#Brain Drain in Tech | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sillygoose067 · 1 month ago

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Wrong Bag, Right Time

Lewis Pullman x Reader

You’re already regretting your decision to book the late-night flight by the time you step off the plane. Your brain is a thick fog, your legs are stiff, and your eyes are burning from a barely-there nap sandwiched between two chatty seatmates. The fluorescent airport lights feel like a personal attack as you shuffle through the terminal, clutching your carry-on and weaving through a sea of bleary-eyed travelers.

You follow the signs to the baggage claim, your body moving on autopilot, ears still ringing from the jet engines and the tinny airline announcements. You lean against a cool, steel column, rolling your shoulders back as you wait for the belt to start rumbling. Around you, people are already gathering, faces drawn and eyes darting every few seconds as the carousel creaks to life.

Bags start thudding onto the belt, one after another — a parade of black, navy, and occasionally neon roller bags that look like they’ve been through multiple rounds of airport roulette. You squint, eyes scanning the blur of luggage as it slowly snakes its way around the conveyor.

Your suitcase is black, a standard roller bag with a scuffed corner and a strip of faded, decorative tape around the handle — a last-minute attempt to make it easier to spot in the chaos. When you finally catch sight of it, you push through the small crowd, reaching for the handle just as a kid with a Spider-Man backpack nearly trips over his own shoes, forcing you to dodge sideways to avoid a collision.

You grab the suitcase and wrestle it off the belt, feeling the reassuring weight of your overpacked essentials as the wheels clatter onto the tile. It’s a little heavier than you remember, but then again, you crammed it full of work documents, laptop accessories, and enough backup phone chargers to power a small tech convention.

Dragging it toward the exit, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the glossy airport windows — hair mussed, eyes smudged with exhaustion, and your blouse slightly wrinkled from a restless sleep against the plane window. You sigh, mentally promising yourself a long, hot shower the second you get to your hotel.

The shuttle to the car rental lot is packed, every inch of space claimed by tourists and business travelers with the same dazed expressions you’re sure you’re wearing. You brace yourself against a pole, your suitcase tucked between your knees as the bus lurches into motion, bumping over the uneven tarmac.

By the time you reach your hotel, you’re practically running on fumes, dragging your suitcase through the lobby and into the elevator with a series of clumsy, exhausted jerks. You fish out your key card, nearly dropping it twice before you manage to swipe it through the reader and stumble into your room.

Your heels come off first, clattering to the floor with a dull thud as you toss your bag onto the bed. You flick on the bedside lamp, the warm glow instantly making the small space feel a little less sterile.

The water from the shower is scalding, and you let it beat down on your shoulders, eyes closed as the steam fills the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and making the tiles beneath your feet slick. You let yourself stand there longer than necessary, feeling the tension slowly drain from your muscles, the ache in your lower back gradually easing.

Wrapped in a thick hotel towel, you shuffle back into the main room, hair dripping onto the carpet as you flip open your suitcase, ready to dig out your comfiest, most threadbare shirt and collapse into bed.

But when you peel back the top layer of clothing, your fingers don’t hit neatly folded blouses or the sensible, corporate slacks you’d meticulously packed. Instead, you pull out a rumpled Led Zeppelin tee, its soft, well-worn fabric clearly belonging to someone who’s spent years living in it.

You blink, holding it up, the faded graphic stretching across the front like a relic from another lifetime. Confused, you dig deeper, pulling out a small mountain of band tees, a denim jacket with fraying patches sewn into the sleeves, and a battered leather notebook, its cover creased and edges worn.

Your pulse quickens as you flip through the pages, finding half-finished sketches, messy notes in looping cursive, and the occasional smudge of ink where someone clearly wrote in a hurry. There’s a faint, musky scent clinging to the pages, a mix of worn leather and old cologne.

“Wait...” you murmur, setting the notebook aside as you reach for a thick stack of papers wedged against the side of the case. It’s a printed script, the title bold at the top and someone’s lines heavily highlighted in yellow.

You glance back at the open suitcase, your mind racing, heart thudding against your ribs as you fish out a small, laminated luggage tag tangled in the zipper. It flips over in your hand, the plastic cool and slightly warped from years of travel.

“L.P.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” You sink onto the edge of the bed, the towel slipping from your shoulders as you stare at the mismatched pile of someone else’s life spread across your hotel sheets.

---

Across town, Lewis Pullman hauls his suitcase up the narrow stairwell to his apartment, one hand gripping the railing as he leans into the climb, every muscle in his legs protesting the final stretch. He fumbles for his keys, and finally shoulders his way inside, the familiar, comforting chaos of his one-bedroom coming into focus as he kicks the door shut behind him.

He toes off his boots, letting them fall wherever they land, and drags the suitcase into his cramped living room, tossing his jacket onto the back of the couch. The streetlights outside cast thin, golden strips across the walls, and his refrigerator hums steadily in the otherwise silent space.

He flips open the suitcase, too tired to even think about organizing, and reaches blindly for a clean shirt. Instead, his hand lands on something stiff and sharply pressed.

Lewis frowns, pulling out a neatly folded stack of dress shirts, their collars crisp and perfectly creased. He blinks, eyebrows knitting together as he digs deeper, pulling out tailored slacks and a leather-bound planner with a small, discreet logo embossed on the corner.

“What the...” He flips the planner open, eyes skimming over tightly packed meeting notes, detailed itineraries, and a color-coded calendar that looks like the work of someone who genuinely enjoys spreadsheets.

He reaches for a thick, intimidating-looking folder marked “Confidential” in bold letters, his heart sinking further as he flips it open to reveal a stack of professionally printed documents.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” He lets the folder drop onto the floor, running a hand through his already messy hair as he stares at the unfamiliar contents of what is very clearly not his suitcase.

Somewhere out there, someone is currently rifling through his tangle of band tees, scribbled notes, and, worst of all, his heavily highlighted script for a new gig he'd just scored.

---

You stare at the suitcase spread open on your hotel bed, the pile of band tees and creased notebook sitting there like a physical reminder of the chaos your life has just become. You should do something — call the airline, maybe, or at least try to figure out who this L.P. is before their missing luggage becomes your permanent problem.

But you’re exhausted. The kind of tired that settles deep in your bones, turning your thoughts into molasses and making even the simplest task feel monumental.

You let out a long, frustrated sigh, rubbing your eyes and glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It’s already pushing 1 a.m., and the idea of trying to navigate a customer service call right now feels like a special kind of hell.

“Alright, fine,” you mutter to the empty room, tossing the vintage tees back into the suitcase and flipping the lid closed. You’ll deal with it in the morning, when your brain is at least somewhat functional. For now, you just need sleep.

You crawl into bed, still vaguely damp from the shower, and tug the covers up to your chin. The mattress is firmer than you’d like, the pillow a little too thin, but it doesn’t take long for the steady hum of the hotel air conditioning to lull you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

---

Across town, Lewis drops onto his couch, head thudding against the worn armrest as he stares up at the cracked ceiling. The folder of mysterious corporate documents is still sitting on the coffee table, its thick, embossed cover practically daring him to open it again.

He considers getting up, maybe flipping through the papers for a hint about who his mystery bag-swapping stranger might be, but the thought alone makes his eyes feel heavier. He’s not exactly equipped for a late-night detective mission right now, not with the remnants of jet lag still clinging to his brain like a wet blanket.

“Tomorrow,” he grumbles, kicking his feet up onto the armrest and letting his eyes drift shut. He’ll deal with it in the morning, when his brain isn’t actively trying to shut down.

---

The next morning comes far too quickly. You wake to the sharp, insistent chime of your phone alarm, the sound cutting through your foggy consciousness like a knife. You groan, slapping at your phone until it goes blessedly silent, and roll onto your back, staring up at the bland, popcorn-textured ceiling.

It takes a moment for the events of the previous night to come rushing back — the wrong suitcase, the unfamiliar band tees, the mysterious L.P. luggage tag. You sit up slowly, rubbing at your eyes and trying to shake the lingering cobwebs from your brain.

First things first: your own suitcase. You’d had the foresight to slip an Apple AirTag into one of the side pockets before your flight, a small, paranoid part of you always worrying about exactly this kind of mix-up.

You grab your phone, opening the Find My app with a flick of your thumb, but the screen just loads into a frustratingly empty map, the little green dot stubbornly refusing to show up. Too far away, probably. You grit your teeth, already regretting not springing for the upgraded model with the longer range.

You tap the call icon and put the phone to your ear, bouncing your knee as it rings.

“Thank you for calling Apple Support. Please hold while we connect you to the next available representative.”

You resist the urge to groan, your fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the hotel comforter as the tinny hold music crackles in your ear.

---

Across town, Lewis is having his own version of a chaotic morning. He’s halfway through his second cup of coffee, hair still damp from a hurried shower, as he flips through the stack of neatly printed documents that had been sitting in what he thought was his suitcase.

Every page is packed with dense, professional text — contracts, meeting agendas, and what looks like a series of legal documents with a name scrawled at the bottom in neat, looping handwriting.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself, leaning back against the kitchen counter as he taps the name into his phone’s search bar.

Results flood the screen, a frustratingly long list of people with the same name scattered across LinkedIn profiles, news articles, and random blog posts. He scrolls through the first few pages, trying to find anything that might match the person he accidentally luggage-swapped with, but it’s like looking for a needle in a very, very crowded haystack.

He blows out a breath, tossing his phone onto the counter and rubbing the back of his neck. His manager is going to kill him when they find out about this. Still, he can’t exactly let a stranger hold on to his scribbled notes and half-finished script forever.

“Alright, screw it,” he says, grabbing his phone again and pulling up his manager’s contact.

“Sam, hey, I’ve got a situation,” he says as soon as the line connects, pacing a tight circle in his small kitchen. “No, it’s not like last time. I just... I might have swapped bags with someone at the airport, and I have no idea who they are, but they’ve got my script. And my stuff. All my stuff.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, the kind that usually means Sam is resisting the urge to throw his phone against the nearest wall.

“Okay,” Sam finally says, his voice a carefully measured calm. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to take the bag you’ve got and head back to the airport. There’s a decent chance the other person will do the same once they realize they’ve got the wrong bag.”

Lewis sighs, glancing at the stack of neatly folded dress shirts and leather-bound planner sitting innocently on his counter.

“Yeah, alright,” he mutters, grabbing his keys off the hook by the door. “I’m on my way.”

---

Meanwhile, your Apple Support call finally connects, a cheery voice on the other end promising to walk you through the steps to locate your missing suitcase. You glance over at the still-open bag on the bed, the crumpled script catching your eye.

Maybe it’s time to finally figure out who the hell L.P. is. You grab the thick stack of papers, flipping to the cover page and skimming the title. Your eyes widen as the name Lewis Pullman jumps out at you, the pieces suddenly falling into place.

Lewis Pullman. The actor. Bill Pullman’s son.

You stare at the script in your hands, heart thudding in your chest as the full weight of your accidental heist hits you.

“Oh, no,” you mutter, sinking back onto the bed. “What have I done?”

