent Calvert," you say, your voice slightly airy as you catch your breath. "No need to apologize."

"Okay," he smiles, turning to stand in front of you, "and you can call me Bill."

He's a good looking man, and you don't dislike the feeling of someone showing interest in you, especially as clearly intelligent and qualified as him.

"Sure," you say, returning the smile. "I'm Y/N, btw."

"That's a pretty name," he says, his eyes glinting with mischievousness, before he turns back to the scene before you. "They dug up eight new graves before you got here."

You frown. "So the unsub didn't stick to the pattern."

"Guy had a busy year."

You nod, pondering what this change in M.O. could mean, when Bill interrupts your thoughts. "I'm interested to hear more about how this profiling thing goes."

You give him a quizzical smile, and his lips quirk up. "I took a class in criminal psychology in college, but I don't remember enough to be useful in this area."

"We observe human behavior," you explain, ignoring the subtle smirk Emily is flashing you from behind his back. "Profiling is about making connections and predicting future actions based on history, victimology, and behavior."

He takes a moment to digest your words before huffing out a laugh. "Sounds to me like we called in the right team."

When another agent comes by to ask him about the crime scene procedure, you take your leave and walk up the hill of mulch by the open graves. You are nearly to the SUV when you spot Morgan beelining towards you.

"Not you too," you sigh, rolling your eyes dramatically as you stalk away from him.

He catches up to you easily and throws an arm over your shoulders with a grin. "I'm not gonna give you the giggly girl talk that JJ and Prentiss clearly have covered. I just wanted to say one thing."

You look at him expectantly and he brings you both to a stop by the cars. "You're a catch, L/N." You start to roll your eyes again, but he shakes his head. "You are, so if you want to have a little no-strings-fun, then I'll have your back through and through."

You have no idea what no-strings-fun would look like, but you glance back at Bill, who is speaking animatedly with another agent about the change in digging patterns of the graves.

"I don't know what I want," you admit as Derek drops his arm and turns to face you.

"That's okay," he says, before the corner of his mouth quirks up into a smirk. "But figuring that out can be just as much fun too."

***

He would be lying if he said he hasn't noticed you talking to the Special Agent on the case. Calvert, he remembers as he thinks back to the capture and subsequent suicide of the unsub from the roof of his old therapist office.

They were able to find the final victim before she died, so even with the unsub's death, the case feels like a victory, and the whole team looks light on the way back to the jet.

He has been trying to keep himself light too, but every time he gets a moment to himself, his mind reverts back to the silent darkness of his home after he returned from the last case. The reminder that he hasn't seen Haley or Jack in days.

When he reaches the tarmac, he spots you talking to Calvert again, but the conversation looks different than before. The special agent looks nervous, and he tries to gauge whether you seem comfortable, before realizing how relaxed you look.

When he gets closer, he catches the end of a question that likely started with "Can I have your number?" You smile at the man, and he turns away, trying not to eavesdrop.

He can't tell what he wants you to say. He knows it's been enough time since Jeff's death that real dating isn't out of the question, but he can't reconcile the protective instinct flickering in his gut.

Regardless of the distance he tried putting between you and himself, your voice carries over the tarmac, and he hears you say, "I'm sorry." before the rest of the sentence gets jumbled in the breeze. Something that feels alarmingly like relief settles in his chest and he frowns at the foreign feeling of it coursing through his veins.

He boards the plane and purposefully chooses a seat with an empty spot next to it, knowing you'll choose to sit beside him after he practically ignored you all day. He really wasn't trying to shut you out, he just doesn't know how to broach the topic of separation with anyone, let alone someone who had as stable a marriage as you did.

When you board the jet and take your seat next to him, he glances over at you sheepishly and murmurs, "I overheard the end."

He's surprised when you laugh lightly. "It's okay. Everyone was going to find out soon enough, especially with how excited Prentiss and JJ were about it."

He nods, glad that you aren't angry about his invasion of your privacy. Then, before he can stop himself, he looks at you and asks, "You didn't want to see him again?"

"I don't think I'm looking to just date for dating's sake anymore," you explain, your eyes flitting around the cabin at the sleeping forms of the rest of the team. "I had a true love...I don't want to settle down again for anything less."

He understands that completely, but he can tell there's something else bothering you, and not just because of the rhythmic bouncing of your knee that you don't seemed to have noticed. "What else?"

You shrug, not meeting his eye. "I used to have my usual excuse, but I can't really say it's too soon anymore, can I?"

He frowns as he notices the visible strain on you that this burden has caused. "You get to decide that for yourself."

"I know," you sigh, rubbing your eye with a loose fist. "I just worry sometimes that I use Jeff as an excuse to keep myself closed off." Your knee stills, and Hotch scoots closer, even with the armrest in the way.

"You don't seem closed off to me."

Your eyes crinkle with laughter. "I'm not sure if that means much coming from you. You're not exactly the picture of openness, Hotch."

He knows you're mostly joking, but your read punches him in the gut in a way he doesn't expect. You must see the shock on his face, because you immediately lean in closer. "What is it?"

He shakes his head, trying to delay for as long as he can. If he doesn't say it out loud, maybe he can pretend that he's still a happily married man. That he didn't fail his wife and son by being as absent as he had wished his father had been, early in his life.

"It's not about Gideon leaving, is it?" You scrutinize him for a moment before shaking your head. "No. Hotch, what's the matter?"

"We agreed not to profile each other," he sighs, gritting his teeth against the pain of having to vocalize one of the lowest moments in his life.

"Aaron," you whisper. Your voice is soft and gentle, and he breaks.

"Haley left."

Your mouth parts in surprise, and he looks down at his lap, taking a deep breath. "And I don't know if she's coming back."

***

You've been waiting in the arrivals lot of the airport for almost an hour. You're assuming his flight got delayed, and you're grateful for the time to get yourself ready to see him, but the wait hasn't made your jitters any better.

You haven't seen Hotch since you left for college last year, and with his pre-law internship that he somehow snagged as a first year, it was a lonely summer.

When he called you last week with profuse apologies for not staying more in touch and a somber tone that had to be about more than his regrettable phone habits, you had told him that you would love to see him, but your winter break doesn't start for another month. After a few hushed breaths and a second of thinking, he told you that he had bought a plane ticket out to California for the following weekend.

That's why it's Friday afternoon, and you're still waiting for his familiar mop of dark hair to appear through the exit doors. A boy walks out right then, with the same raven hair and fit stature, and your heart rate hastens for a split second, before you realize it's not him.

You look down at your car's radio and twist the dial to change the station. It's been playing the same Madonna song nonstop, and you shut off the volume when the other stations are no different. Your shift in focus takes your attention away from the airport exit, so you jump in your seat when a quiet knock sounds at your passenger side window.

He's here. Your lips curve up into a bright smile and you unlock the door, letting him get in.

"Hi," you say, your voice weaker than you'd like.

"Hey, Y//N," he replies, pushing his long hair back from his face. The simple motion sets off butterflies in your stomach and you turn back to your steering wheel to keep your emotions off your face. He could always read you so easily. "It's good to see you."

He grins at you and leans forward to give you a quick, awkward hug over the center console. You involuntarily inhale as he pulls back, and the scent of his natural musk mixed with whatever new cologne he's been wearing smells dreamy on him.

You said you were over it, you tell yourself in your head. He has a girlfriend who he's going to marry, and you are his best friend. At least you were.

You don't really know where things stand between you two now. A year is a long time to go without seeing someone, and you're sure college has changed him in similar ways that it has changed you.

"I have one more class today," you say quickly as you pull your car out of the lot. "It's criminal psychology, so I figured you wouldn't mind coming to the lecture with me."

"Sounds fun," he says, before leaning his cheek against the window to watch the scenery that zips by. "God, the weather here is crazy."

"It's definitely warmer than I'm used to," you agree, struggling not to glance over at him. "We never had 70 degree winters growing up."

"Which do you prefer?"

You grin. "Home, of course."

"Of course."

You look at him then, and his expression is one you don't understand. It's the same look he gets when he's in the library and he finds a book he's been looking for.

The drive doesn't take long, and you bring him to your lecture, where he proceeds to pay more attention to the information being presented than you do. The class usually feels too short for you, but today, the time ticks by, because you can't focus.

It's been so long since you've sat next to him in a class, and the sight of him jotting down notes on a scrap piece of paper takes you back to high school, when he was still the more attentive one.

After the lecture, you both grab a quick dinner in the dining hall and settle back into your double dorm room, which you painstakingly cleaned up before he arrived.

"So, how long have you guys been friends?" your roommate, Katy, asks him as he drops into your desk chair. You've been watching her ogle him since he arrived, and if he's still as perceptive as he was in high school, it hasn't escaped his notice either.

"Forever," he says, looking at you with a grin. "We met when we were eight. When she judged my taste in The Beatles, it was over for me."

You can't help the heat that flames in your cheeks, even though you know this story by heart. Katy keeps glancing over at you as he explains how you guys met, and eventually she gets up and flops down onto your bed next to you. "You're bringing him to the party tonight, right?"

Your eyes widen as you remember that was today. "Oh, I don't know. We might just stay in."

"You have to come!" she squeals, shaking your arm. She turns to him with a pointed look. "We already have outfits picked out."

"I guess we gotta go, then," he smiles at her, before looking at me with a small raise of his eyebrow. You okay with that?

You dip your chin into a nod, and he stands up. "I'll head out for a walk as you guys get ready."

"Sounds good!" Katy says, grabbing your hand and sliding off the bed. "We'll see you in an hour."

Once the door closes behind him, Katy turns to you, her mouth agape. "You never told me how cute he is."

"What?" you sputter, your cheeks turning a bright shade of pink.

"You also didn't tell me you're, like, in love with him."

You scoff involuntarily, your usual diversion technique when someone brings up a topic you want to evade. "What are you talking about?"

"Okay," she shrugs, reaching into your closet and tossing you the dress you were planning to wear. "If that's how you want to play it."

You go into your attached bathroom to change into your outfit, but after seeing Hotch, the mini sundress you picked out feels like too much. You hate how much you're overthinking something as stupid as an outfit for a party.

You turn away from the mirror and go back into your dorm, where Katy is applying her signature shade of red lipstick in her little mirror stand.

"He has a serious girlfriend," you whisper, almost too quiet for her to hear you. But she is more perceptive than you give her credit for. "Like eventual marriage-serious."

"Oh, honey," she coos, patting the bench seat next to her. You scoot in until you're side by side and she wraps an arm around your shoulders. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"It's okay," you shake your head, leaning on her shoulder. "I just need to get over it. It's a stupid crush that I've had since high school, but it's time. Maybe this party will help."

"Yes, exactly!" she grins, turning her head to look at you. "Nothing that a little music and a few shots can't fix."

"A few shots?" you laugh.

She nods. "Each."

You down another shot of whiskey before tossing your cup onto the table and following Katy onto the dance floor. She grinds against her boyfriend as you dance beside them, moving your hips side to side with the rhythm of the music.

Being in Los Angeles, the temperature outside is already warmer than it should be in November, but inside the house, your dress is sticking to your skin from the sweat and body heat surrounding you.

You're feeling the alcohol enough to have a good time even in the sweaty throng of bodies around you, and you throw your head back as you close your eyes and feel the thump of the music vibrating the floor boards.

Meanwhile, Hotch can't find you anywhere. He's drunk enough already that he knows he won't be able to find you himself, but he doesn't know anyone else here, so he grabs a half empty bottle from the drinks table and makes his way to the dance floor, where the life of the party seems to be centered.

He's usually a lot more fun at parties, but lately he hasn't felt like himself. Ever since you left for school across the country, it has felt like something in his life was wrong, like he was missing a limb. Then, things started looking up with Haley, and he pushed you away in the hopes that he would forget about any of the doubts he had, but it didn't work. The more he missed you, the worse things got in his relationship, and suddenly he wasn't sure what his life was supposed to look like anymore.

He takes another swig from the bottle and leans back against the counter as he watches people dance against each other in the dim light of the house. His eyes flicker over the mess of bodies until they catch on someone he almost doesn't recognize.

Your eyes are closed and your hands are in the air as you move to the beat. It's not exactly graceful music, but you have managed to find some semblance of a rhythm as you slide your hands down your thin dress, which is sticking to your body in a way he can't take his eyes off of.

He doesn't realize he has lifted the bottle to his lips again until the liquid is burning his throat, and he tears his eyes away from you as his head starts to spin. Maybe he's had enough for tonight. He puts the bottle down just as your roommate spots him. Katy, he thinks, or is it Sadie?

"Aaron!" she calls, stumbling over to him as a man holds her up with an arm around her waist. "Where's Y/N?"

"Not sure," he lies easily, barely conscious of the way his words have started to slur together. "I may head out soon."

"Don't leave without her," she instructs, her voice suddenly getting serious. "I'm staying with him tonight." She pats the man's arm. "So I won't be going back with her."

He nods with a resigned sigh, and slumps down on a couch in the next room, leaning his head back to stop the room from spinning.

When you tire of dancing, you push to the back of the crowd and look around to find any familiar face. You can't see Katy or her boyfriend anywhere, but after exiting the room, you spot Hotch asleep on the couch.

You walk forward with a slanted smile and put your hand on his shoulder to shake him awake. "Hotch, get up."

He groans, peeling his eyes open slowly. "I'm awake. Just resting my eyes."

"Yeah, yeah," you tease, looping your arm through his to help him up. "How much did you drink?"

He shrugs and you wrap your arm around his waist to hold him upright as he stumbles forward. "Whoa there. Okay, let's get you back."

You manage to get him out of the house, and once the fresh air hits, he can almost stand up straight on his own. You keep your arm around him just in case, trying to ignore the way his tee shirt is slowly riding up around his waistband.

You make the walk back in silence, and he falls back onto your bed as you lock the door behind you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers when you perch on the edge of the bed next to him.

"It's okay," you say, huffing out a laugh. He looks so young with his hair falling onto his face, and you resist the urge to push it back off his forehead. "Happens to the best of us."

"No, not that." He rolls over with a groan, flopping onto his back and scooting back so he can lay on your pillow. "I'm sorry I stopped calling."

Your heart skips a beat and you tuck your hair behind your ear, needing to occupy your hands somehow as your mind races with a million questions. "It's my fault too."

"No, it's not."

He isn't slurring his words anymore, but you can still hear the earnestness that only comes when one's filter is completely shattered. He was never one to hide things from you, but you also know how truthful people can get when alcohol takes their mask away.

"Haley and I have been having problems for a while," he mutters, making you sigh. So that's why he flew here in the middle of the school year. "We haven't been seeing eye to eye on a lot of things, and we decided to take a break, but I haven't told anyone, because the only person I wanted to tell was you."

You can't look at him. His gaze is too much, his eyes too full of truth and intensity. "Hotch-"

"I miss you so much," he says, cutting you off. "You're the only person I've ever really been able to talk to, but you know that, don't you? It's the same for you, it has to be."

You don't say anything. The air feels thick with tension, and you're afraid that if you say something, the room will explode.

"She's the perfect girlfriend," he says wistfully, his voice tight with an emotion you can't decipher. "I know it's me who's fucking it up, and I hate myself for it, because she's trying so hard to make this work. But every time it feels perfect, and I think I've finally gotten what I wanted, I just remember-"

"Aaron."

You look at him and his eyes are already staring into yours. You have wanted him to love you the way you loved him for years, but not like this. Never like this.

"You can't fuck this up," you whisper, your voice stronger than you expect it to be. "Call Haley tomorrow morning. Tell her you're sorry, and that you love her, because you do. You know you do."

"I love her," he nods as sleep pulls his eyelids down. "Tomorrow..I'll call her."

You watch him as his limbs relax and his breathing evens out, but you don't fall asleep until the sun starts to rise and you physically can't keep your eyes open anymore.

***

"Happy All Hallow's Eve, folks."

Reid pulls his mask off as Derek looks at him with a frightened frown.

"Are you scared of Halloween?" you ask him, trying to keep the grin off your face.

"I didn't say I was scared," he corrects, glancing over at Reid, who drops his mask on his desk and pushes his hair back from his face, "I said I was creeped out."

"What creeps you out about it?" Emily asks, before grinning at you.

"I bet it's the candy," you joke. "Those muscles probably cower at the sight of anything that isn't meat or protein powder."

Emily snorts and Derek frowns at both of you. "It's the masks. I don't like people in disguises."

"That's the best thing about Halloween," Reid chimes in. "You can be anyone you want to be."

Derek grins. "No, I'm pretty good just being me."

You and Emily share a look. "Yeah, why is it that neither of those points of view surprise me?"

"Guys," Reid suddenly calls out, his voice hushed. "He's here."

You turn around to see Hotch walking down the stairs, accompanied by Agent David Rossi, who you've heard a lot about in your years at the bureau. He was one of the founding members of the BAU, and you can't help but wonder what made him want to come back.

JJ introduces him to everyone, before Reid starts spouting off a list of facts from one of the old cases he solved when he was the chief of the unit.

"Reid, slow down," Hotch says with an uncharacteristic smile. "He'll be here for a while. Catch up with him later."

He nods. "Right, sorry."

Agent Rossi doesn't seem fazed. "No problem, Doctor."

This pleasantly surprises you. It's all too often that new people who meet Spencer don't immediately treat him with the respect he deserves.

"Let's start the briefing."

***

The flight back from Texas is hushed. The case went about as well as you could hope, with them catching the unsub and saving the final victim, but the way Rossi went rogue over and over again has rubbed you the wrong way.

You watch him across the cabin as he pores over his little notebook, and you wish you could peek inside his head. You know that the team aspect of the BAU is a newer addition to the unit, but you don't understand how he can keep all of his thoughts to himself.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Gah," you fright, jumping in your seat. "When did you sit next to me?"

Hotch shrugs, his lip quirking up. "A few minutes ago."

"Well, you should really wear a bell or something, god."

"Y/N," he says, giving you a pointed look. He doesn't let you use your evasion tactics anymore. Given your penchant for aimless talking, you suppose that's a good thing.

"I was just thinking about Rossi," you sigh, glancing up at him again. "Lying to the press to get a reaction from the unsub? Taking over that phone call? I don't like how he works, Hotch."

"He's from a different time," he says, even though you can hear the agreement in his voice, "but he worked with Gideon, and if you remember, it took you a while to warm up to him too."

You heave out a breath but it's the only concession you're willing to give in this moment.

"He's used to an older way of doing things, but he's a great agent."

"He clearly has good ideas," you whisper, "but I just worry that you'll have to work over time to keep him under control."

Hotch ponders this, and you think that maybe he knows you're right. Your eyes shift up and you realize his hair has been shorter for a while now, but you're still not used to seeing so much of his forehead. Not that there's anything wrong with his forehead. It's a fine forehead.

"He was the team leader before he retired," Hotch says suddenly. "He may be tough as a subordinate now, but I'm still glad he's back. We needed someone to fill Gideon's spot, we were low on hands."

"Speaking of, why do you think he's back."

He looks at you with a quizzical frown. "Is it really so hard to believe that he may just want to help us out?"

You think for a second, before shrugging. He laughs.

"I don't know," you concede, with a small chuckle. "I think I'm just expecting things from him that aren't fair."

He turns his body to face you. "Like what?"

You press your lips together, trying to formulate your words properly, so you can clearly articulate the tornado of thoughts in your brain. "I know Gideon wasn't a father figure exactly, but he was someone that Reid and Elle latched onto."

Hotch exhales. "I don't know if Gideon is someone I'd want as a father."

You let out a surprised laugh. "Fair enough."

"How is your father doing, by the way?"

You blink in surprise. It's not that he doesn't talk about your family, it's just that the timing is uncanny. You haven't spoken to him in months. After your mom died, you two were almost inseparable, but then you left for school, and you realized how much bigger the world could be when you weren't always bogged down by your grief. "I haven't called him in a while."

"What did he say after Golconda?" he asks, his voice gentle. After Frank, he means.

You close your eyes, guilt flooding your body. "I never told him."

"What?" You don't look at him, but you can see the shock in the stiff line of his posture. "Did something happen between you two?"

You shake your head, your protectiveness over your family flaring up at the concern in his eyes. "Nothing happened. I just didn't want to worry him."

"That's his job," Hotch stresses, scooting his leg over so his knee bumps yours. "If something like that had happened to Jack, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

"That's what I'm scared of," you tell him, your eyes flitting over to the window, where the clouds are dancing across the horizon. Sometimes, when you're on the jet, you like to pretend that the time up here isn't real. That as long as the world looks like a series of splotches and blinking lights, nothing can really hurt you. "My mom's death nearly killed him. I learned to cook when I was ten, because he couldn't leave his room for a month." Hotch knows all of this already, but he lets you vocalize your thoughts, obviously knowing how badly you need reassurance for the guilt you're feeling. "Then, when Jeff died, I stayed with him for a few weeks to have some company, but...but.. I was so glad when I left, because then I could finally let myself fall apart."

He reaches under the armrest and clasps your hand in his, extending the comfort you didn't know you needed.

"I've never told anyone that," you whisper, feeling your voice tighten with tears. "I love my dad, I love him so much, but I just needed the chance to recover on my own."

"He loves you too," Hotch says, finally breaking his silence. "You know he loves you. I still remember the themed sandwich baggies that he packed your lunch with all through middle school."

You choke out a laugh. "You would always steal the Spiderman ones."

He smiles, squeezing your hand once. "Maybe you just need to give him another chance to be who you want him to be. He might just surprise you."

You know he's right. Somehow, he's always right.

You nod, flashing him a small smile, and lean your head on his shoulder as the clouds float past your window.

***

He glances at his watch for the tenth time since he sat down in his office. The plane landed just over an hour ago, and he sent you home immediately with the instruction to get some rest. He probably should have gone home too, but ever since he got his new apartment, home hasn't felt the same.

He used to be able to look around any corner and see a memory: the couch where he and Haley made love on their first night at home, the soft carpet where Jack took his first steps, the doorframe where he measured his height on his first birthday as Haley held him up by the arms. He also remembers that he wasn't there to see Jack's first steps; he was in Pittsburgh, working a case and thanking his lucky stars that Haley had had the foresight to take a photo as his son stood upright all by himself.

He lifts the picture frame from the edge of his desk, running his fingers over the cool glass and looking at the blue drawing underneath. Jack had drawn his favorite cartoon character and left it for him on the kitchen table, a few nights before his suspension went into effect.

Putting it back down, he looks at the photograph of him holding onto Haley as she clutches newborn Jack to her chest in the hospital. He still has the photo of just him and her on their wedding, but he pushed it to the back, behind the pictures of Jack, and the one of you and him at law school graduation.

A knock sounds at his door and he looks up to see Dave standing in his doorway. "Can I come in?"

"Of course," he says, waving him in. He doesn't sit down, so Hotch stands up too, unsure of how he feels about the power imbalance in the room. "What can I do for you?"

"You said out there, 'The team shares everything.'"

He nods. "That's right."

"There is no 'I'?"

He nods again, not liking where this may be going.

Dave glances down at his desk, where his phone sits next to the picture frame of his family. "Seems a big thing to withhold. Separating from your wife, your child."

He freezes, unconsciously looking at the door to see if anyone heard. "What are you talking about?"

"You used to call Haley 10 times a day," Dave says, his voice not unkind. "We've been together 48 hours and I haven't seen you call her once. You haven't mentioned her, and you're not going home now."

He frowns, feeling his brow settle into place like it's a uniform he wears whenever he's at the office. "What's your point?"

"I guess you're just not used to sharing."

He doesn't say anything, but Rossi seems to interpret this the wrong way. "Or maybe it's something else." He looks out the window at the empty bullpen, but the implication is still clear. "Was it because of...?"

"What?" He doesn't know where this is coming from, but he can't stop the anger that rumbles through him at the connotation. Unable to help it, he looks down at your desk, and Dave tuts.

"I won't say anything."

"Dave," he shakes his head, trying to remain calm. "You have it all wrong. She's my best friend...since we were children. It isn't like that. It was never-"

It was never like that. That's what he's about to say, but that wouldn't be true. Rossi is a good enough profiler that he would be able to spot a lie from a mile away, so he shuts his mouth and shakes his head again. "It's not like that."

"Okay," he accepts, lifting his hands in surrender. "My mistake."

Hotch nods, and Dave leaves his office, but he can't get their conversation out of his head until later that night when his head hits his pillow and his eyes finally fall shut.

***

"Hey, Dad."

You called him when you got home from work that night, and he answered on the second ring. "Hi, sweetheart."

"How are you?" you ask, clutching the phone to your ear as you sink down onto the couch in your living room.

He doesn't answer for a moment, and you can hear him taking a breath. "I'm good, Y/N, how are you? Is work going well?"

"It's good," you tell him. "Really good. We were able to save a woman today, before the unsub could kill her."

"Unsub?"

"Unknown subject," you explain, quickly realizing just how long it's been since you've spoken to him. "It's what we call the bad guy before we know who he is."

"Right," he says, and you can practically see him rubbing a hand over his face, his nervous tic. "I knew that. Anyway, how is everything in your life? Do you still work with Aaron?"

"Yeah, I do," you say with a laugh. "He was actually asking about you earlier today."

"That's nice of him," your dad says, his voice brightening slightly. "He was always a good friend to you."

You tell him about your most recent case, and about Gideon and Elle leaving the team, but eventually you can't evade the topic you've been trying to avoid all night.

You're okay, you think to yourself. Frank can't hurt you anymore.

"Dad," you whisper, closing your eyes as you take a deep breath. In 1, 2, 3. Out 1, 2, 3. "I have something to tell you."

Then you tell him everything, and he just listens, exactly like you hoped he would.

***

"I met this guy." You didn't even see Penelope approach you, but here she is, looking at you like she's about to say something dirty.

"Hell yeah," you grin, trying to match her energy. "Where?"

"A coffee shop," she smirks. "He was having trouble with his computer, so I fixed it for him, and then he asked for my number."

"Look at you," you joke, giving her a side squeeze, "putting your technical analyst skills to good use."

"Thank you," she huffs, throwing an annoyed glance over her shoulder. "That's more of the response I was looking for."

"What do you mean?"

"Derek," she says simply, and you nod, already knowing where she's going with this. You know they have an uncommon relationship, so you're not surprised that he didn't react exactly how she hoped he would.

"He's an idiot," you tell her, patting her arm.

She laughs. "You don't even know what he did."

"Uh, yeah," you say, turning around to face the bullpen, "I definitely do."

***

The case takes the team to Florida, where an unsub has been feeding women their fingers, killing them, and then carving pentagrams in their skin.

The pentagrams suggest a religious element, so you go with JJ, Morgan, and Rossi to the local church to meet with the priest.

"Rossi, do me a favor," Morgan says just before you walk inside. "You talk to the priest, all right?"

You remember his agitation on the jet when Reid prodded him about his beliefs, and given the cruelty of his childhood, a crisis of faith wouldn't surprise you.

"Hi, Father Marks," JJ greets the priest when you enter the church. She introduces all of you to him, before shaking his hand. "We're sorry we have to be here under these circumstances."

"It's good of you to come," he says, greeting all of you. "Abbey's parents are upstairs in my office."

"We'll go up," Rossi says with a nod, "but Agent Morgan actually has some questions for you."

Your eyes flash to Rossi, but he doesn't return your gaze.

"I have some questions too," you offer, and Derek nods gratefully.

The priest answers the few questions Derek spits out at him, and you watch as his eyes wander around the hall, his shoulders raised with tension. You insert a few of your own questions before heading outside with him to wait for JJ and Rossi to finish up with the victim's parents.

"What happened in there?" you ask when he doesn't meet your eye. "Being rude to Father Marks? That wasn't like you."

"You know what happened to me, L/N," he says angrily, kicking his foot out at a loose stone on the pavement. "I went to church everyday, and I prayed for it to stop, but you know what God did? Nothing."

"I know what a crisis of faith looks like, Derek." You stand in front of him, forcing him to look at you. "But Father Marks doesn't know your story. He's not judging you, he's just showing his faith how he knows best."

His shoulders are still tense as his jaw twitches. "Who does Rossi think he is, throwing me under the bus like that?"

"He's an instigator," you shrug, letting the topic slide for the time being. You'll talk to him again later if he still needs it.

"I didn't love the way Gideon did things either," Derek says, his posture going from agitation to annoyance, "but Rossi might just take the cake. Even if he is better with the victim's families."

"I can't help you there," you almost laugh. "I had the same conversation with Hotch after the case in Texas, and he managed to convince me to give the guy a chance. So...if you can't bring yourself to trust him, just think of it as putting your trust in Hotch."

Derek hums, bumping your shoulder with his. "I guess I can do that."

***

The search party for Tracey Lambert only leads to the unsub taking another woman, and suddenly the ticking clock gets a lot louder. By the time you find his lair and the bodies he has been cannibalizing for years, you're already struggling to keep down even the water you've been drinking. When he reveals where Tracey actually is, you feel so sick, you can't breathe.

When the jet lands back in Virginia, you go home immediately, desperately needing some peace and quiet away from the team for the first time in a while. But that doesn't last long.

You're awoken by the shrill ringing of your home phone. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you check the number and answer the phone. "Is this payback for the last time I called you past midnight?"

"Y/N...it's Garcia."

You shoot up into a sitting position as Hotch explains what happened. "How bad is it?"

"I don't know."

"I'm on my way."

You change into a sweater and a pair of loose jeans before grabbing your keys and flying out the door.

"She's in surgery," JJ tells you when you find them in the waiting room. She pulls you into a hug before returning to her hunched position in an uncomfortable vinyl chair.

"There's no other word," Hotch adds, giving you a quick hug as well. With his cheek pressed against your temple, he whispers, "Police think it may have been a botched robbery."

"Where's Morgan?" Emily asks, standing up from her chair.

"He's not answering his cell."

Reid nods, stepping away. "I'll call him again."

He squeezes your hand before he exits the waiting area, and you glance down at JJ again. Her eyes are red from crying, and her chin is pressed into her palm as she stares at the floor. You watch as Emily sits next to her and pats her hand, before clasping it in hers.

You don't realize you've been staring at the same spot on the floor until Hotch stands next to you and nudges your shoulder. You okay?

"I will be," you say out loud, barely registering that he didn't actually ask you anything. "As soon as she's out of surgery." When you got the call that Penelope was shot, you had been hit by an intense feeling of deja vu. Only this time, the call didn't come from bureau leadership, because she wasn't killed at the scene. Because she's going to make it.