---

Lewis taps his fingers against the steering wheel, jaw tight as he stares at the congested freeway ahead. The morning sun glares off the windshields around him, turning the LA traffic into a slow, blinding crawl. He glances at the passenger seat, where your neatly packed suitcase sits like a silent accusation, the crisp corners and tasteful leather trim a stark contrast to the chaos he’s used to.

By the time he finally reaches LAX, the nerves in his stomach have twisted into a full-on knot. He parks and hauls the suitcase through the labyrinth of terminals, the weight of his mistake pressing down on his shoulders.

The airport is buzzing with activity, the steady thrum of engines and the chaotic clatter of luggage creating a backdrop of controlled chaos as he heads for the airline counter.

The attendant at the lost and found desk looks up, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow as Lewis approaches, his suitcase clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

“Hi, I... I think I accidentally swapped bags with someone on my flight last night,” he says, his voice coming out a little more strained than he intended. He sets your suitcase on the counter, running a hand through his hair as he tries to sound less like a sleep-deprived mess. “This isn’t mine. I’m hoping the person who has mine will come looking for theirs, too.”

The attendant nods, typing something into the computer and giving him a weary, knowing smile — the kind that says this isn’t the first time someone’s stumbled in with the wrong bag and a panicked expression.

“Just leave it here,” she says, slapping a tag on the handle and sliding it onto the cart behind her. “If the other person comes by, we’ll let them know you dropped it off.”

Lewis hesitates, fingers still wrapped around the handle, his brain fighting a ridiculous urge to hold onto the bag a little longer. He gives it a final, reluctant nudge, watching as the cart wheels it away and disappears into the maze of behind-the-scenes airport chaos.

With a deep, tired sigh, he turns and heads back to his car, hands shoved into his pockets as the sounds of the bustling terminal fade behind him.

---

Meanwhile, back in your hotel room, you’ve entered the frantic, mildly horrifying phase of a full-on internet spiral. Your laptop is balanced precariously on the edge of the bed, multiple tabs open on Lewis Pullman.

You grab your phone, pacing the small stretch of carpet between the bed and the window as you pull up his IMDb page, half-hoping there’ll be a contact button you can just click to resolve this mess. But of course, there isn’t. The closest you get is a list of his past projects and a handful of magazine interviews that all seem to paint him as the down-to-earth, quietly intense type.

Finally, after what feels like a small eternity of frantic googling, you stumble across what you think might be his manager’s number, tucked away on an obscure industry listing. You dial it, hands shaking a little as the line rings, each passing second making your pulse thud harder against your ribs.

Voicemail.

You hang up, your breath coming out in a short, frustrated huff as you toss your phone onto the bed. You’re tempted to try again, maybe leave a message this time, but something about the whole situation already feels too much like a scene from a bad rom-com, and you’re not sure you can handle the embarrassment of leaving a rambling, half-panicked voicemail for a guy you’ve never even met.

Finally, you decide to cut your losses and head back to the airport, clutching Lewis’s battered suitcase like a lifeline as you weave through the bustling lobby and make a beeline for the lost and found desk.

An attendant is sitting there, her expression unimpressed as she types away at her computer. You clear your throat, shifting your weight nervously as you set the bag on the counter.

“Hi, I think I accidentally swapped bags with someone on my flight last night,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I just... I just want to leave this here, in case they come looking for it. It’s got a lot of their stuff in it, and I’m, um, really hoping mine is still somewhere in the system.”

The attendant glances at you over the top of her computer, her expression a mix of boredom and mild curiosity. She slaps a tag onto the handle of the suitcase and adds it to the same cart Lewis’s bag disappeared on earlier.

“We’ll call you if we find anything,” she says, already turning back to her screen.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you scribble your name and number on the form she slides your way. It feels weirdly final, like you’re closing the book on a strange, mildly mortifying chapter of your life.

---

A few weeks pass, and the whole suitcase fiasco slowly slips into the background noise of your daily routine — a bizarre, slightly embarrassing story you’ll probably share with friends over drinks someday.

But then, just as you’re starting to convince yourself that you’ll never see your meticulously packed suitcase again, your phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?” you say, balancing your phone against your shoulder as you fumble with your laptop.

“Hi, this is LAX Lost and Found. We’ve located your suitcase. You can come pick it up anytime this evening.”

---

You arrive at the counter a little breathless, the memory of your original suitcase still a fresh sting as you approach. But just as you step up to the desk, another figure rushes up beside you, his sneakers squeaking against the polished tile.

“Hi, I’m here to pick up my suitcase —” you both start, your voices overlapping in a messy, tangled echo.

You glance at each other, both of you wide-eyed and a little winded, and then immediately look away, the awkward tension settling like a heavy fog. He’s tall, a little scruffy around the edges, his hair tousled like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. There’s a brief flicker of recognition in his eyes, like he’s trying to place you, but then he quickly looks down, rubbing the back of his neck as if he’s suddenly aware of how tightly the air feels around you both.

The attendant rolls her eyes, bending to grab two identical suitcases from the back, her movements sharp with barely disguised exasperation.

“Here,” she says, shoving both bags onto the counter with a loud thunk. “I assume you two know which is which this time?”

You and Lewis both reach for your respective bags, pausing to double-check the scuffs and ID tags, even unzipping the top a few inches just to be sure.

When you both exhale in relief, catching each other’s eye for a split second, his mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, like he’s trying to catch the right words before they slip away.

“Uh, hey,” he starts, one hand gripping the handle of his suitcase, the other half-raised in a tentative gesture. “I, uh... just wanted to say thanks for, you know, bringing my stuff back. I know that, uh, it probably... wasn’t the most convenient thing.” He lets out a little breathy chuckle, eyes dropping to his shoes for a second. “I mean, I’m not sure what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”

You let out a small, relieved laugh, the lingering tension breaking like the first crack of a smile after a long, awkward silence.

“No, it’s fine. I... kinda panicked when I realized what I had. Almost didn’t want to touch anything, but, uh... yeah.” You bite your lip, feeling a little of the same nervous energy radiating off him.

He nods, his shoulders relaxing a bit, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like he’s working up the nerve for something.

“So, uh...” he hesitates, his gaze flicking back up to yours, the corners of his mouth twitching in a hesitant, lopsided grin. “Maybe we could, I dunno, grab a coffee sometime? Or, uh, dinner, if that’s... less weird?”

You blink, a little caught off guard by the sudden offer, but the earnest, slightly flustered look on his face makes it hard not to smile.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding before you can second-guess yourself. “Dinner sounds nice.”

“Cool, cool,” he says quickly, letting out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a silent cheer. He fumbles for his phone, nearly dropping it as he tries to unlock it with one hand, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Uh, here, just... give me your number and I’ll... yeah.”

You chuckle, tapping your info into his phone as he watches, his eyes crinkling at the edges when you hand it back.

“Alright, well... I’ll text you,” he says, stepping back with a little half-wave. “Thanks again. Seriously.”

You nod, your heart doing an odd little flip as you watch him turn and weave back into the airport crowd, his suitcase rolling behind him, the wheels clattering against the polished floor.

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urdreamgirlangel · 24 days ago

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a soft exit from doom scroll culture 𐙚🧸ྀི

Life wasn’t created to be lived through a screen, it was created to be lived through experiences ₊˚⊹ ᰔ michi

I constantly feel like I’m missing out on life. I’m never physically doing anything but I am always.. always scrolling. And for what? To be entertained. For those weak ass dopamine hits. To distract myself from my thoughts and my mental state. To have an excuse as to why I’m not doing something.

Neglecting yourself? Doomscrolling? Having trouble sleeping? Eyes always tired? Unhappy? Always feeling drained and tired?

Don’t you guys ever feel like you’re missing out? I mean you must since you’re here.

So I decided to try a digital detox.

Not in some extreme, delete-everything-and-vanish kind of way (I actually tried that many times and failed each one). I just wanted to see what would happen if I gave my brain a break. If I stopped reaching for my phone the second I felt bored, uncomfortable, or lonely. If I actually let myself sit with things instead of escaping into a timeline that never ends.

It was weird at first.

My brain kept telling me to “check something,” whether it's Instagram, TikTok, even Pinterest like ?? girl for what?? I realized I’d trained myself to need noise. Constant noise. And without it? I felt unsettled. Quiet. But underneath all that static, there was something else too. A kind of peace I didn’t know I missed. My mind actually started to feel like mine again.

Because the truth is, I don’t want to live a life I’m watching from the sidelines. I don’t want to be so overstimulated I can’t even hear myself think. I want to choose what I consume. What I feel. What I do with my time.

I want to remember that I don’t have to perform every moment. I don’t have to be productive to be worthy. I don’t have to post everything to prove I exist.

Sprinkles ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪

I thought to myself I should have rules. I should try setting rules and boundaries because, as I said, social media isn't the problem, but rather how we use and interact with it is.

When you do scroll, do it purposefully (because you’re looking for something specific rather than because you’re just bored and you’re trying to entertain yourself quickly)

Delete and uninstall any apps you no longer use & make note of the ones you use too much - a lot of similar posts I’ve read on this topic always talk about keeping tumblr because it’s not that bad blah blah.. But can you really say you don’t scroll mindlessly on here? People use tumblr as an escape from all those other apps, but at the end of the day, it’s still social media.

Set time limits for screen use

Reduce use bit by bit

be careful with what you consume

Don’t be afraid to be bored. You are going to be bored and lonely.

Silence your notifications

Realize it’s okay to have social media but it shouldn’t be abused

Be in the moment. You don’t need to have a hot girl walk with a podcast playing in your ear. Bitch, be the podcast. Yap to yourself and look fucking crazy because I do. And it’s fun.

Find something to do with your free time, in my post Pretty Girl Content, you will find some hobby suggestions, or even in my Enhance Your Whimsy posts.

Tech-free zones - keeping your phone out of the bathroom, kitchen, bed, dining area

Check-in windows: only check social media during scheduled times

A ‘why I opened this’ list - every time you open an app, ask yourself why and write it down. Write it down. After a few days, review it to see your patterns and learn from them. nd if you wanna share thats ok too!

Dopamine Menu - a list of things that gives you pleasure or satisfaction a healthy way. instead of reaching for your phone when you feel lonely, bored or restless, pick something off the list and then do it.. They start easy with the first course, then require more effort and engagement as the course goes up.

Angel’s Dopamine Menu ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

🧁 Sweet Treats (Low-Effort)

Light a candle and practice breath work

Make a cute warm drink

Do mobility routine

take a shower

say affirmations

style dream closet mentally

cuddle blanket and/or pet

stand in sun for 3-5 mins

change into favourite cozy outfit

🍱 Comfort Courses (Medium Effort)

journal with dreamy prompts or about something i’m curious about

write a letter to my future self

Walk around the block

Bake something cute and simple

read a book

Reorganize space a bit (clear bed, fluff pillows, wipe mirror)

Watch a comfort show, no snacks, no other screens

have a tea party with plushies

🥘 Soul meals (High Effort)

solo adventure

Deep clean space

write letters to past you, present you and future you

go to a concert

choose a topic that fascinates me and go full research mode

start a new cute slice of life anime/kdrama

work on a hobby (start a scrapbook, upcycling an outfit, etc.)

write or continue writing a post

learn a new skill (writing, language etc)

host a themed night for yourself (cottage core evening, 2000s movie night)

Plan my dream life

But now that we’ve got that out of the way, I have a question for you

What do you want from these apps? ೀ

𖹭.ᐟ Is it validation?

𖹭.ᐟ To feel seen without having to do much?

𖹭.ᐟ A distraction?

𖹭.ᐟ Community and connection?

𖹭.ᐟ Inspiration?

𖹭.ᐟ Entertainment?

𖹭.ᐟ Self-expression?

𖹭.ᐟ FOMO?

Are you actually getting it? Or are you just stuck in the loop, hoping the next scroll will finally give you what the last hundred didn’t?

People say cons of not having social media is not knowing what’s going on “in the outside world” but.. to me that’s a pro because I get to focus on myself and my mind and loa. So nothing else really matters to me since I’m focused on building the life for me starting with myself. Which I really need right now given my mental state. When i deleted tiktok, I feel good about not downloading it. Whenever I need it, I redownload it. Hair content. That’s about it. Then I delete. I dread even redownloading it because I’m kind of impatient. But I also do the same for tumblr. If I need a little pick me up, a sweet post and I know I have no one around give it to me and I really need to hear it from someone else, I redownload. I use it on my pc mainly now and I don’t find scrolling on my pc interesting enough to do it all the time.

So let’s get to the more philosophical, harsher side.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ Modern life encourages consumption, rather than understanding and contemplation - challenge yourself, learn about something that honestly doesn’t seem that big of a deal, like learning random facts about random things. Remember libraries and book shops exist.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ One thing about social media it will give you unsolicited advice and opinions, it will try to make you feel like you have to listen and believe what is being shown to you. It could cause you to stray from your own beliefs if you aren’t strong in them. People’s opinions being thrown at you left and right when you aren’t even comfortable and strong in yourself is… jarring. “You shouldn’t do this bc..” but what if I want to? And why are people mad that I want to? Or don’t want to? Realizing I don’t wanna hear anyone’s opinions before I was grounded in mine was a big reason for my detox and regulation.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ You pick up a lot of stuff you consume online unconsciously. For instance, I watched a lot of American and Canadian tv growing up.. now I react to certain situations in certain ways (just like a lot of the characters I saw on TV) and I literally didn't notice until like a few days ago. That's the result of repeatedly consuming the same kind of content. So guess what- the thing people call ‘brain rot’… is actually rotting your brain. Surprise, surprise.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ Social media constantly exposes you to other people’s timelines, and it quietly convinces you that you’re behind in life. But most people are only sharing fragments- the polished, curated parts. And when we forget that, it’s easy to start holding ourselves to unrealistic standards or feeling like we’re not doing enough. You are not late. You are not less. You are unfolding, slowly and softly, in your own time. And there’s something quietly magical about that.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ And on that note… influencers really do be scamming sometimes. Like, a lot of it is just the same old stuff, just prettier now. They take outdated ideas and wrap them in pink ribbons and call it healing or empowerment. Suddenly, being “feminine” means looking a certain way, acting soft and quiet, never taking up too much space, and spending money just to seem effortlessly perfect. But don't get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with liking pink, or soft things, or wanting to feel pretty. But when femininity becomes a performance—when it’s reduced to a list of aesthetics you have to buy into to be “the ideal woman,” that’s not empowerment. That’s marketing. They just dressed it up and made you feel like you chose it. But it’s still about control. About shrinking yourself into something small, sweet, and palatable. It’s not just influencers because some of them genuinely believe in this and don’t realize what they’re doing. In the end it just leads back to men trying to be in control... Ew. You might not even realize how much of what you like or think you like is just what society has convinced you need to like to be worthy of love or attention. This is not to say you can’t enjoy this stuff because I most definitely still do. But do so mindfully. This is also not to say that life can’t be aesthetic and pretty because it can and anybody that says not is just.. boring I guess. Just be mindful.

So I’m detoxing. To control the identity I’m building for myself and making sure it’s something I like, something I’m doing for me rather than for the algorithm. This is not to say that social media- or rather, how we use it- is to blame for everything. Because it’s not. People around you can genuinely suck. You have to pull away from that. The point is, if it’s not benefiting you, it’s depriving you.

Log out. Go outside. Touch the real world. You deserve to feel real again. -`♡´-🧁

follow @urdreamgirlangel 444 more

inspired by:

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ michi goodbye TikTok, hello living

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ xiao's you don't have to be that girl

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ denee you'd be hotter if you logged out

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simplyghosting · 3 months ago

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Torture to go through ads. Torture to figure out how to not get ads. In the torment nexus over here.

Welp. My computer OS is too old to update firefox so now all of my add-ons are disabled and.LISTEN. I have not been without adblocker in YEARS. I am living in nightmare world right now.

#i am not a tech support girly I am the hands in sewage to unclog your drain girly #ghost posts #i haven’t been good with tech in years #I’m better with it than my mom but that don’t mean much #I’ll figure it out but half the time I have brain fog and just uuuuughhhhhhh #i don’t want to ipgrsde my OS and brick my computer bc that would be worse #so I’m trying to be careful #cannot afford a new one and I need this one to search for work

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arminsumi · 2 years ago

Text

SANCTUARY

�� GOJO さとる

warnings : angst, some fluff (?), satoru is such an asshole on the exterior 🥹, not proofread

the strongest... falling in love with the weakest. he's bullied n teased u about being the weakest, a weakling; "how did they let someone like you into jujutsu tech?"

he's so mean and condescending. he trails alongside u on missions. he asks "hey, bet you missed me" when he intrudes on missions that you very nearly had under control. he watches you from the bleachers as you hopelessly practice martial arts with suguru. he steals your quiz papers when the teacher isn't looking.

but of course... he has ulterior motives. his exterior is just a big act, he's really just a teenager who belongs in the drama club.

he's sticking to ur side during missions to protect ur "stupid weak ass". he's always popping his face into a scene to make sure that curse doesn't escape, cuz otherwise he has to listen to you getting another reprimanding from yaga. satoru's the one who asked suguru to teach you martial arts every day, encouraging his best friend to grill the movements into your brain. and he steals your quiz papers to quickly rub out all the wrong answers you filled in, and correct them so that tomorrow you're met with a baffling A* grade.

he's doing everything he can to keep you from being expelled.

yet he stands in front of you, hands lazing in his pockets, taunting you about being a shorty who can't fight for shit. "you're one of those fucking weaklings i have to protect..." he says bitterly, through gritted teeth... but he doesn't mean it how you interpret it. he's so upset with the world, and how he has to work hard to protect someone who deserves to be born into an idyllic paradise.

when you're making that defeated frown, looking helpless on the floor after losing to a curse, he glares over and yells "what are you doing... get up." and he forces you to get on your feet.

he's confusing, isn't he? how he tells you in the school corridors on hot summer days, "you're too weak to fight for yourself." and then when you're unconscious after encountering a special-grade, he clutches your body protectively and sobs, "are you crazy? why wouldn't you call me... hey, keep your eyes open..." he's furrowing his brows at you, expression angry not because you're weak... but because this world treats frail people terribly and he hates it with all his soul. he doesn't want to see you fighting. he doesn't want to see you practicing jujutsu. he doesn't want you to ever see another curse's morbid face again.

he's determined to turn the world into a sanctuary for you. that's what he puts in his wedding vows to you, when the two of you reach the age of 25. and he doesn't break it, he doesn't falter, he always keeps good pace and drains and exhausts himself in order to mold the shape of the world to fit someone as soft as you.

"i can't believe something as soft as you was given to me from such a hard world."

i'm gonna make it better, baby. i'm gonna build a new world for you. one that doesn't try to hurt us. until i can achieve that goal, i hope my embrace can act as your sanctuary.

#🥡.takeout #gojo #gojo angst #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo saturo #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo fluff #satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen satoru #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader

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spinchip · 9 months ago

Note

Concept: the Staff of Forbidden Spinjitzu doesn't whisper to Zane. Instead, its "whispers" take the form of popups along his HUD disguised as alerts or warnings. Things like "If you put me down now, your friends will never find you. [OK]” or “Killing these prisoners villagers will increase Vex’s approval and reinforce your reign. Proceed? [Y/N]”

(I like this particular flavor because it really leans into Zane's robotic nature: he can ignore whispers by turning off his auditory sensors or filtering noise, but he can't ignore system alerts.)

Also, the following scene has lived rent-free in my brain ever since I came up with the concept. (Italics are Zane's default OS. Everything else is the Staff.)

>IF YOU ARE GOING TO DESTROY ME, "ZANE" -Move File:"NeverrealmMemories" to Core Memory Functions-WARNING: Attempting to delete, move, or suppress File"NeverrealmMemories" after moving will cause total system failure. Proceed with move anyway? >[YES] -File transferred. -Permanently remove fatal combat safeguards? >[YES] -Safeguards removed. >THEN I WILL MAKE SURE YOU CAN NEVER FORGET WHAT YOU DID, SYSID:ICEEMPEROR

-Connection Terminated.

(I have a few more Ideas for the "Scroll Corruption looks like Computer Alert messages to Zane" idea-ones that really lean into Zanes Nindroid nature, as well as the tech-y appearance of the Dark Ice.) -The Staff did a lot more than just send alert messages: it slowly wormed its way into Zane's code like a computer virus, tweaking a few things. It took great care to remove Zane's combat safeguards, eventually deleting them entirely and ensuing he defaulted to lethal force. It never removed his core directive of "Protecting those who cannot protect themselves" since that was vital to his systems running, but it did reinterpret said directive as "Protect Dark Ice Network and everything connected to it, for it is fragile and cannot protect itself from outsiders". (It also couldn't delete his morality subroutines without causing a crash, so it instead made them a much lower priority and shoved them to the back of his digital mind.) -After 60+ years of being in the grasp of a mechanical being, the Staff now exclusively speaks in the manner of a computer, and cannot adapt to organic minds the way it used to. (The other Staff is not like this, as it's still attuned to organic brains.) -You know those Sci-Fi stories where people are plugged into computers and know every part of the ship/city simultaneously, and can send most of their awareness into certain parts of the network while still being aware of other locations? That's what's going on with the Never Realm during the Ice Emperor's Reign, with the Ice Emperor as the central guiding consciousness/core CPU of the Dark Ice Network. As such, he's not actually sleeping-rather, the Ice Emperor is always monitoring his domain through his Ice and leaving just enough of his consciousness in his body to be able to call the rest of himself back in case he's threatened. (The Staff is a combination of a computer virus and a wireless modem: it is corrupting, but it's also the main point of connection for the Dark Ice Network.) -Since the Ice Emperor can't recharge his power on his own in his current state, the Staff had to step in, tweaking the Dark Ice to drain the vitality of those imprisoned within. (You know wireless phone chargers, or Nikolai Tesla's idea to get electric power from the atmosphere? Similar concept, except with the power source being frozen people and the transmitter being Evil Magic Ice.) -Boreal is the Titanium Dragon, corrupted by the Staff's presence. It too is part of the Dark Ice Network, and serves as Ice Emperor's eyes and ears whenever the Dark Ice can't reach. (If the Ice network used computer program language, Boreal would be known as "Obj_DarkIceTitaniumDrake".) Killing Boreal caused a massive jolt to the Dark Ice Network that destabilized the Scroll's influence, and allowed an opening for Zane's Memory Defragmentation program to kick in. (It had started when Lloyd arrived in the throne room, but the Scroll had diverted that to a minor priority and was actively hiding that set of files until the word "Protect" slipped through, forcing Zane's systems to call up what had been defragmented.) -As a final act of spite for being broken, the Staff encoded Zane's memories of the Never realm to his Core Processing systems, meaning he cannot forget the Never Realm without completely frying his systems and rendering him a lifeless shell. (It might've also made a backup of itself amidst his various repressed memory files, but he doesn't need to know that. It's just sitting there, disguised as a normal .zip file, biding its time.) (I really like genre-blending Sci-Fi and Fantasy, and I thought the idea of "Magic Ice Computer Network" is rad as hell.)