He doesn't seem fazed as he checks his watch again, his frown lines deepening. "It shouldn't take this long to get an update."

"Where have you been?" Reid asks suddenly. You look up to see Derek walking into the waiting room, his eyes wide with panic.

"I was in church. My phone was off."

"There's nothing you could have been doing here," Rossi assures him, before nodding at Hotch and pulling him aside to discuss something with the deputies outside. You use the momentary lull to approach Derek, putting your hand on his arm as an initial test. When he doesn't jerk back, you pull him into a hug that he returns gratefully.

The doctor walks in a few minutes later and explains that Penelope will be fine, but she needs to rest until the morning.

"David and I will go to the scene," Hotch informs, his eyes fixing each of you with an empathetic look. "I think the rest of you should be here when she wakes up. I don't care about protocol. I don't care whether we're working this officially, or not. We don't touch any new cases until we find out who did this."

When they leave, you pull Derek down into the chair next to you and lean your head onto his shoulder. After a beat, he relaxes in his seat, and lets out a long sigh. "She's okay."

***

Early the next morning, the doctor shakes you all awake with the notice that Penelope's up, so you rush into her room, trying not to crowd her as she blinks awake.

"Hi," she says softly, her voice small. She looks so innocent, laying in her hospital bed with her blonde hair a halo around her head. You can't imagine how anyone would want to hurt someone like her.

"No tears," she smiles as you swallow down your anger. "I'm afraid if I start crying, I'll come unstapled."

JJ presses a kiss to her cheek, before Derek and Emily start gently plying her with the usual questions. When it comes out that the man who shot her was the same man who asked her out at the coffee shop, your anger turns to anguish, and you reach forward to squeeze Penelope's hand in an effort to comfort her.

"I just thought he liked me," she whispers, the pain in her voice breaking your heart.

"We need a name," Emily asks abruptly. You can see her mentally kicking herself at how serious her words came out, but you know Penelope understands the gravity of this situation.

"James Colby Baylor."

She asks you and JJ to stay back for a second as the rest of the team leaves to investigate Baylor.

"What's up, honey?" you ask, smiling at her sweetly as she uses her other hand to take JJ's.

"I feel so stupid," she sighs, her breath turning into a gasp as tears fill her eyes. "Maybe Derek was right about all of it."

"No," JJ says sternly, reaching forward to brush some of her hair behind her ear. "None of this is on you."

"What she said," you echo, nodding at JJ, "and don't listen to Morgan. He loves you, and he's very protective over you, but he's also a man."

She sniffles out a laugh, before pressing her lips together. "One last thing."

JJ blinks. "Anything."

"Please don't talk about me like I'm a victim."

***

The case wraps up back at the office, where Baylor, whose real name is Deputy Battle, was shot in the head by JJ, who doesn't seem as plussed by the situation as you would expect. You tried to talk to her afterwards, but after telling you she was fine, she put all of her attention on Penelope, who has spent the last week recovering at home.

Now, you're sitting in the break room stirring your black coffee, just for something to do. Hotch finds you in there and walks inside, shutting the door behind him.

"It's been a long week," he grumbles, looking longingly at the spot next to you on the worn couch.

You lift your cup and nod your head at the full coffee pot. "That's what caffeine's for."

"We really should sleep at some point," he says, filling up a paper cup and carefully dropping into the spot beside you. The couch you chose is small enough that his thigh presses against yours when he spreads his legs even the slightest bit.

You snort. "Sleep's overrated."

You both sip your steaming coffees in silence as you watch the other agents shuffle back and forth across the bullpen, unaware of your watchful eyes. The break room is the one place in the office to go for a little bit of privacy, but the unobstructed view of everyone's desks isn't unpleasant either. You imagine this is how Hotch feels when he looks out his office window.

Your eye catches on the stapled wood planks that are currently replacing the broken glass door that leads into the bullpen. He must be looking at the same thing, because he breaks the silence and says, "I think we may need to get JJ out into the field more."

His tone catches you off guard and you crack a small smile. "She does seem remarkably well-adjusted, given that it was her first time."

He nods, turning his head to look at you. "Do you remember your first time?" Killing someone, is the part he doesn't say out loud.

"Of course." You take a deep breath and gulp back more coffee. "He was a serial rapist in Texas. One shot to the heart. I wasn't trying to kill him, he just ran at the last second."

"Serial killer in Florida," he responds simply. "Headshot. He died instantly."

"That was your first year at the BAU, right?" He nods and you sink back into the cushions. "I wasn't even in the field then."

He hums, a low sound that you feel as vibrations on your skin. "I worry that I brought you in here too early. Jeff had just died, and I assumed that getting you out of the house and in the field would take your mind off of things, but I wonder sometimes if I made the wrong call."

"You didn't," you assure him, turning your body to face his, even as he doesn't meet your eye. "First of all, you brought me in six months after he died, and by then, I definitely needed an excuse to leave my bedroom."

He sighs, a small concession, and you continue. "The first case I went into the field for after he died, I could barely hold my gun. Every time I pulled it on someone, I would imagine his body...with all of those bullet holes...and I would just freeze up. It took me months to pass my firearm certification again, but I still don't regret it."

"You sure?" he asks, his voice almost timid.

"Positive," you smile, nudging your thigh against his. "Besides, I didn't realize it until later, but it wasn't getting out into the field that helped me through my grief...it was meeting the team. These people became my family in the moment that I needed one most."

You turn back to your coffee and sip it again, though it's no longer as hot as you'd like it to be.

"How are you doing, by the way?" he asks suddenly. "With Garcia, I mean."

An involuntary shudder runs through you as you remember her pale face in her hospital bed last week, but the warmth of the coffee cup in your hands makes it pass quickly. "I'll never get used to it. But she's okay now, so hopefully it'll be easier this time."

***

You're jotting down notes in the margins of a new case file JJ asked you to look over when your cell phone rings. Hotch and Reid are at a nearby prison, interviewing a serial killer on death row for the Criminal Personality Research Project, so you're not expecting a call from either of them. The rest of the team, except for Rossi, is scattered around the bullpen, but you don't expect him to call you either.

After finishing the line you were writing, you check your phone and see a name you haven't spoken to in weeks.

"Haley," you answer after clicking open your cell. "Is everything okay?"

"I know you're busy," she sighs, her voice tight with what you can only decipher as irritation, "but I didn't know who else to call. Aaron hasn't been answering my phone calls."

You get up from your desk and step out into the hallway to get some privacy. "He and Dr. Reid are at a prison right now, interviewing a criminal for this research project. There likely isn't any cell service out there."

"It's not just today, Y/N," she says, her tone getting colder as she inadvertently directs her anger towards the only person she can get ahold of. "He hasn't been taking my calls for days."

"I can talk to him," you suggest, trying to keep your tone light in an effort to keep this conversation from derailing. "I'll tell him to give you a call."

"I appreciate that," she sighs, losing her steam. "I'm sorry for involving you, I just really need to speak with him about something."

"Is everything alright with you and Jack?" you ask her quickly, wanting to make sure that you aren't making the wrong assumptions about why she's calling.

"Oh!" she inhales sharply. "Yes, of course, we're doing great. Well, great maybe isn't the right word, I didn't mean- I just-" She sighs. "You know what I mean."

"I do," you assure her as your heart twists at the sound of her shallow breathing. You know how hard the separation has been on Hotch, but you know Haley too, and she has always been better at hiding her pain that she seems. "Where have you been staying?"

"With Jess," she says, her voice brightening considerably at the mention of her sister. "She's been a godsend. I feel terrible taking up so much of her space, but she doesn't seem to mind."

You smile, remembering the few times you met Jessica Brooks while Haley and Hotch were together. "She definitely doesn't mind. She always loved children. I bet she's already scheming on how to steal Jack from you."

Haley laughs, and the sound is like wind chimes twinkling in your ear. "She totally is."

Her laughter slowly fades, and you both stay on the line for a few moments in comfortable silence.

"I'll tell him to call you," you promise.

"I know," she sighs. "Thank you."

***

The prison was a bust, but Reid got a chance to use his intelligence to get them out of a tough spot without anyone getting hurt, so the day wasn't a total loss.

He is sitting in his office, drafting an email to the project coordinator, when you walk inside and take a seat in front of his desk.

"Thanks for knocking," he says sarcastically before finishing up the sentence he was working on. Once it's done, he saves the draft and turns off his computer. "How was Indianapolis?"

"Good," you say, leaning back in the chair. "Great, actually. Rossi got to close up the case that's been haunting him for a decade, and the three kids are finally safe."

"I'm surprised he wasn't more excited when he got back," he notes, watching your body language. You look wired, but not about this. Something else is bothering you.

"The unsub wasn't exactly the most gratifying arrest," you sigh, rubbing a hand over your temple. "We don't even think he committed the murders intentionally."

He frowns, shaking his head. "Those are the worst kind."

You're silent for a moment before you sit up straighter and look at him. "Haley called me this morning. While you were at the prison."

"Oh?" Something that feels like ice slithers down his spine even though he can probably guess exactly how the conversation went.

All week, he has felt an enormous weight on his chest in the form of a stack of divorce papers that Haley served him with. She had called him right after, with the explanation that they both should have seen this coming, but he really hadn't. He was a profiler, whose entire job was to notice and analyze human behavior, and he truly hadn't been able to let himself believe that this could be a possibility. That his marriage could actually be over.

"She said you've been ignoring her calls."

He had been ignoring them. He knew she would just tell him to sign the papers, and he couldn't bear to hear her say it again. Once was enough.

He reaches into his desk and pulls out the manila folder that he hasn't opened since his initial read-through. He suspects you already know what he's about to tell you, but he also knows that it won't feel real until he says it out loud. And it's about time he came to terms with what his life would be from now on. "Haley wants me to sign the divorce papers, uncontested."

"She doesn't want to involve a lawyer?" you ask, your voice delicate as you walk him through the explanation with clarifying questions. It's the technique they use when interviewing the families of victims, to help them feel comfortable as they talk about the hardest thing they've ever gone through. He's surprised at how reassuring it feels coming from you.

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. It has grown out a bit since he last cut it, but he doesn't think he minds. Haley wanted him to cut it short when Jack was in his grabbing and teething phase, but now, he likes how he can push it back when he wants. "I don't want to sign, of course, but she's adamant that we get this done soon."

"You'll be okay," you say, and he looks up in surprise. "You're a good man, Aaron."

"I'm not," he whispers, heaving out a sigh. "I'm not doing anything right. At home, I was an awful husband and an absent father, and at work, Strauss would replace me if she had even the slightest bit more ammunition. I can't focus in either place. Maybe Haley's right, maybe I'm just selfish."

You lean forward and grab his hand, even as he doesn't look at you. "You're not selfish. You're the farthest thing from selfish. You don't want to sign, but you will. You're giving her what she wants, even though it's the last thing you want."

He nods, but his heart isn't in it. He glances down at the folder again and takes a deep breath as you give him a small smile and stand up.

"I'll see you tomorrow, boss?"

He nods again. "See you tomorrow."

When the door shuts behind you, he flips open the folder, faster than he meant to, but he's afraid if he doesn't do this quickly he'll lose his nerve. Grabbing a random pen from the mug on his desk, he uncaps it and scrawls out his initials on all of the earmarked lines throughout the stack.

When he finishes the last page, he shuts the folder and leans back in his chair, letting out a long exhale. He did it. He supposes he should feel some sort of severing away of his old life, maybe an audible snap as the ties to his marriage get cut, but there's just silence.

His office suddenly feels stifling, and he loosens his tie before reaching forward and lifting the picture frame with him and Haley on their wedding day. Her smile still looks beautiful to him, and his content expression as he gazes at her doesn't make him feel anything different. Their marriage may be over, but he still loved her.

He runs his thumb over the smooth edge of the frame, and then opens his desk drawer, before sticking it inside and pushing it closed.

***

"Thank you for watching him," Hotch says, his voice slightly muffled over the phone.

"Of course," you smile, sitting down on your couch with the pasta you made for dinner. "It was my pleasure. Jack's a total sweetheart."

Jess was out of town for a couple of days, so he had asked you to watch Jack while he and Haley met up to finalize the divorce in front of an attorney. She had been adamant about finishing the process over the phone, but he wanted to ensure that she and Jack would be taken care of after the papers went through.

"Did he eat lunch?"

"Kind of," you say, quickly swallowing the bite you took. "He didn't want a full meal, but I got him to eat some fruit and bread with cheese."

"I'll make him a snack soon," he says quietly, but you can tell he's just thinking out loud. "Alright, I'll see you at the office. Thanks again."

"Always," you tell him, genuinely. "See you."

The phone clicks off and you scarf down the rest of your pasta before doing your dirty dishes and cleaning up your kitchen. You're considering whether to change into your workout clothes so you can crank out a few miles on your Peloton, but then you hear a knock on your door.

You're not expecting anyone, and with Hotch watching Jack, it can't be him. You peek around the corner into your foyer to see who's at the door, and relax when you spot a familiar mop of brown hair.

"I'm sorry I didn't call first," Spencer says when you open the door, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his book bag. "I just didn't know how to ask you this over the phone."

"Spence, what is it?" you ask, opening the door further to let him in. He doesn't step forward, and a pinprick of anxiety enters your system.

"If I come inside, I won't be able to do this," he says vaguely, before reaching into his bag and pulling out a flyer. He hands it to you and you read the title, the tension seeping from your body as the words sink in: Narcotics Anonymous for Law Enforcement.

"I know it's a lot to ask," he whispers, "but would you drive me to the meeting tonight?"

Your heart feels like it's about to crack open. Only a boy who was never looked after, never given the love and care he deserved, would think that something like this was too much to ask.

"It's not too much," you tell him, glancing down at the address. "I'll get my keys."

When he's settled in your passenger seat, you pull out of the driveway, not commenting on the fact that his car is parked on the street beside your sidewalk. You understand the need for company more than most people.

The drive to the rec center where the meeting is being held is mostly silent, but you don't press him. He stares down at his hands for most of the ride, and when you stop in front of the entrance, he unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to you. "Thank you."

"Of course," you smile. "I can wait, if you'd like."

He gives you a thin-lipped smile. "It's okay."

"You sure?"

He presses his lips together and looks at you, his eyes reflecting the question in yours.

"Go on," you say, patting his arm. "I'll be here."

He nods and steps out of your car, and you pull into a parking space to wait in while he's in the meeting. You turn on the radio and it's the same song they've been playing for the last week, so you turn the volume down low and close your eyes for a few peaceful moments.

You must have fallen asleep, because you're jarred awake by the chirping sound of your cell phone ringing. It's a bureau number, so you clear your throat and answer the call. "L/N."

"Hey, Y/N." It's JJ, and she sounds tired. "We have a case. It's urgent, so we're flying to Texas tonight."

You sigh louder than you meant to. "I can be there in 20."

"See you soon."

The line clicks off and you rub the sleep from your eyes. A quick check of your watch tells you that you were only asleep for about a half hour, but that's just half of the meeting time. You know Spencer will come back when he gets the call, so you turn the radio off and sit up in your seat.

A few minutes later, he returns to the car. You saw him just over 30 minutes ago, but he already looks lighter than he did when he got to your house.

"I'm proud of you, Spence," you tell him as you start the car.

He nods, a quick thanks. "This federal agent gave me his one year medallion after I left the meeting. I've only been clean for 10 months, but he still gave it to me."

"He believes in you," you say simply, glancing over at his confused expression.

"He doesn't even know me."

You shrug. "You don't have to really know someone to care about them, Spencer. You just have to see something of yourself in them."

"Is that what you see in me?" he asks, finally looking at you.

You consider this for a moment. Is that why you feel so protective over him?

"I don't know," you say eventually, not wanting to lie, even by accident. "I definitely wasn't as smart as you were, or as focused. I wasn't all that driven in high school at all, to be honest. I was lucky to have Hotch. He gave me the push I needed to get out there and focus on school."

He's silent for a minute and you worry you may have said something wrong. Then: "I didn't have anyone in school." He pauses for a beat, before speaking again, his voice quieter this time. "I was in the library one day, and this girl comes up to me, and she tells me that Alexa Isben wants to meet me behind the field house. Alexa Isben was, like...easily the prettiest girl in school."

You frown, already not liking where this story is going. "Did she not show up?"

"No, she was there." His voice sounds almost resigned, but there's a note of something darker underneath. Something raw and painful, that likely still hurts after all these years. "But so was the entire football team. They stripped me naked and tied me to a goal post. So many kids were there, you know, just watching."

"No one stopped them?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

"I begged them to, but they just...they just watched. Then finally they got bored and they left." He clears his throat, and the sound is small, like a little boy's. "It was like midnight when I finally got home. And my mom didn't...Mom was having one of her episodes, so she didn't even realize I was late."

"You never told her what happened?"

He shakes his head. "I never told anybody. I thought it was one of those things that I thought if I didn't talk about it, I'd just forget. But I remember it like it was yesterday."

"You don't need an eidetic memory for that, Spence," you whisper, trying to stay focused on the road even as his words swirl into your memories and create an agonizing hurricane of emotions. "I was only ten years old when my mom was killed, but I can still remember every moment of her funeral."

The field office comes into view and you push forward as you scan your badge and slide into a parking spot below the upper garage. When the car is in park, you undo your seatbelt and turn to him. "I know how hard it can be to push away the painful memories, but there's something more important that I need you to remember."

"Remember what?"

He looks at you then, and you reach forward to squeeze his hand. "You're not alone anymore."

***

"Is it always this hot?" You look up at the beating sun through your shaded sunglasses and fan your face with both of your hands.

"Every day, all day," Emily huffs, running her fingers through her bangs to unstick them from her forehead.

Everyone is sweltering in the Miami heat, but then Derek gets off the plane with a wide grin, his skin glistening in the sun, and you resist the urge to throw your bag at him. "South Beach, baby."

He immediately shuts up when he spots the stunning Miami PD detective who called your team in for the recent string of murders. JJ shoots you a smirk before introducing her to the team. "Detective Lopez. We spoke on the phone."

"Tina," she corrects, before shaking her hand. "Thank you for coming down so quickly."

"Hey," Emily says from beside you, making you turn to see what she's looking at. "Isn't that..."

You spot the person she's referring to, and your face splits into a big smile. "Detective LaMontagne!"

"He's here to ID the cop they pulled from the bay last night," Tina explains.

You don't miss the flush in JJ's cheeks as she shakes his hand. "Detective, good to see you."

"How are you?" you ask, giving him a quick hug that he returns.

"Yeah, Charlie Luvet and I worked together for seven years."

Derek frowns. "Sorry for your loss, man."

Tina looks confused, and you don't blame her. "So, you all know each other?"

"Professionally," JJ is quick to add. Will whips around to look at her, and you turn to Emily with an eyebrow raise, feeling like you're intruding on a private moment. You aren't sure why she won't just admit that they've been together since New Orleans, but that's her business.

***

You join JJ and Will at the IDing of Officer Luvet, and you keep your distance as he glances down at the body and affirms the report.

"Yeah, that's him."

JJ looks like she wants to comfort him, but instead she sticks to the professional approach. "If you need help making arrangements, liaising with families is part of what I do."

Will nods, his voice choking up slightly. "I might just take you up on that. Excuse me, I'll be outside."

When he steps outside of the coroner's office, you can't help but notice the longing look on JJ's face as she watches him go.

"Let's go," she says to you softly, her eyes still on the door. You follow her outside, but by then Will is nowhere to be found.

"It's okay, you know," you blurt out. You weren't really planning on talking to her about this, but sometimes your mouth takes over before your brain can catch up. "I know you worry that being around a band of profilers all the time makes you vulnerable."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," she says simply, not quite meeting your eye.

"JJ," you say seriously, trying to convey your pure intentions. "If you keep trying to hide it, you'll lose him."

She purses her lips, and you squeeze her forearm, hoping you aren't pushing past her boundaries. The whole team is sparing with details about their personal lives, but you like to think that you're someone people feel comfortable sharing things with.

"I know you, hon." You flash her a knowing smile, feeling a shot of satisfaction as her lip twitches. "I know that it's enough for you to know that you care about something, but it's not enough for everyone."

She exhales, tucking her hair behind her ears. "He's upset with me, but I don't know what to do. I'm still scared."

You sigh, understanding her predicament, but still wanting her to push past it. "You can let yourself be happy, JJ. You won't always get hurt."

She nods before glancing around the room again, searching for Will even though he's long gone. It's an instinct you recognize.

Later, when JJ finally acknowledges their relationship by pulling him in for a kiss at the police station, you can't help but take it as a win.

***

Your house feels emptier than usual when you get back from Miami. Seeing JJ and Will find each other again reminded you of how much you miss having someone to share your life with.

Deciding to take a night to yourself, you pop open a bottle of red, and pour yourself a glass, which you swirl around before taking a sip. It's drier than you tend to go for, and when you check the label, you realize that's because you didn't buy it.

How can you drink this stuff?

It makes me feel sophisticated.

Jeff would break out the fancy glassware every chance he got, because he didn't believe in special occasions. He used to say that people waste precious moments of their life waiting for the right occasion to come around.

The memory feels warm in the back of your mind, and you take another sip of wine before walking over to your cupboard and grabbing the fanciest wine glass you can find. You pour the rest of your wine into the new glass and place the other in the sink, before swirling it around again. No time like the present.

You bring the glass to the couch with you, where you turn on the television and skip through the first few channels. As the wine in your glass depletes, the loneliness sets back in. You're about to pour yourself another pity glass when your phone buzzes with a call from Hotch.

"Do your television channels suck as much as mine do?"

You smile, muting the television and pressing the phone to your ear. "Definitely not."

He chuffs. "I guess I'm not used to the new tv controls."

Right, his new apartment. After the papers were finalized, he gave the house to Haley and moved into a new place ten minutes away.

"We can share mine," you say, listening to the sounds of his breath over the receiver. "I also have wine."

That gets a laugh. "I'll be there in 15."

You hear a knock on your door exactly 14 minutes later. When you open it, you're greeted with the sight of Hotch in a tee shirt and jeans. "A little underdressed, aren't we?"

He snorts, taking the wine glasses from your hands and following you into the family room. "What are we watching?"

"You're the one with the broken tv," you grin, flopping down on the couch and taking your glass from him. "What do you want to watch?"

He thinks for a minute, before his eyes sparkle with an idea. You cut him off before he can suggest what you already know he will. "We are not watching Top Gun again, Hotch!"

"You asked," he shrugs, hiding his smile behind a sip of wine. "What do you want to watch, then?"

You can see him watching you over the rim of his glass, so you blurt out the first name that comes to your mind. "Footloose."

He looks at you blankly for a moment, before his brow twitches, and your jaw drops. "You haven't seen Footloose?!"

"It came out when we were in high school," he groans, taking one of the throw pillows off the couch and stuffing it behind his back. "Terminator and Dune came out that same year. I remember because you tried to get me to watch it then too."

"It's an amazing movie!" you exclaim, standing up to go dig through your movie cabinet. "We're watching it right now."

He groans and sinks back into the pillows as you find the DVD and start the movie. You've seen it at least a dozen times, mostly because it makes you nostalgic for your teenage years, but the opening still gets you excited.

As the movie plays, you keep glancing over at Hotch, trying to see if he's enjoying the scenes just as much as you did on your first watch. To his credit, he watches the movie faithfully, without checking his phone or straying from the television screen.

"Enough," he grumbles suddenly, startling you.

"What?" you question, whipping your head around to face the screen.

"I'm watching the movie," he huffs, fixing you with a pointed look. "You don't have to keep checking."

You frown, hugging a pillow to your chest. "I wasn't checking, I just like seeing people's reactions to my favorite movies."

"Either way."

You groan, reaching out to thwack his arm.

"Eyes on the screen," he berates you, pointing at the TV. "The dance scene is starting."

You sip your wine bitterly as you try to resist the urge to glance over at him. Eventually, the movie takes over your attention and soon it's the final town council scene where Kevin Bacon gives a speech to the whole town.

"'There was a time for this law'," you quote along with the movie, "'but not anymore.'"

The movie comes to an end, and you click the remote to turn off the television. When you turn to Hotch with an excited grin, you're surprised to see that he has fallen asleep.

His head has fallen to the side, resting on the armrest, and he looks so peaceful with his expression completely neutral. His characteristic frown is nowhere to be seen as he snores quietly through his nose.

Your lips curve into a smile as you stand up and grab a blanket from a basket beside the couch. You drape it over his body, being careful not to wake him, and take the wine glasses to the sink before heading up for bed.

***

"That's because you pick horses the same way you practice law."

You hold your breath as he glances into the crowd for a brief second.

"...by always taking the long shot."

Emily snickers under her breath, and you see even Reid crack a smile as the lawyer starts floundering. The rest of the day in court goes by quickly and you all wait for Hotch in the hallway of the courthouse as he finishes up inside.

"That was impressive," you grin, nudging his shoulder as he walks alongside you. "I can't believe that was my first time seeing you in full prosecutor mode."

"Hardly," he says, rolling his eyes lightly. "I was called to give testimony, it's very different."

"I'm just surprised that prosecutor is still walking after how hard you hit him." He shoots you a look and you raise your hands in surrender. "Metaphorically, of course."

"That was a straight knock out." Derek comes up behind you and throws an arm around your shoulder as he spins you both to face Hotch. "The crowd practically cheered when you cleaned the floor with him."

"Thank you," he concedes, flashing his eyes at you. "Now let's get back to work. We still have to get more evidence for the rest of the trial."

And just like that, everyone switches back into work mode. Derek drops his arm and jogs forward to catch up to Rossi and Spencer, while Emily calls Garcia to get the latest update.

Using the moment of solitude, you bump his shoulder again. "Do you ever wish you were still a prosecutor? Your life would certainly be a lot simpler."

He shakes his head, the answer coming quickly and firmly. "I couldn't do it then, and I still couldn't now. Seeing the murderers come in after they've finished killing...I needed to know I could stop them before they were done."

His sentiment sounds familiar. Your mind flashes back to the little boy who took matters into his own hands, because no one could stop the pain for him.

You blink and it's present day again. You loved your best friend who fought his own battles without asking for help, and, even though he's vastly different, you love your best friend as he is now.

***

"Five shootings in two weeks."

"It's about time we got the call."

The whole team, plus Garcia, flies up to New York, where an unsub has been shooting people around the city, seemingly at random.

"Kate Joyner heads up the New York field office," Hotch explains, glancing down at his cell phone. "She's running point on the case and called me directly."

You have heard of her, which isn't too surprising, but all you know is that she's British and seems to be very good at her job.

"You know her?" Morgan asks him, echoing your thoughts.

Hotch nods. "We liaised when she was still at Scotland Yard."

They liaised. You don't know what that implies, but you also know that he and Haley didn't take a single break during their relationship after graduating college, so it can't be anything too personal.

JJ and Emily share a look, but you don't engage with them, instead looking back at the case file and trying to focus on any of the words that aren't 'Kate Joyner'.

***

"Kate."

A pretty blonde woman approaches you all with a smile only for Hotch. "Aaron. How have you been?"

He nods. "Well, thank you. This is my team." He introduces each of you to her, but you don't miss how her eyes linger on you when he mentions your name.

"Thanks for being here," she says, before walking you all through the background of the case. Shootings in different precincts, seemingly random, FBI only brought in after the fourth murder.

After explaining the details and introducing you to the local detectives on the case, she pulls Hotch aside for a private word in her office. You turn back to the team, trying not to let your gaze linger on them as they walk away.

The NYPD doesn't seem happy that SSA Joyner has taken over their case, but even though she comes off as a bit brusque, you can tell she cares about catching this unsub just as much as they do.

"What's your partner's problem?" Reid asks Detective Cooper, the only local officer who has made an effort to meet any of you.

"We're glad the FBI was brought in," he explains with a heavy sigh, "but all of a sudden Joyner's taking meetings with the mayor and calling in you all without us knowing anything about it."

You can understand his hesitation, but you also need his cooperation if you're going to get anything done here.

"We're only here to help," Emily tells him as you turn around to find JJ.

"Has Garcia gotten settled in with the New York tech analyst?" you ask once you find her staring at a map of the various boroughs. She doesn't answer immediately, so you nudge her shoulder. "JJ?"

"Huh?" she startles. "Oh, sorry, yeah. She called a few minutes ago, she's all good."

JJ is usually the focused one who brings you back on track, so you're surprised by how distracted she seems. You nod in acknowledgement, scrutinizing her expression for another second, before heading back to the team. Your eyes involuntarily dart over to Kate's office, and you notice how close together she and Hotch are. You're about to avert your eyes when their body language becomes a bit clearer: each time she leans in to say something, he subtly pulls back.

The dynamic of their relationship is suddenly apparent, and you mentally kick yourself for daring to assume the worst when he first mentioned her. You can't say the same for your opinion of her, though. He's still wearing his ring, for God's sake. Based on how little you've heard about her from him (nothing, you mean), you doubt she even knows about the divorce yet.

Derek and JJ head out with the detectives to check out the last crime scene, while you stay back with Emily and Spencer to build the anti-geographical profile. When another victim is shot, you head to the new scene to see if you can build a working profile.

"It's a different borough again," you sigh after getting out of the SUV and joining Hotch, Kate, Derek, and JJ in front of the body. "Prentiss and Reid are back at the office still working the profile from a geographical angle. We're starting to think maybe we should get officers out onto the high-traffic intersections, and maybe even get some of us out there too."

"Uniforms are rounding up witnesses," Kate jumps in, ignoring you. "It doesn't seem like anyone got a clean look."

You see Derek glance at you out of the corner of your eye, but you don't entertain the look. If she has some issue with you that you aren't aware of, you won't give her the satisfaction of letting her get to you. "The unsub's probably gone before anyone even realizes it's happening,"

Hotch nods, turning to face Kate. "Is this what it felt like during the Son of Sam."

She returns his gaze. "First we realized that if the violence was truly random, there was almost no way of stopping it. Seems like these people have figured that out."

You look up, trying to see if there's anything in the vicinity you can use to ID the unsub. Your eyes catch on a security camera outside one of the delis directly behind you. "From the placement of that camera, odds are the only view they're going to get is the back of his head."

She frowns. "Let's not be too quick to decide what we do or don't have."

This time it's both Derek and JJ that glance at you, but you turn to Hotch, who is avoiding meeting your eyes. Kate steps away to speak with the detectives at the scene, so you grab his arm and pull him aside. "What is her problem?"

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "FBI brass has made it clear to her that if she doesn't bring this case home, she's going to be reassigned. And you are at the top of the list to replace her."

"Replace her?" you echo, trying to process what he's saying. "I haven't even been in the BAU that long."

"It's not about field experience," he says, angling his body so that you're separated from the others. "You've been with the bureau longer than I have, and your work speaks for itself. It's not a surprise that they'd want to promote you."

You still can't wrap your head around the fact that you could be leading a unit yourself, or that you may have to leave the team you love, so you focus on what you do know. "I thought the bureau was proud of the fact that they stole her from Scotland Yard."

"I don't know," he shrugs, glancing back at her. "Politics here are different."

***

After finishing up at the crime scene, the whole team heads to the hotel to get some rest for the night. You feel more alert than you usually do after a long day of building a profile, and you adjust your bag strap on your shoulder as you dig around the side pockets for your room key. You don't plan on going to bed for at least a few more hours, and you might as well use the time to work on the case, but you need your key if you're going to get any sleep at all.

When your fingers finally catch on the thin plastic card, you look up to see a familiar face that you've been seeing more often than not, as of late. "Wait, isn't that..."

JJ looks up with a start, and she doesn't look distracted for the first time all day. "Will."

He gets up from the lobby chair he was lounging in and approaches her. "Hey, I took a shot and flew to D.C., but when it didn't work, I figured a train ride to New York was only a few more hours."

"Detective." Hotch reaches out and shakes his hand, before glancing at you with a frown that says, Did you know he was coming?

You shake your head imperceptibly and turn back to Will as he looks longingly at JJ. "Look, I'm sorry for showing up like this. I know you're working, but I can't stand you being on this case and me not being near." He pauses for a beat. "Not with what's going on."

That makes you frown too.

Hotch echoes your thoughts. "Is there a problem?"

JJ takes a deep breath and turns around to face all of you. "I'm pregnant."

Oh my God.

"Oh, my God," Emily exclaims, pulling her into a hug, the first of you to regain her bearings after hearing the news. "JJ, congratulations."

"That's amazing, JJ," you grin, hugging her next.

You don't miss how stiff Hotch is as Will shakes his hand. "I've asked JJ to marry me."

"Will," JJ says tightly, a warning in her voice.

He chuckles. "Well, we're working out some kinks."

"We'll give you both some privacy." Hotch turns away from them, his face falling the moment she can't see him anymore. You know he's hurt that she didn't trust him with this information, but you're surprised by just how downtrodden he seems.

JJ rushes after him. "Hotch-"

"JJ, you could have told me," he says softly, his voice both confused and stung.

She looks down. "I know."

"Because I understand if you need to take some time."

"No," she shakes her head, without a look back. "I want to be here."

"Okay," he nods, not looking at any of you. "7:00 AM."

You try to catch his arm as he walks off, but he either ignores it, or he doesn't feel you reaching for him. You choose to believe it's the latter.

***

You all deliver the working profile to the police officers first thing the next morning. While you're explaining an alternate possibility, Garcia calls with an update that a possible unsub was caught on camera shooting someone on a subway platform at one of the intersections you suggested that your team patrol yesterday.

"We could have had that guy," you say, your voice fuming with anger as you turn to Kate with a glare you haven't used in ages.

She doesn't falter. "Even if we were on that platform, odds are he would have moved onto someone isolated."

"Maybe, but it was worth taking a shot."

She fixes you with a stare. "I had every available man on the street."

"And I suggested to you that you use this team." You can't believe that her decision to ignore your advice yesterday might have just cost someone else their life. You can see the rest of the team looking at you with some blend of concern or indignation on your behalf, but you don't care. You just need Hotch to back you up.

Instead he just looks at you. "L/N, second-guessing doesn't do us any good right now."

You're so angry, you can barely see straight. Emily reaches for your arm, but you shake her off. "Hotch, how are we supposed to look these cops in the eye and tell them that we're actually here to help them, if she won't let us do our job?"

"We're here to present a profile," he says simply, not quite meeting your eye. "That's what we need to do."

You gape at him, your back straightening as you get ready to stand your ground. You don't disagree on things like this often, but when you do, it's usually a civil conversation that gets resolved quickly. You've never felt this angry about his handling of a case before, but then again, he's never not had your back before. "We've got seven bodies, Hotch."

He looks at you then, and you can't discern anything from his expression. It's a blank slate that sends a shiver down your spine. "It's not your place to have this discussion."

"Screw you."

You spin around, shoving away Derek and Emily as they try to talk you down. You stalk past them and out of the field office, where the cool evening air fills your sinuses and clears your head for a moment of silence. You stand on the sidewalk for a few seconds, waiting, and when he doesn't follow you out, you just manage to convince yourself that you're not disappointed, but relieved.

***

You're sitting at the hotel bar when Rossi finally finds you. You only ordered a lemon water, still feeling like you're on the clock, even if there's a good chance Hotch won't let you back into the investigation.

"I know," you huff when he takes a seat beside you. "I was out of line."

"You got too emotionally involved," he says, turning to face you. "I know you and Hotch are friends, but that doesn't mean you get to be unprofessional."

You sigh, your body deflating as all the fight leaves you. "I just felt like he was taking her side. Like he didn't have my back."

"There are no sides here."

You nod. "I know."

"And he does have your back." You look at him then, and he flashes you a small smile. "That man will always have your back. Right now, he's just worried about how Kate is holding up, with the word on the street."

That surprises you. "You know about the promotion?"

He nods. "People talk. But if she were to get fired, it would be because we didn't solve this case."

You frown, lifting your hand in defense. "Rossi, I hope you're not saying you think I want her to fail."

"Of course not," he shakes his head. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

"I lost my head for a second," you acknowledge, taking a sip of water. "I think I just needed a minute."

"And you got it," he says simply. "But right now, I see someone who wants to get back on the job. Or is there another reason why you ordered a glass of water at a bar?"

You set your glass down, letting out a surprised chuckle. "Where is everyone now?"

You both stand up, and he leads you out of the lobby. "Joyner took your advice. We're spreading out across the city."

***

"Emily, what happened?"

You rush forward to where she is standing over the dead body of a young man. Detective Cooper was taken in an ambulance to a nearby hospital after getting shot, and you only just arrived on the scene.

"He was strangely calm," she whispers as Derek and JJ come up behind her. "It's almost like suicide by cop."

"Why?" JJ thinks out loud. "Why would he do that?"

Derek looks at you. "We need to walk back through this profile."

Hundreds of thoughts are swirling through your brain, but based on the look on everyone's faces, you can tell they're thinking the same thing you are: terrorism.

After the crime scene officials arrive, you head over to your SUV to get back to the field office. Derek heads out to brief Homeland Security, and Reid leaves to talk to the Port Authority police, while Hotch and Kate call with the update that they will be going to speak with the mayor's office.

You start your SUV and pull out into the street when a loud explosion goes off a few streets behind you, the plume of smoke and fire large enough that you catch the high end of it in your rearview mirror.

You screech to a stop, just as your phone starts to ring.

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steve-faglan · 5 months

Text

Cat // Mouse

Reader x Steve Raglan (William Afton)

TW: NON CON!! DUB CON!! DRUGGING!! HE'S MEAN!!!!!!!!!

SUMMARY: You get a job working for an old man you want to fuck. Are you misreading things? Where did that vibrator come from?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Is this considered a slow burn? It felt slow to write. It's supposed to be like will they? Won't they? But it's... Well yeah. Look at this gif??????? My PUSSSY????????

WORD COUNT: so many.

Daddy issues. At least, that's what they call it. That's what your ex screamed at you about before he left you in a state thousands of miles from the one you were raised in. He said it was because you made him feel immature; less than. But maybe he was. All he ever wanted to do was drink and play video games, you craved more.

After he left, you realized you'd have to get a better paying job to cover the portion of rent your ex was paying. You take a day to really let it settle in. You cry and drink an entire bottle of wine while watching Dirty Dancing, and then you schedule a meeting with a local career counselor.

You sigh as you hang up the phone. It's embarrassing to need a temp agency's help finding employment, but you're new to this area. You don't know anyone and you're barely sure where to start.

Your alarm blares throughout your room, startling you awake. You barely remember falling asleep at all, and somehow, it feels like you couldn't have possibly slept enough. You're sluggish and groggy, but you still find the energy to get ready for your interview. You're hoping a little extra effort will get you further in a small town like this, so you spend a little more time on your makeup before heading out of the house.

The drive across town to the agency is quick and easy. You pull into the parking lot and emerge from your car, shielding your eyes from the sun to read the rickety sign that's hanging on for dear life outside the building. You huff, unsure if this was the best place to go looking for higher-paying work. When you step inside the door, a petite old lady greets you with a smile. She points to an office down the hall and tells you to knock.

*Knock, knock, knock.*

You push the unlatched door open slightly and a warm voice invites you in.

"Come in, have a seat." The man instructs. You scan over his office. It's dated, and decorated with styles reminiscent of corporate America in the 80's. You read the name tag on his desk, Steve Raglan. You take a seat in one of the muted yellow chairs opposite Steve and await his introduction.

"Steve," he extends an arm over the desk and you shake his hand, telling him your name.

"Thanks for having me, Mr. Raglan. I'm new to town, well, new to the entire coast, really."

"Wow, a little far from home, aren't we?" Steve chuckles kindly, smiling with a tightly closed mouth, spreading his mustache across his lip.

"You have no idea," you laugh exhaustedly and Steve tilts his head as if he's pondering something, but he doesn't mention it. "Anyways, here's my resume. It's not much, but uh..." You hand him a folder with your work history document professionally stored inside. Steve happily takes the folder and begins to read through your papers.

Your resume is impressive. You're well educated with a strong work streak. Your work ethic stands out to him. He's reading through your accomplishments aloud, commending each one. You're unsure why, but his praise fills you with a very specific need. You crave more and something in you tells you that you'd do almost anything to get it.

"A course in robotic engineering?" Steve's voice sounds surprised. He looks up at you with raised eyebrows. A grin spreads across his bearded face. "Huh."

"Yeah, I actually took a few courses. I never did anything with it though."

"Do you remember a lot from those classes?" He sets the closed folder to the side and casually places other papers on top of it, distracting you enough to keep you from asking for it back.

"Oh, sure. Mostly coding, I guess." You shrug.

"Coding." He repeats to himself, nodding knowingly. He can think of a million places in this town that could use a smart, pretty little thing like you. A strained silence grows for just a moment before he speaks again. "Well, Y/N. I think I have an offer for you, but it's not much of a pay raise like you'd hoped."

"What is it?" You ask, hoping for at least a dollar difference.

"Did you see Mrs. Penneman out there?" Steve points in the direction of the kind old woman who greeted you.

"Mrs. Penneman?"

"She's at the front desk. She's retiring in exactly one week. That position will be open." He goes on to talk about the ways you could incorporate what you learned in your engineering classes as they switch from mostly paper to computers after Y2K.

"What's the pay like?" You ask, already knowing you plan to agree the second he stops talking.

"Not great, but!" He pauses for a moment. "Plenty of opportunities for overtime." Steve's not an idiot. He saw how looked when he was praising you. The way the red in your cheeks was flaming hot at the mere mention of you doing a good job. He knows what he's doing to you, and he loves it.

"Overtime?"

"Of course. Switching the entire employee records from paper to digital isn't an easy feat. It's going to take a lot of time you may not have during the work day. Does this suit you or should I keep looking?"

"Oh, uh," you hesitate. Steve stifles a grin as he watches your inner battle decide between being around him or possibly making more money. "Yes, that's perfect. Thank you, sir."

"Excellent. You start Monday." Steve ends the conversation abruptly. A jarring switch from friendly and conversational to busy and indifferent. It triggered something in you. A desperate need to get that warmth back.

"Right, okay. I'll... See you Monday." You leave the office, yearning. And Steve is well aware. He sits alone in his office, staring forward as he makes plans for you. He folds his hands together and rests his chin on them as he imagines the way he'll pick you apart like a toy. You're already so desperate for his approval, you've done the hard part for him.

Monday rolls around and you, of course, wake up a little early to get ready. Of course, you don't want to come off as desperate, so you're very tactful in the way you dress and present today, your first day. You've all but forgotten your ex was ever here, let alone the fact that you moved all the way to Hurricane, Utah for him.

Nervous, but good at hiding it, you walk into the building with a beaming false confidence. You're trying to remind yourself that while Steve is attractive and older and something mysterious about him draws you in, you're still here to work and you really can't let rent slip because homelessness is not an option when you're this far from your home state.

You brace yourself for what you assume will be an extremely long day, and you hope it is. Not only for the money but the view as well. When you walk up to the desk, Mrs. Penneman is nowhere to be found. All her belongings are missing from the desk, leaving a generic canvas of an office. You glance down the hall to Steve's open office door.

"Mr. Raglan?" You knock lightly on the door, stepping inside slowly so as not to intrude. He's not there. The entire building seems eerily empty. Just as you turn to leave his office, you run flat into a broad, solid figure. Steve. You stumble before finally falling backward. You sit on the floor for a moment, red-faced, but keeping your composure to the best of your ability.

"Someone's punctual." Steve extends a hand to you, helping you up to your feet.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Raglan. I couldn't find-"

"Mrs. Penneman decided an early retirement was in store. I'll be training you, if that's alright." Steve smirks, knowing he relieved his previous secretary of her duties early specifically to have this time working so closely with you. He dressed it up as a gift to her.

"Oh, okay. Of course. Where should I start?" You smile, awaiting instruction. You cling to every word he says, the guidance, the leadership. The way his dimples deepen when he smiles in the slightest. You become dependent on making him smile simply for this reason.

Steve sets you up for data entry and asks that you let him come check your work every so often to make sure things "meet his standards." You've never been more determined to do something perfectly in your life. With unbreakable focus, you start the first few tasks. You're mindful, double-checking, efficient, and fast.

"Mr, Raglan?" You appear like an angel in his doorway. He looks up from his papers and waits for you to continue. "I finished the first portion. Could you come check it for me?"

Steve smiles warmly as he stands to follow you to your desk. The warmth of his gaze melts you from your head to your pussy.

"This looks great, Y/N. Good job." He adds the last bit just to see the way your eyes shift and sparkle when he compliments you. He leaves you to do the rest of your work in peace, but he lingers a little longer in the hallway, watching you for a moment, carefully hidden from your view.

You pick up on the data entry rather quickly and finish the very last employee record by the end of your first week. When Steve comes to finalize the task, he grabs a chair and slides it next to yours so you can both look at the screen together. You're poised and collected by now, the initial lust seeming to die down after a week of seeing him every day. Though his words of approval still cause a knot to form in your stomach.

Steve picks up on your dwindling excitement and decides this is war. As the two of you sit next to each other, he carelessly allows his legs to take up more and more space. Normally a man's obliviousness in a situation like this would boil your blood, but when his thigh grazes yours so softly, you freeze. His touch lingers and he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. His face is dangerously close to yours. He leans in even closer, boldly placing his lips mere inches from your ear.

"You're a very impressive young woman. You know that?" His warm breath brushes against your ear, inviting a million little goosebumps across your skin. It takes everything in him not to chuckle at your visceral reaction. You're frozen, staring straight ahead, basking in the closeness to this man you desire so badly. A few moments pass and a light chuckle leaves his lips. Still ever so close, he speaks again. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"S-sorry! Thank you, Mr. Raglan. Sorry," you nervously laugh, wishing so badly you could go back in time and rip the sticker off your forehead that says "Fuck me, Mr. Raglan."

"Don't mention it." He suddenly withdraws from your personal space, leaving you clinging to the dwindling body heat he's left behind. His tall figure towers over you, especially so when you're sat. He's gone just as quickly as he arrived and you can't help but feel perplexed. Was he not just coming on to you? Did you project all of that onto a perfectly normal interaction? He warps your reality without even touching you.

"What the fuck?" You question aloud to yourself. Your heart is racing. Your mind is constantly replaying the moment. His voice, his words, all of it.

The next day, it starts as any other. You're replaying the day before over and over again, just as you did when you shamelessly touched yourself last night. The sound of his voice so close to your ear, the way his leg brushed against yours. Just thinking about it feels like butterflies in your stomach.

"Good morning, Y/N." Steve walks right past you. You try to return the greeting, but you're cut off by the sound of his office door closing. He's frustrated, but you're not sure why. Disappointed, but not really the probing type, you decide to just get to work. Today was supposed to be the day he trained you for a "side project" utilizing your coding skills, but you're hesitant to ask about it while he's so visibly upset.

The day continues as usual, though it does seem to drag on a little longer for you when you don't get to stare at Steve. You're straightening up the waiting area, bent at the waist to fan out the magazines. When you stand, there's suddenly a tall figure behind you. Steve is pressing the entire front of his body directly against you. You involuntarily release a small gasp when you feel what you're sure is his half-hard cock pressed against your ass. Steve takes only a second to inhale your scent and feel himself pressed against you before he whispers in your ear once again.

"You're my secretary, not my maid." He steps away and you frown, still facing away from him.

"I'm sorry, sir. I've run out of things to do." You shrug and you turn.

"Out of things to do? Already?" He raises his eyebrows.

"Yes, sir." Your formality is adorable to him. And something about you calling him "sir" makes him hard just hearing it.

"Well," Steve steps closer to you now that you're facing him. He's so tall, towering over you, craning his neck to keep his eyes locked on yours. "You're such a good girl," there it is. His words make you shudder. There's no way he's fucking with you right now, right? Wrong. He once again creates a gap between the two of you.

"Good kid with a good head on your shoulders. Try not to overthink it." He smirks at your beet-red face and swiftly disappears to his office. You're becoming frustrated. It's as if by the time he walks away, you're so enthralled that you can't remember whether or not your degenerate, horny brain over-dramatized the memory. Angry and even a little embarrassed, you make your way back to your desk.

Steve sits in his office carefully listening to the sounds of your frustration. He loves the way you'd fall to your knees for him right now if he asked, but he likes fucking with you more. He hears you sigh away the sexual tension and he grins. Having this much power over someone like you. You're so smart and beautiful, what are you doing melting in his hands like that? His strong hand finds the growing bulge in his slacks, hoping to relieve any of the pressure he's been building up for the both of you.

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his teeth still palming himself, picturing you bound and gagged in front of him. Maybe that's why he's so insistent on teasing you instead of fucking you on his desk like he knows you dream about. Maybe he wants the chase, the restraint. You're too easy, he wants you to be scared.

At the end of the day, you decide to say "fuck it" and see what he'll do if you match his energy. He's grabbing his things to leave when you slip into his office and close the door behind you. You're shaking-nervous, your heart is pumping at an inhuman rate. You have no idea what your plan is until it happens.

"Mr. Raglan, can I ask you a question?" You make your way across the room, passing the boundary of the front of his desk, standing with him behind it. Steve tilts his head in a bemused expression.

"Y/N, feeling a little comfortable, are we?" His sarcastic question leaves you a little more unsure of yourself, and you take a step back. "Ask away." Steve smiles innocently.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but..." You're shocked at how steady your voice is as you fall into this sultry character you've created for yourself. It's never failed you before. "I feel like there's something you're trying to tell me. It's not very subtle." You lean against the desk casually. "Am I wrong?"

"Oh, wow," Steve can't help but grin, but he quickly replaces it with a smug, sarcastic expression. "You must be the queen of subtly, right?" His snarky words catch you off guard. "No, dear. Sorry about any miscommunications on my part. See you tomorrow, Y/N."

Steve steps around you and walks out the door without another word. You're stunned silent and extremely embarrassed. You consider leaving a resignation letter on your desk and never coming back. Furious, you slam the door to your car and drive home. By the time you get to your driveway, you've calmed down and accepted that everything you thought he was doing was just your imagination.

You're still angry, unable to fully accept that you'd be that delusional, but who really knows? From then on, you put away your fantasies and focus on work and getting money set aside for rent. The next few days continue like normal, with no more "misunderstandings" or advances. Until... Steve reaches for a binder off a shelf behind your desk. As he slides in behind you where you stand, right behind your pushed-in computer chair, and reaches his long arm up to the shelf, his other arm searches for a surface to brace on. That surface is your pencil skirt-clad waist.

You gasp quietly, but you don't allow yourself to react any further. Steve has the binder in his hand, but he doesn't remove the other from your waist. He lingers, staring at the back of your head trying to read whatever emotion must be displayed on the other side. You're rigid, like you usually are when he pushes these boundaries, but he also senses your frustration and boredom. He can't help but chuckle as he steps away.

"Thank you, Y/N," he says, waving the binder as he walks away to his office. Did he even need the binder? No, probably not. You huff at your seat, officially deeming him untouchable. You decide he must just be a weird old man that doesn't understand personal space and you can accept that now that he's no longer the object of your desire.

This is what he wanted. Your indifference. It's all part of his plan. As the days continue and your attraction settles to dust, he waits for you to make a mistake, any mistake. To his surprise and perhaps even dismay, you're nearly perfect. Then finally, you accidentally double-book a client meeting that leaves someone jobless with no way to reschedule. You're horrified and apologizing left and right to the man who is more than understanding, making you feel worse.

The man finally leaves, with no job, and no meeting. You sit at your desk and mentally scold yourself for being so careless. The stress of the approaching deadline of your rent seems to be taking a larger toll on you than you realized. Steve's client meeting ends and he sends the temp on his way with high hopes. You wish him a good day and try to focus on your computer.

"Y/N, can I see you in my office?" Steve appears from nowhere in front of your desk. He moves so silently when he means to, it's unsettling. You shamefully look up from your work and nod, following him to his office. You both sit in the appropriate seats and he releases a sigh.

"I'm disappointed in you, Y/N." His opening statement crushes you. "That was a huge fuck up, was it not?" His voice is stern and the use of cursing lets you know this is not a formal scolding. You're in trouble.

"I-I know, but it's the first one I've ever made since I started, sir."

"So that means I should just forget about it, right?" He leans back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. "A man can't feed his family because he doesn't know when he'll have a ride back here."

"I know, sir. I'm... I'm sorry." You sigh, eaten alive with guilt. "He was very kind."

"Did you deserve it?" He's angry.

"No." You look away from him.

"What was that?" He tilts his head, eyebrows still arched. You glance at him, confused for a moment.

"No... Sir." You add.

"I think you're getting too comfortable here, Y/N. 'It's not very subtle.'" he quotes you and your face ignites with blush.

"O-Of course, sir. I'm so embarrassed. I'm sorry."

"Well, don't be embarrassed. Do better." You nod and begin to stand to leave when he leans forward with a softer expression. "Coffee?"

"What?" You don't even mean to ask him to repeat himself, it was just such a jarring switch in tone.

"Coffee. I just made it." Steve stands and crosses the room to a little black coffee maker in his office that you'd never noticed before.

"Uh, sure." You accept, hoping the caffeine will give you some sort of drive to improve your current work performance. Steve pours you both a cup and passes one to you. They're the same cup, but his looks comically small in his large, nimble hands. You take a few sips of the hot, dark liquid and begin to feel light-headed.

Everything around you seems to melt away. You've completely disregarded where you are or why you might feel this way. You try to stand and you drop the still-full cup on the office floor. Steve watches it all leaning against the table across the room. He nonchalantly sips his coffee as he waits for you to collapse. Just as he planned, the minute you get to your feet, your knees buckle beneath you. You're out before you hit the floor.

"Look at this. Look how little you think of yourself the second you hear how disappointed I am." Steve chuckles as he lifts your unconscious body. You're bound and gagged in the back seat of his '79 Ford Fairmont as he makes his way to an undisclosed location. Yeah, that one.

You wake up with a deep, sharp gasp as if you'd been holding your breath the entire time. Your head is spinning and your vision is blurry as you try to scan your surroundings. It's a dank grey room littered with failed attempts at his "side project" he'd mentioned to you weeks ago. Crumpled endo-skeletons and half-built robot heads cover each corner while wires and bolts cover the rest. Your heart begins to race and you try to rise from the cold, metal table you reside on, only to find that your wrists and ankles are strapped in place with thick leather binds.

"What the fuck?" You mumble to yourself as you continue to try to wake up. "Hello?! Help! Help me, please!" You scream and thrash on the slab.

"They all say that, you know? They always scream for help as if anyone's coming." Steve slowly enters the door. His tie is loose along with a few buttons, and his sleeves are haphazardly shoved halfway up his arms. His normally carefully combed hair is disheveled and damp with sweat as if he'd been hard at work before entering this room.

"'They?'" You tremble, rattling the metal.

"Of course, you're the first for this type of venture, I guess. Normally I just skip to killing," he chuckles, removing his tie. You're in a state of shock, sheer disbelief. Hearing that last word sends you into hysterics.

"Please don't kill me, sir. I- I won't fuck up again, I promise. Please-"

"Shut. Up." Steve's stern voice cuts directly through your pleas. "I haven't decided yet."

Tears flow steadily down the sides of your face as he begins to grope you. His rough hands explore every inch of you. His calculated hands knowingly leave bruises on your tender skin.

"Please..." You whisper with your eyes tightly shut, afraid of every movement he makes.

"Sweetheart, if this part scares you, I'm not sure you're gonna survive what comes next." He's only inches from your ear as he whispers. Your body shudders with terrified sobs. The cries only get louder when you feel Steve cutting off your clothes. You're too afraid to fight him off, unsure of whether any injuries you may acquire would be accidental or not.

"Why are you doing this? I-I literally came on to you!" You try to find reason in his actions, mostly to distract yourself from the fact that you're completely exposed, the remnants of your clothes a tattered mess beneath you.

"Where's the fun..." he drags the tip of his knife softly from your ankle to your navel as he steps closer to your blushing face. "In that?" He continues, positioning the weapon to stab through your abdomen, should he press down with any effort at all. Goosebumps erupt over your skin. "Now, are you going to shut your fucking mouth or do I need to shut it for you?" He places a gentle hand on your cheek. You nod frantically, looking into his eyes. They look so calm.

You hate to admit it, but the way he touches you seems to attempt to dig up that insatiable attraction you felt for him not long ago. Your fantasies never ventured to this genre, but you used to dream of him making you orgasm. You're torn from that memory when you remember his admittance to murder and how you know that means you probably won't make it out of this room.

Steve places the knife to the side and slowly slips his middle finger inside you. You gasp, and he plunges away, growing rougher with each stride. He curls his knuckles and watches your face closely as your crying eyes roll back into your skull. You yank against your restraints, trying to squirm away from him, but he's ruthless.

"You're so... Peculiar, Y/N." He removes his fingers from you and cleans them of your undeniable arousal with a pocket handkerchief. "I almost caved when you confronted me in my office. So bold. It's been a riot just picking at you." Steve reaches a hand into a desk in this mysterious room and retrieves an unknown device. You gasp as he slips the small, cold object inside you.

"What are you-" your question is swiftly silenced by the small remote in Steve's hand activating a powerful vibration from the item in your pussy. His free hand rubs rhythmically up and down your clit, stimulating you further. Steve stares down at you as you melt away into pleasure, ashamed and silently begging for more. He's laughing at you, hovering his head over yours as you anxiously avoid eye contact.

"Look at me," he demands, but you can't. You shut your eyes. He releases a breathy chuckle and raises the intensity of the vibrating gadget. "Don't start enjoying yourself or I might have to really scare you." You don't want to know what that entails, so you force yourself to look into his soulless blue eyes. The eye contact deepens the red shade that washes over your cheeks and Steve shakes his head, laughing at you again.

"Why are you so embarrassed now? Would you still be this shy if I'd bent you over my desk like you wanted? You're so much tighter when you're scared." Steve abruptly removes the vibrating toy from between your legs. You whimper pathetically in the absence of stimulation. He leaves the room and returns with yet another machine. This one's larger, a box.

He places the box down between your legs, as close to your throbbing entrance as he can get it. The side of the box facing you is adorned with a hole housing a phallic shape made of soft, silicone material. Your heart is bound to give out at this pace. The box itself covers a mass of gears and wires, a motor to power the rod in and out of its destination. You.

"We'll start it out slowly for you, how's that?" Steve presses a button and the machine pushes into you, slipping in easily as your body clearly craves it. You whine and cry out in pain as the machine stretches you out, slowly boring in and out of you. "If this thing's too big for you, what makes you think you could've taken me?" He laughs as he leans against the desk and watches the mechanism fuck you out. Every so often, he increases the speed.

Finally, it's maxed out. You're squirming and wailing in overstimulated pleasure and pain.

"Please! Please, I can't take it- I can't-" your begs are ignored. Steve places a rough hand around your neck, carelessly cutting off your oxygen and blood flow while his other hand delicately flicks your clit. That's it, that sends you over the limit. You climax harder than you ever thought possible, drenching the machine that's still fucking into you as your body quivers. Steve allows you to breathe again and takes his sweet time powering down the penetration machine.

You're shaking. Your tear-stained face is frozen in a look of exhaustion. The last thing you're able to do is move or speak. Your breathing is a plethora of hitched coughs and gasps and you flinch at even the possibility of being touched again at all.

"I think you might be ready now." He unfastens your bindings and takes a step back to observe. You don't move at all, not a single muscle. The truth is, you can't, even if you wanted to. Steve smirks, pressing a foot-lever under the table that lowers you right down to his waist. Two powerful hands hook under your legs and pull you so your beaten hole is perfectly accessible to him. You cry out as he moves you.

"I-I can't, Steve. I-" Your nearly inaudible mumbles are knocked from your mouth as he lands a hard open palm slap across your face.

"You're going to." He makes quick work of his belt and quickly aligns himself with your entrance. At one point all you wanted from him was this, but now you'd rather be anywhere else. Your cheek is ablaze, covered with a spreading stinging sensation. You're too distracted by the pain to notice Steve rearing back. He slams into you at full force, throwing his head back in ecstasy.

"Nooo!" You whine, unsure of how much more your body can truly take.

"Fuck!" He's almost primal when he's inside you, digging his fingertips into your flesh like he intends to take it off your body. "After all of that, you're still so fucking tight."

He reaches to your breasts and roughly gropes at the delicate skin. Your weak hand tries to tug at his wrist, but he simply flicks you away like a pest, continuing the assault. He slams into you, hoping to do more harm than anything, smiling at your sobbing face. Your makeup is a smeared mess and your hair is in disarray from the way you fought back on the table. You look pathetic to him and he loves it.