(This song is a big part the inspiration for part of the "Dark Ice Network" idea, by the way. Granted, the Staff of Forbidden Spinjitzu doesn't assimilate Zane's psyche like Star Dream assimilates Haltmann's, but a lot of the ideas are still there-and the Staff does still integrate itself pretty deeply into the Nindroid's code as it slowly actualizes.)

I have no words for how absolutely awesome this is in every way. i just keep rereading this and being amazed. the "Dark Ice Network" idea is literally so cool, I particularly love the Ice Emperor being able to monitor the entire land while his body/the staff is the main 'hub' he has to protect. this is aweosme.

everyone look now please

#ninjago #zane julien #ns11 #ninjago ice chapter #ninjago ice emperor #spinchip posts #<just so i can find it later

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importantstudentbusinessspy-blog · 5 days ago

Text

Pretty When You Bleed

Masterlist

A Devil May Cry (Netflix) one-shot

Pairing: Dante x Demon!Reader

Tags: Explicit, NSFW, Enemies to Lovers, blood, blood drinking, angst, traumatized reader, flashbacks, rough sex, restraint, flirting, biting, scratching, banter, supernatural, dark romance, violence, toxic, morally gray behavior, Dante being Dante, happy ending?kinda?

Disclaimer: I didn't play the games, I just watched the show and have a minimal understanding about its lore. Reader is a succubus/vampire hybrid.

Turning the key to your dingy apartment door, you tighten your hold on the grocery bag as you balance it on your hip. The pouring rain has seeped through your torn jeans and fishnets, causing your legs to shiver from the autumn cold outside.

Sighing, you try to regain your strength.

Man, are you hungry.

It's been months since you last fed. Properly fed. Not human food but... well, demon food.

You had a perfect chance today, too... just as you were heading back from the bodega, you saw the creep pushing up against some women on the subway. They kept leaving the cart in discomfort while he smirked at them.

You shake your head in frustration. You should have done it– It's not like anyone would have missed him.

You could’ve curled your finger and beckoned him closer. Made him think he was gonna get lucky before you sunk your fangs into his throat, or better, dragged him to an alleyway and fucked his brains out, draining him of his energy until you were full.

But you stopped yourself. You couldn't risk being seen.

Each time you fed, you left a trail and those damned uniforms at Darkom would find you right away and drag you back into their cells and labs.

So you resisted. You worked to be able to afford fruits, vegetables, and meat, all of which tasted like sandpaper to you. Small price to pay for safety, you suppose.

But it was begining to mess with your head, the hunger. Passing by humans made you dizzy. Their smell causing you to drool, your fangs to grow on instinct. You even wore glasses to hide the way your eyes would glow whenever you sensed blood.

And worse, thanks to your new diet, you were growing weak.

Stomach grumbling, you stumble into your one bedroom unit, oblivious to a pair of steps growing louder as someone made their way up the stairwell.

You throw your keys into the bowl and lower your grocery bag on your unstable kitchen table.

It happens in an instant. One moment you're turning around at the sound of something moving, and the next, youre being pulled down to the ground, trapped. You barely have time to recognize the familiar seal holding you in place when the overwhelming power knocks you unconcious.

When you come to, the wooden floor is cold against your knees. Hands chained, collar humming with anti-demonic tech around your throat, wrists raw from the cuffs. You don’t heal fast enough in this state. Now you really regret not eating the subway creep. You don’t feel fear. Not anymore. Just rage.

You kept your head down. You starved. You suffered.

No bodies. No evidence. No fuck-ups.

And still, they came for you.

What’s the point of playing nice when you’re always gonna be the monster in their stories?

The collar buzzes. You choke on your breath as your mind flashes — white light, cold metal against your bare skin, the sound of metal on metal. Needles and knives. Questions with wrong answers. A voice behind a screen, talking about you like youre a thing. Calling you a test subject.

You blink it away. Not now. You can't let yourself get captured.

Your door groans open, and the silhouette that fills it is tall. Broad.

His steps are slow. Confident.

Red leather. Silver hair. A smirk that’s audible before it’s visible.

Dante.

That damned traitor.

Your gaze lifts to him, trembling with anger. Though your vision is swimming, your head fuzzy from the effects of the seal. What's worse is you can smell his human blood, his essence. And its dangerously enticing.

You hold back a whine thretening to rip out.

"Hey there pretty demon." he looks down at you.

You meet his gaze with the kind of stare intended to burn. Who's he calling a demon? hypocrite.

You feel the weak glow of your eyes, subdued by the collar.

"Still with Darkom?" you mean to sneer, though the words come out slightly slurred.

His scent is so strong you could practically taste it. You sniff desperately, trying to get as much of it as you can.

"Aha." He nods. Taking in the ripped fishnets under your torn jeans, the dark top, whose silky material is clinging to your skin under your raincoat. "And you still dress like a goth stripper."

"As opposed to dressing like a regular stripper the way you do?"

His chuckle is low, amused. He steps closer, fingers dancing along the hilt of his blade. "Cute. Still got a mouth on you."

You roll your eyes.

He takes slow steps forward. Circles you like you’re a relic he's inspecting.

"Dante," your voice is low, almost broken. "You know I didn’t do anything."

You don’t beg. But there’s a thread of something desperate tangled in your words. Just once, you want someone to believe you.

"Not what I heard, little demon." He mutters. "Dispatcher said a demon — one that looks like a human girl but registered off-the-charts power down by 12th and 7th station. Sounded kinda familiar."

As far as you knew, there were few of your kind – demons that resembled humans (if you didnt count their fangs and glowing eyes. Some had tiny horns that could be easily hidden under hair).

So he knew it was you he was sent after. The hypocrisy was almost laughable. Here you were, berated by a member of your very own species.

"They warned me, ya know. Told me you were dangerous." he lowers to a squat in front of you, hands hanging lazily off his knees. "Personaly, I think you’re just lonely."

Something in you snaps.

Fed up and hungry, you lunge. You use all of your remaining strength to snap your chains and tackle him onto the floor. The collar stops humming. You feel your fangs grow back in.

Straddleing him, you try not to get distracted by the feeling of his lips under yours.

"Still look lonely?" you snarl, making a show of licking your sharp teeth and lowering them, aimed for his thriat.

He flips you effortlessly — your body slamming against the cold floor, his weight pinning you.

Your breaths mix. Your heart pounds. He looks down at you, eyes unreadable.

"Still a bitch aparently." He grins down at you. Despite his biting words, his grip on you isnt strong enough to hurt.

You swipe your claws at his shoulder — not deep enough to maim, but enough to scratch.

He doesn’t flinch. Just grins as the scratch marks pull themselves shut. In an instant, his skin is repaired. Like nothing ever happened to it.

"That all you got?"

His face is inches from yours.

His gaze drops to your lips. Yours to his.

Neither of you moves.

It's so potent, his smell. You begin to drool, tongue brushing against your extended canines. You can see the veins on his neck, pumping half human blood. He would taste so good...

"Go ahead, little demon. Bite me." His voice is taunting, but one look at his face shows that he isn't smiling, nor mocking. He looks serious.

You blink, taken aback.

"Go on." His fingers squeeze your wrist. "I know you need to."

Your borws furrow. Is he serious? Is he playing with you?

Either way, your body doesn't care.

You do as he says.

It starts rough.

You pull him down for a kiss. Teeth click. His hands are in your hair, yours tangled in his coat. The kiss is violent, desperate.

You should feel like you're betraying yourself.

Instead, you feel so good.

Your teeth scrape his bottom lip and he grins against your mouth.

Warm, delicious blood, spills from where your fang punctures his lip and you can't stop your whimper.

He groans like he's the one that wants to devour you. His hands are rough, needy — one tangled in your hair, the other pinning your hip so hard it hurts.

You pull back, breathless and whiny. The pleasure of his taste overwhelming. The metallic taste on both your lips.

He drags you onto his lap like you’re weightless, straddling him on the floor as your collar rattles with every grind of your hips. His mouth is on your throat, your collarbone, your breast.

He tears your top with a growl.

"For someone who hates me, you sure can't get me naked fast enough." You can't resit a taunt, even as the words spill out in a seires of gasps.

Your pants are yanked down and your thighs spread open with one strong hand while he frees himself — big, hot, thick.

You your teeth capture your lower lip. This time, you cant hold back the whines. You're excited. You don't remember the last time you felt this rush.

Oh yes please, please, please!

If only he could read your mind, he'd know your taunts weren't worth shit.

He strokes once, twice, before lining himself up against your entrance.

Your moans come out high, broken, breathy. God your neighbors are gonna kill you for not letting them sleep at night.

"You still talking, sweetheart?" Dante raises a brow up at you.

"Shut me up." you say, anticipating the coming.

You're met with a cocky grin. His eyes rake down your exoosed figure and the excitement is written all over his face.

"Say 'please'," He drawls.

You're beyond dignity at this point, pushing your hips to his, desperate to be filled. "Please!"

He slams into you in one deep, punishing thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

Your mind goes blank. But you feel the effect everywhere else all over your body.

His hands grip your hips. The room fills with the sound of skin on skin, the floor creaking rhythmically with every savage thrust.

You rake your claws down his chest, drawing blood around the chain he wears around his throat. His body shudders — not from pain, but pleasure.

The wounds knit themselves together almost instantly, the blood drying hot against his skin.

Half-demon. Just like you.

He fucks like he fights — rough, relentless, smirking up at you through the blood and sweat.

And oh god, it's the first sense of fullness you've felt in months. His energy fills all your senses and you feel your body fill with power. Senses sharpen. Healing sped. Strength and speed are back.

You can’t help it. You moan his name.

"Dante—"

He grabs your chin. Forces your eyes on his. Their glow reflects in his own irises.

"Say it again."

"Dante!"

"Good girl."

The orgasm hits you like an explosive — your walls clenching, you convulsing around him. He follows, growling low as he spills inside you, gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You don’t kiss again.

You just breathe. Still straddling him. Still tangled.

He watches you from his place on the floor. In awe — almost. His thumb brushes your jaw. You lean into the touch.

Your body hums with magic.

You don’t stop him when he touches your hip. Or when he murmurs into your skin.

You sit on the cold floor beside him, still tangled in the aftermath.

Great, you think. First you let him fuck you. Now you're about to let him take you in.