"You want to be filled up, don't you sweetheart?" He huffs, slowly approaching his climax. Your eyes open wide and a new wave of fear and adrenaline shoots through you, but you're still too weak to manage. Steve easily pins your wrists by your shoulders and thrusts deeper and deeper, hooking his hips to temporarily reach the very limit of your cunt.

"Please don't! Mr. Raglan, please!" You beg between gasping sobs as you listen to his labored breaths become unsteady. His agonizing thrusts lose their rhythm and suddenly you can feel his thick erection twitching inside you, brushing your G spot and carrying you over the edge again as well. You didn't even think that would be possible at this point.

You and Steve ride out your highs. He continues to pump into you making a heinous sound as he fucks his cum deeper inside you. To his surprise, he remains hard, so he continues to rut into your destroyed pussy until his legs threaten to give out. Steve finishes inside you a second time, laughing as he watches your horrified face realize how full of him you are. He's taking his time pulling out of you, playing with your cum soaked clit until you finally pass out from exhaustion.

Steve releases a breathy laugh as he fastens his belt and collapses in a chair nearby. You're lying there, naked and dripping cum from your swollen, demolished pussy. He can't get enough of this view. His original plan was to just get rid of you when he was done here, why not? But this is too much fun for him. Maybe he needs a new pet.

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theminecraftbee · 3 months

Text

so, first, accountability statement: I plan on trying to finish the “zedaph steals a baby” fic by the end of the month and god is that one-line summary no longer accurate but we’re sticking to it, said here publicly so now I have to do it. obviously I also have recursive exchange and the writing I have for hotguy comics zine, but I am not SUPER worried about either of those time/inspiration-wise at the moment and also for Reasons I know it won’t be long until I have more free writing time after that, SO.

various items that are on my potential writing docket, I am curious which of these appeal most:

I dust off the supervillain support group au. two ways this could go: I chip away at the second arc of my original outline and acknowledge this will be like a 300k fic I’m not ready to feel “done” with or “ready to post” with for ages, or I re-work it into something a little more doable and less ambitious keeping the same premise (ren runs a support group for supervillains, doc pov as he starts to heal and redeem himself). this MAY honestly be a target for “if I don’t hate the first 50k on re-reading it and I can actually make my brain write the second arc, do a slower release schedule and then start releasing chapters before I’m done writing”? but this ALSO runs the risk of “I stopped writing it, which is often a sign I was having trouble writing it”.

pearl monster au, which has been cooking in my head for a long while. the basic premise is “one day, pearl, with no memory of how or why this happened, wakes up in a facility as a monster and must try to figure out how she got there, escape, and find her way home, even knowing she may be irrevocably changed”. now with bonus season 10 fish flavor to add to this creature design I’ve been iterating on in my head for forever! this one is ALSO an experiment for me in “can I write a fic where I can’t write dialogue for basically the entire first act”, which would be interesting to see from me, you know?

the related “bigb folklore au”, where after secret life bigb is woken up by Cat and Dog by the tracks of the King Snake, which bigb can recognize as the railroad track, and decides to journey down the railroad to see if he can figure out what the fuck is going on. I need to do video review of life series bigb for this one. this is my excuse to get Weird and Metaphorical and also assign everyone to various animals for no reason, along with using some very specific aesthetic I have wanted to use for some worldbuilding but hadn’t gotten around to yet in any of my stuff. man walks through the desert with animal, confronts train that might be the watchers, might be death, and might just be a train. also, realizes that “confront” is the operative word there and has to deal with that. you know how it is.

““office au””, in air quotes because it’s not REALLY what anyone going to an office au is looking for so much as an excuse to write weird horror. iskall, normal-ish software developer man in a boring office job who does game jams in his free time, goes to work one day to work in his boring downtown office on a payment system for a client. and then things, uh, Take A Turn. this would be a LITTLE me going “what if I wrote an au with a guy who works in tech but like, the boring side of tech I’m in. like, banks and consulting and manufacturing and shit. where you sit in meetings all day and tweak java 8 code even though that language is ten years out of date. but THEN. something exciting happens in the worst way possible.” I’m doing to iskall what I did to mumbo stuffed bird is what I’m saying. it’d be fun.

DO ANY OF THESE PARTICULARLY INTEREST ANYONE. your input will be valued. like 50% chance i get hit with a strong bolt of inspiration then IGNORE that input but it’ll be valued all the same,

#note that me telling you about these ideas is ALSO accountability #on account of both ‘anyone can make whatever based on my things forever’ meaning one of you could make one now #and on account of people will start asking me about them on rare occasion now lol

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 1 month

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SHANE MY BELOVED anyways gonna request based on an oc that i made/an ai chatbot chat that i did recently. selectively mute reader with shane, and how their relationship evolves? strangers to lovers probs. hcs or oneshot/drabble :3 -galaxy

WAHOOO

I got 5 hearts with him as we speak so this is perfect timing <3

......

Settling into Stardew Valley was certainly going to be a challenge, especially with the new life you wanted to build here..and of course that entails meeting new people.

For most of your life, you've been selectively mute, only ever using your voice if you absolutely have to.

You never used it much at your previous office job, but it was still quite soulless and didn't make you feel good.

Even so, Lewis doesn't think you should stay a stranger and insists you introduce yourself to folks in Pelican Town.

You couldn't ignore the letters stuffed into your mailbox forever..so you finally headed into town.

While some villagers regarded you as "quiet", many of them chalked it up to you being new and welcomed you anyways.

Although Shane is indifferent and annoyed--as he is to most strangers.

You accidentally bumped into him, and he thinks you're rude for not saying "sorry".

Your brain sorta panics as you sign the words...but from the way he stares at you, you realize he doesn't understand what you're saying.

By the time you get out your notepad, he's long gone, mumbling about being late to his shift.

Since then, you try being polite and wave to him anytime you see him in the street or at the saloon..but he just wonders why you're bothering him.

One thing he kept noticing at the bar was that you always gave your order to Gus on your notepad, and he starts thinking there is a reason you can't talk and you weren't just being a dick specifically to him that day.

Still, he doesn't ask you. You're probably gonna stop trying to befriend him sooner or later. So why should he care?

One day, you approach Shane while he's working at JojaMart and asked him where a certain food ingredient was, pointing to your shopping list..and you see that irritable look in his eye again.

He had customers mixing up things on the shelves and snapping at him for things outside his control--and you caught him on a rather bad day.

He says nothing and just points further down the isle, but you just smile and mouth "thank you", signing the words before continuing on.

Poor guy goes red, convinced you blew a kiss at him just now...and it's all he could think about for the rest of his shift.

The very next day, you show up at Marnie's place with a fresh pizza, asking if Shane was home.

He gets flustered as HELL when he realizes you were at the mart buying ingredients to make one of his favorite foods...and he acted like a total jackass.

You left a note inside the container, which basically tells him you're selectively mute and realized your farm was just down the road from his aunt's ranch.

After reading it, he awkwardly apologizes and asks for a fresh start, to which you just smile and nod.

Jas, at this point, can see he's got a crush on you.

After that was cleared up, you two become friends and hangout together at the saloon often or share a beer on the dock.

You don't talk, but tbh Shane appreciates the silence between you two. He didn't have to force conversation, and neither did you.

Although that also enables him to vent to you about how downtrodden and repetitive his life feels, with you simply listening and accompanying him home.

It doesn't change the fact he felt like a burden to everyone, and one night you found him on the cliffside, his face covered in mud and tears, ready to give up on the world.

In his drunken haze, he forgot you were mute and wants you to tell him why he shouldn't do it..

"No wait..I..forgot you can't-"

"Shane..I'm here for you." Your voice comes out low, hoarse, and a little shaky, but he stopped sobbing the moment he heard it..and he stares up at you in shock.

"S-So..you do speak.." He mumbles. "You sound....like--like an angel...fuck..maybe they do exist. So you'll...be here for me no matter what? Even if I did something stupid...?"

You simply nod, and that makes him change his mind.

He just can't believe that out of all the people in this town, you chose to open up to him--some sad sack of shit who was about to jump off the cliff--and decide he should be the one to hear your voice first.

You actually wanted him around. And you never hated him despite all the times he was rude to you..

After he nearly vomits all over your shoes, you take him to the hospital, knowing he needed Harvey's intervention, and since then you've been supportive of his recovery journey.

He only remembers bits and pieces from that night..although the one thing he couldn't forget was hearing your voice.

It was probably so difficult for you to find it again, and he appreciates you talking him down, even if you had to close up and go totally silent for the next few days or so.

If you ever go into why you became selectively mute, Shane will do his absolute best to understand (and maybe get a little overprotective in the process if someone makes fun of you for it).

But if not, he'll still defend you regardless.

You teach him a few general phrases in sign language, which he tries to grasp and eventually gets the hang of.

At some point down the line..he asks you out on a festival date after much pressure from Jas and Marnie, and you were so excited you nearly yelled out "YES"-

But instead managed to nod happily, taking his hand and dragging him towards the celebration without a second thought.

Soon that little date turns into a genuine relationship, with Shane eventually moving onto your farm to help you care for the crops and animals, switching to alternatives to beer and promising to cut back on the hours he spends at the saloon.

Some days you'll be away mining, fishing, slaying monsters, or helping the Junimos rebuild the community center, but other times you'll stay inside and just cuddle with him, your pet, and the chickens.

He was muddling over why you chose him (a lot of self doubt still festers inside of him), and you spoke to him again--this time to his sober-self.

That was "because I love you".

And yes...he did cry.

#clanask #galaxy anon #stardew valley x reader #sdv x reader #sdv shane #stardew valley shane #sdv shane x reader #stardew valley shane x reader #shane x reader #headcanons #selectively mute reader #hurt/comfort #tw suicide mention

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atinylittlepain · 9 months

Text

Atlantic City

no outbreak!joel miller x fem!reader

Hungry Hearts masterlist

wordcount | 6.2K

warnings | smut, angst, the usual

a/n | hey y'all, we have reached the penultimate chapter. we're in for a little angst, but i promise i make it better with a whole lot of goodness. as always, i'd love to hear what you think, drop me a line, i'd love to chat. also, if i could offer a song specifically for the young joel sequences, it would be Downbound Train by Springsteen (who else?) alright, that's all.

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gif by @santigarcia

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“She had a little oatmeal and a little applesauce, I think more of it got on her bib than it did in her mouth, though.” Tiny hands gripping at his shirt, he winces at the first sign of her impending meltdown, that small whimper of hers that always seems to come out in the mornings like this.

“Alright, Joey, that’s okay, I’ve got her.” Except she doesn’t, not yet, because Sarah is still clinging to him, tears starting to heat and dampen the side of his neck where her face is pressed as Deedee tries to coax her out of his arms. He’d like to cry too.

“I have class until seven, but I gotta run to the store too to get more formula. Shouldn’t be later than eight, ma.” It’s near herculean to finally untangle Sarah from him, a particularly loud cry striking through his ears as Deedee finally manages to scoop her into her arms. He’s learned that he can’t loiter, can’t look at her too much like this, because then that slick curl of guilt will take root and furl up his throat. So it’s a quick goodbye, a kiss to the crown of Sarah’s head and a lowly murmured love you, babygirl before he thanks his mother, who acts offended that he even tried to thank her in the first place.

He can still hear Sarah crying when he gets back in his truck. Deep breath, just one to smooth out the shake in his hands. And then his day can begin. The same day he has been doing for the last five months. They’re building new apartments off the highway toward Austin. Good work, honest work, at least that’s what people say when he tells them what he’s doing these days. He’s not sure where they get the good or honest from. Mostly, it’s sweaty and sore and simple. But it is good money, and lord knows that’s exactly what he needs right now.

She, no name, he’s been practicing no name for her, making the fact of her disappear from his life so it won’t be a problem when Sarah gets older, so just she. She left when Sarah was three months old. Not a word, not a note. Fine by him, because while they were certainly a mistake, Sarah isn’t, at all, not to him. So he’s working, making money, and in the evenings, chasing after a degree that promises something better for the both of them.

Traffic is stupid this early in the morning, crawling lights along the highway in the dusk still burning itself off with the hazy sunrise. He sighs, slumping back. He can sigh and slump now, no one watching, small relief as he rolls toward the job site. Another sigh when he sees that cars are even more jammed up because of an accident on the shoulder of the highway. He’s not one for the radio these days, much more interested in saving up slices of silences in between all the crying and sighing, though he still starts to flicker through radio channels, nothing better to do anyways.

“With us this morning, an up and coming author whose first novel has garnered a great deal of attention this year.” His hand stills, spine straightening out when the radio show host says her name. Her real name. And then it’s her, thanking the host for having her with an easy laugh.

The last time he heard her voice, he was standing in the front office of Thatcher’s with a phone to his ear and a hand held over his mouth to silence the quick sobs shaking his body as she spoke, as she apologized, as she said goodbye. The same and different. So very different. His ears rush with it, mind in a thick fog as the host says something about best selling, and new project, and some award that he hasn’t heard of before. And Cherry takes it all in stride.

She did it. She really did it. He can’t help the broken laugh that flutters up his throat, a quick burst of it that feels good only because it’s been so long since he’s had something like that, felt something like that. But it’s a quick radio segment, and she’s already thanking the host again, and they’re already taking a break for some commercial. Gone again. Sigh, slump.

Good for her, he thinks. Proud of her, he thinks. Did the right thing for her, he thinks.

And finally, traffic starts to crawl again, just another day.

…

“Yeah, uh-huh, I’ll have it ready to be sent by Friday. Look, I told you already that I’m not going to rush this one, okay? The first draft needs a little more time, just to Friday.” Often, when she takes phone calls in her office, she imagines what it would feel like to pick up her computer and smash it through her window. It’s a helpful thought exercise, keeps her from cursing out her agent at times like this.

“Alright, and– no, I saw the concepts you sent me and absolutely not. I don’t know how you can already be sending me cover art when you haven’t even read the fucking thing yet. I don’t care what kind of rush you’re in, I’m not going to accommodate it because, quite frankly, it’s fucking ridiculous.” Well, at the very least, she tries not to curse out her agent.

“Friday, no earlier and no later. And please, do not call me before then, because if I’m talking to you, then I’m not working, and if I’m not working, this fucking thing is going to take even longer. Okay? Great, thanks so much, bye.” Click, sigh. She has also imagined chucking her cell phone through the window, but that is a much less satisfying vision, so she settles for shoving it away in the bottom drawer of her desk.

“Mom?” She’s quick to stretch out of her slump at the sound of Ellie’s voice, swiveling around in her chair as she smooths out her scowl .

“What’s up, babe?”

“Is it cool if I go to the mall with Dina?” Dina, the center outfielder, right.

“Oh, yeah, do you want me to drop you off? I can–”

“No, that’s okay. Dina’s mom is gonna pick me up and take us.” Guilt starts to flicker between her ribs. This happens whenever she’s entrenched in writing. She blinks, and can’t seem to figure out where the time has gone or when the last time was that she and Ellie spent real time together. And though Ellie rails against it with a dejected groan, she can’t help but get up and pull her into a quick hug. Missed you, sorry. Love you, sorry. Ellie squirms a little, but still squeezes her back.

“Well, be safe, okay? And call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, okay, I will.” Normally, this would be when Ellie bounds away before Cherry can get an I love you in edgewise, but instead, she stays standing in front of her, a small pinch between her brows.

“Are you, um, like– okay?” Cherry sighs. This again. This new thing again. Something that Ellie has started to do at the most unexpected times. Something that started after that day at the ballfields when their car got stuck in the mud and she and Joel shared some choice words.

“Els, what’s this about you asking me if I’m okay, huh?” She tries to say it light, with a small laugh, but really, her stomach is starting to sicken, because this is supposed to be her job, mom job, and clearly, she’s failing at it.

“I don’t know, I just– how come Tommy is the one working on the porch now?”

“Uh, well, I mean– Tommy and Joel are business partners, so they, you know, share jobs with each other.” It comes out stilted and stuttered, and she has to stop herself from wincing at the lameness of the excuse. For her part, Ellie doesn’t seem to be satisfied with that answer, brow still scrunched and mouth screwed up like she tasted something funny.

“But why isn’t Joel working on it, like, at all?” That all holds a lot more meaning than it should, and Cherry can’t help the sigh that slackens through her chest.

“I know what you’re getting at, and you have to understand that, well– we– Joel and I– there’s a lot of history there, Els. And it’s– well, it’s very complicated.”

“Do you think you guys are gonna work it out though?” It surprises her, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say that there’s a hopeful tilt to Ellie’s question and raised brows.

“I don’t know, but I don’t want you worrying about that, okay? Whether we do or not, I’m gonna be just fine, so long as I have you.” Mom brain, she can’t help herself, stealing another hug that Ellie rails against with a mom that sounds like she’s being accosted it’s so despondent.

Saved by the bell, or the car horn more like it, Ellie wrangling herself out of their hug with a quick bye, love you as she bounds through the house toward the front door. Sigh, slump, Cherry shuffles back over to her desk, steading her palm on the edge of it as she brings her other hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

The thing is, she is pretty sure that they’re not going to work this out. And that’s what she wanted, isn’t it? She’s not sure anymore. She’s not sure about a lot of things. For starters, why she really decided it was a good idea to move back here. Yes, New York was becoming no good. But then, forty-odd other states she could have chosen from. And no, too late to back out now, because Ellie has already made friends, somehow already managed to settle before school has even started. And there’s the house, and now this fucking porch.

“Hey, Cher?” Speaking of which, snapping herself back out of her slump.

“Hi, Tom, how’s it going out there?” The first time she saw him again, she was shocked by just how much Tommy Miller grew up and filled out. Joel mentioned something about him serving in the military, and it shows, she thinks. A little more serious, a little presence in the set of his shoulders. A far cry from the brash, bold, bumbling boy she remembers. The passage of time, and all that.

“Just got done with the finish, actually, if you wanna come take a look?”

“Oh really? Like, it’s finished finished?” It is, and it’s frustratingly perfect. Wood polished and still glossy, plenty of space for a table and chairs. She should be happy, or at the very least satisfied, so she isn’t sure why all she feels is a petty curl of anger rising like bile up the back of her throat.

“Wow, yeah, it looks– looks really good, Tommy, thank you. Is it alright if I pay you now? I just need to get my checkbook.” She’s already walking back toward her office, but Tommy doesn’t follow, rubbing at the back of his neck with a weak laugh.

“The thing about that, Cher, is that I’m under very strict, very aggressive orders to not take any money from you.” That anger flares at his words, a scoff in her throat as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Oh, is that right? And just which hardass are these orders coming from, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I think you’re, uh, pretty familiar with said hardass.”

“Uh-huh, right, I suppose I am.” She’s not going to let Joel win this one, turning on her heel to continue her warpath toward her checkbook, Tommy having no choice but to tentatively follow after.

“Cherry, seriously, I can’t. He’s gonna rip that check up the instant he gets his damn hands on it.” She doesn’t listen, dashing off her signature on the six thousand dollar check, though when she tries to hand it to Tommy, he tucks his hands deep into his jeans pockets, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Tommy, I don’t know what kind of stupid game your brother is playing, but I refuse to participate. You did a job for me, and did it perfectly, and now I’m going to pay you. I don’t– I can’t have this hanging over my head, alright? Just take it, please.” She hates the warble that please comes out on, a thick flush of tears starting to thicken in her throat.

“It wouldn’t be hanging over your head, Cher. You know he ain’t like that.”

“Oh, do I? Because, honestly, I’m not sure what I know about him anymore.” Silence falls, a flash of something passing over Tommy’s face that she can’t place. He clears his throat before he speaks again, and when he does, it’s shockingly quiet.

“I still remember the day you left and didn’t come back, you know. And no offense, but it’s not because we were particularly close or anything.”

“Gee, thanks, Tom. I’m not sure what that has to do with anything though.” She regrets the sharpness of her words instantly, Tommy letting out a long sigh as he shuffles his feet in the doorway to her office.

“I remember because Joel came home that night. And back then, you’d be hard pressed to get him home unless it was Sunday and ma was ready to drag him by his ears over for dinner. But it was a Tuesday, and he came home that night, and he cried.” There’s no stopping the tears now, not when Tommy’s voice breaks, covering it up with a clipped laugh and a swipe of his knuckles under his nose.

“I don’t think I had ever seen him cry that hard. Jesus, he couldn’t breathe, and it– it just wouldn’t stop. At the time I was kinda pissed, to be honest, because he wouldn’t shut up, just wailing like a little kid.” All she can do to sit down in her desk chair, taking a shaky breath as Tommy toes his boot into the floor, trying to hide the crumple of his brow on his downturned face.

“And he kept saying the same thing over and over again, like he was trying to convince someone, maybe himself, I don’t know. He kept saying I did the right thing.” Her whole body shudders, sniffling back snot as her vision swims. She doesn’t know what all Joel has told Tommy, whether he knows just exactly what happened that summer. But the way that he’s looking at her now, frown slipping heavy down his face, earnest, honest, she thinks that he knows enough, has seen and heard enough to be giving her nothing but the truth.

“Not that I’d admit this to him, but I love my brother, really, I do. But, Cher, he can be a fucking idiot about stuff like this. And I know that he doesn’t deserve another chance for the shit he’s pulled, but I just– you gotta understand how much love he has for you.” What could she possibly say to that? For a moment, it’s quiet, both of them taking stuttered inhales and exhales, trying to breathe in the fact of what was just said.

“Tom, where is Joel working today?”

…

“You have to read this book. I’m about halfway finished with it and it’s so good.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t think I’ve heard of that author before.”

“That’s because it’s her first book, I think. But seriously, she’s totally a genius.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to check it out then.”

He keeps his smile hidden behind his palm, elbow propped on his desk as he listens in to the conversation between the two students in the row ahead of him. It’s her book, he caught a glimpse of her name on the spine of it. It both buoys and batters him, a strange feeling settling in his stomach as his evening class begins.

Something his boss recommended to him. A degree at the community college that will supposedly open up all these doors for him. At least that’s what he tells himself when he slogs over to the campus after work every night. Another year to go and then, and then. Something good, he hopes. For him and for Sarah.

The same thing every day. Get up at five, if there’s sleep to be gotten up from in the first place. Get Sarah sorted and driven over to his parents’ house and then get to work by seven. Work and work and work, a good seven or eight hours before he has to book it to class. Then class, something he never enjoyed, and especially doesn’t care for now, working hard at it only for the sake of getting out of it sooner.

Last week, Deedee had tried setting him up on a date with the daughter of one of the women she plays Euchre with every Wednesday. She even offered to take Sarah for the night, a smile so steeped in hope that it had made him feel a little sick. He had sighed and made a half-hearted joke, something about a date getting him here in the first place. A distraction getting him here in the first place.

Night is creeping in by the time he gets out of class, streets going dark save for the syrupy glow of house windows, of families sitting down for dinner. And he’s never late, always at his parents’ house when he says he will be, so just this once, just a little late. He goes to the store a little further away because he knows there’s a bookstore a block down from it, lucky that it’s still open this late.

And everything gets saved that doesn’t have to be spent, so just this once, something for him. They have her book on display in the front of the store. Exactly what he was hoping for, her picture on the back of the dust jacket. The same and different, all grown up.

He buys himself a copy, but he doesn’t open it, not yet, keeping it in his lap the entire drive back.

…

Maybe a little crazy, driving her minivan through an active jobsite, men stopping in their work to tilt their hard-hatted heads at her when she parks in the midst of gravel and sawdust right in front of the half-built house. But she’s too hell-bent on the task at hand to care much, marching right up to the nearest man and asking him where Joel Miller is.

“Sorry, ma’am, who are you again?”

“Who am I? Who am I? I’m someone important, buddy, that’s who I am. Now if you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll just start wandering all over this place and probably land you with an OSHA violation. So if I were you, I’d make this easier for both of us and just take me to him, thanks.” She can hear a murmur of snickers and yips from the other men working around them, and it seems like enough to get this guy moving with a muttered okay then.

She acquiesces to putting a hard hat on, something about an actual OSHA violation, before following the man into the bare bones of the house. Some walls are put up, and some are still only frames, saws whirring and nails guns firing all around her, a perfect swirl of work and the smell of cedar that she tries to skirt around as the man leads her further into the fray.

When she sees him, she thinks to herself that it’s not fair, the way he looks with a tool belt slung low around his hips, his t-shirt clinging to the shifting planes of muscle in his back as he leans over a workbench to look at a scroll of blueprints. No, not fair at all, her throat going dry with just how not fair at all it is.

“Boss, there’s a lady here to see you.” Boss, right, he’s the boss. Fan-fucking-tastic. Joel’s head whips around, immediate confusion scrunching up his face when he sees her.

“Cherry? What– what’re you doing here?”

“What?” It’s nearly impossible to hear him over the incessant sound of work going on around them, though Joel is quick to usher her away from the thick of things and into a half-finished room that she guesses could either turn into a bathroom or a closet judging by its size. It’s a bit ridiculous that Joel closes the door to the room given that one of the walls still hasn’t been put up.

“Why– how did you find me here?” She’s just a little annoyed at how inconvenienced he’s acting, his hand on his hip and his knee jutted out as he raises his brows at her. It’s enough to get her angry all over again.

“Tommy finished the porch today and refused to take my check, so I asked him where I could find you and tuck this fucking money into your hands myself.” She punctuates her words by taking the folded-up check out of her pocket and shoving it into his chest, but Joel doesn’t accept it, the slip of paper falling to the ground when she pulls her hand away. What he does next is far more infuriating though, not breaking eye contact with her as he bends down and swipes up the check between two fingers before promptly ripping the thing up far more times than it needs to be.

“Don’t try to write me another one, Cher, I’ll just do the same thing.” A bitter laugh slips up her throat, and before she knows what she’s doing, the heel of her palm is shoving into his chest. Except he’s bigger now, broader, so what once would have made him stumble now only makes him sway a little. All the more reason to do it again.

“You– fucking– ass– Joel Miller!” He’s still unmoving under her ministrations, each of her words coming with an admittedly weaker shove until finally, Joel says her name, a quiet plea. And she wasn’t supposed to cry, that’s what she told herself on the drive over here. Under no circumstances was she going to cry. Yeah, right, big blubbering streaks running down her face already. Her hands fall limp at her sides as she shakes with it, whatever it is. Easier to call it anger, but she knows that’s not what it is.

“Cherry, please don’t cry.” She wants him to reach for her, wants to feel his palms smoothing that shudder, and for a moment, it looks like he will, but his hands just hang suspended between them, like he has thought better of it. She wishes he hadn’t thought better of it.

“I can’t– I can’t do this. You make this so hard, Joel, do you know that?” His face falls, feet shuffling closer until the toes of his boots are brushing against her sneakers.

“What can’t you do?”

“This– this– I want to be with you so badly, but I just can’t.” She hates what a relief it is when he finally reaches for her, his palm resting along her jaw, the calloused pad of his thumb collecting stray salt.

“Why can’t you? I– I’ve been wanting you for a long time, Cher. We could do it, I know we could.”

“I’ve heard that before, Joel. And it didn’t end well.” She can’t look at him as she says it, her stomach sinking with the words. Because it’s true, after all. He sighs, a long, dejected sound that makes her tear up all over again.

“Will you look at me, please?” She doesn’t want to, and isn’t sure if she can right now, but he shows her how, his knuckles crooking under her chin, a soft please that she folds to, finally meeting his eyes with hers.

“I can’t change what I did in the past, Cherry. And it kills me that I hurt you, but I was trying to do right by you. I don’t know anymore if I did, and I don’t know anymore if it even matters. But what I do know is I never stopped loving you. And if you’ll have me, I’ll be yours until the day I die, and probably then some, to be honest.” A laugh at that, thick with snot, feeling good in the midst of all these tears. She curls her fingers around his wrist where his hand is still cupped along her cheek, a tug to come closer so she can rest her forehead against his, though there’s a small shuffle first, both of them pushing their hard-hats off, paying no mind to the clatter of them when her nose brushes along the line of his.

“Don’t make me a promise you can’t keep.” She says it quiet, almost reluctant, but Joel just smiles.

“Not a promise, just the truth. Reckon I’ve been yours my whole life. And I’ve been hoping you’ll be mine too.” Something blooms inside her, relief in opening up, in allowing even amidst that still-there grip of fear. Because he’s here, and so is she, and there’s plenty of time to prove that fear wrong, to get it right, now, here, in the present.

She doesn’t answer with words, just closes the space still between them, the easiest yes in the way her lips press against his.

…

He knows he needs to go in. Needs to gather up Sarah and get back to their shoebox apartment so the whole routine can start over tomorrow morning. But quick, he can be quick, sitting in his truck with only the faint slant of clarity from the streetlight to brighten the pages. He steals the first chapter just like that, quiet, mouth moving with every word. And it’s a peculiar feeling, like pride, though he knows he has know business letting that swell in his chest with the way things ended between them. It’s good, of course it’s good. Not that he’s some well-seasoned reader, but he knows good when he sees it, and she was always so good, he thinks.

He’s only twenty minutes late when he finally knocks on his parents’ front door, and though Deedee makes nothing of it, he still feels that guilt sickening and skittering up his spine, trying to tamp it down with kisses pressed into Sarah’s curls.

By the time he gets them home, Sarah is indignant, fussy coos humming in her chest, ready for a bottle that he still has to make. Muscle memory, auto-pilot, he heats it up with her in one arm and the book held in his other hand, plowing through half of chapter two before he finally has to set it down to feed his girl. His girl, his perfect girl. He has enjoyed doing this from the very start, one of the things he always felt he could get right, at the very least. Simple and sweet, all the motions of bedtime, a small mercy that she goes down easy tonight because he’s still thinking about the book he left splayed open on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t sit down, just simply leans over the counter to keep reading under the light above the stove.

Sarah begins to cry about an hour and a half later, and by then he has already finished half of the book, careful to mark his place before checking on his girl. His hands still shake sometimes with the reality of holding her, something so small and careful that he has to roll his shoulders back a few times after every diaper change, every close cradle, like his whole body braces for her, trying to be big and enough for her. And he should get some sleep now, he knows that. But he reasons to himself that he’ll be waking up in an hour or two anyways for her, so, might as well.

Just like that, for the rest of the night, back and forth between Sarah and his close huddle over the kitchen counter. By the time morning is starting to blush that pale blue through the curtains, he has read the whole thing.

And no, not his place, and no, he has no right, but he is proud of her. Proud that she got out, proud that she did it. And relief too, that maybe he did the right thing after all, even though it hurt so very much.

…

Maybe a little crazy, the both of them. She’s pretty sure she heard a few wolf whistles when she led Joel out of the house and back to her car, but she doesn’t care, and she doesn’t think he does either judging by the way he keeps rubbing his palms down the front of his jeans in the passenger seat, both of them sweeping their eyes over the half-finished lots of this new neighborhood, searching for the same thing.

“Wait, right there.”

“Right where, Joel? There aren’t any–” She doesn’t finish that thought, a gasp high in her throat cutting it off when Joel reaches across for the wheel and veers her car right off the street and into an empty lot. The only reason she doesn’t press the brake is because she’s too stunned to move, letting the car roll into a thick copse of trees. She’s only snapped out of her stupor when Joel huffs out a right here, stop, stop, Cher, bringing the car to a stuttering halt. It’s all she can do to laugh as she looks around at the perfectly secluded spot.

“You always did have a talent for finding places like this.” He grins crooked at her, still leaning over the console with his hand on the wheel.

“Yeah, well, you– just c’mere.” Not pretty, not at all. A little greedy and a little desperate, her elbow beeping the horn as she scrambles over the console, Joel groaning when her knee lands a little too close to his crotch before she finally settles in his lap. He holds her by the hinge of her jaw, opening her mouth with his and taking everything she has to give. And in turn, she seeks out more however she can get it, one hand in his hair tugging when his teeth nick her bottom lip, her other hand bunched into a fist in his t-shirt. And it should be good, except it’s all so scrunched up in the passenger seat, and her legs are bent at such an angle that when she tries to grind her hips down onto his, she ends up with a mortifying cramp in her hamstring.

“Oh fuck.”

“I know, Cher, me too.”

“No, I mean, my– my leg is– I need to get up, it’s–” Joel finally seems to get the hint when she lets out a hiss of pain, quick to open the passenger side door so she can hobble down off his lap, tenderly trying to stretch out her leg in a graceless hop. Luckily, it seems to sort itself out, though Joel still gets out of the car, making her heart do something strange when he holds onto her hip with one hand as he rubs out the muscle in her leg with his other palm, squinting up at her and murmuring a question, that better?

“Y-yeah, thank you. We could– the backseats go all the way down.” He’s a sight, eyes big and blown out, lips parted in a swollen little pant as he looks at her.

“Right, let’s– let’s do that then.” She makes quick work of cranking open the sliding door of the minivan and folding the backseats down, plenty of room to assure that there won’t be anymore cramping crises. When she turns around to usher him into the back, Joel is quick to stamp a hard kiss to her mouth, a breathless laugh punching out of her lungs when he pulls away.

“Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, Cher.”

“Well, if you liked that, just wait until I put the seats back in place.” His smile splits, all boyish in the way his eyes crinkle up. And it’s all graceless fumbling from there, both of them crawling into the back, leaving the door cracked to let in the late summer breeze, though she can already feel sweat sticking her shirt to her back. Not that it matters though, not when they’re both making quick work of each other’s clothes.

Her want wills, and he answers in kind, letting her press him back, bare for her, heart beating for her as she settles between his legs, already taking him into her mouth, salt and sense, all him making her hum low in her chest.

“Jesus, look at you– so fucking pretty like this, Cher.” He’s one to talk, she thinks, chest flushed to blaze all the way up to his cheeks, his eyes heavy and hooded looking down at her as she laps at his leaking tip before taking as much of him as she can into the heat of her mouth. Though he doesn’t let her work him over for long, a petulant hand curling around the nape of her neck and a breathy baby, baby, c’mere coaxing her up, both of them sighing when the swollen ache of her cunt grazes along his length.

“Like this– I want it like this, Joel.” Her lips drag the word up the arc of his throat, sealing them with her lips slanting over his.

“It’s all yours, Cherry. I’m all yours.” They move together like they never stopped in the first place, all quiet communication in the press of their foreheads, eyes turned down to watch as she sinks down onto his throbbing cock, a high sound stopping itself in the back of her throat as her hips settle against his. For a moment, just this, the tight peaks of her nipples grazing his chest with each broken breath, palms smoothing along skin only to grab greedy handfuls where they can. And then the quiet murmur, good? Yes, so good. Moving with so good simpering up and down her spine, a moan breaking in her chest with the first pass of her hips against his.

He lets her find the rhythm first, his mouth hot and open against the side of her breast, all coaxing, all consuming with the way his hands grip at her ass. Everything turns hazy and humid in their close press in the back of her car, skin slick and sticking, chests fluttering with hard pants.

Not so young anymore, either of them, getting a little ahead of their own pleasure because she can already feel it snaring and snapping in her pelvis, that liquid languor that turns taut so fast. And of course Joel can tell, bringing his hand to curl around her hip so he can drag messy circles against her clit, mouth open and pleading against hers.

“That’s it, Cherry, take it for me. Fuck, I wanna feel it, just like that.” Her breath catches in her throat, that searing snap that slackens everything else, his name on her next exhale as everything melts down around her. Just him, and the close grind of his hips up into hers that’s snarling on the edge of too much, cracked whimpers with each thrust that she bites back, wanting his pleasure just as much as she wants her own.

“Baby, baby, so good like this. Want it so bad, want you so bad.” Her lips slide against the shell of his ear, crooking into a grin when he groans at her words, his grip on her tensing and tightening as he comes, warmth spreading and sating.

All tangled up, their bodies slacken and slump, splayed out in the back of her car as they both catch their breath. Joel’s head tilts up when she huffs out a laugh, breath fanning over his chest where her chin is resting.

“I don’t think that was the smartest way we could’ve started this new relationship thing.”

“I think we’re pretty far past new relationship, Cher.” She hums at that, no real argument, settling instead for a kiss pressed into the bare patch in his scruff.

“You know, Ellie asked about you.” Joel’s eyebrows shoot up at that.

“Seriously? Thought that kid hated me.”

“Mm, I think you won her over with the diarrhea joke.”

“Well it certainly worked on you.”

“Unfortunately.” He huffs at her dig, laying a mean squeeze to the crease where her ass meets her thigh.

“Unfortunately, none of that, Cherry baby.” Ease, all ease in their shared smile, settling back down around each other with a sigh. They’ll have to untangle soon, leave soon, back to reality soon. But for now, this time with him, all the time to say what she wants to say to him.

“I never stopped, you know. I think that’s why I came back, at least partly. I was hoping that you hadn’t stopped either.” Her cheek rises and falls with his breath, Joel trailing his finger along her jaw to coax her eyes back up to his.

“I didn’t, Cher. Even when I didn’t wanna admit it to myself, I was waiting for you, hoping for you too.”

................................

taglist: @spookyxsam @libbylou223 @angel-in-beskar @starstruckunknown-princess @casa-boiardi @tieronecrush @swiftispunk @beskarandblasters @trulybetty @amanitacowboy @pr0ximamidnight @wannab-urs @jksprincess10 @suzmagine @everything-isfucked @lanabobana @kittenlittle24 @sarap-77 @officerrrfriendly @val-srz @bitchwitch1981 @redwoodsanddaffodils @themothersmercy @romanarose @lost-inhawkins @youcancallmeelle @hollywoodcaligirl @harryleatherfit @fifia-writes @brighttears @lokanda @hardlystrictlystarwars @sarahxxo3 @harriedandharassed @anoverwhelmingdin

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller story #joel miller series #joel miller au #joel miller fic

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mendeshoney · 8 months

Note

This can be just a blurb request for this concept i have in mind, where the reader is like a volunteer in one of the isles' organizations and barzy getting this "love at first sight" or meet cute situation 😉

(I know the gif below has Brock in it too but let's just focus on Barzy shall we?)

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard this many grown men have such high pitched voices in my life.” Your co-worker, Hannah, murmurs under her voice as she plays with a strand of her baby pink hair.

You can’t help but giggle, because it’s technically very true.

It had barely even been five minutes since multiple players from the New York Islanders had entered their locker room, and already, they were either sprawled out on the floor or sitting in their locker stalls, playing with the puppies and dogs brought specifically for the calendar shoot. Three of them had even asked for applications in the last minute or so, immediately looking to adopt.

You’d been a vet nurse at the Bayport Animal Society for a little over a year now, and it was your first time tagging along on one of their many “Puppy with a Purpose” events. This one in particular had been a huge buzz around the office for the past two months.

The Islanders’ organization wanted to do something different for their annual calendar and had decided to go with an “adopt don’t shop” campaign, and wanted to feature the dogs from Bayport Animal Society along with making a considerable donation to your job in exchange.

You nudged Hannah when one of your more rowdy puppies, Rocky, started chewing on the hem of one of the players’ jeans. “Looks like Rocky’s still teething.”

Hannah snorts. “At least he’s not pooping.”

A player sat a few feet away from you on the floor in front of one of the stalls, cuddling up with one of your favorite dogs, a Doberman named Brutus, who was fast asleep despite bouncing off the walls ten minutes earlier, resting his head in the player’s lap as he rubbed his belly in soothing circles.

The look on the player’s face as he stared down at Brutus said everything you needed to know - he was absolutely smitten, and one doggy snore away from signing the adoption papers. You’d thought of adopting Brutus yourself, since he was such a loving boy, but you worked too much, and didn’t want him to spend anymore time at the society than he already had.

Hoping to help your good boy seal the deal, you excused yourself from Hannah’s side and quietly approached the player, not wanting to wake Brutus.

“That’s Brutus,” you say gently, “He’s two, but he’s an absolute sweetheart. He’s everyone’s favorite at work, including mine, and he loves everyone he meets.”

“Yeah,” the player says, “I can tell. He’s been glued to my side since I came in, and I-”

The player looks up then, and when he does, you feel your heart skip a little.

He’s…well, he’s gorgeous is what he is. Like if Apollo suddenly came to life. His jawline is as sharp as marble, and his brown eyes are warm as he stares at you.

“I uh…” he starts. “I’m Mat.”

You nod a little, offering your name in return. “I’m one of the vet nurses at Bayport.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, his eyes still focused on your face. His gaze unnerves you a little, unsure of what it is he sees, or what he’s thinking, so you offer a small smile, hoping to ease the sudden growing tension.

A tension that is cut quickly when one of the photographers for the shoot says “Can we clear the staff from Bayport so we can take a couple of quick photos?”

It snaps you both out of it, and you laugh nervously. “I um, I’ll leave you to it.” You say, before you’re backing away and returning to Hannah’s side.

When you approach her, she’s got a perfectly arched brow aimed in your direction. “Who is he?”

“Mat,” is all you can say. “He uh, might take Brutus home.”

Hannah smirks at something she sees behind you, then glances at you with a teasing smile as she tosses her baby pink hair over her shoulder. “My guess is that’s not all he wants to take home.”

“Who’s that bombshell?”

Mat’s head snaps to his right where Hudson is, trying to wrangle a puppy chewing on the hem of his jeans. He follows Hudson’s eyes to where you’re standing, and tries to tamp down the rage he feels when he realizes Hudson’s staring at your ass.

His hand flies out before he can think and swats Hudson on the arm. Hudson winces, shooting a rueful look at Mat. “The fuck was that for?”

“She works for Bayport you fuckin' toad, you’re supposed to be professional.”

Hudson frowns at Mat. “The one with the pink hair?”

Pink…hair?

Mat turns back to where you are, and to his surprise, he sees another woman beside you, with baby pink hair.

"Oh," Mat says, turning back to Hudson.

Hudson raises a brow. "Who did you think I was talking about?"

"No one," Mat shakes his head, looking back at Brutus. "My bad."

To be fair, he hadn’t even noticed the pink haired woman. He’d been way too busy staring at you. Hadn’t stopped staring at you since he finally tore his eyes away from Brutus.

The pup had walked straight up to him the second he came into the room and Mat instantly knew he probably wouldn’t be leaving today without adopting this dog, but he also couldn’t figure out why he’d been so drawn to the pup in the first place.

That is, until you said Brutus had been your favorite, and then Mat had torn his eyes away, fulling intending on asking more about him, and then he saw you, and everything just...stopped.

He didn't know how he didn't notice you the second he walked into the locker room, didn't understand how a woman so beautiful, so perfect, hadn't stolen his attention immediately, but he'd been beating himself up for it every second since laying his eyes on you for the first time.

It had already been fifteen minutes since you introduced yourself since he and some of the others had been dragged away to take pictures, and in Mat's opinion, that had been fifteen minutes too long that you'd been away from him.

He glances down to where Brutus lays beside him, chewing on the tennis ball Mat fished out of his stall, and scratches between his ears gently. "Hey boy, if I promise to take you home, can you help me out?"

Brutus' ears perk up and his head tilts at Mat, like he understood every single word, tennis ball still gently clutched between his teeth.

"Wanna help me get a date with your pretty friend?" Mat asks, and Brutus tilts his head in the other direction. "Well I'll take that as a yes, c'mon buddy."

When Mat stands, he's slightly surprised but pleased when Brutus also gets up and trots along side him, following him as Mat crosses the locker room over to where you and the pink haired woman Hudson was eyeing earlier are sitting.

As he approaches, you look up at him from under your lashes before you head lifts to gaze at him fully, and his heart begins to hammer uncontrollably.

"Hi again," he starts, and is cut off from finishing his sentence when Brutus stops in front of you and lowers his head for pats.

You laugh a bit, smiling at Mat. "Hi there. Having fun with Brutus?"

Almost as if he knows he's being discussed, Brutus adorably curls up between you and Mat on the floor, resting his head on your shoes and his tail on Mat's shoes.

"I am actually," Mat admits. "Pretty sure he's coming home with me."

"Just Brutus?" The girl with the pink hair says, and Mat watches in amusement as your eyes blow wide and and you elbow her in her side. Pink hair doesn't miss a beat, sticking her hand out to Mat and saying "I'm Hannah, her best friend and favorite co-worker."

"Mat," he responds, taking Hannah's hand and shaking it once. "Nice to meet you. And no actually, not just Brutus."

This time he laughs out loud at the matching shocked expressions on your faces, and he scratches his head nervously, realizing he could be swinging for the fences here. "I just mean...I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to come out so inappropriately."

"Don't apologize," Hannah says, nudging you in the side.

"I just meant, if you're not doing anything after this, I could use some help picking out some of Brutus' favorite things, since you know him a little better than I do."

"I mean..." You start, "Bayport gives you a basket of his things when you bring him home - ow!" You shoot a look at Hannah, who glances down at Brutus as though she didn't just elbow you in the ribs.

Mat smiles, taking it in stride. "Well in that case, how about dinner? I know a great place with a patio that allows dogs. It's pretty great, and I'm sure Brutus would love it, too."

There's a second where Mat can see you hesitate, and he mentally prepares himself for the impending heartbreak, can feel his heart start to pound in anticipation for a let down, but then you're smiling shyly, and nodding. "Yeah, I'd love that."

You'd love that.

Not like.

Love.

Mat's sure his smile stretches all the way across his face, and even Brutus perks up, looking up at you with something Mat is sure resembles happiness.

"Yeah? Okay, how about Thimble Island, tonight at six?"

"It's a date," you say, and the way you look at him when you say it has Mat certain of two things.

The first is that you were the reason Brutus came up to him, and the second?

He's pretty sure if this leads where he hopes it will, he'll give this dog anything in the world that he wants.

#mathew barzal #mat barzal #mathew barzal x reader #mat barzal x reader #writing challenge #requests #mendeshoney masterlist

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soberpluto · 1 month

Text

Know Your Soul Purpose With Your Big 3

It's been so much time since I've been here, but it's amazing to be back! Now, here's a topic I was wondering about today...

All our configurations hold divine meaning, in that before we are born, our souls chose the type of experiences we needed to undergo as part of our next visit on Earth. What makes us "us" is perfect in design. And what we're "made of" can be neatly seen in our birth charts. No birth nor birth chart happen by chance.

While it’s accurate that specific karmic work (which is part of our life's mission) is indicated by studying the positions of Saturn, its aspects, planets falling in water houses and the configuration of lunar nodes, I feel we can also find great part our soul's purpose (our main lessons) by analyzing our Big 3. This is equal to drawing a picture of the blueprint of our unique navigation system, our compasses through our human experience.

To make a draft of your soul's blueprint, take these steps!

Look at your chart to know your Ascendant, Sun and Moon signs and chart ruler(s). If your rising sign has two rulers, take them both into account. In my case, I always use whole sign system.

Identify the houses of your placements.

Start drafting your Ascendant, Sun and Moon signs' significations using the tables below, including both positive and negative traits. If we're moving through life based mostly on our positive qualities, it's very likely we're on the right track. Conversely, living constantly under the influence of our negative traits marks potential blockages to get where we need to be.

Add to your blueprint areas in which you naturally express your placement's traits (houses). This is important because you will know where your mission will be accomplished more easily or naturally.

Have fun!

If you're having a bit of trouble to come up with yours, take my own example...

I am proud of myself when I present to the world as passionate, powerful, magnetic, and intuitive (positive Scorpio rising qualities). I realize that when I become vengeful, jealous, obsessive and/or mournful (negative Scorpio rising qualities), I am attracting unnecessarily challenging circumstances that hinder my lessons in my life. My personality (rising sign) projects most in my physical appearance image and identity, in my close communities and in the pursuit of my dreams (Chart Rulers in 1st and 11th house). I feel my life has meaning when I act as a nurturing, sensitive, creative and empathetic person (positive traits of Cancer sun), but when I become needy, emotionally instable, insecure and/or manipulating with others (negative traits of Cancer sun), I realize that I am blocking myself from living in my fullest potential. The area where my conscious self (Sun sign) shines most is in my path towards higher learning, distant travelling, truth seeking, legal affairs and spirituality (Sun in 9th house). I feel safe and fulfilled when I can be brave, independent, assertive and passionate (positive Moon in Aries traits). But, when I realize that I'm repeatedly reacting in a violent, selfish, impulsive and/or inconstant way (negative Moon in Aries traits), I know that am blocking my ability to be peaceful within myself and move ahead in life. My emotional needs (Moon sign) are best taken care of through my habits, health care, daily routine, service to others, jobs, and pets (Moon in the 6th house).

Now, what information can you derive from this description? What does this tell about my purpose in this life?

Naturally, I am pulled to creative, healing and spiritual work. I studied Industrial Design in college, but I've expanded my career in other directions, including developing and managing intermittently art and esoteric online businesses while also holding an office job in Change Management. I am also the eternal student, self-learning and passionate about higher knowledge. I like to share my insights with others and help them find their own truth, their own awakening. I am drawn to intense (and sometimes not so positive) experiences and relationships, and have drastically changed my own image, jobs and spiritual views along the years. I've certainly went through a lot of turmoil, but also have gained significant life lessons and valuable wisdom thanks to the way I approach life. I cannot help to be deeply emotional, empathetic, passionate, excitable, idealistic and inspired, for the good and the bad! Even though it's not been an easy road, I realize that little by little my purpose is being fulfilled... and I hope you all do!

What about you? Let me know what you find out about yourself!

Thanks for reading! 😘🖤

Written by @soberpluto

#astrology observations #astrology notes #astrology community #astrology #astrology signs #big 3 #soul purpose #soul mission #karmic lessons #lessons #karma

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 5 months

Note

one of my batfam hot takes is that alfred having a very kind and understanding grandfather-like role is a boring spin on the character and lacks a lot of nuance around his backstory.

like he is a classically trained british butler which means he very likely comes from a working class family. and like, as a working class brit myself, i sometimes find the kindly, well-mannered grandfather thing grating because, a lot of white, working class men his age are unfortunately not nice people. some of them are like my great grandad was a really great guy, but hes really the only one i know who is or was not awful.

because their generation werent as exactly raised with ideals about mental health and emotional regulation. a lot of them were traumatised due to ww2 either because they saw it firsthand when they were like 15, they were old enough to remember things like rationing and the blitz, and a lot of them lost their dads in the war.

i dont expect american writers to understand how much ww2 affected britain (modern britain is still so steeped in it, its insane) and that generation specifically, BUT id love to see that explored more with alfred. like depending on where he grew up, he would likely have been separated from his family during the blitz and sent off to the countryside like most of the kids in cities were, (this is how narnia starts) and like, a lot of them were horrifically abused or used as free labour. a lot of them also lost parents and never got to say goodbye to them. many came back to destroyed homes. some kids also remained in the city or their parents requested them back so theyd experience the blitz first hand and would know the sign of air raid siren meant they might die that night.

you can see how a lot of that generation were permanently scarred. and for a few decades now, alfred would have been part of that generation.

plus he was also a secret service officer which is just like more opportunities to be traumatised and more reason for him to not be this gentle old man whos in touch with his emotions.

and like, as a classically trained butler, he would likely be more reserved because you know, thats how he was trained. also british men that age would also likely be very hands off in regards to emotions.

but the biggest reason as to why the gentle, kind grandfather take doesnt really make sense is that he raised bruce wayne.

like bruce has a whole slew of emotional issues and problems, and obviously some of that is going to come from alfred raising him because you know, thats kinda how that works. i know a lot of batfam folks want bruce to be this great dad, so i guess their take on alfred fits that, but canonically, bruce wayne is an emotional mess and not the best father figure at the best of times.

you cannot look at that bruce wayne and tell me alfred did a good job.

listen, this shouldn't even be a hot take. it's just an opinion that differs from the most popular interpretation of Alfred as an endlessly giving grandmotherly old man.

the thing about Alfred is that more than anything you have to recognize that he's an enabler. and I love the man to pieces, but at absolute best he was extremely negligent in Bruce's upbringing, if not actively encouraging the world's worst coping mechanisms.

I hate to give Gotham credit for anything, especially when it comes to Alfred since I hate their Alfred, but the show was bang on in its insistence from day one that Alfred should not have been Bruce's primary guardian. it's painful to watch how often Alfred encourages Bruce to tough it out and suck it up, and it never really stops. in one of the latter seasons (four, I think) he hits Bruce hard enough to give him a black eye during an argument, and this is ultimately written as a situation in which Bruce needs to apologize to Alfred for being a bratty teenager, rather than Alfred owing Bruce an apology for hitting him when he's a grief-stricken teenage boy cracking under stress.

and like, listen, I understand there are Watsonian and Doylist layers to this. Alfred fundamentally can't have been a good enough guardian to stop Bruce from channeling his trauma into fursuit vigilantism, because then there's no story. I get it.

but jesus christ.

I don't think characterizations of Alfred as a stoic caregiver are wrong, but I do think people don't want to think about how he got there. when I see the aged Alfred patching up Bruce's wounds and nagging him to eat, or doing his best to offer advice to the kids who have gotten mixed up in Bruce's crusade, I see a man who realized a long time ago that he dropped the fucking ball and has dedicated his life to doing as much damage control as possible. okay, so, completely failed step one (raise a well-adjusted child). can we at least make sure that this basket case adult man doesn't go completely over the edge? can we make sure he doesn't become a killer? can we encourage him to take off the mask and be Bruce Wayne sometimes? can we keep the children safe?

I do think Alfred loves all of them, for whatever its worth. his care for Bruce is real, that is his son, the Batgirls and Robins are his extended family. he'll cook their uneaten meals and clean the entire, massive house himself and stitch them up every night forever. he would die for them. hell, he'd kill for them. he loves them. but none of that means he raised Bruce right.

that's kind of the thing I like most about the Bats: they all care so, so much. but the way they love is terrible.

#alfred pennyworth

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dazz-linglight · 8 months

Text

Miss Independent

(inspired by Ne-yo's song)

(GirlBoss!Reader x Personal Assistant! Hongjoong) (Colleagues to lovers) (fluffy romance) (reader is afraid of storms) (short office romance) (possibly there will be a part 2 with smut)

In the bustling halls of a cutting-edge technology company in a very busy commercial building, you, a remarkable business woman and Vice President of this company, got known for your determination and relentless focus on achieving a successful career, betting all of your efforts on growing this company scratch with your best friend. You learned over time that you needed to be tough to progress, since this area was widely controlled by men and there's always someone trying to discredit women. So you made it a personal mission to get your company to be a safe place and be the best professional you could be.

You're an admirable leader, but your personal life took a backseat. You always worked endless hours and overtime, focusing solely on doing business. The company kept rising well, then came a problem: your assistant decided to resign to go work for your competitor. Now you have to go over interviews to find a new assistant, so you did. You participate actively in the process, since whoever gets hired would work directly with you, so you felt the need to be sure they would be capable enough.

You didn't make it easy for anybody, you made specific questions and a few of the candidates didn't know how to answer or started stuttering, others weren't as qualified and you were getting tired. It lasted four days until you met Hongjoong one morning doing an interview for this job. A young and talented software developer, that didn't show any fear and aswered your questions perfectly well, looking in your eyes without any fear. After 40 minutes you told him to stay and gave him a few tasks to see how he would go. Hongjoong showed himself to be smart, quick witted, committed to work and serious about it. At the end of the day you called him to your office to give the final answer. He entered bringing a cappuccino and placed it in front of you in your desk.

"This is for you, Miss." He said and you tilted your head, letting out a very light smile at the action.

"Thanks, Hongjoong. You can sit down." You offered the seat in front of you and he did as told while you took a sip of the coffee.

"Well, I have to say you impressed me in a good way. None of the other candidates caught my attention like you did today." You started and Hongjoong visibly relaxed at your feedback.

"I did my best, I'm glad to hear that from you, Miss."

"I'm sure you'll be even more glad to hear that you will be hired. You can bring your documents to the HR department tomorrow at 8 in the morning and sign our contract." You got up from your seat and Hongjoong did the same, bowing to you and you raised a hand to greet him, which he took and shook your hand.

"Thank you Miss ______, I will not disappoint you." Hongjoong smiled widely and you let his hand go, switching off your computer and getting your bag to leave, dismissing Hongjoong to go home.

|•••••Time skip•••••|

The first six months of working together were a challenge. You resisted any form of distraction, maintaining a strictly professional relationship with Hongjoong. Everyday he came to your office to report and receive new tasks, he brought your lunch and coffee and as days passed and you worked side by side, he started making a few little efforts to make the barriers give way. One afternoon, you were reviewing an important document in your office when Hongjoong walked in. He noticed the tired look on your face and suggested you take a break. You resisted with a frown at first, but Hongjoong someway succeeded at convincing you to go the snack bar on the first floor of the building.

The snack bar was peaceful at this hour and made a good break from the stressful office atmosphere. You felt at ease with Hongjoong's presence and he offered to buy donuts. You both sat down, ate and talked about trivial things and sharing laughs here and there. You found yourself truly relaxing for the first time in years.

After that day, you and Hongjoong began sharing more and more moments outside of work. Having lunch together became a routine and when you worked overtime he occasionally invited you to dinner together. He opened doors for you, drives you off, treated you like a princess. You both didn't talk clearly about it, but you were beginning to feel something that had long since receded from your mind: the spark of romance. However, you struggled with those feelings. It seemed so wrong, he is your assistant and you're the boss. You felt afraid of mixing love and business, worried about the consequences a relationship could have for the company you had worked so hard to build. But every time you're together, the chemistry between you becomes impossible to ignore. It started making you mad.

One day, you left your office because you needed a document that was with Hongjoong, but as soon as you saw him you noticed something and frowned. Yujin, a beautiful co-worker, was approaching him a little more intimately than usual. They seemed to be having a lively conversation and Yujin didn't hide her interest, touching his arm unnecessarily. You, feeling a pang of jealousy, tried not to act affected, but you couldn't avoid the stress of seeing the scene. Your mind created several unpleasant scenarios. "Is he interested in her? Is he flirting back?"

"Kim Hongjoong." You spoke in a firm and serious tone, catching the attention of the two who were talking.

"Yes, miss? Do you need anything?" Hongjoong stood up and responded, no longer paying attention to Yujin.

"Come to my office and bring the project presentation I asked you this morning. Quickly." You said sharply and looked at Yujin from the corner of your eye, who soon got up and left the place.

"Yes, ma'am." He spoke and you turned around and walked back to your office as Hongjoong saved the presentation file you asked for. You slammed the door angrily and headed towards your table, a minute later Hongjoong entered and came over to you.

"Here's the presentation, Miss ______." He gave you the pendrive and you sighed, connecting it on your computer to open the file. You inspected it and pointed things out for Hongjoong to add since you thought it wasn't enough yet.

"You're staying overtime today, we need this presentation ready for the meeting we'll have with our client tomorrow morning." You told looking back at him and he nodded.

"All right, I'll bring my laptop here." He left the room and came back a minute later with his laptop, sitting down and placing the laptop in front of him and started guiding him specifically on what to add to the presentation. An hour passed and all the employees began leaving since work time was officially over.

It's mid summer and it was very hot during the day, but as the night came many clouds could be seen in the floor-to-ceiling window behind you. Hongjoong finished the details on the presentation and saved it as a sudden storm started. You looked at the window and the lights went out, the fear started creeping out on you but Hongjoong didn't notice yet as he got his phone to activate the flashlight amidst the darkness and the sound of rain outside. Hongjoong placed his phone in a way it illuminated both of you and he finally could see your face again, now noticing your pained expression and your heavy breathing.

"Are you okay, Miss ______?" He questioned with a frown and you shook your head no as a thunder sound out loud and you covered your ears. Hongjoong got worried about you, wanting to keep you safe, so he got up and closed the curtains of your window, coming behind you to cover your shoulders with his blazer.

You've always had a paralyzing fear of thunder, and that night, the storm was fierce, growing stronger and stronger. As he touched your shoulders he felt your whole body shaking with fear and then he crouched to your level and brought up inside his arms in a warm hug, whispering words of comfort. "Don't worry, I'm here with you. You're safe. The storm will pass soon." You looked into his eyes hugging his waist carefully, grateful for his presence.

"I hate storms, they make me so nervous, Hongjoong." Your eyes had tears on the edge of falling down, while you and Hongjoong shared an intense look, full of repressed emotions. This was the first time you were truly showing vulnerability to him and he was astonished, all he ever wanted was to take care of you. He pulled your head to his chest and you could listen to his heart beating fast just like yours.

"I don't know if this is really the right time to say this, but.. but I can't deny how I feel anymore. I'm in love with you, ______." His words echoed in the empty office as he broke the silence and confessed his feelings. You were shocked. You didn't expect that he felt the same way you did all this time. Your heart jumped now, not anymore because of fear but from happiness.