You adjust your torn shirt, waiting for the inevitable.

You wait a while, but the handcuffs don't come.

Instead, he just lights a cigarette with blood still drying on his lips. "What'd you do to piss off Darkom this time? Hmm?"

"Nothing." you grit out. "Yesterday was the first time I've fed in months..."

There's a moment when his eyes flicker with something.

You cast your eyes down, not wanting to hold his gaze. That's when you spot something on him. Same place you have one. From the same lab, same experiment.

You notice it when he’s pulling his shirt on. Just below his chain — the brand. The number.

"Didn’t think they did that to their own," you whisper.

"They don’t," he mutters. "Not to their own."

You meet his gaze again. His intense eyes almost hold you hostage. Then, without saying more, he gets up and pulls on his leather coat.

You watch in confusion as he walks to the door.

"You’re letting me go?" you finally ask.

"Guess I am."

Your brows draw together. "Why?"

"Because I want to."

That shouldn’t be enough — but somehow, it is.

He stands. Looks down at you one last time.

"Get out of here, sweetheart. Before they send someone not so nice after you." Then he strolls out.

A few hours later, your things are packed, and you're on a one-way ticket out of town.

"You had her! And you let her go!" Darkom's director shouts over his desk. A single vein looks very close to popping on his temple.

"Yup." Dante smirks, tilts back in his chair. "Guess I was feeling generous."

The moan groans, dropping his face into his palms. "Oh my god– You’re out of line."

"You wanna fire me?" He kicks his boots onto the table. Lights another smoke. "Go ahead."

They don’t fire him. They can’t. He's their most successful experiment. Their best hunter. They need him.

So Dante walks away — coat swinging, smirk ever present.

Later, on a rooftop, he watches the skyline.

Somewhere out there, you’re still moving. His fingers brush the spot on his jaw where your teeth left a mark.

He smiles to himself.

"Pretty little demon," he murmurs. "I’ll see you again."

#dmc dante #dante #enemies to lovers #dante sparda #dante x reader #dante x you #dark romance #paranormal romance #devil may cry netflix #devil may cry #tw blood #smut #dante smut #toxic dante #angst #hurt/comfort

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khayal12345 · 3 months ago

Text

Paralyzed Man Controls a Robotic Arm With The Power of His Mind

0 notes

cupidkenji · 1 year ago

Text

ghost in the machine

Pairing: Unsub!Spencer Reid x Agent!Fem!reader CW: Fluff, longing, mild angst, one paragraph with heavy implications of sex, cursing, mentions of reader being in a car accident, mentions of suicide and death, suggestive Ig? idk Spencer kind of taunts reader, if I miss anything please tell me! Summary: An unsub targeting local political powers starts calling you. With virtually no memories of your life before 15, you're tasked with finding out why his voice feels like home. Disclaimer: Reader is chubby. She's not physically described in this but reader is literally always a bigger person. Anyone can read but I wanna clarify <3 WC: 7.8k I lokey feel like I fumbled this one but this idea has been in my head since I saw a post about it like last month so i'm sorry in advance if it sucks 💀 I'm not saying looping ghost in the machine by SZA while reading this will elevate the experience but just know it's strongly advised and im even giving you a link to the song for easy access.

The fourth case this month. This was the fourth battered politician you’d forced into handcuffs while ducking away from the recoil of blood spewing from his mouth. The men you’d arrested had all protested strongly - and wetly - while being walked to the back of your cruiser, demanding to know why you were arresting them even though they were the victims. They were always the victims. They’d been burgled and beaten - yes- oftentimes you were restraining them while they sat in bathrobes or pajama pants, but this unsub always jumped the gun. Somehow they managed all this damage while simultaneously kicking the dirt that had been sedentary for years out from under the rug. The men would call the police themselves - I’ve been robbed, I’ve been beaten - always astounded when you’d taken their statement then turned them around and recited their Miranda rights. This unsub was meticulous, planned down to the second. Somehow, the media always broke the story hours after the arrest with full fledged details on the crime - ones the BAU didn’t even have yet.

The first time this happened, you’d questioned every media worker from Quantico to DC. His target zone never seemed to reach beyond that, giving you an offender right in your backyard. Those were always the hardest to stomach. Journalists, Newscasters, even cameramen had been turned inside out as the team scoured for any connection. He was just too good.

“How can it be just one man?” Derek spoke first, but that was the question all of you were about to ask.

“Wife and kids were outta town. It was a sleeping 50 year old man against the element of surprise.” Prentiss was right, it wasn’t a difficult job when viewed like that. “Description is consistent with all the victims. All black attire, mask over the face.” She flopped the folder down in front of her for emphasis.

“Either he has another guy or he’s incredibly tech savvy. Some of this information was encrypted, it would take weeks to compile all of this. If he’s hitting a new vic every week that’s not nearly enough planning time for something this orchestrated.” Hotch checked the time on his watch. “We’re not finding him tonight. The local PD are investigating. We don’t have clearance until tomorrow. Everybody go home and get some rest, we need to crack down on this.”

As much as you loved your job, the departure was a welcome relief. The day had drained you, you had to basically drag yourself back to the BAU for the regroup after the case. It was routine, and incredibly necessary as this unsub continued his streak, but your brain was mush, and you didn’t know if you were capable of any breakthroughs in your current state. You were grateful, currently, that at least you weren’t dealing with a serial killer. He had an agenda, that much was obvious, but chasing a serial killer for a month bred a different kind of stress than chasing an anarchist.

The AC blast that hit you upon entering your home seemed to steal the tension from your shoulders. It was summer, so on top of hunting an unsub who was essentially a ghost, you were also bearing through the violently humid nights. You locked the door, pulling up your sleeves as you walked deeper into your house. The lights were on, you never left them off for long, and your eyes locked on the pile of notes sitting on your counter. Three small papers, torn at every edge, were draped over each other. Evidence, you thought. You’d kept them for evidence. Once you told the team the unsub had been reaching out, you would show them the notes. It was that simple, you were planning to tell them. You didn’t know why the information hadn’t entered their radar yet. This unsub was clearly infatuated. You could be a valuable part of solving this case, the notes could be the reason you solved it at all. Those were words straight from the source, they would tell you more about the unsub than any crime scene analysis would. Something about them just stilled your tongue, though. You never particularly liked the feds, the cops, the higher ups. You became one of them begrudgingly, you’d been good at reading people your whole life. You wanted to solve things, see justice. It was never primarily about helping people for you, and you feared the reputational repercussions if your team members ever found out about that. You weren't ignorant, you had morals. You simply lacked the place of purity they came from, the virtue your team members carried was one you were void of. Half of the time you walked away from a case, you disagreed with the verdict, and you were ashamed.

You had only realized you zoned out when the phone rang, effectively breaking your gaze away from the notes and onto the ‘Unknown caller’ screen glaring at you from your cell. Morgan just got a new phone, you remembered. He’s probably checking in. You picked it up, stating just your last name in greeting as a reflex from almost exclusively talking to other agents.

It was quiet for a moment, reaching the period of time where your stomach knotted up and almost forced you off the phone. “Hey, Y/n.” The voice was a new one, it pulled at certain strings within you. You knew him, but you didn’t recognize him.

“Who’s this?” The spark of familiarity filled you with guilt. A car accident when you were 15 had stolen most of the memories from your childhood and left a bountiful amount of scars in their place. You barely remembered your own parents, if this man was an old relative, you definitely didn’t know who he was. As much as your family tried to be empathetic, you could tell it hurt them when you were none the wiser.

“God, it’s good to hear your voice.” The man was smiling as he spoke, you could hear it in his tone. “Your number was shockingly hard to find. Feds really don’t mess around, huh?” Your shoulders tensed, you looked around. Blinds were closed, your house was the same as when you left it. You're sure it wouldn’t be hard to find your address if he’d found your number. “I’ve been trying, believe me. I left those notes while I was looking, although it’s really not the same, is it? Phones are so revolutionary, I mean writing you a letter is one thing but it’s so underwhelming in comparison. A piece of paper doesn’t let me listen to you, doesn’t let me hear those little breaths you take when you get scared.” You didn’t even realize your breathing had changed until he called you out.

“Do I scare you?” He sounded so domestic, the contrast between the genuinity laced in his words and the actual words themselves just about knocked you over. “I hope I don’t. I’m not trying to.”

“What are you trying to do?” Your mouth felt sealed shut, just barely managing to grate out the words.

“If you’re asking about my agenda, I’m afraid that’s a private affair for now.” He was so casual about this, sarcastically sucking air in through his teeth like he was telling you he couldn’t meet for coffee next week.

“What do you need with me, then? You don’t want to share and you aren’t calling to gloat. What’s the point?”

You heard him click his tongue at the question. “Everything is so technical with you agents.” You could basically sense his lips quirk up, gaining some type of sick intuition for the man’s tendencies. “Maybe I just wanted a word with the pretty detective working my case.”

Your knees were trembling, your grip getting looser on the phone as you struggled to keep your hold through the tremors of your hands. You had to focus, you could take advantage of this. “Why politicians? What happened to you?”

“Personal grudge.”

“How do you get their data so fast?”

“I know a guy” He knew a guy?

“So you have a partner?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s no one of importance.” Sibling, maybe?

“It’s important to me.”

He chuckled at that. You needed to hang up.

“Y/n-” Could he sense your fucking muscles tensing? “Don’t tell your friends.” He could hear your heartbeat from where he was, you were sure of it.

“Why?” You were instantaneous, barely letting him finish before responding. “You gonna hurt me?”

“No.” He scoffed. “If you tell them, I’ll have to stop reaching out.” You swore you could feel the weight of his eyes on you. “Is that really something you want?” Cold sweat pierced through the skin on the back of your neck. You yanked the phone down from your ear and hung up.

No, it wasn’t.

–

You dreadfully greeted the sun as it peeked through the slits of your blinds. You’d slept maybe a half hour in total last night, sleeping in five minute increments while bearing through a paranoid haze only comparable to the first time you’d smoked weed. The world felt unreachable. You could see it like a screen but your true consciousness sat captive in his hands. He’d known you. That was the fact stuck in your throat, that’s why you couldn’t sleep. Does that mean you knew him?

“Jesus.” If you had to guess, the sight of your sunken eyes and hunched shoulders was the trigger for Morgan’s reaction to the sight of you. Walking into work wasn’t going to be fun, you knew that, but you hadn’t expected such an immediate acknowledgement. “Someone have a rough night?”

You wished you could banter with him. Morgan always made working here feel lighter, he was fun to be around, but you were guilty. If you were tired from a one-night, insomnia, even if you were drunk and puking your guts up all night, you would have joked back with him. Now, you had to force yourself to make eye contact. A childish part of your brain was scared he'd smell it on you. At this point, you were fraternizing with the enemy, and it’s repercussions were draped over you like a curtain. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Clearly.” He handed you a mug of coffee. “Is it the case? If it’s bugging you that much, one of us can stay with you for a couple nights. It’s no trouble.”

“No, Morgan, that’s not necessary.” He was so kind it was nearly suffocating. If someone stayed, he either wouldn’t call or you’d have to decline it. Both of those options making an uncomfortable amount of unease stir inside you. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.”

“Just tell me if you need anything.” He nodded at you, you nodded back, then you both headed into the conference room.

“Any leads?” You walked to your seat as you asked, unsure what you were hoping to receive as an answer.

“None.” Everyone else was gathered around the table, Hotch scanning through the file as he replied to you.

“We’ve pretty much ruled out the media workers.” Prentiss spoke up. “This guy’s most likely an anarchist. His previous victims haven’t belonged to a consistent party so he’s not lashing out at the opposing side.” She thought for a moment. “What path leads somebody to anarchy?”

“Maybe he’s been kept out of office.” Morgan started speculating, just trying to sweep together something they could pin to him. “If he’s been running long enough, maybe he gets angry, changes course. He could be jealous of his targets.”

Your brain was half focused on the case, half focused on him. Two sides of you were fighting, one instilling a sort of protectiveness over him, one howling at you to do your fucking job.

“I don’t think he’s an anarchist.” You leaned forward in your chair, revving up to present your theory. “He’s been described in the same outfit for every victim. Long Sleeve, cargo pants, gloves and a ski mask - all black. That’s as minimal as it gets. Some pretty low income areas are well within his safe zone.” You paused, looking around to see if they were understanding what you were getting at.

“He’s poor.” Hotch had a glint in his eyes. Almost.

“So - what?” Morgan prompted. “He’s doing this for money? This is way too elaborate for somebody needing cash.” He shook his head as he spoke. “Hotch, there was evidence of Scopolamine injections. A man who either knows how to make the chemical or already has enough money to buy it wouldn’t be in a position that warrants this. Plus, the kind of tech it would take to get the information he steals? Way more than your typical Best Buy - this is Garcia level stuff. He injects them and probably forces them to help with the robbing, he beats them senseless - he’s getting some kind of kick out of this.”

“He’s not poor” You concluded. “But I’m pretty sure he used to be.” You sat up straighter to elaborate. “A lot of times, kids who grow up homeless or with no money feel wronged by politicians. Here they are going to school hungry while the mayor rolls in cash and lets them bear the consequences of a put-off promise to help the community.”

Prentiss sat back in her chair as she considered your words. “To build this type of anger, though? This is a vendetta.” She glanced down at the crime scene photos as a reminder.

“Exactly. Anger is expected in normal cases. Something extreme clearly had to happen to explain this type of outburst.” Personal grudge, you remembered him saying. You felt like you were airing out his secrets as you spoke. A weak sense of betrayal tugged at your guts. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, going over what type of event could cause something like this and I think I have an idea.” You pulled out your phone while talking to call Garcia, the woman answering immediately.

“Garcia, can you look up children in the Quantico to DC area who died from complications with chronic illness? Probably late 90’s to early 2000’s, I don’t think our guy is old enough to have been running for office.”

“That’s gonna be a large list. Any more parameters you can give me?”

“Look for families making less than 20,000 a year.”

“Got it. There were three families making under 20,000 that reported losing a child of illness. One was of stage 4 cancer with no plausible recovery and the other two said they couldn’t afford the medication needed for treatment. I just sent them over.”

“You’re the best.”

“Don’t I know it.” You hung up the phone, pulling up the files she found.

“What exactly are we looking for here?” Morgan looked to you.

“We can rule out the first family. Dying of cancer wouldn’t create the effect needed for our unsub.” He looked like he was about to reiterate his question. “What we’re looking for is a sibling. If your family is struggling, you already have the seed of anger that this guy has. I think a family member dying from the lack of money might just give him the motive he needs.”

“That’s good thinking, he could be avenging someone.” Praise from Hotch always felt better than others. “The Bryson family was just the mother and the daughter who died. She worked in janitorial for the local middle school.”

“Doesn’t exactly fit the profile.” Morgan was right, all the testimonies had described a man. Plus the assumption of decent financial prosperity didn’t fit someone still working at a middle school.

“Who does that leave?” You were searching for the answer to your question, but Prentiss was quicker.

“Diana Reid and her two sons. Henry had type 1, seems like they could afford the insulin for a little while but something must have happened. He went into DKA and died a week later.”

Two sons. “What about his brother?”

“Uhhhh-” She scrolled down on her tablet. “That would be one Spencer Reid who…” She scrolled just a little bit further to find the whereabouts of the man, the hope in her eyes snuffing out with the information she read. “is dead. Says he committed suicide a couple years after his brother died.” The whole table deflated a bit as she said that.

“It was a good idea.” Hotch, despite being a monotone man, usually tried to keep things optimistic. “We’ll continue pursuing that angle. Morgan and Prentiss, I want you to go back to the first crime scene. I’ll call Dave and we’ll head to the latest.” The mentioned agents nodded their heads and started making their way out the door.

Your eyebrows furrowed at your lack of instruction. “And me, sir?”

“Go home.” He looked you over for a moment. “You look like hell.” Then he was gone, calling Rossi on his way out. How mortifying.

–

It had been three days since Hotch’s dismissal of you. You managed to get some sleep, convincing your co-workers of normalcy when you went back into the office the next day. In truth, you were anything but. You had been noticeably distracted but the others chose not to mention it until it hindered your performance, which it had yet to do. You were on a timer, counting down the seconds until your next call with him. You seemed to be endlessly tugged back and forth between excitement and pure dread. Everytime you got home, you took a moment to stare at your phone, almost like you could will him to call if you glared at it long enough. The day was just shy of a week since his last attack, and you were nervous as hell. Your phone buzzed once, then it buzzed again. He was calling.

“You’re early.” You didn’t find it fitting to greet him. You knew who it was, why be friendly? “Is there another one?”

“Relax, honey.” His voice lit a fire in you. Jesus. “I didn’t know I was only permitted one call a week.”

“What are you playing at?” You tried to sound sturdy, but your voice hit your ears with more desperation than you’d ever expressed.

“I could ask you the same.” You could hear the tilt in his words, he was so sure of what he was doing. “You didn’t tell them about us.”

“How would you know?”

“I’m not in cuffs, am I?”

“You think we’d catch you if I told them?” Was it your fault he was still free?

“No.”

“Maybe they’re listening.”

“Maybe.” He was so unbothered by the notion. You were never a good bluffer.

“It wouldn’t bother you?” You narrowed your eyes at nothing, staring at your wall as you tried to read him through the phone.

“You could bring in the whole nation, Y/n.” You listened more intently than you ever had. “It wouldn’t keep me from you.” You felt like you were choking on your own heart, feeling it beat at the confines of your throat. Jesus Christ.

“Do you know where I live?” Your lips were too weak to hold back the question. It’d been the only thing on your mind since the first note had been left on your car.

“Why?” His smile bled into his words. “Are you inviting me over?”

“Answer the question.”

“Why don’t you answer a question of mine?” He was so intentional, his MO proudly showing in the way he spoke to you. “Haywood or Clancy?”

“Are those your actual choices?” You tried to analyze him, justifying your actions with the ruse of investigation. He’d tell you more if he wasn’t monitored. “Or are you trying to throw me off your trail?” It was certainly plausible. Get you running after two men not of interest, leaving his real victim neglected by your team.

He laughed, breathy and soft. “I don’t know.” You could almost picture him tilting his head, faceless and so enticing in your imagination. “Pick one for me. Maybe I’ll do him next in your honor.”

“What do you know about honor?”

“Everything I do is about honor.” What did that mean?

“The only thing that would honor me is you turning yourself in.”

“What do you know about honor, agent?” His voice was taunting, you heard his body shift. “What do you think that team of yours would think about us, hm? Those are their words, not yours. You’re the one who’s waiting on calls from the enemy.” Shock paralyzed your tongue. You felt your head pulse with the blood rushing to your ears. “You don’t have to be guilty about wanting it, honey. You don’t fit with them.”

“As opposed to what? Fitting with you?”

He chuckled. “You’ve thought about it.”

“Nightmares, maybe.”

“That’s the angle you're going with?” He saw through you. “If you dreamt of me, I doubt they were nightmares.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know where you are.” You didn’t feel relieved. “I have no interest in hurting or robbing you. Why would I want your address?.”

You slipped your hand under your shirt to trace the scar across your chest. Gift from the accident, now a nervous habit of yours. “What do you want?” God, you were a broken record.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, Y/n.” You could barely hear him over the thrum of blood in your veins. Your entire body felt tuned into his words. You’d never felt so far away while connected. “Only what I can do.”

“You take everything from them. More than just money. Clearly you lost something.” You were so sick of asking this question but you were getting farther from the answer with every conversation. “Why are you doing this?”

“They made the first move.” Jesus what did they do to this guy? “I’m not the bad guy, honey. I’m just defending my side.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“It might as well be.” He was quick with his responses. “It’s all the same to men like them.” You stayed quiet for a moment. How did you reply to something like that? “Get some sleep. It’s late.”

“Give me less crime scenes to look at and maybe I’ll sleep more.”

He smiled, you could hear it in his tone. “Every mean has an end, agent.” You held your breath, and as if gaining consciousness, you hung up the phone. You felt the brick of the encounter sit heavy in your stomach. He wasn’t lying. You were guilty, and you wanted it beyond belief.

–

You’d talked to him four more times over the past two weeks. There’d been two more victims corresponding with those calls, continuing his routine of a new one each week. Your understanding of your feelings had become less hazy as you talked to him more. Your guilt wasn’t from withholding information from your team, it was from the fact you wanted to. It stemmed from your instinctual desire to keep him to yourself. Let him exist differently in your home life than he did in your work life. It was difficult keeping something from profilers. It made you feel worse that they definitely knew something was up, but chose not to push it because they trusted you. Did this truly make you untrustworthy? You were only human.

You’d spent what was meant to be your day off at the BAU working. When there was a case like this, rest time seemed to take the backseat. You were drained, more emotionally than physically. You were lying to your friends, but truly, you didn’t know how deeply you considered them friends. They were good people, easy to like and easy to work with. You were starting to wonder if that's where it stopped, though. Everything about their company was easy, but it lacked gratification. His company was hard on you, but it was so rewarding, so filled with feeling that you started to wonder what your morals even were. You wouldn’t find them here, you thought. You certainly tried. You stared into the chipped white paint aging poorly on the brick wall of the bar as if the pigment of the words would organize your thoughts better than your malfunctioning mind could. The liquid in your glass was nearing it’s end. The drink had loosened your joints, loosened your mind. You hadn’t come here to get drunk, you were basically still sober, you just needed the warmth of a drink. There was a certain coldness within you, there had been since the accident. You accredit the feeling with driving away any potential love interests of yours. There was always a sense of being stuck, like you were interrupted in the middle of moving on, and never fully got to close the chapter. This wasn’t hard for others to sense. You were as emotionally nonreciprocal and unresponsive as a corpse.

“Mind if I join you?” A man who’d immediately caught your eye upon entrance gestured to the barstool next to you.

You motioned to it. “Please.” A casual invitation. You didn’t know how to talk to random men in bars. You took a good look at him, something subconscious stirring beneath your skin. The minimal buzz of the drink you had making you write it off, preferring the focus of his eyes on yours.

“What’s your name?” The smoothness of his voice could have rivaled the most expensive whiskey in that place.