"I'm in love with you too, Hongjoong. I tried not to, but it's stronger than me." You squeezed Hongjoong as tight as you could and he kissed the side of your head softly. You looked up and offered your lips to him, which he understood and closed the little distance, sealing the beginning of a long-awaited romance. The storm outside seemed to symbolize the change in your lives and the relationship from boss and assistant to lovers.

"I want to be with you and take care of you through all the storms, will you let me?"

"Of course, Hongjoong." You smile widely and he cupped your face, caressing your cheeks as he smiled as well. "Will you take me home?"

"As long as you wish, my darling."

|•••••••|

Over the next months, your relationship with Hongjoong blossomed into a great love. You chose to main discretion at work, avoiding any favoritism or conflict of interest and not letting the coworkers know you are together. They only knew Hongjoong is in a relationship but he never told them with who. You realized that by making room for love in your life, you weren't weakening your career, but actually strengthening it. Hongjoong supported you in every aspect, becoming a partner in all areas of your life and you become his.

Together, you faced new challenges and business opportunities while the company prospered even more. You found balance between personal and professional life, discovering that you can be a successful leader and at the same time share a loving relationship, that success in business didn't have to mean sacrificing love and personal happiness.

#linawritings #ateez fluff #ateez masterlist #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez hard hours #ateez reactions #hongjoong hard hours #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut #kpop imagines

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creatorofuniverses · 3 months

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Day 23 – Monster

Today's prompt is "share or short: a story with a nonhuman/monstrous character". And I know the challenge said "short", but this prompt took hold of my imagination earlier in the month and I may or may not have ended up with a new story's inciting action, which is (checks notes) over 4k words long. Enjoy?

________________________

Casper knew that working the night shift wasn’t going to be much fun. He knew that working the night shift as a janitor was going to be even less fun. He had expected some long nights and some dull work from the start.

What he hadn’t expected was to be cleaning fucking Area 51.

Not that he was allowed to call it that. They’d been very specific on that point, actually, amongst others. This was an alien-free facility, and also a joke-free facility. It practically said so on his contract- the long, complicated, very intimidating contract he’d read through and eventually signed; and that was only after signing the NDA. He should have known that there was a catch when he saw how much they were willing to pay him for what would otherwise be a minimum-wage job. By the time he could work out whether he was getting cold feet or not, he was in too deep. The pay was very good. He tried to repeat that to himself as he clocked in for his first real day (night) on the job, his shoulders a little tense as he swiped the key card and wheeled the cart with all his cleaning supplies out into the hallway.

The dark, empty, extremely foreboding hallway. He’d been trained by the daytime staff earlier in the week, but he hadn’t gotten to see much of the place then, and it certainly hadn’t looked like it did now. Something about the building being empty, like a dead husk-

“Okay, wow,” he muttered aloud to himself. “No. You gotta cut that shit right out, man.” Casper shook his head, admonishing himself as he set off at a clipped pace towards his first room to clean. The last thing he needed was to let his brain go off on wild imaginings when it didn’t have to. Just because he was the only one on the nighttime cleaning staff until the early morning didn’t mean that he was alone in the building. There was a security office… somewhere… and he was certain that they were keeping an eye on things.

They had to, because this place was full of monsters.

Which was a fact that Casper’s brain kept trying to remind him of, and one that he kept pushing away, lest it encourage the aforementioned wild imaginings. He hadn’t believed it, not even after all the paperwork and the almost dramatically serious briefings, not until he’d seen it for himself. Monsters were real, and they were housed here, studied and contained lest they be a danger to the world outside. Creatures of myth and legend from around the world, all under one massive roof in a facility buried deep in the hills of Bumfuck, Nowhere.

Where one new and extremely nervous janitor was tasked with cleaning up the place. Not the enclosures themselves, thankfully, or Casper would have run screaming, NDA or not. No, he was just here for the normal, human areas, or so Casper kept telling himself. No need to freak out. This was practically like any other job.

Telling himself that about once a minute, Casper put in some headphones, started a playlist, and did his best to ignore his anxiety. He did a fairly good job for a while cleaning up the offices- wiping down desks, vacuuming and mopping, restocking the cheap coffee supplies and such. Same with the break rooms, the meeting rooms, the lobby. He did the basics in the labs, careful not to touch anything but his mop and the garbage cans. He then worked on the hallways for a bit. He even cleaned all the bathrooms, on every floor, before he had no choice but to face the areas he’d been dreading the most: the observation decks and prep rooms.

He approached the entrance to the nearest enclosure with his cleaning cart, his hands clenched, white-knuckled, along the handlebar. Even the soothing music playing in his ears couldn’t distract him from his nerves at the thought of going in there. “Nothing’s gonna get you,” he promised himself under his breath, willing himself to stop being such a scaredy-cat. Sure, the rooms on the other side of that door looked out into one of the many monster enclosures in the building, and sure, the prep room beneath the observation deck could lead out into the enclosure… but he wouldn’t have to go out there. And the rooms were secure, they had to be, because all those important scientists and guards and whatever were in them all the time without being in danger of whatever beast they were studying. So Casper would be perfectly safe.

He would have to deal with maybe seeing one of the monsters though. Out in its huge enclosure. In the dark. There was no getting around that.

Casper let out a long, shaky breath, mumbled, “Fuck it,” and opened the door.

The sight inside was, thankfully, underwhelming. He flicked one of the light switches and a single row of fluorescents kicked on, revealing a truly mundane setting. A handful of chairs lay scattered about, and a row of countertop stretched across a long wall made up mostly of windows. That led out into the enclosure, of course, but it was dark out there, and with the light on inside, Casper couldn’t see anything but his own reflection.

Heart pounding, but knowing it would haunt him if he didn’t, Casper inched up to the windows and peered out into the enclosure, cupping his hands around his eyes to block the light and see a little better. He was half expecting a jump scare, but nothing leapt up. Nothing even really moved. In the dim light from the observation deck, he could just barely see a large lump out in the far corner of the enclosure, still and likely (hopefully) asleep.

It took him a little while to peg which monster this was; the label on the door read “M-9” but that didn’t mean much to somebody who had only recently been hired. He wracked his brain for the creatures he had recognized in the briefings in an attempt to discern the true shape of the far-off lump. Eventually, he realized it looked like a lion out there, curled up asleep- a lion the size of a small building, of course, with an uncannily human set to its slumped shoulders. Probably the sphinx, then. Not the most terrifying thing in here, but that bar was set pretty high. He still wouldn’t want to see it up and about.

Casper inched away from the windows again and let out a long breath. Okay. He was going to do his best to clean quietly, and maybe if he was lucky, it would stay asleep and he could get through this task without any trouble.

Of course, that was easier said than done. He did still have to clean, and there was a set amount of noise that was bound to go with that. The tables and floor of the observation deck were cleaned fairly quickly and quietly, but that wasn’t the only area he needed to attend to. Getting his cart down the wide stairs leading to the prep room below made enough of a cacophony to wake the dead, and his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest by the time he got down there. He cast a quick look towards the enclosure, but there were no windows down here to see out of- just shelves full of containers and tools, a large chest freezer that hummed out a low drone, and the sickly-sweet smell of raw meat. This must be where they kept the sphinx’s food; because a butcher’s shop was exactly what he wanted to smell when he was already crawling out of his skin with nerves.

Shaky hands hastily grabbed the mop out of the cleaning cart, followed by a number of swears as an assortment of similarly pole-shaped cleaning apparatuses came free along with it and fell to the side. Whatever- he would grab them later, he needed to smell the overwhelming scent of cleaning solution now or he was going to lose his nerve entirely.

Casper dunked the mop into the bucket of soapy water attached to the end of the cleaning cart, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as the sinus-clearing smell of bleach beat back the raw meat stink. The wet mop slapped onto the laminate floor and he pushed it back and forth vigorously, as if he could thereby push away his own fear.

He tried to focus on the music coming through his headphones, the feel of the mop pushing against the floor, the embarrassment he would feel if he let himself be scared away from a solid job after only one night of work. This was fine, he was overreacting. He was safe in here, he literally just had to clean the floor and then he could drag his cart back up the stairs and move on. Maybe he would figure out a better way to do that in the next enclosure. Maybe he’d ease into this whole thing. Maybe…

Maybe he could hear something behind him.

Casper whirled around, heart in his throat. He whipped off his headphones and slung them around his neck, straining his ears to listen. At first all he could hear was the quiet, tinny sound of the music still playing, the thumping of his heart against his ribs, his shallow, almost-silent breathing. But then he heard it again, a scraping sound, coming from the big metal door that would lead out into the enclosure.

Calm down, he told himself, feeling just this side of a panic. It’s probably just that… that thing, moving around outside. I’m sure it can’t open the door. He looked, just to make sure, and his breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and his pulse pounding in his ears.

Sure, the door was too small for something the size of that sphinx to get through, and he doubted they’d made a doorknob that a monster could use on the other side. But inside, in here, instead of a doorknob there was a long push-bar… and right now a bunch of brooms had fallen against that push-bar… and the door was cracked.

Casper barely managed to think Oh shit, I fucked up before a couple of long, sinister claws the length of kitchen knives scraped through that crack and dug into the door.

What happened next happened in seconds. The door was ripped off its hinges with a horrible, metallic shriek. Casper dropped the mop and bolted, scrambling to get around his cleaning cart and back up the stairs. He’d barely made it to the bottom step when an enormous paw – no, hand, clawed and padded but long, strangely human despite being the size of a bed – thrust itself through the door and into the room.

The paw-like hand whipped back and forth rapid-fire, like a cat batting at a toy, and one of the sweeps caught Casper full on. He was thrown from the stairs and into the shelving, crumpling to a heap on the floor with a wet gasp as heavy containers rained down around him, banging into him mercilessly where he lay.

Get up get up GET UP his mind screamed, but his body wouldn’t respond. His shoulders and back were throbbing angrily from where they’d smacked into the shelving, and his legs and arms stung in multiple places from getting hit with the contents of the shelves. He shifted, trying to get one arm under himself so he could push himself upright, and bit back a whimper. If he could just stay quiet, maybe it wouldn’t be able to find him, to get to him…

He pushed himself up onto one elbow and had to pause, sucking in as silent of breaths as he could. He froze as the giant, clawed hand that filled most of the room retreated as quickly as it had come.

A sudden, reckless hope flooded through him. It couldn’t fit in here, of course it couldn’t, maybe this was the end of it.

Then a golden, gleaming eye came out of the darkness beyond and filled the doorway. A cat-like pupil stared straight at Casper as a low, rumbling growl, something more out of Jurassic Park than anything else, filled the air from the ground up. Casper’s mind went blank with fear even as the eye retreated and the hand returned, reaching for him.

Casper rolled over onto his side, twisting away from that giant grasp with an exhalation that would have been a noise of fear had he been any less breathless. His movement tucked him closer to the shelves but couldn’t get him far enough- a claw snagged against the back of his shirt, scratching a line down his back that did pull a high noise of pain from him. Then that claw pulled, dragging him across the floor, the laminate still slick with cleaning solution and offering him no purchase even as his hands desperately scrabbled for something, anything to hold onto.

It was no use. The enormous hand behind him pushed everything out of its way by dint of its sheer size, before dragging him out of the prep room entirely.

Smooth laminate gave way to gritty sand, and Casper’s skin grated against it painfully for a few agonizing moments before all the movement stopped. Heaving for breath, he scrambled to his hands and knees, eyes locked on the ragged square of tepid light defining the open doorway a few yards ahead of him. He only managed to crawl a foot or two in that direction before that huge, paw-like hand batted at him again.

It felt like being hit by a truck. Casper’s body rolled across the uneven ground, flipping him over to his back. His lungs burned, heaving to suck breath into his battered chest, and he couldn’t move for what felt like an agonizing length of time, but what was probably only a few seconds. Eventually his eyes opened, though he immediately wished they hadn’t.

The sphinx loomed over him. He could just barely see it, its contours faintly limned in the weak light coming from the observation deck above, the prep room he had been dragged out of. Powerful, furred haunches, eerily human shoulders, glinting golden eyes amongst the outline of a large mane, all bigger than he could ever have imagined. The clawed fingers digging into the ground next to him were nearly as long as he was tall.

Even though he knew it wouldn’t work, sheer fear and panic made Casper scramble to his feet the minute he had his breath again, frantically backpedaling only to be knocked over within seconds by those huge, sharp fingers. He landed on his side, curling up and throwing his hands over his neck as an enormous index finger nudged harshly at him with the back of one knuckle, pushing him around with ease. Casper’s mouth tasted like blood and grit; he was pretty sure he’d split his lip at some point, god knows when, and the sand was getting everywhere.

At this point he was fairly certain, in the cold, detached way of somebody immersed in shock and terror, that he wasn’t going to live long enough for the sand to be a problem. The sphinx’s motions reminded him of nothing more than a cat toying with a mouse, before…

Oh god, he didn’t want to be the mouse.

The air above Casper was displaced, and he could all but feel the monster looming overhead. As much as he didn’t want to, he couldn’t help but looks up at his approaching death, his eyes wide and wet behind an arm still thrown across his neck. Closer now, mere feet above him, the features of the sphinx’s face were suddenly thrown into clarity. An enormous but distressingly human face looked down at him, almond-shaped eyes with those cat-like pupils staring dispassionately, a human mouth flat and uncaring. Hair grew out from every side of the face, forming a mane. The nose looked caught between human and feline, curved but stubby at the end, the texture and curve of a cat’s nose growing seamlessly out of what otherwise might be considered skin.

That strange nose, wide as one of the crates in the prep room, got so close to Casper that it eclipsed most of his view. He froze, heart rabbiting in his chest, as it sniffed him, great gusts of air sucked into unfathomably large lungs.

Then the enormous face above Casper tilted, and his vision was filled with huge lips, which drew back to reveal long, sharp teeth, that parted and-

“No!” he screamed, curling up into a quivering ball again, as if that could protect him from certain doom. “No, no, god please, no!” His voice was ragged, higher pitched than he’d ever heard himself sound before, tight with pain and fear. “Please, don’t… oh god, please…”

The begging devolved into breathy sounds of terror as he waited for teeth to stab through him, waited for the monster in the dark to gobble him up.

It didn’t happen.

Shaking and tense, Casper uncurled a minute amount, making himself look up again and fully expecting to see those teeth closing in. Instead, the face of the sphinx had retreated somewhat. It was looking down at him, head cocked to one side, as if… confused? Well, that would make two of them.

But a moment of confusion was better than a moment of painful death, and Casper’s terrorized brain frantically tried to figure out what had changed. Was it his begging? He supposed he hadn’t talked to it, why would he have talked to it… were the words what had caught its attention?

“Do… do you…” he stammered, still curled up. Even so, he flinched tighter as it leaned down closer. Wetting his lips (oh, gross, definitely blood and sand) he made himself talk more. “Do you understand m-me?”

It didn’t seem to, at least not as far as he could tell. Its brow was furrowed slightly, but no trace of understanding passed across that oversized face. It opened its mouth – it took all his willpower not to close his eyes again – and emitted a series of horrific sounds. Growling, low enough to shiver through Casper’s chest at this proximity, was modulated into a variety of tones- a warped kind of speech, or music maybe, if music made you feel like you were about to be the first person killed in a sci-fi horror movie.

Regardless, it explained nothing at all to Casper.

“I,” he squeaked out, shaking his head frantically. “I-I don’t-”

He didn’t get to finish. Letting out a huff, the sphinx leaned down, closing the space between them in a fraction of a second.

Then it opened its mouth and clamped its teeth around Casper, lifting him off of the ground entirely.

Casper screamed, any thoughts of communication disappearing in the wake of this new, life-threatening development. His hands scrabbled at the teeth pinning him, sliding off of slick enamel before hitting gums. He was too far gone to even be disgusted, he was only afraid, afraid of those teeth closing in and piercing straight through him, of being swallowed up by the monster that already had him halfway in its mouth. “No, please,” he sobbed, tears flowing from eyes wide and unseeing. It didn’t even matter- the monster had turned away from the light, plunging him into darkness. He could only tell they were moving by the rush of air. “Oh, god, please…”

Another shriek was pulled from him as he suddenly plummeted, still caught between sharp teeth, only to be unceremoniously dropped onto the ground. He lay there limp, limbs numb and buzzy with adrenaline, tears still leaking out of his eyes. He pinched his eyes shut and sobbed, curling up and weakly shielding his head. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. If it was going to eat him, he almost wished it would just get it over with.

He felt rather than saw it lean in close, felt its warm, humid breath wash over him. A yelp of surprise blurted out as, instead of teeth, he felt a tongue licking over him; it was rough, and dry, more like a cat’s tongue than a human one, though big enough to cover his entire side with one swipe. He shuddered beneath it, uncomfortable and terrified, so unsure of what was happening.

A low rumble started up behind him as the sphinx licked away the sand covering him, a sound deep within a cavernous chest somewhere in the dark; but this wasn’t the growl from earlier, nor was it the attempt at speech.

It… it sounded like… purring?

While Casper’s heart still did its damndest to put him in cardiac arrest, the terror ebbed away from his mind a minute amount, making space for confusion once again. Purring was a good sign, probably, right? It would mean the feline monster was content with this in some way, even though he wasn’t being eaten. Actually, maybe the licking didn’t have anything to do with eating him, or at least he hoped not. It seemed less about tasting and more about… grooming? Was that what was happening here? Was the enormous monster with the razor-sharp claws and huge teeth now just grooming him?

It was so ridiculous that Casper actually blurted out, “Ha!”, a bark of a laugh that bordered on the hysterical more than the amused. He flinched as that huge tongue sought out his face, licking along his cheek and up into his hair, accompanied by a feline vocalization that almost seemed to be in response to his little outburst. Hell, maybe it was.

He couldn’t do anything except lie there and hope for the best, not with the monster’s mouth so close to him. He weathered the tongue bath, only breaking the silence with quiet sounds of pain when that rough tongue scraped over new cuts. Tears from his brief but fervent bout of sobbing dried on his face, and the longer things went without him dying horribly, the more space his mind had to consider the possibility of escape.

There had to be a way out of this. Maybe the monster would let him go after this, or he could sneak away once it fell asleep. His heart lurched in his chest, hope flaring so suddenly and so keenly that it almost made him nauseous, as he suddenly remembered the fact that there were security guards in the building. All the enclosures had cameras, surely by now somebody had seen what had happened to him. They could come help him, or even call somebody who could figure out a way to rescue him before things went south again. They had to.

He strained his ears, trying to hear if anybody was coming. All he heard was a low, rumbling purr, so close and so pressing that it almost felt like a physical blanket of sound around him. Hard to hear anything through that, he told himself, and tried to stave off the sharp disappointment that a rescue wasn’t happening yet. Soon, surely, somebody would come.

Right?

A noise of surprise squawked out of him as something wrapped around him – fingers this time, not teeth, thank god – and lifted him up. He winced and leaned away as best he could as that catlike tongue swiped over the side of him that had been on the ground and therefore inaccessible moments ago; he couldn’t actually go anywhere though, not with giant, padded fingers locked around him like a vice grip. He didn’t want to tear himself to shreds on its claws trying to wiggle away, either, especially since he couldn’t see a damn thing. It made his heartbeat pick back up just thinking about it.

He expected to be put down after it was done licking him, but he still gasped as he was swept backwards and deposited on the ground. The sand felt gritty and blessedly solid beneath his shaky arms.

Casper tried to get to his feet, entertaining a fool’s hope that he might be able to make another run for it, only for his surroundings to suddenly constrict around him. He was uncomfortably pressed into the thick fur of… its arm, maybe. When he flinched back he nearly got tangled up in its mane, which seemed to surround him, rough hair full of animal stink and suggesting a very close proximity indeed. It was with no shortage of panic that Casper realized he was trapped, tucked close against it where it lay. There was the sound of it settling all around him, and then a long sigh as the purring faded somewhat. It snuffled out one last huff and then seemed to quiet completely.

His mind whirled. It was probably going back to sleep. It was going back to sleep with him surrounded by it.

He shakily felt his way back towards its arm, wondering if he dared trying to climb up and out over it; but after only a short, panicked scramble, his head hit something solid above him, and it scared him badly enough that he lost his grip and all but fell back to the ground with a pained exhale. It was on top of him too, oh god it was just too big. He wasn’t going to get out of this on his own, not without it moving.

After a few moments letting this fear run its course, he sucked in a shaky breath and risked piping up. “Um?” he said out into the quiet dark. “Could you, um, not?”

The sphinx did not reply. It seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be totally asleep; that, or it was content to ignore him now that it had him where it apparently wanted him.

Casper curled up on the hard, packed sand beneath him and did his best not to panic. He stared out with wide eyes towards a monstrous limb he couldn’t see, in the darkness of an enclosure he was never supposed to be in. Somebody would have to come eventually. Even if the security guards somehow hadn’t noticed his near-death experience, by early morning the rest of the cleaning staff would show up, and somebody would wonder where the hell he was.

He just had to wait.

#GtWAC #GtWAC prompts #Gt #my writing #treasure of the sphinx #<-tentative title

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rise-my-angel · 1 year

Text

New Year New Games

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Female Reader

Length: 16.3k

Warnings: Nanny au, slight canon divergence, reader with powers, mutual pining, masturbtion, angst/hurt comfort, happy ending, smut, handjobs, p in v

Notes: Big thank you to @thewayofthemandalorian for letting me borrow the idea about Marcus's wife and caring for a younger Missy from Afraid To Jinx It 💜

You knew you weren’t getting out of this one. You had already skipped out on the Christmas party, and nearly everyone had commented on it. On the Monday you arrived at work and the first thing Marcus said to you was, “You didn’t come to the party? We- everyone was excited to see you.” Followed by a few vaugley annoyed emails from others in the office about you not showing up. Apparently your presence in the building was missed and you’re excuse of something coming up at the last minute was not accepted.

Now though? You had been walked right into a trap just to coax you into saying yes. Ms Vox and Lavagirl had insisted in meeting up with you for lunch, claiming it had been so long since they’d seen you and wanted to catch up. You had Missy with you that afternoon, so you hoped she would be a good distraction for them. Failing to remember that she obviously was at the party, and wouldn’t be distracted by her charm this time around.

“No one has seen you in forever. We miss you.” Vox was unfair. Toning her voice up to sound so sweet and enticing while bashing her well painted eyes at you. Lavagirl was a little more straight forward in intention, but stayed silent to let her friend play the guilt trip game. “There’s no way you aren’t at least a little bit tired of working in Moreno’s house day in and day out.”

Except that was the opposite reason you didn’t go to the party. It was over half a year ago when Marcus’s wife had left. Signed her parental rights off and moved overseas to focus her life entirely on laboratory research. None of you were quite sure why she had to leave her family behind to do so, but judging by Marcus’s not so heartbroken response you suspected it was at least something that had been building up for a while.

That’s where you came in. Your ability wasn’t special enough to put you in the prestigious league of Heroics, but kept you around them so long most of them considered you a friend. You could keep it dormant and that’s where you preferred to keep it. Ullr they called you, or when they tried to tease you about it, ‘God of Gambling’. You could use it to win any kind of direct amble, bet, or traditional game. You couldn’t bet on the horses, but you would always win a game of pool.

Turns out, having such a specific skill set didn’t have much use in a combative world, and more often then not you were designated for office duty. Then Marcus’s wife left, and he found himself with a three year old Missy and no one to care for her when he was gone. So you volunteered. Coming here to only find out that the very team you were hired on to join, had no use for you made you feel left out.

Tossed aside because what were you supposed to do? Fight aggressive, violent bad guys by challenging them to rock, paper scissors? “If I win six out of ten you have to promise to stop murdering.” Yeah that would solve the problem. So you forced it back, kept it dormant and tried to find purpose here, until Marcus needed help.

It was a long talk when you approached him about leaving your job here and being a nanny to his daughter. You needed a purpose after the only one you were told you were destined for got ripped away for it’s uselessness. But half a year later you felt no regrets.

Missy adored you as much as you adored her, and Marcus felt much more like a close friend than a boss now. Which was why you skipped the party. He to you, felt too much like a close friend and you had a bad habit of falling for close friends.

You spent enough time as it was in his personal life, and the last thing you wanted was to come off as clingy or attached. You invaded their lives, their home enough as it was he didn’t need you in his home for an office party with people you didn’t even work with anymore. So you claimed something came up, but now the two women sat across from you at the tiny round table felt like they were closing in on the lie.

“I’m not above dragging you out of your apartment by force to get you to go.” Your forehead fell into your hand as you sighed. Lavagirl wasn’t above making a scene and your nerves lit with anxiety at the prospect of being the subject of it. She leaned in across the table trying to catch your eyes. “You haven’t done anything fun for yourself since even before you left. It’s just one party and we’ll stop pestering you about them. Until the next one.”

Your eyes dragged up to her, flat and amused as you tilted to rest your cheek on your palm. You did have fun actually, both with Missy and the more quiet hours you spent with Marcus when he comes home. Just spending time with him like you were regular friends. “What if midnight’s just too late for me?”

Now Lavagirl was the one to give you the flat look. “Please how many times did I come back from a mission around eleven at least and there you were still working away? You’re telling me in what? 6 months you’ve changed and now abide by a bed time like a good girl? I can’t even get my own daughter to do that.”

Your body dropped, eyes drifting off to the side of nothing as you sighed. If you showed up, did the rounds, made an impression as people were excited to see you maybe you could sneak out during a quiet lull when no one was looking. You were quiet for a moment, mind lost in thought as you sat unmoving.

Vox’s quiet call of your name along with a cutesy “Please?” just sent prickles all over your skin. Raking across your arms and down into your chest. These were your friend’s once upon a time. It wasn’t their fault or choice that Ms. Granada kicked you out of the league.

Before you could really think about it, a small hand tapped at your arm. You looked beside you to Missy’s wide brown eyes just as bright as her dads. “Daddy says I can come too. I can keep you company if you’re sad!”

Christ almighty, her puppy dog eyes were just as manipulative as Marcus’s as well. His magnetic manipulation might not have been inherited, but apparently his adorable wide eyed convincing skills sure were.

You ran a hand over her hair, noting in the back of your mind to braid it when you both got home so she didn’t have snow soaked hair dripping all over the floor. You didn’t even notice that you called the Moreno house home. Not her home, or even their home. Just home.

Warmth filled your heart as you looked at her, and flickered your eyes back over to the hopeful looks of your friends. Answering Missy was easier then answering them. So you pulled her head slightly towards you to press a kiss to the top of her head.

Pulling back you put a hand over your heart, voice enunciated and exaggeratedly formal. “I’d be honoured Madam Moreno to have you escort me to the New Year’s Ball.”

Her little face scrunched up in thought, whipping her head around like she was about to reveal a secret only to slide halfway off her seat to whisper to whisper, “What’s a New Year Ball?”

Grinning, you cupped your hand around her ear, whispering just loud enough for Vox and Lavagirl to hear as well. “Like the fancy castle party in Cinderella.” Immediately her eyes lit up and clapped, voice loud and almost in a giddy ‘yay’. Catching eyes of other people in the cafe, but only attracting melted hearts of you and the other two at your table.

She stuck her pinky out and waited for you to return it, as she gave a fond smile before looking to the others. “You can’t pick me up though. Give me time to get ready, alright? It’s been a while since I’ve been around everyone at once.”

They gave you that at least. The rest of the afternoon was easy going. You spent much time in Missy’s room combing through her closet and drawer of little costumes trying to find a pretty dress that sparkled just like Cinderellas. Sitting on her bed, short legs waving back and forth as she tapped at her cheek trying to decide if she wanted a pretty tiara to go with it.

By the time you heard Marcus’s car pull into the driveway you already had Missy in her seat at the kitchen table munching on baby carrots as you put the finishing touches on her dinner. As you heard the front door open, Marcus sweetly called Missy’s name.

Her head whipped over to you, hair flying across her face from the swish, eyes wide and begging. Just a nod of your head and she jumped from her seat and ran into the other room. Judging by the clash of fabric, no doubt dashing straight into Marcus’ chest in a hug. You tried not to pay attention, or even look his way.

Hopefully he would make his usual plea that you shouldn’t feel obligated to make dinner, let alone set out a plate for himself and not you. Shake his head at your insistence that you enjoyed it and he’d leave it at that. You didn’t want him to bring up new years and immediately key out whatever lie you’d come up on the spot with.

You only planned on visiting for a short while, avoid having to interact with him in a fun, champagne fueled get together where he’d let loose much more naturally. You could avoid your feelings when you still worked at the head quarters, distracted by non stop running around and being dragged by your ankles into office politics. Here you had Missy. You were hired to make her your priority so you could shove those feelings aside in favour of being a good caregiver and role model for her.

But a party you had no obligations, and there would be no filter or work around to avoid him. Marcus wanted you to come to the Christmas party so much, he would be thrilled to see you at this one.

Lost in thought, you missed Marcus’s entrance to the kitchen. His presence only making itself known as you jumped at the press of his warm hand at your back and deep voice rumble in your ear. “I’ve told you, cariño. If you insist on making me dinner when you don’t have to, please make some for yourself too.”

From the corner of your eye you could see his chin nod out to the only two plates set up one with a purposely fun Missy friendly assortment of food while the other clearly set up or Marcus with a little green bean salad on the side that neither you or your tiny ward would ever touch. “And I’ve told you, sir that I take on enough time with Missy as it is. She needs alone father daughter time.”

Still not looking him in the eye, you grabbed the plates and swivelled out of his closeness by rushing out the long way to the table. Even a drink set out in a nice glass was there. Leaning down to Missy’s level you put her plate in front of her. “Remember, veggies first. So you can-”

Her bright eyes shined up at you with a proud smile, “So I can end on the tasty parts?” You grinned at her and pulled her in to kiss the top of your head. You could only see enough of Marcus to know that pulled off his tie and undone enough buttons to let his chest breathe.

But you still didn’t look at him as you left the room to put your jacket on. Marcus though was faster then you could leave, turning the corner as he called your name. Reluctantly you turned your head and instantly regretted it. His glasses were off so it gave a completely unobstructed view of his eyes that screamed warmth. “Are you going to be there tomorrow night?”

You told yourself the hopeful look on him was your imagination. “I uh..”