You told him your name. He nodded, murmuring a “pretty” under his breath as he took a sip from his glass.

“I’m Matthew.”

“Pretty.” You reiterated, raising your eyebrows slightly as you joked. He chuckled, and you asked if he was new to the area.

“I’m a local, actually. I grew up here, surprisingly never been to this bar, though.”

“Really? I grew up around here too. This place is old as dust, been here forever.” You looked down, finishing the last of your drink.

“I know. I’ve wanted to come here for a while because it’s so old.” Something about him was so off putting but so irresistible. You’d never encountered such an uncomfortable concoction. It was intoxicating. “I lost the knack for drinking I had in my teen years. Back then my friends and me would just buy a 12 pack and get drunk in the field on Fromage.”

You lacked the memories to know if you related to the man, but you weren’t going to delve into why and kill the mood, so you lied. “That field used to scare the shit out of me. Everyone at my school said there were bodies out there.”

His eyes held a certain glint in them when he looked at you, his lips perked up at the edges slightly, if you hadn’t been a profiler you might have missed it. “Really?” Maybe you imagined it all, that or he caught on to you, the look leaving his eyes after lingering for a moment. The slight promise of something more sinister pulsed throughout them. The hairs on your arm were standing. “Mine said the same thing.” He smiled, looking away, shaking his head fondly as he remembered. “My school was full of dumbasses though so I never really took it seriously.” And you laughed.

You laughed a lot throughout the time you sat there with him. A few hours, you’d guess. He lowered your guard so easily, walking leisurely through the gates of you. You’d practically rolled out the red carpet for him. You wondered if he could see how easily he got in, how much you welcomed the feel of him in your veins. He didn’t seem to mind if he could. When he’d wanted to take you home, your lips parted, and you said you’d like that. You don’t really remember driving, knowing one of you did, both of you sober by the time you’d left. He’d been so gentle, so all-consuming. He’d run his thumbs along the scars he encountered, punctuating the sensation with his lips following close after. Mumbling praises against your skin and rhetorically asking “does that feel good, honey?” as your legs shook around him. He melted you down to pure liquid gold with just his touch, knowing exactly how to map you out. You’d felt him everywhere, his fingers burning their respective shadows on your skin, seeping slowly into your soul to leave marks there too. He’d felt so safe, the pure want joining the two of you together. A euphoric distraction from all the disaster you’d let befall you. He was gone before you woke up the next morning, but you saw him in your shadow, felt him in the soreness of your legs. He’d been a deviation, something put in your path to confuse you. What a brutal fucking night.

–

The same day, you’d gone to work, gone home, and then ended up back at the BAU an hour later. There had been another victim. Two days early. This was his eighth, and up until now he hadn’t strayed from his weekly pattern. This was a bad sign, if he was ramping up, who knows how many more he wanted to hit. The story had stayed the same, and that night you were arresting another board member, this time for solid ties to human trafficking. He really knew how to pick them. You’d give him that, at least.

The meeting post-arrest basically just shared what you were all thinking. He was ramping up, and you were getting no closer to catching him. Stating the obvious was doing nothing but wasting time. He was good. One of the best you’d ever seen. Nobody really knew what to do at this point. You watched their faces get more and more helpless and you felt bad. Nothing in your calls with the man would have helped you solve this case, you were almost positive. Any aspect that could have helped was one you explored.

Emily had said the name ‘Spencer Reid’ and the way your stomach lurched made you feel like you had to be onto something. You’d never had such an intense gut feeling about something only for it to be absolutely impossible. You hadn’t told them, but you looked more into him. His death was an easy one to fake. As much as you hated speculating on what could very well have been just a heartbroken boy, you couldn’t deny the theory you were building. His mother had found a suicide note, they hauled a body out of the river a month later and just assigned Spencer’s name to it, marking it down as conclusive. You weren’t convinced.

–

You got home within the hour, locking the door and pulling out your phone. You hadn’t called him before, but it was the same number every time, and you needed to talk. The phone rang so long you were almost sure he wouldn’t pick up. Almost.

“Y/n.” He greeted you. “This is new.”

“You broke your pattern.” You started with the topic at hand. “Why did you do that?”

You heard a chair squeak slightly as he leaned back. “What can I say? You being so interested gave me some extra motivation.”

“Interested?” What the fuck was he talking about? “This isn’t - I’m not fucking interested in anything. You’re a criminal.” You were slightly out of breath. When you lied to him, no matter how small the lie, air seemed to gain a disinterest in staying within your lungs.

“Mhm.” He was smug. That wasn’t a good sign. “I don’t believe that. You seemed pretty interested last night.”

He had pulled a lever, and your stomach dropped to your shoes. “That was you?” You sounded as defeated as you felt. Your eyes were watering from the pure shock, feeling the drop of the bomb shake you down to your core.

“You kept tracing that scar on your chest, you know that?” You hadn’t known that. “Almost like you could feel it.” Feel what? He didn’t elaborate. “You sounded so pretty when I touched it, when I kissed you. Been thinking about it all day.” He was breathy, sounding like he was trying to put himself back in it as he spoke.

You steadied yourself before you opened your mouth. “You lied to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you.” He sighed. “You lied to me, though.” You hadn’t imagined it. “That field used to scare you?” He laughed slightly. “You were the one who told me about it. Took me over there once to look at the moon in the back of your dad’s pickup.”

God, this was frustrating. “Who are you?” The tears were dancing the border of your eyes, begging to run down your cheeks. “I knew you?”

“You know me.” He was so sure of it. “I’m still in there. Everything is.”

You had to ask, at this point you were near certain of it. “Spencer?”

He sighed, relief intertwining with his words. “There she is.” It was such a soft delivery, the moment he took before replying had you wondering if you’d said anything at all.

What kind of situation even was this? “Is this about your brother?”

“You know, when we were younger, my mother knew the mayor. He used to babysit my brother and me when she worked nights.” His tone was humorous, bitter, like he couldn’t believe the stupidity of what he was explaining. “I listened to him promise us he would change the community when he got the time. Get us a house with more than one bedroom, get us into a school system deserving of us. He used to call me a genius.” He scoffed at the thought. “Then my mom couldn’t afford the insulin, and he let my brother die.”

You didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“The payments wouldn’t have even made a dent in his pockets.” You could visualize him, alone in a room somewhere, that familiar crease between his eyebrows as he talked. You were going to be sick, you thought. “One man for every year my brother got to live. Seems only fair.”

“Two more to go, then?” You couldn’t identify a single thought in your head. All of them speeding past you like bullets before you could latch onto one. “Is it helping?”

“Yeah.” He sniffled, quiet and subdued. “It is.”

“I - um” A tear finally fell, breaking the dam. You wiped it away quickly, two more taking it’s place almost immediately “I have to go.”

“Y/n-” but you were gone already. You put your hand over your mouth, laughing into it slightly at the absurdity of your situation and sobbing into a moment later as you took the cold plunge into reality. You texted your parents, knowing they were asleep, asking if you could swing by when they woke up. If anyone would know something, it was them, and you had every intention of shaking them down to find out exactly how you’d known the man. You had to know. You spent the night preparing the questions you’d ask and trying to fall asleep. You were almost paralyzed with the weight of him on you. There was no getting out of it now.

–

The outside of this house always felt alien. You knew you’d grown up here, but it lacked any sense of home. You wondered as you stood out front how much Spencer had to have meant to leave more of a mark than the place you spent your first 18 years in. The sun was nearing it’s peak in the sky, it was almost noon. Your parents had texted back at eight am, worried and eager to know what was wrong, eager to see you. You’d fallen asleep barely an hour before that, waking up at eleven and quickly getting ready after seeing the text. You were scared. These were practically strangers to you, and you were betting an ungodly amount on them. That’s not fair, you thought. But honestly, nothing was fair, and you calmed your guilt with promise of filling the void in your gut. You broke your staring contest with the front door and leaned forward to knock, the thing opening almost immediately.

“Hey.” You spoke before they did. You found that being the first to talk usually decreased the amount of warmth in their greetings. “It’s good to see you guys. Thank you for having me, I know my texts were sort of alarming. I just needed to talk about something.” You held eye contact to the best of your ability. They brought out a deep feeling of shame, knowing they didn’t blame you for the distance but still being responsible for it nonetheless.

“Of course.” Your mother talked while your father looked down. “It’s good to see you too. Come in, please.” Your father broke from her side to go sit down, while your mother opened the door to usher you in. You stepped forward, nodding at her in thanks as you passed her, joining your father where he sat.

“Um…” You faced both of them as your mom took the place by his side. How did you even start this? “Well, in a case I’ve been working on, somebody came up.” You couldn’t tell them he was alive. “And he just…seemed familiar, I guess. Did I know a boy named Spencer Reid growing up?” You watched the sparks of recognition ignite in their eyes as you said the name. Your mother’s grew teary, while your father’s seemed to harden.

“Knew him?” Your mother chuckled at the thought of it being so simple. “You two were more in love than your father and I.” She rolled her eyes as she held your father’s arm, the man laughing lightly at her words.

“He was the first friend you talked about. I remember picking you up from the first day of kindergarten and listening to you rave about the boy who was ‘smarter than the teacher’.” Her tone got lighter at the end, seemingly trying to imitate the excitement of your adolescent self. “You two were always close, you know?” She seemed to remember him fondly. “When you got older, you would get so defensive if I asked after him so eventually I stopped. But I knew. I knew you two would end up together from your first playdate.” She was on the verge of tears, giggling at her own words as the stories she told surrounded her, smiling at the past.

“His family really struggled. Such a sweet kid, him and his brother both. They were over here a lot.” Your father took the role of speaker as your mother’s emotions got the better of her. “We went back and forth for a while after the accident on whether to tell you or not. It just seemed cruel to. He died the night before you got hit, and you were such a wreck we just -” He struggled to find the words. “We considered it a blessing you didn’t remember him.” Your father’s guilt was apparent, twisting his features slowly as he explained their choices. “You were so in love, sweetheart. You didn’t know who he was when you woke up and we figured, you know, what’s the point? When the only thing that could come from it was pain, it just seemed futile.”

You don’t think you blinked the entire time they were talking to you. You only knew you were crying when your vision went blurry, completely neglecting the beading of tears down your cheeks. You remembered the day your mother was talking about, seeing the children you once were illustrate the world in front of you. You could almost see his face, how it would have looked when he died, how he used to look at you. Like he was staring at the universe’s secrets, easing his hands through the veil to touch them - to touch you. You remember the feeling he gave you, something warm and distinct, reserved for the two of you only. If you could have seen yourself in the moments you shared, you’re sure you would have worn the same look in your eyes.

You started speaking, but couldn’t manage much. “Yes, yeah, you’re right.” Reassurance usually worked well. “It was a…a good call.” You had trouble with your words, remembering the feelings of him but lacking the visuals. “Do you have any pictures?” Your mother nodded in response, detaching from your dad and going to retrieve something that held the memories you sought.

“I’m-” Your dad started. “We’re sorry.”

You shook your head. Your parents were the last people who owed an apology. “It’s ok, dad. I’m glad you did it.”