Marcus closed in on you, his gaze never straying from your shifting eyes. “Her abuela is taking her home if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Christ how did a man with such a sharp power and commanding presence radiate a sweet energy that it could rot a tooth if indulged in too much. You switched your weight back and forth on your feet, knowing if you lied to him now you would secure him approaching you directly at the party about it.

So you sighed nonchalantly and nodded. “I think so.” You looked up at him in the most fake casual manner. Maybe you really did deserve to be booted from the team, you couldn’t lie convincingly with a gun to your head. “Hard to say no when Vox gets on you about something, right?”

His eyes squinted in thought towards you for the briefest of flashes before chuckling. The bass flying directly into your veins and flowed throughout with a guilty desire. A fond smile graced his features as he took a final step towards you, a hand gently finding a spot cupping your wrist that hovered by your chest still attached to your zipper. “I- good. We all just want to see you have fun for once. You work too hard.”

If Marcus could feel the muscles in your arm tightening, he didn’t say anything. The needy part of your brain just begging for him to slide up just centimeters more and lock his think fingers with your small ones. But you simply finished zipping your jacket up hoping the movement would lose him. It didn’t, his touch followed the trail up to your shoulders only to burn your neck where he moved his touch to lightly cup the side of your neck and just under your jaw. “I’m serious. I want you to go, see everyone again and have fun. You deserve it, alright?”

The rough pad of his fingers had your pulse explode into overdrive, again if he noted, not a word was said. You needed to get out of there. The longer you felt Marcus in your space, the more his comforting cologne scent filled your nostrils the more you couldn’t breathe. He didn’t wear know how weak being so close made you feel and you couldn’t deal with that right now.

So you just forced a tight closed mouth smile and nodded. “I don’t know about that, but I promise to stop by.” You turned to open the door, yelling a goodbye to Missy only to be accosted by her tiny frame bumping into your legs.

“Wait you need a pretty dress too!” Without thinking you crouched down to her height with an eyebrow raised. “The Cinderella ball, if I’m a princess you are too.” Turning in place she looked up to the currently impressive height of her father. “Daddy she needs a matching dress!”

You laughed genuinely this time. “I promise I have a princess dress that will match yours perfectly.” To be honest you’re not sure you did but a promise was a promise to the mini Moreno and you’d have to spend the afternoon searching for one.

You stood up to leave again, seeing Marcus with such a warm gaze towards you and what looked like a smile you told yourself wasn’t for you. You looked down at Missy as she gave one last request. “Glass slippers too! For the prince remember?”

It didn’t occur to you that as she said it, her grabbing onto her dad in a cuddling hug was anything more then just an innocent hug. Marcus knew what she did, but you didn’t. “Glass slippers. Check.”

Stepping out onto the porch you turned back as Marcus said your name once more. “Goodnight, cariño.”

You felt your face flush, but bent your head somewhat out of sight. “Goodnight, sir.” Before finally taking off. He was itching to say something about the formality, you just knew it but didn’t bother giving him the chance too.

On the way home, you ended up stopping by a little dress shop just to see. Missy ended on a poofy sparkling blue dress, much darker like a midnight blue but it was the closest you both could get to the dress from the movie. You already had an idea on what to wear, there was a simple deep orange dress that was a tad bit boring that would have sufficed.

But here you were, looking for a deep blue dress just to you could make the little girl you watch happy for one evening. You couldn’t say no to her hopeful face, the bright shining one she got from her father and the one you avoided on him as much as possible.

Settling on one similar in colour, you draped it over your bedroom door with a pair of nicer shoes tucked against the wall nearby. If you turned your light back on, you’d be able to see the dress. Watch as it mocks you for even thinking impressing either Morenos mattered. The love and affection you had towards them was real and tangible, and it just made you feel wrong for ever contemplating dropping any kind of hints. He was your boss no matter which job title you held and having the person he hired to care for his daughter fawn over him wasn’t appropriate.

That thought though, didn’t cease to creep back into your mind as your fingers trailed down to your clit the longer sleep evaded you. You didn’t start with Marcus in your mind but he floated back in, buzzing your senses and losing your breathe to it. His tall warmth that could engulf you, burying you deep with the deep cadence he spoke to softly in.

Images of a face so handsome that if he worked at a normal office, he’d surely have women fawn all over him everyday. But you saw his domestic side, how his soft features glowed under the lack of eyes and pressure atop his shoulders.

The more your core tightened in need, the more breathy the quiet noises you made felt. If you made as little noise as possible, even in your silent home, you might be able to pretend you weren’t teetering towards an orgasm at the phantom of the innocent touches he graced you with.

Not knowing that Marcus felt a similar tightening of his own, only he let those thoughts dominate his mind and felt no shame for what his senses blew over him.

Missy tucked into bed, he finally found time to wash off the day in the shower. Starting off with no agenda, but as the water grew colder, his thoughts grew stronger. Your wide eyed face whenever he was close to you haunted him. He wanted that look underneath him, on it’s knees before him, and Marcus desperately wanted to see how much he could morph it with wherever you’d let his cock inside of you.

He begun gripping the base of his cock without much conscious effort, squeezing just tight enough to set the nerves inside him alight. One hand was braced above his head flat against the tile wall, the other keeping such a tight grip he could only stroke up and down slowly. You had never touched him in anyway that could be interpreted sexually but the memory of your hands on his skin burned an invisible imprint on the spots.

Marcus had cupped part of your face in his hand tonight, he was so close to being able to pull you into him and find out what your lips feel like. Lips that he needed to feel all over his body. A shiver rippled down his spine at the thought and travelled into his cock with a slight twitch.

His strokes slid faster and faster, never ceasing the tight roughness he held. The throb throughout it yearned to find out just how snug your pussy compared to his own grip. What you’d sound like the first time he eased himself into your pretty body. Marcus thought it would be soft, a quiet, reserved gasp that he wanted to fuck out of your worries.

His thumb rubbed over his tip as he groaned, the ghost of a fantasy kneeling in front of him. Each rub imagined itself as sweet little kitten licks you’d tease him with. Your alluring eyes shut or refusing to look up at him in shyness there even in his fantasy.

In tandem with the ghost in front of him, his hand slid down suddenly from braced above him to the shower lever. Just as the image of the same hand gripping your hair and guiding your head to sink down over his cock flashed just as he purposely turned the level to heat up.

The slight burn from the shock of just too high temperatures so suddenly, the steam fogging up the entire room blended with his groans. Your beautiful self that walked and worked through his home like it was your own, the need you had to take care of even him had his jaw clench at the angry need to make you feel it in return.

Through gritted teeth his strokes slid faster up and down his cock as your name moaned out from his lips. He felt no shame for how much he wanted his touch to be you, no shame for how much he saved your kind, innocent actions in his mind to jerk off too when he was alone.

You were a beautiful creature in mind and in body, and Marcus was desperate to prove it. As his orgasm waved through him, the spurts of cum painting the tiles should have been your tits, your stomach even your ass. His cum was on his shower wall when it should be painted all over you.

Yours was less satisfying. Nothing more then a shiver and dull fire that faded just as unimpressive as it’s size. You withheld his name on your tongue, and as you turned to the side you refused to pull a pillow into you to cuddle. You didn’t want to flame an unfair fantasy. It wasn’t Marcus you were cuddling into you, and you’d end up imagining no matter what if you tried.

So you fell asleep, frustrated at the your petulant attitude of having to go to a party with people who want you there. Show up, praise Missy for her beautiful princess appearance, chit chat and then sneak out when no one was looking.

Simple plan, but just like your original plan of being hired into the heroics team, fate would refuse to let it play out as you tried so hard to.

It had surprised you that your biometrics still worked. You showed up to the outside of the complex with a long coat wrapped tightly around you to protect from the cold, but even in the tram to the main building you refused to let it up even a little.

You felt exposed in this dress now that you weren’t alone in a tiny dressing room. The deep blue with a shining sparkle felt louder then the amount it even showed of your skin. Your arms draped and covered by it’s long material and the calves sticking out from where the dress landed at your knees were covered in a tight black leggings. You wore no more or less clothing then you’d ever worn in that building but it still felt suffocatingly bright.

A few faces you didn’t know directed you to the main level where the event was taking place, undoing the front of your jacket as you did so. Trying to swallow the pounding of your heart at how shining it was already. Unfortunately for you, any chance at entering quietly was dashed as soon as you stepped into the elevator. Running in just before the doors begun to close, was a familiar flock of blonde hair and a tinge of an accent that never knew what an indoor voice was.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Your head fell back with a jolt as you turned partially to look at the man. Miracle Guy held an excited grin and arms wide open for a hug that he pulled you into as he continued his rant. “Half a year we don’t see you and you show up on new years looking like a five coarse meal, darlin’?”

Mouth slightly agape, you shook the surprise off your face. “It’s uh, nothing special- your suit looks good, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in just black and white.” You shifted the attention elsewhere, Miracle Guy looked rather handsome, black pants and a white blazer trimmed with a matching black with what appeared to be a casual white long sleeve underneath. And there was no chance he didn’t want to boast about it.

He pulled back and spread his arms out like a showcase, “My body helped pick it out. I’m telling you he got an eye for flash already.” He put a hand on his heart with a mock act of choked up, “I’m so proud.”

You half smirked as you rolled your eyes, once again pulling your coat to hide your dress once more as you turned back to the doors. “Good to know that some things never chance.”

Miracle Guy chuckled beside you, “Don’t worry, darlin’ I guarantee no one around here’s changed since you left. You’re in good hands.” Just as the doors opened, he shoved you a bit to go in front of him completely oblivious that being the subject of his dramatics was the last thing you wanted.

A skilled hero and good man, but one of the most casually dumb person you know. Passing a newly installed rack of hooks, clearly for the line of jackets currently decorating the entrance hallway Miracle Guy pulled off your jacket with no warning.

Making you fall back slightly with a yelp, now you were out there. Your conservative skin covering outfit ready to trick you into feeling all eyes on it. Miracle Guy’s hands patted down on your shoulders and walked you forward, the volume of the party just out of view around the corner. “Time to swallow those nerves, gotta show off our sparkling guest of honour in her strangely sparkling dress.”

You weren’t really sure what he said to announce you. All you could feel were eyes, too many eyes snapping over to you in too many emotions. They all were a blur as your heart pounded in your ears, being approached by a multitude of people. Most of which were your short lived teammates.

Vox was unfairly stunning as usual yet in gentle muted tones, contrasting with the black dress on Lavagirl that did nothing to take away the brightness of her hair. You were pretty certain it was physically impossible to actually dye her hair.

You didn’t really like the fawning. It was sweet of them to compliment you, but there was just so many people suddenly around you. Marcus was just out of sight near the other end of the room with a very similar blue blob in his arms, no doubt helping Missy show how excited she was about her dress. Next to him was Ms Granada, probably the one person you wanted to talk too less then Marcus.

Luckily you were being dragged off closer to the bar area to be persuaded with an open tab. Eventually were you talked into have at least one since it was early on enough that driving later wouldn’t be an issue. For a while, things fell back into a calmer place.

You may just have been able to get out on time. Suddenly your name was being called as the midnight blue blob ran over to you, her dress shining in the light and her hair in a pretty little up do. You tried to push down the thought that Marcus spent time and patience doing her hair up so nicely and certainly not picture it.

Hopping off the stool, you crouched down to her and welcomed her hug. Fixing her tiara as her impact made it fall off to the side you didn’t see the approaching figure. “And you were afraid you two weren’t going to look the same.”

Startled by his voice, you stayed frozen crouched on the ground as Marcus picked up Missy, turning her in his hold so she could look at him properly. “Can’t be outshining you now can I?” He leaned in closer to her as she shook her head no, whispering something in Spanish too quiet for you to try and pickup.

All you could see was Missy suddenly wide eyed and determined looking as she nodded yes this time before looking at you. “I have to go! Secret mission!”

Laughing you said “okay,” before standing up close to Marcus to give Missy a kiss on the forehead before he put her down. Both turning your torsos to the side to watch her run off across the room to where her grandmother stood chatting with what was likely an old colleague. You chuckled to yourself, the admiration you had for her soared higher every day it felt.

Braving a chance, you looked back up at Marcus, instantly regretting it. His hair was done, not pristine or slicked back but loose and wavy, the curls on him so soft and appetizing. Just a neat dark blue button up with far too many buttons undone at the chest and sleeves rolled up his forearms and black jeans to finish it off. Your heart fluttered at how handsome he was.

“Turns out I wasn’t the only one she wanted to match with.” You tilted your head just the slightest in confusion before his eyes took a peek down to your dress and back up, never leaving your figure. In his eyes there was a flash of something you couldn’t quite catch, he was good at reigning himself in. “You look beautiful by the way.”

Your face fell into a flustered embarrassment as you crossed your arms protectively over your stomach, pointedly not looking at him. “Everyone here looks good.” There was your complete lack of charisma or subtlety again.

Your nerves flickered on and off, unable to decide if you wanted more or less of this unwavering gaze he had on you. But his voice lured you in to look up at him regardless. “I’m serious cariño. You look stunning tonight.” His hand risked rising up to trace his fingertips over the fabric at your waste and ending just at your hips, keeping them pressed there. “But you look stunning all the time, so I guess that’s not really a compliment.”

Mouth stammering with no sound of words even coming out you pulled your arms in tighter as the embarrassed smile stayed plastered. “That’s rich coming from you.” His eyes narrowed playfully at you as his fingers pressed into your dress more firm, likely now feeling the dip into your skin instead of the fabric. “Women drool over you online all the time, not to me.”

His whole hand slid into place your hip now in a caressing hold in his large, warm hand. He ignored your attempt to lessen the not uncomfortable tension between the two of you, his other hand raising up to tangle a bit of your loose hair in his fingers.”One of these day’s I’m going to force you to finally understand that.”

Even though he wasn’t near your face you still shivered at how close his knuckles were to brushing your cheek. “Yeah right, you do enough as it is.”

Hand curling more around your hip you felt a slight pull to move you closer, his hand in your hair still raking through the locks as you wanted but not dared to do to him. He may have already had a drink, he could just be buzzed and sweet you told yourself.

Marcus seemed to reign himself in as well. Sliding his palm down your shoulder to your arm and letting it fall to the wayside. “I’m glad your here.”

As if completely oblivious to the tender air between you two, Miracle Guy appeared by your side an arm thrown carelessly around your shoulders enough to jostle you in place uncomfortably. Marcus still with one hand on your hip moving up to your waist to keep you steady as he glared at your new companion. “Careful with her.”

Ignoring the awkwardness, he pointed at Marcus “You don’t mind if we have our turn to have the guest of honour?” Marcu’s jaw clenched as well as the muscles in his forearms. Miracle Guy now tapping at your shoulder. “We require assistance, someone with your expertise.”

Pushing you now with his both hands on a shoulder each, he turned back once to his clearly agitated leader. “Moreno.”

Marcus just ignored him. His brown eyes washed over you with that frustratingly addictive allure, “Go, have fun. I can have you later.” Your heart lurched along with a shiver down your spine as those alluring eyes dove deeper into something much greedier, only to be ripped away from you as you were not so gently guided to a green felted table.

Your entire body sagged at the realization, turning to point and glare at him, Miracle Guy held his hands up in the air. “It was Tech-no’s idea.” Behind you the man yelled in protest.

“Did everyone suddenly forget what I said before I left?” That was a yes, and when you looked at the table, none of them looked guilty. More excited actually. Cards were laid out in the middle of the table and it did nothing to entice you like the brown eyes somewhere behind you.

Miracle Guy walked around you to lean up against the table, palms bracing him as he did so. “Come on, Ullr. Whats point of being the god of gambling if you never play.”

Your teeth bit the inside of your cheek, already feeling yourself let your ability flow through the gates you liked to keep it locked behind. Still, you protested. “I’m sorry did everyone go deaf when I said I don’t like fooling around with this stuff?”

It was laid out very clear, no betting, no stakes, no money. Some forms of gambling your power simply didn’t work with, but most you did have an advantage that would always secure a win. You didn’t even need to learn or try and finding fame and fortune that way felt like cheating.

You hadn’t used your ability in any way since you left to be a nanny to Missy. Tech-no leaned onto his forearms resting on the table. “Hey, we only bet bragging rights not money.”

Your arms crossed, looking to the side as you grappled with using this again. Vox snuck up beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and one at your waist guiding you closer. “One game from the beauty in blue?”

You didn’t feel flustered in the way you did with Marcus. Less butterflies and heat in your cheeks, and more dread and frustration. “I thought you said you just needed my....help.” You weren’t going to say expertise that’s stupid.

“Some of us learn by watching, teach us a few tricks, maybe a drink, have some fun, sweets.” Vox then slapped your ass gently as she walked closer to the wall beside the table. It’d been half a year since she did that, and now you remembered just how annoying but comical it was. Just coming from her though.

You tapped your fingers against your arms for a minute. Breath moving faster as your limbs tingled uncomfortably, but you already had unlocked it. It wasn’t something you thought about or even needed to pay attention too.

Play a bet, and you’d win no matter what. It was a spectacle they wanted, so just maybe you could give it to them and be satisfied enough to let you leave.

It never sat right with Marcus. Your entire history with the organization. Marcus had been the one to hire you. A series of incidents occurring in New Zealand, rumours of betrayal and accusations of cheating spreading like wildfire amongst groups speculated to be involved in organized crime. It wasn’t necessary to his work at the time, but he liked to keep an eye on things like that.

Eventually a name kept popping up, a pseudonym that claimed anything they showed up to a hosted gambling event amongst that community, they’d win again and again. Impressing the men so much that they rose through the competitions. Finally making it up to face off against one of the main leaders, and the host of the competition at his private residence.

The next day, breaking news of a giant raid at the very same home. And only a whisper of someone they called Ullr to go off of. He couldn’t get his mind off of it until he went to look into it himself. A real shock when he tracked this figure down, only to find you in a tiny unimpressive apartment in the middle of a panic attack.

Apparently being forced into acting as an informant for an organized crime system through a gambling competition was the local police station officers solution for failing to find a reason to arrest the woman who broke up with his petulant child of a son.

Rest assured, once you realized who he was and the warm genuinity that radiated from him, it all came spilling out of your mouth. You didn’t even live in that country. A small vacation, a small string of dates with a pushy, entitled rich man that had you ending things politely, and suddenly you weren’t allowed to leave.

Marcus was excited when he brought you back to America. Sure it was where your home was, but he also had been honest about your ability. Honest about wanting to see you find a use for it that didn’t leave you feeling used or dirty.

But Ms Granada didn’t hire you. And she didn’t want you. So just as quickly as you had settled in as an official member of the team, she kicked you off and demoted you to administration work for the very team she kicked you from.

He hasn’t seen you use your ability since. Not even as you liked to do, just playful jokes and laughs about it with the your former teammates. One could mistake you for never having it at all. Truth be told he was happy when you told him you wanted the job to be Missy’s nanny.

Not seeing you everyday? He missed you, and he wanted to make it better but Ms Granada had his hands tied.

Having you in his home, with his daughter and be in their lives sent his feelings spiralling out of control but still you never used it. And it left Marcus feeling unsettled as he watched you reluctantly sit at the table being dealt cards everyone knew you didn’t even need to look at.

But you always wanted to do things for people to make them happy. Maybe it was selfish to want that all for himself and Missy, but he wanted it all for himself because he wanted to make you happy in return. He wanted you to feel comfortable enough to give yourself to him, trusting that he only wants the best for you like you do him.

He tried many times to make you dinner before you made his and Missys. But you were strict about your routine with her, and as much as it touched Marcus that you cared he just wanted to see you stop doing everything for everyone else.

You weren’t happy at that table, but you were there letting yourself be a spectacle for an ability you were kicked out of your dreams for.

Marcus begun making his way over to the table, circling around so he could see you properly. Drinks and laughs filled the entire area, but you remained mostly stoic. A calm, flat expression as you tried to force yourself into the same joyous feeling but failed.

The group was having fun, but all you could see was your failure. People looking to you for entertainment that got to come back in the next day and live out the dream they were promised. It wasn’t Marcus’s fault, and you wondered just how much of it he felt guilty for.

Guilt for rescuing you from an endless trap, only to be overruled before you even had a chance to prove your worth. You felt your own guilt as well. You loved Missy, and carving a part of your life into this small domestic fantasy with her and Marcus filled your heart with warmth. But you also had to watch his marriage fall apart for this little life to happen.

Had to watch him come in day in and day out and act like normal. Act like it was just some minor troubles, when behind closed doors? He would express to you how frustrating it was, how difficult she was making it and how he was falling out of love for her quicker then it took to fall in love. She wouldn’t grant him a divorce because of Missy, only to walk out months later. Leaving behind nothing but divorce papers and documents giving up her parental rights.

It was painful, and you didn’t know how fair it would be to Marcus to showcase your feelings for him when this intimacy only came about from his family being torn apart.

You noticed he had begun to watch as well, but his face as hard and impassive as you tried to be. His brow furrowed in an unknown conflict. His eyes only on you. Not long after he came over, his mother joined passing a now more tired Missy into his arms. Whispering gently into her ear he pointed at the table and described what was happening.

Her own head fell into where it could reach on Marcus, a hand gently resting curled up on her mouth as she watched you. You had played 4 games now, and still they playfully and harmlessly asked to keep going. So you looked over, a choked up smile on your face at the tired little beauty.

She whispered to her dad back, and Marcus walked up to you, kneeling down enough so he and Missy were at your own level. His hand was cupping the back of her head, “Someone’s just a bit too tired to make it the entire night.”

You brushed a knuckle against her cheek. “Not waiting around for midnight? Even after all those light movie nights?” You and Marcus both knew that wasn’t true. Some days she struggled to fall asleep without her dad there, and she always wanted to stay up until he came home but fell asleep with her head in your lap anyways.

She shook her head before wrapping her small arms around Marcus as much as she could reach, snuggling her face into him more. Muffled words came out, but you both were the only ones to hear her quiet plea. “Remember to leave a shoe.”

Marcus chuckled as he pressed a kiss to her hair. His eyes looking over top his daughter to watch you mindlessly turn to the table and tossing a card play out that had the rest of the table groan in increasing defeat.

It seems you played entertainer no more the second either of them came along. You turned in your seat, knees now dangerously close to bumping into Marcus. “And who is the prince supposed to be silly girl?”

You could see her own brows furrow in a familiar fashion. Turning her head so the side of her face was smushed against his she tried to pull Marcus in closer. “Daddy.”

Your heart fluttered, there was such a frustrated sincerity no doubt the former stemming from being so far away from her bed. Neither you or Marcus looked taken back by how quickly she answered. Missy was a smart cookie, it wasn’t so surprising that she picked up on the yearning leaking from both of you towards the other.

Your only hang up was how affectionately Marcus smiled at her. He mumbled something to her in Spanish that you couldn’t quite pick up, but the words promise was definitely slipped in there. He adjusted her in his arms, so that as he leaned in close to your own face, it let Missy pause her hold on Marcus to wrap them around you.

You felt your hands brush just slightly against the bare skin exposed on Marcus’s chest as you hugged her back. Pressing a kiss to her hair, you shivered as Marcus’s fingers brushed the hand at his chest. The slightest of firmer drags against your own fingers hitching the air in your lungs.

The two of you found each others eyes with a darker emotion behind them that had your heart pumping harder then before. Finally he pulled Missy back into his chest, eyes on you as he leaned more to the ear furthest from the table.

“I’m going up to my office for a while, okay?” It was something you’d heard many times before, but now there was a deeper husk, thick and heavy with what tasted like greed to the words. You only could nod, eyes no doubt wide and mouth slightly hanging open.

Your chest heaving just once as you shakily exhaled what you didn’t even realize you were holding. The office that was on the next floor that you knew no one was on. You didn’t want to read into it, but more then once tonight there was a raking of his eyes over you that burned somewhere it really shouldn’t.

Again, you barley paid attention to what you were doing as you watched him approach his mom, handing the now dozing off Missy to her as he kissed her forehead once more and said goodbye to both of them.

No one was even paying attention to him, no one but you saw Marcus pause at the door. No one could see the clenched jaw as his fingers tapped against the frame, or the eyes that seemed to look down below your face and up before pushing off and disappearing.

And no one but the empty hallway saw Marcus groan a strained string of swearing, as his hand reached to his jeans to adjust himself. He couldn’t stay in that room, watching you with with his daughter acting more like a mother then Missys real mom did. Watching you look at him with such bright and needy eyes that he’s not even sure if you realized you kept giving him. Or that gorgeous dress framing you so deliciously in a deep blue that matched his and his daughter’s outfits.

He adjusted himself once more, the way you looked, the way you looked at him, and how much you matched tonight like a little family causing his jeans to tighten far more then he’d be able to hide in such a crowd.

Now you were just jealous. Marcus was the one who managed to sneak away with no one noticing, but here you were. Still here, now leaning up against the bar denying any goads to join with more drinks from the increasingly rowdy team.

You didn’t lie to yourself, it was nice to see them all so much looser then the usual professionalism and serious lives they normally lived when here. It felt much more like just a group of normal friends then who they really were.

You had checked the clock a few times, and after it hit eleven you found yourself looking around to see if Marcus returned. Perhaps he went to his office to get away from people, did that include you? You practically lived at his house maybe he needed time away from you as well.

But then there was the fire that flashed in his eyes more then once tonight. A fire your imagination had only ever seen in the darkness of your bed in between quiet hitches of your breathe, but it never felt as intense as the real thing.

Marcus might not have meant it that way, but deep in your subconscious there was a beg for it to be exactly that. Your conscious brain however, disguised it as a concern to check up on him. Just see if he’s okay and ignore the heat flooding your bloodstream, rising a sensitivity that extended to an uncomfortable awareness of how your dress rubbed against your skin like it wanted off.

There was a melancholy yet liminal feeling as you walked up the stairs. Your heel rising enough from the shoe forced you to stumble a bit and slide your foot in more steadily. You smiled to yourself as you were knelt over, hand pressing the back of the shoe in more.

Missy was ridiculous. Such a sweet and quiet girl, yet unashamed to be stubbornly vocal about things she really wants. She wanted you around more and more, and every time Marcus was home she always gave you such puppy eyes when you said goodbye. She was so attached to you and you were to her, so much so that on more than one occasion a stranger in public would call her your daughter or vice versa.

Never once did Missy correct them, and it made you reluctant to correct the assertion either. If your phone wasn’t still tucked away in your coat pocket, you may have considered slipping the shoe off just long enough to take a picture.

The girl was still a toddler, she still believed in fairytales and neither you or Marcus felt the need to break her of that illusion.

As you wandered into the office floor, there was a beautiful blue light streaming in from the windows. The snow on the ground let the night sky reflect colour into it’s glow, and it lit up the office you once worked in.

Tucked away in the corner by the far wall, as a tint of orange that took over the blue reflection. Not a vain man, Marcus’s office was small and cozy. Away from the larger, more lavish offices that the corporate heads preferred.

The floor was silent as the carpet silenced the echo your shoes would otherwise have made. If you stretched your hearing, you could hear the faint scribbling of a pen, and coming up closer you had just enough of an angle to see his phone haphazardly tossed onto the small couch pushed up against the wall. Sitting on it’s side as it lay on the inside arm, it clearly landed there in carelessness rather then placed neatly.

Marcus didn’t immediately notice your presence as you peeked inside. His well manicured curls were now tossed around, ruffled and more of a mess like his hands had been run through it. One extra button was undone on the shirt that now seemed to be more wrinkled and wrung around then in front of company.

His glasses were also tossed upside aside on his desk, he didn’t arrive with them. He must have put them on to work, only to toss then off in another act of unknown frustration. The black rimmed frames always made him look handsome, but there was something about looking at him, bent over his desk, an elbow braced on the wood that held his head up in it’s hand.

Without the glasses you could see his nose, the length of it sliding down his face and making you wonder why he ever could make negatively tinged jokes about it.

As your feet patted into the room quietly, Marcus snapped his head up. Your name falling quietly from his lips. “You know people are going to notice their guest of honour slipped away.”

You bowed your head bashfully, a not so sincere smile falling over your face. “Guest of honour’s a bit of a stretch.” You walked more inside properly but chose to lean against the bookshelf between the door and couch. “I’m more like the entertainment.”

Your fingers tapped anxiously against the shelf. Muted thuds rhythmically filling the gaps of nothing.

Marcus dropped his pen, running a hand through his hair confirming it was a mess of his own doing. He pushed back in his seat, but didn’t stand up. His arms crossed over his chest as he huffed out. “I’ll talk to them. They should know better.”

Smiling you looked away, biting your lip sharply and letting it go as you turned back to him. “It’s not a big deal, they just wanted to have fun.”

You watched his jaw clench again, paired with his brows furrowing and a distant look in his eyes as if looking through not at you. “No it is a big deal.”

Pushing up you stood straighter ready to fight him on it, temper his nerves. “Sir-”

The forming of a shiver in your spine crept to the surface when he stood up, body posturing like he was containing an anger inside. He coped your own position, both of you leaning back once more against the desk and shelf, respectively. “You don’t think I see what’s going on?”

You hoped he didn’t see the gulp that tried to swallow your anxiety. He continued though. “They keep your nickname that those scumbags called you, Granada kicks you off my team,” His knuckles tightening their grip on his desk with the word ‘my’. “Then you leave, and the first time everyone sees you again they treat your abilities like you’re a main attraction at a carnival.”

Your nails tried digging into the wood with no avail, “It’s fine Marcus. We tried and it didn’t work out, I may as well use it for fun at least.”

The darkness in his eyes felt like anger, Marcus though wouldn’t ever direct it towards you. A brewing fire was sparking inside but you were given no reason to take shelter. “Do you?” Your eyebrows raised in question. “Use it for fun? Because I’m willing to gamble that you’ve never once used it for anything that would benefit you for the sake of it.”

Marcus noticed his mistake as soon as you did. His face falling, he fought back a playful eyeroll as you pulled your own expression into an exaggerated mocking look. “Brave choice, gambling with the only person nicknamed for the god of it himself.”

His jaw twitched as he discreetly licked his lower lip, head turned away from you. Shaking it incredulously, Marcus walked over to a cupboard, bending down to reveal a tiny safe he typed something into. Amusingly though, a cold steam rushed out along with light from a bulb. Just two shelves were inside, one with what appeared to be beer and two different bottles of another kind of liquor, the top one divided between a small stack of juice boxes and cans of soda.

This time you grinned fully, watching him pull out a taller thin bottle along with two similarly stemmed glasses from the regular cupboard beside it. “Do all good dads keep their whiskey stored with their daughters juice?”

He plopped everything onto the table before gesturing to the bottle that was in fact much lighter in colour. “Champagne is very different then whiskey I’ll have you know.” Your condescending smirk lightened the mood enough so a matching smirk graced his lips as he nodded his head back to the cupboards. “The other one’s scotch so that doesn’t count.”

You laughed looking down to your feet before taking a few casual steps towards him, Marcus not moving to poor anything. Just watching you with a patient smile. You felt a little silly in your sparkling dress again. The rich blue the only thing about Marcus’s shirt that made it stand out from every other range of colour he wore of button up. The jeans were dark and blended in well, but as you stood there in something you spent way too much money for?

Well that uncomfortable itch once again rubbed against your skin in annoyance. You felt far too casual for how good he looked in any normal clothes he wore. Even his tactical wear wasn’t flashy or fancy, just dark and normal only attached with gear and not nearly enough armour.

It wasn’t often you were compelled to fill the lull with words, but his eyes had softened too much towards you to handle. “I uh- just came to check on you. You’ve been gone a while, thought maybe you were trying to get out of the countdown.”

Marcus shook his head casually, “Not really, I’ve just had my fill of big parties for a while. Our Christmas one wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

Eyes squinting with a head tilt, you found yourself close enough to perch on the back of the chair facing his desk. Still more then arms reach away from him for safe keeping. “I thought..well because you hosted it you would enjoy it?”

You had seen some of the preparations, but anything you were there to see him work on it he was usually also on the phone arguing with another vendor. “Usually the heads host it, but Granada’s having renovations so it got dumped onto me. Not exactly how I planned on spending the night.”

Was that guilt you felt once again for not showing up? “Yeah um, Missy showed me the schedule she drew out, told me all about what the movie was supposed to be that day.” You smiled to yourself thinking about it. “I put it on during the morning so she could still have it with someone.”

That deep intensity in his eyes returned, so you backtracked. Worried you just did exactly what you were trying to avoid. “I didn’t mean, I wasn’t trying to take over your night. I just, she was upset the adults wouldn’t want to watch it during the party and asked if I’d watch it..I wasn’t trying to step on your toes, I know it’s your thing.”

Marcus pushed up from where he leaned on the desk, his arms out slightly to try and coerce you to calm down without coming into your personal space. “Take a breathe, cariño. There we go, you’re alright.”

You weren’t sure when the room started to spin or when your heart betrayed it’s pattern, but Marcus’s voice was so soothing it pulled it right back down. You nodded as he spoke and took a few deep breaths, his shoulders relaxing as your body did.

“You’re good with her.” This time you didn’t even nod along to his words to appear polite and civil. There was something about invading in his private life that just kept setting you off. Kept you on a leash and yanked you back every time you started to forget you were here for a job given to you out of convenience.

“I don’t think there’s been one day after you leave that Missy doesn’t ask why can’t you stay.” He laughs as his hands finds a home on the belt loops at his hips. “And every time shes grumpy when I remind her that you have your own life away from us.” The quiet void in the air was think and suffocating, and Marcus was about to deal the killing blow.

He moved to pull the stem glasses closer, reaching for something to carefully pull the cork out. You teased him before you could stop yourself. “Isn’t that supposed to be a midnight countdown thing?”

Marcus smirked, not bothering for any fancy gestures only a simple corkscrew to pull it out. Just like every thing else about Marcus; genuine, refusing to be flashy or show off. “I’ve spilt enough on this carpet. I don’t need to add alcohol to that mix.”

Tossing the crew out of sight behind his desk, it didn’t occur to you right away the pull and push of a drawer that he didn’t touch. Not flashy. His powers just existed as a part of him.

Pouring one glass until it was full, you jutted forward starting to protest. Marcus though only poured half. He put the bottle to the side, and gently picked the smaller amount to hand to you. You didn’t like to drink a lot. Not just on an occasion basis, but in amount too. You never told Marcus that, but he knew it all the same.

Instead of waiting for you, Marcus came to you. His broad body felt like it towered over you with how all encompassing he was. No glasses to obstruct your view of those brown eyes you adored and his mouth just close enough to you that you felt the tail end of his words on you.

“There’s plenty of ways to celebrate anyways.”

Your heart constricted, trying not to let the buzzing in your body come from anything deeper. “Judging by the sounds of it, downstairs is about to choose the screaming and yelling option.”

Sound was more muffled, but in the emptiness of the office floor there was a growing rowdiness in the air. Neither of you were sure what time it was, but honestly it didn’t matter. There was enough alcohol in that party it would say it for you.

Your eyes narrowed playfully as he brought the glass up to his mouth, “Isn’t the polite thing to make a formal toast, sir?” The sir may have been far more mocking then you’d ever say back when you worked in this very building.

Marcus just chuckled though. Leaning his lower back against the desk, you didn’t really notice it. But his hand twitched. One part of him wanted to reach out to grab your hand, and pull you close, the other wanted to just pull the metal on your bracelet over so he had an excuse to hold you in his arms to catch you. For now though he chose neither.

“I’d rather just have your company if that’s alright.”

Your heart pounded, your nails tapping against the glass as you stood awkwardly. Not knowing where to go or how to sit in case it breaks his air between you. So you nodded, and brought your glasses up together to take a drink.

Well, Marcus did. You on the other hand bent your head back to swallow the whole thing. Once again, your nails tapped against the glass only now it was empty. Marcus tilted his head before reaching blindly to sit his glass down.

Pushing up you assumed the hand he reached out was to grab the glass, instead he grabbed the glass with it and turned to put it down as well. While his back was turned though, you felt something non existent tugging at your wrist, tripping you in place only to be grabbed by Marcus smoothly steadying you with one hand on your upper arm and the other on your hip.

“Do you normally skip giving a girl a little warning?” The play died on your tongue as his fingers slid up to brush your jaw and just under your chin. Tilting it up to look at him better.

The playfulness was gone from him as well. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I was kidding,” That was true, but your limbs buzzed too much to pretend like there wasn’t a trembling shiver in your body.

Marcus’s hand tightened on your hip, not painfully but pulling it closer to him so as he stood he was closer to being flush with you. His thumb reached to rub against your cheek. “You’re nervous.” Too close to hide the anxious biting down on your lip, his thumb hopped across your skin to tug your bottom lip free, never moving it away. Just keeping his thumb pressed against the plushness.

“I want to show you something.” He rubbed his arms over where they were pressed against your body before circling around his desk to pull out a folded sheet of paper.

Jutting his head to the side, you followed suit. Marcus spoke without prompt. “Missy asked me if we could see Santa this year. She was so excited, had her in a dress with reindeer all over it, I had to settle her down when she was jumping to stand in line all by herself.”

Your throat choked up at the pure love he felt for his daughter, how even just a cute memory of maybe a week ago had him emotional. You breathed out a light laugh. “She asked me if I wanted her to tell Santa something for me.”

Marcus twiddled with the edges of the paper, flicking a corner up and down as tore his eyes away from it to look at you, that expression of adoration never changing. “Told her to draw what she wanted for Santa, in case she forgot anything. Refused to show me until after she already saw him.” Slowly he started to unfold it, sure to keep what was on it out of your vision. “She let me keep it though, just in case Santa forgets too.”

The joking tone made you both laugh.

Gently he reached the mere foot gap out to hand it to you, the image on the other side still not visible. You didn’t turn it over right away, just held it in your hands. “I’m not sure I should be privy to such confidential information.”

Marcus didn’t laugh. Choosing to close the gap by a few inches, his hand nudging the paper up. Indicating he wanted you to turn it over. Speaking low and deep as you did so. “You are for this one.”

It was in crayon. One image dominated the entire paper, two taller figures stood next to each other with the vaguest resemblance to Marcus, and a woman. A mostly stick hand from Marcus reaching out to a smaller figure that was clearly her. Amusingly noted that she gave herself impossibly long luscious locks.

The female though, the first thing your brain tried to do was place her mothers image onto it. But it just didn’t fit no matter how you shaped it. Her hair a different colour then her mothers up in what Missy tried to draw as a bun at the top of their head. Which you were pretty sure that woman never put her hair up the entire time you knew her.

The shape didn’t match either. Thin and skinny like a stick drawing suited her mother, but this was drawn to be a child’s interpretation of curvy. Though it looked more like the wave of a waterbed then a human body the intent was clear.

Under each person was overlapping scribbles of her and Marcus’s name, and yours at the end. The thing that made this a hint of what she wanted though, was what she drew above you. An arrow with a heart mushed into the middle of the arrowhead, and on the other end was “Mama”.

This time the shaking was obvious to both of you. Your eyes stung as tears were being refused permission to fall and your next breathe was raspy and almost felt like a subdued sob.

Marcus wasn’t mad, or offended, or upset. He had looked at that drawing with a yearning that you had seen time and time again when Missy wanted you to stay before her dad even came home. You wouldn’t replace her mom, you couldn’t. It wasn’t right.

So why did Marcus not protest, why did he look so fondly at it, why were his hands cupping your cheeks. “Look at me, cariño.” Your heart was erratic, but you stood calmly. His eyes all too easy to drown in. “No one is pressuring you. I won’t force you to do or say anything,”

One hand of his left your cheek to grasp one of yours holding the paper. “Missy cares about you, and I care about you.” Gently he guided your hand to place the paper on his desk and then stayed on your waist as your hands nervously hovered between you both. Not knowing what to do. “You can’t imagine how much I care about you, how often I think about you.”

His grip on your waist tightening, bunching the material up slightly in his hand. His face leaned into you, shocking your system with how soft and warm his face was compared to how gruff and held back his tone came out. “How little I want you to leave every single time I come home and see you with my daughter.”

The grip on you tightened, and relaxed completely in seconds. Marcus was still holding something back, but those brown eyes begged you of something. “But it has to be your choice. You’ll mean the world to me no matter what but you have to make this decision.”

The muscles in his chest and stomach tensed as your fingers found the courage to rest there. Not quite yet ready to hold him as he did you, but the racing of Marcus’s own heart spoke to you when your fingers traced around the chest he teased you with.

There was a terror that rung through you that you were imagining this, that you’d close your eyes and wind up right back where you started. Or worse, that he’d pull away and be kicked to the curb from another part of his life.

But he was so close. Marcus teasingly nudged his nose against yours and brushing it softly across it, but never moved his lips to you. He wouldn’t do it himself, he wanted you to chose it of your own volition and it didn’t miss you that despite you being the most anxious and worried about these feelings being reciprocated, Marcus was the one who wanted to be sure.

Timing had a funny relationship with life. Movies and books loved to play the ‘first kiss at the stroke of midnight’ trope, yet there was nothing but the hesitant stuttered breathe in the air as you leaned up.

Your fingers grasped the edges of his shirt just a tad bit needier, eyes shut as you closed the distance between your lips with the gentlest of brushes. Marcus barley even got a chance to kiss you back, lips brushing together light as a feather. You pulling away just as he was ready to pull you into him properly.

But you gave him the smallest of touch, still worried even now that you would be reading it wrong. Marcus didn’t feel the same way. His fingers once again found the bottom of your chin as he now much more playfully brushed his nose against yours.

His arm slid around your waist to pull you closer into him, chuckling at the light grin you gave him. You more confidently pressed your palms onto his chest just as a rowdy noise made itself known from below.

The distinct sound of counting made you laugh and Marcus to whisper into your cheek, “What?”

Fingers sliding to his neck to rake themselves into his curls caused Marcus’s eyes to flutter. “Bad timing. We’re supposed to kiss at the end of the countdown.”

Dark eyes seeked something in your gaze, and he found it. Almost as if each movement was tied to the beat of a number, Marcus pushed your hips back into the wall pressing his hips into yours. Hands squeezing the plush skin of your hips that hid from him, your arms filled with lead. A weight tore them from Marcus’s neck and forced them up above your head and the force pressed them there without mercy.

Metal bracelets, you didn’t even intend anything like it when you put them on.

Marcus pushed your hips more into the wall, his breathing heavy in your face as he revealed in the shifting your hips wanting, needing more of the growing bulge that pressed into them.

Your eyes looked into each other, the distinct final seconds muffled but understood below. Marcus raised his eyebrows, and you nodded exactly one.

If he had planned this part out, he was a genius. Just as the yelling of ‘one’ rang out, so did the click of the rooms lock echo in the air. Before the party below could even yell out their celebration, Marcus took charge.

Pressing his entire body against yours, leaving no room for even a sliver as he pressed his lips roughly to yours. He moved your mouth the way he wanted, the way he could feel you craved. He held nothing back, the sudden roughness came through by the sound of moans, he slightly wet smack as your mouth moulded against his drowned out whatever was happening in the party below.

Marcus consumed the kiss, pulling your hips into his strained cock behind his jeans as one hand slid behind to grasp at your ass to keep them there. His fingers digging into the cheek so much that he’d have time later to admire such distinct bruises on you.

Your hands were once again pulled in whatever manner Marcus desired. Forcing them up back to his neck, one of them holding you upright as you felt the scratch of his facial hair if you touched high enough. The other raking into his hair, finally allowing you the freedom to touch him as you pleased. And your touch wanted to scratch your nails into his curls.

Marcus broke away from the kiss as he moaned louder then even he expected, a harsh “fuck,” following suit. He chuckled, moving to hold your chin more firmly. Tilting you up to look at his him.

His chest was heaving but the much more swollen plush of his lips called to you like a siren. Your attention tried to slide down to trace your fingers down his chest but he kept your eyes on him. Leaving you only able to try and release each button as you found it until his torso was bare.

Marcus guided your hands in his, helping you gently push the rest of his shirt down his arms until you had to let go. He was so incredibly broad. It felt as if he was taking up your entire field of view leaving you with the only choice of raking your eyes down it. Broad shoulders and back with such strong arms.

Arms that made your mouth water, those arms and his abilities could render you immobile, it could leave you at his complete control. But what had your lungs hitching was the softer stomach, a realness without any ego or desire to have that strength just to show off in abs.

No he was soft, and real, and you wanted to reach out to run your hands over his stomach, but he didn’t let you. Stepping back into your personal space he bunched up the sides of your dress, “Gonna let me see what’s under here, cariño?”

Biting your lip as you nodded, Marcus knelt down in front of you. His hands smoothing over your calves as he pressed his forehead into your hips. He inhaled trying to find any scent of you, agitating him that there were too many layers.

He was careful though, starting slow. Lifting your foot up comfortably and slid each shoe off of you one by one, then back to running his hands over your legs and up your thighs. He didn’t let the dress obstruct his goal though. You could see the bumps under the material where his hands explored as the callousness of his fingertips tickled the sensitive skin.

His large, warm hands suddenly grasped the waistband of your leggings and looked up at you with a murmur of your name. The question was not asked but your, “please” was still the answer.

Marcus slid his fingers inside a tinge more and snagged the ends of your underwear in his grasp as well, still seeking that yes. Your nails ran over his scalp again, and a full body shiver left him this time. A shiver that had him once again pressing his forehead into your hips, and then yanking your bottoms down in one go.

The abrupt pull had you jump, but Marcus pressed the bottom of your thigh up so he could lift each remaining pant leg off. Your eyes fluttered closed in a held back whine, missing him tossing your leggings out of sight, and standing up as he clenched your underwear in his fist. Your head was thrown back, and he took the chance to shove what was yours into his back pocket.

“Marcus, I-” You reached out for him to come back into you. Fingers binding together as he leaned in, pushing your body back into the wall with much less force this time. His fingers traced and brushed your bottom lip, “please kiss me.” Your voice much smaller and meeker then you had meant to say it like.

A smile formed on his lips, both hands cupping your face tenderly as he went in to kiss you. You gripped his sides, thick and strong under your palms.

He kissed you with less force, but no less demanding. You let him do with you as he pleased, and gave no trouble when he bit your bottom lip. A gasp of pleasure, and he slid his tongue inside your mouth. Tracing along yours and taking each moan that came up your throat.

One of your arms reached around his neck again and to press his kiss and tongue deeper into your mouth while the other wrapped now around his waist and pulled his hips into you. The bulge rubbing into you, pressure on your clit frustratingly interrupted by both your layers. “Oh god,”

Marcus bunched the sides of your dress up, only this time more and more of your bare skin reached his touch. His mouth teased you by pulling away, softening his kiss almost too much and pulling away from your lips. His thumb shifted to rub over the skin of your hips without letting your dress fall back down.

His touch burning in it’s path you let out a whimper, and once again Marcus consumed your mouth, wasting no time in coaxing your tongue to explore. You could feel his breathing grow ragged, and his hips pushing into you aggressively, making you cry out in need.

In an instance, Marcus’s patience snapped just a little too much, pulling away from your mouth so a trail of saliva followed his pull back. He gave you no time to think as Marcus yanked up your dress and tossed it out of his life.

You felt so cold and exposed as he shamelessly looked you up and down, “Fuck.” Ambushing you again he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you again.

His mouth not lasting long, as he kissed and bit down your neck. The burn from his facial hair leaving your already ravaged neck scratched red. Both large hands reached around, squeezing and pulling with a cheek in each hand. His grip on your ass made him push you into his hips as he pressed into yours.

Gasping out, “Please, I want to feel you.” You reached to his belt and he paused. His adams apple bobbed and your ass slid from his grasp. Kneeling down you cupped the massive bulge in his jeans, kissing and sucking teases to his cock hiding underneath. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the sight of you undoing his belt, pulling down the zipper.

Not quite all the way, you pulled his jeans down enough that his cock was released. Right in your face, his tip was red and leaking already, and down from there your eyes widened at the thickness of his cock. Length alone would intimidate you, but his cock was big, so big he’d stuff you full.

You ran your thumb over his tip, revealing in his moaning and shaking. There was so much precum that you slicked it all over his cock as you stroke him. Slow soft jerks, lubing him up only increasing in speed a fraction each stroke.

You could tell he wanted you to speed up so badly, you could feel yourself getting wet as you watched your hand try to encompass his cock. Thighs pressing together wasn’t cutting it but you couldn’t stop looking at his cock, your hand refusing to leave either.

Marcus’s breathing sped up, thighs trembling as you had only just started to stroke his cock anything above slow and teasingly paced. A large hand started to smooth over your hair, his voice coming out in a husk. “Come up here, baby.”

Gracefully he grasped your hand and helped you stand up, almost like a gentleman would a lady. Just as gentle, Marcus pulled your face in to press his lips against yours. His kiss still full of greed and teeth and tongue, but without the roughness this time.

Before you realized, his hands grasped your waist and turned your back against the desk. “Hop up.” Just as you tried to hop behind you without looking embarrassing Marcus just grabbed at you, moving you up onto the desk. His eyes memorized by the jostle the quick move bounced in your skin.

You wanted to trace his own skin but Marcus pulled back to take the rest of his own clothes off. Unsure where to even look, his still slick cock, his soft stomach leading up to his broad large chest, or the bright shine in his eyes, accentuating his face. Your hands grabbed at his waist pulling him to stand between your legs as you slid your palm and nails over his stomach, one of them abandoning the soft issue to slide up the length of his body and cupping the rough brush of facial hair on his cheek.

“Tell me Moreno, how long has it been since anyone told you how beautiful you were?” Oh that turned him red real fast, the burn in his cheeks a bit of a hint but the blushing design down his chest told an even better story. You smoothed your thumb over the bald patch on his jaw and decided it was exactly where you wanted to kiss him.

So that’s what you did, leaving your lips to brush against his skin you melt Marcus turn his own head into your neck, leaving a gentle lick and kiss against the bites he just devoured you with. “I’m supposed to be seducing you, cariño. Not the other way around.”

Thick fingers slid up and down your wet entrance before rubbing at your clit. His hand held you at the back of your neck, keeping you from escaping his mouth as he rubbed circles into you, only leaving just to gather more to keep you nice and wet for him everywhere.

“You- fuck, you do enough, Marcus. I want to, let me take care of you.” That was the wrong thing to say apparently. His fingers paused, not leaving you clit but ceasing all movement. Instead keeping a steady pressure that had your insides heating up.

Leaving the back of your neck, he grabbed your chin to force you to look at him. Brows narrowed and a rush fell over you at the serious way he looked at you. “No. You do too much for everyone.”

Face twisting in confusion, two fingers started to circle your clit again now rough but slow. “I don’t understand.”

Marcus groaned almost closer to a growl, reaching down to caress your breast, fingers tweaking over your nipple, giving a tug that had you whine. His lips pressed into your jaw and up to you ear as he massaged the sensitive bud.

“Of course you don’t. You always try to make everyone happy, do everything you think they want. Let me change that, cariño. Please.” Your hand suddenly moved on it’s own from digging your nails into his shoulder blade to the other neglected breast.

You nuzzled your head closer to his, getting the message you gave a similar treatment to your other nipple, just more apprehensive and gentle then Marcus treated you. He needed you to say it though, he needed to hear you tell it to him.

You shuddered as he whispered your name into you ear, “Tell me. Tell me you’ll stop. I need you to tell me that you’re going to let me finally take care of you for once. Please?”

There was a beg in his voice that had you choked up, a desperation to care for you that threatened tears if you said anything more then yes. So that's all you did. “Yes, please.”

You didn’t even protest that his fingers left your nipple and your clit, instead you sighed out as your foreheads rested against each other, your hands both holding the other at the waist. Marcus lifted his head enough to press a kiss to your forehead and rubbed his nose against yours. “That’s all I’ll ask for okay? That’s all I want, you just like this.”

Your heart raced as he pulled away, his large hands shoving your legs to the sides even more. His cock bounced in his step as he closed the gap to run the tip over your sensitive clit, and down to smear his precum into your own soaked entrance.

Marcus gripped the base of his cock and pulled you a tad more to the edge with a hand guiding you on your ass. His cock rubbing up and down, your head thrown back biting your lip to contain a whine and Marcus’s jaw clenched and eyes dark as he watched you both.

“Look at me.” Commanding, an order, your head flew up to look at him properly like a subject compelled to always follow it’s leader. Brown eyes narrowed as he pushed his cock into your pussy. His gaze watching your gasp, how your mouth fell open from how full he stretched you. It soaked you all that much more how badly he wanted to see you not just feel you.

You held onto his shoulders tightly as he just pushed inside. Sliding against your warm walls until he was as deep as you could let him be. Your nerves were on overdrive, you could feel so much of him it drove you crazy. “Marcus,” you managed to whimper out, but that sweet simmer flared back up into an inferno.

Marcus pulled back before slamming harshly back inside of you, his lips shoving against yours in tandem. Your lips let his tongue explore you however he wanted, all you could focus on was trying desperately to keep up with the pounding of his cock.

Each slap of his skin against yours may was well been a scream in an echo chamber. It bounced off the walls and back into your ears. You felt that burning need inside you as he slid inside you. Both of his arms wrapped around you as he kissed you

Surprisingly, he used his position to pull you up with him as he sat back in his chair. His cock still deep inside your cunt, slid even further as he bounced you down onto him completely. You cried out and Marcus instantly raked through your hair with gentle shushes.

Rising up just enough to feel his cock stroke your inner walls so sharply you moaned out his name. Your hips were commandeered as he started to bounce you up and down his cock. The coarse hair around his cock glistened with how much you were soaking his lap.

Marcus thrusted up against such a sensitive spot inside of you that you clenched hard around his cock. Hard enough that he had to push roughly to let him fuck you deep enough. You pressed a kiss to him, but the bounce of you on his cock made it hard.

Your breasts bounced just as hard and you felt a deer coiling as his cock pulled intense pleasure from you every slide of his cock. His arms pulled you close to his body, your head resting down on his shoulder as he sped up his pace. Fucking his cock up into you faster as he spat out through gritted teeth.

“Do you know how many times much I jerked off thinking about you?” Another fiery rush blew through you as you were at the mercy of his cock and his words. Both pounding into you leaving you breathless. “Every night stroking my cock desperately wishing it was you. Angry that I never brought you up to my bed and fucked you so much sooner.”

“Fuck, I did too, Marcus I did to- oh my god,” Your voice strained into a moan as his hands pulled at your ass cheeks as he fucked into you, the wet squelch of his cock drowning inside of you just had you soaking around his cock even more. And his hard Marcus squeeze his eyes shut trying to force words out through every fibre in his body tensing up in pleasure.

“Take such good care of my daughter, such good care of me,” The wet slap echoed with the pounding of your skin together as he pulled you towards the edge. “It’s my turn, sweet girl. Cum for me now, and I’ll give you it every single day.”

His shallow thrusts pushed you over the edge, cumming around his cock and crying his name into his neck. Your back arching as white hot pleasure had you holding onto him for dear life. Unruly sounds clawed their way out of your throat and still his cock fucked your soaked pussy without slowing.

Marcus didn’t let up, fucked you with his cock fast, your ass jiggling from the force. His voice finally pitched, stuttering moans as he grasped your hair. Pulling you up to rub his nose against your cheek, no demanding or teasing.

Just a wrecked moan as you held each other, your ears still ringing as you whined. His voice just as desperate as your pussy felt. Muttering Spanish into your skin, only switching back as he gave final pounding thrusts. His cock throbbing inside of you as his thighs below tensed. “Please, hermosa please.”

The plea was useless, Marcus hadn’t even finished speaking before he gripped your body so tight his knuckles turned white. His cum spilling inside of you, warm and thick and it seemed to just keep spurting as he slowed his thrusts gradually.

The dark hair rubbing into your clit and how his cock through everything never let up from the sensitive needy part inside of you had you weightless. Floating in his arms as his own muttering praises sounded underwater.

Gradually though, you felt him again. Hands through your hair and lips pressing against your head as the water drained. His deep voice relaxed, and his cock keeping his thick cum deep in you. Not yet willing to leave the warmth of your pussy.

You chuckled a bit, pushing past the lead in your brain holding it down to cup his cheeks. This kiss was the most innocent by far. The one you gave him before was nervous, unsure before he ravaged your lips and your body.

Now though? You enjoyed a tender press against the other, your body relaxing into his, Marcus content with leaving back in the chair with you on top of his cock like a blanket.

For a while you stayed that way, neither of you feeling any rush to move. No one was going to walk in, and for once, neither of you needed to sacrifice time together for anything else. You kept his cock inside of you, his thickness pushed so deep inside of you kept your nerves alight, and your own walls surrounding him kept Marcus unwilling to let you go.

“Come home with me.” Your head rushed up to look at him with questioning eyes. “At least for tonight? Missy’s with my mom until tomorrow afternoon.”

His cheeks were wide as he smiled at you. “I’m selfish, I want to keep you with me for a while.” His hips shifted to tease you, knowing even his cock when soft was still large and thick. “Even if it’s mostly in my bed.”

You grinned at him, “Now sir, isn’t it a bit cliche to start sleeping with the nann-” You yelped in a laugh as Marcus tickled your sides.

He held his own smile, unobstructed by anything weight either of you down from days precious. “Don’t start that. You keep calling me sir, and I’m going to start treating the way a sir would.” His eyes were lustful but he jumped to tickle one last spot. Both of you laughing as you ended up collapsing into his chest rather then pulling away from him.

“Is it okay though?”

Marcus looked up to you, his thumb over your bottom lip again as you clarified. “Is it okay to come over- stay over I mean. I just don’t want Missy thinking...”

Marcus captured your lips in another chaste kiss. “Missy asked Santa if he could make you her mom for Christmas. I think we’re well past you needing to worry about your place in our lives.”

You knew he meant it this time. There was an affection in his eyes for those he loved, a soft kindness that shined through every aspect about him. But there also was a tiny possessive voice in the back of his head you were starting to understand.

One that he let out as he fucked you, but also maybe a quieter one that associated possessiveness over you to wanting to ensure you knew you belong. Neither of you were people who felt things lightly, and the time it took to tear your lips apart long enough to even pull his cock from your pussy spoke miles about how little either of you wanted to pretend otherwise anymore.

To the parties credit, no one really noticed in the end that you left. They also didn’t notice that Marcus had an arm around you the entire time, holding your coat out to put over you. Nothing but an empty parking lot also got to witness Marcus’s rare moment of embarrassment.

Both of you had debated where to stop and grab something to eat. Stuck between two options, Marcus did what Missy always tried with him. Rock, paper scissors. It took 5 whole tries for him to remember how stupid he was. You didn’t even glance at your hands whatsoever the entire time. Just watching him with a fond but amused expression as he looked up from your constant wins to your smug smile.

Lucky indeed that no one was around to notice him growling out what a brat you were as he gave you a greedy kiss, pushing you up against his car in another lack of self control.

They didn’t need to know right now. You cared about them, but it was also a memory of a life you never got to live up to.

The rest of the night truth be told was uneventful. You ate some late night garbage, and didn’t make it much further then Marcus helping you both get ready for bed. Only stopping briefly to pull you back into his chest, watching you brush your teeth in the mirror draped in one of his tee shirts. Your head nuzzled back into him as he leaned and pressed greedy kisses into your neck.

You passed out in his arms rather quickly. Marcus though, watched your peaceful face for a while. Stroking your hair as he did so.

He wondered if he should feel guilty for how perfect this felt, how perfect it worked out. He found you hoping to guide you into a companionship in the very team he leaded, only to watch your dreams crumble while the facade of his happy marriage finally exposed itself.

He laughed to himself, your smug little smirk as he realized how much you just played him for laughs. A way you hadn’t used your ability in longer then he could think of. Maybe it was a start.

Marcus didn’t work in the field for the Heroics anymore, and you were finding a life outside of that at the same time. If he weren’t needy or selfish, Marcus would feel guilty for how his love only found yours through your dreams dashed.

But, you used your ability in the parking lot with him, not to play entertainment, not to be a useful spectacle. No you did it just for fun, to make you giggle and you laughed even harder seeing that he was just as cutely amused as you were.

It was a step in the right direction, and now you both had each other to support that from now on. Missy as well. God knows the second she found out about you both, Marcus knew she was going to try and throw a parade about it.

She didn’t see you as trying to replace her mother, neither did Marcus and neither did his own mother. Missy started to call you mom nervously when you weren’t around, and Marcus slipped up more then once about it as well.

So he pulled you close into his chest more. Kissing your sleeping forehead, before nuzzling into you back. Your arms wrapped around each other was the best take away from this night there could be.

You were part of their family now, part of their love. That’s all that mattered.

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