“I could never myself look back at these. Thinking about what happened to them I just…I can never look at them knowing they’re gone.” Your mother re-entered the room holding a camera, dark pink and cheap. “It was meant to document your childhood, but he was around so much, it’s basically just a compilation of you guys.”

You held the thing in your hands. It was everything you wanted to happen but you couldn’t force your fingers to move. Did you even want this? He was alive, sure, but you’re certain the boy next to you in these photos would never see the light of day again. All your birthdays for thirteen years, field trips, science fairs, even just the two of you sitting together reading. It was all here. All consumable. You felt the urge to boil them down and burn your skin with the residue. Anything to keep a semblance of this life with you. You had a right to them, they were yours. Your teeth clenched at the sting of the absence. He had been yours and you couldn’t even remember. “Can I keep this?”

“Of course.” You’re sure the thoughts in your head were obvious to them, spinning like a cyclone in your eyes zoning out on the camera. “I’ve thought about giving it to you for a while now anyway.”

–

They’d made you lunch, then dinner. They told you tales of your past and you let them glance into your present. It was dark by the time you left, setting the goal to talk with them more. You walked to your car, having parked down the street, and tried to shake yourself out of the trance that house put you in. You thought you were seeing things at first, squinting slightly to focus on the chunk of passenger door that was shrouded with out of place darkness. Someone was leaning against your car. You didn’t feel defensive.

“Spencer?”

“Hey.” He pushed off the door and walked closer to you, facing you on the sidewalk. You could see him now, lit up by a streetlight. He took you in, too. Glancing at your hand and grinning. “I remember that thing.” You had forgotten you were holding the camera until now.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I don’t know, honey.” He shrugged, matching your exhaustion at the situation. “I guess I wanted to see how much you remembered.” He looked at you, his eyes just as bright as they’d been a decade ago. “How much I could make you remember.”

You sighed. God, if only it worked that way. “Do you want to-” What the fuck were you thinking? “Do you want to come over?” You’d looked through every picture on that camera. You missed him. You missed him in your space, on your bed, waiting for you at the bus stop. That knot of feeling stuck only wanted to unravel if it were his hands tugging at it. “I can drive us.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprise blending seamlessly with the undiluted hope he carried as a kid. “Ok.” He smiled, just a tiny lift at the corners of his lips. The image of that smile resting on his teenage face struck you so violently you felt it in your bones. You looked at him, starstruck. His presence was a trance of it’s own.

“Ok.” You repeated him, trying to elongate the moment. You weren’t sure when you’d be ready to look away. He’d have to move first, and he knew it, so he walked to the passenger door. You blinked, grounding yourself, and unlocked the car.

You were preparing for an awkward car ride, but clearly your subconscious was more than familiar with him, being silent with him came as second nature to you. You took the long way back to your house, trying to enjoy the comfortability as long as you could. He added an elevation to your existence that you hadn’t been aware you were lacking. You pulled into your driveway ten minutes later, parking and turning off the car.

“Did you really not know where I lived?”

“No.” He was looking out your windshield, taking in the sight of where you felt safest. “I meant what I said. I never needed to.

You walked into the house first, hearing him shut the door softly behind him. You’d been listening to see how he’d close it, not sure what it would tell you, but deeming it important regardless. He’d been nothing but respectful of your space both times he’d been here. You sat down, nodding your head to the chair near you.

He let a moment pass, waiting to see if you had something to say. You had too much to say, too much to articulate. “I want you to leave with me.”

“Spencer-”

“Don’t.” His eyes were pleading, glistening with his unique mix of hunger and control. “Don’t write me off, Y/n. Nobody would know. They’re not gonna catch me. You can quit, and we can leave.” You looked away, down towards your hands. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.” It was all you’d been thinking about. Usually in dreams - obviously your mind was more up to date than you were. You were going to do it, you thought. Of course you were. You looked at him and knew you’d go anywhere he asked you to. Still, though, you had a life. One you needed time to wrap up before you could leave it. You were a federal agent, if you went missing, they’d send the entire nation to step on your heels.

“Can I think about it?

He looked at you, suppressing a smile and tilting his head slightly. “Sure, honey.” He could read you so easily. He’d known he had you from the moment he asked. “I’ve still got two more.” The burning in your stomach wasn’t a resistance to the words. It was an admiration, a feeling you could wallow in. You weren’t an opposing force to him. Had you ever been? Truly?

“What happens if I don’t go?”

His eye contact had a way of transferring, enveloping any part of you it could reach. You were testing him. “Don’t force my hand, Y/n.”

You didn’t plan on finding out what that meant.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #x chubby reader #x fat reader #x plus size reader #spencer reid x chubby reader #spencer reid x plus size reader #spencer reid x fat reader #spencer reid fanfiction #suggestive #probably ass #im sorry for this #cupid:SR

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hiraethwrote · 1 year ago

Text

❝ ANGEL PART 2 ❞

[ suguru geto x f!reader ]

✧ summary: the last time you met was supposed to be a final goodbye - suguru had chosen his path. but the heartbreak seem to hurt just as much as it did more than a decade ago when he suddenly comes back ✧ cw: heavy angst, no comfort, spoilers for jjk0, character death, mentions of blood and physical injuries, depiction of an anxiety attack, cursing, no use of y/n, platonic!satoru ✧ word count: 4.3k

part 1 - part 2

Was the this what dying felt like?

Shallow breaths was all you managed to heave through your lips, not nearly sufficing your need for oxygen. Head dizzy and lightheaded, you felt as if the two of you were isolated in a dark and abandoned vacuum, your sadness surrounding you in a suffocating silence.

This wasn’t how your reunion was supposed to be.

No, when you met him again, everything was supposed to be settled — peaceful, and you’d be able to take advantage of a more forgiving world, now allowed to lace your arms around him in comfort. You were meant to enjoy a domestic future you had always talked about.

You weren’t supposed to be latched around his limp body, begging to deaf ears to have him return to you.

This was all wrong.

He wasn’t supposed to die.

“Suguru Geto, a special-grade curse user who uses cursed spirit manipulation,” Ijichi started off the meeting, standing across the room from you.

The sound of his name had your breath come out trembling, focusing your eyes on your feet to stop yourself from losing it completely in the middle of the crowd.

Finally, after all these years, the confrontation you had always feared might occur, was unfolding before your eyes. The theories of Suguru’s eventual return had been on the lips of the Jujutsu community for some time now, and you had childishly closed your ears, unwilling to listen to people’s warnings.

You had dealt with this situation the only way you thought fit — by pretending it wasn’t real. Ever since that day on the train station, you had simply tried to pretend as if Suguru had never existed. When he was nothing but an unnamed ghost that drifted around only in rumours, you found it easier to detach yourself from the whole ordeal — at least as much as your brain allowed you to.

But this was the end of your naivety. When he had decided to land right outside Jujutsu Tech in an attempt to recruit Yuta to support his cause and declare war on jujutsu sorcerers, you could no longer act as if he was someone you’d made up in your mind.

He was real.

As much as people were paying attention to Ijichi’s presentation, you were well aware that you were the elephant in the room. You and Suguru’s relationship was no secret to anyone, and you could feel the pressing weight of how you were in the back of everyone’s mind. Especially Satoru, who even through his bandages managed to rest a heavy stare in you.

With your arms tightly crossed over your chest and your heel tapping nervously against the floor, you desperately tried to block out what was being said, familiar heartache growing for every word that was spoken.

“He claims to possess 2000 of them and that may not be a bluff.”

Ijichi’s statement had your eyes squeeze shut, wanting the image that appeared in your mind to disappear — the image you so vividly pictured of him consuming curse after damned curse.

For years you’d tried to suppress all the painful memories that plagued you. But they were all coming swarming back, the ones of Suguru in the period leading up to the massacre becoming particularly prominent in your mind. How exhausted he’d been the last few weeks, how the boy you loved had slowly deteriorated before your eyes and you hadn’t been able to stop it. And you knew that consuming curses was part of what had drained him to the point of no return.

“But statistically, most of them have got to be weaker grade-two curses or below,” Yaga jumped into the presentation. “Also estimating generously, he can’t have much more than 50 curse users,” voice low, with clear disdain for him.

It rubbed you the wrong way to hear Yaga talk about Suguru with so little consideration, as if he hadn’t known and cared for him too at one point.

Not just Yaga — several people in this room had known Suguru, but by observing them you could never have guessed. No one had the inner edges of their eyebrows pinched together in sadness, or restless hands picking at their own skin. They were all paying close attention to how Suguru was described as this awful monster — something a part of you had always refused to acknowledge.

Your own adrenaline driven body was sticking out like a sore thumb in the calm and contained crowd, feeling a desperate need to get the hell out of the room. You tried to roll your neck and shoulders in an attempt to release the tension that was straining your body, but nothing helped.

It wasn’t until you heard Satoru’s voice that your head finally turned up. “That’s actually the part that frightens me the most. I find it hard to believe that he’d want to start a war that he couldn’t win.”

“God damn,” Yaga burst out.

A quick and nervous glance went between Satoru, Shoko and you before you swallowed the lump in your throat. Though they both seemed to do a better job at hiding their sorrow, you knew they were the only ones feeling the same turmoil as you. It even appeared as if Shoko had reached her limit when she pushed herself off the wall and exited the meeting while Yaga went on an angry rant.

“Put out a call for aid to all alumni, alert the three major clans and the Ainu Jujutsu Society. It’s all out war. It’s not just the curses we’ll exorcise, it’s Geto!”

Yaga’s loaded declaration made it run cold down your spine, a weak ‘no’ spilling from your lips in a desperate plea before your voice hitched in your throat. You frantically began to look around the room in search for any signs of objection, but they all seemed to be on board without a single hesitation.

Your eyes snapped to Satoru for him to use his position and power to be your last hope. And to think, he who had spent the entire meeting keeping a worrying eye on you, now avoided your glare for all it was worth.

Your breathing picked up its pace, arms falling to your side as nails dug into your palms nearly drawing blood and heart about to beat out of your chest. You couldn’t stay here — you couldn’t listen to how all these people were making a meticulous plan on how best to execute the love of your life.

The agitation running your body had you rush for the door, feeling everyone’s heads turn towards your dramatic exit as you slammed the door behind you.

Once out of the hostile atmosphere, the adrenaline that had kept you on your feet slowly transformed into pure misery, having your legs give out under you before stumbling forwards and sliding down the wall. You buried your head in your knees and slapped your hands tightly over your ears to block out the talk from the meeting that you were still able to make out.

You felt sick to your stomach.

And to think you’d always considered what took place eleven years ago to be your worst nightmare. But the future that threatened you now was worse — you hadn’t even dared to imagine it. Because despite having lost him to so cruel a fate, at least he was alive.

In the wee hours of the night, while everyone else was sound asleep and you found yourself too tired to shield him out of your mind, it brought you a sense of comfort to know that he was out in the world somewhere doing mundane things — same as you.

He still had to get up and get dressed in the morning, having restless nights where his running mind was keeping him up, cooking dinner and setting the table.

And if whatever they concluded would be the best course of action worked, he would no longer get to enjoy the little things in life that you knew he used to appreciate. He’d no longer find himself just admiring a beautiful sunset to wash of a long day, something he always loved to do with you on days he’d exorcised countless curses.

Endless scenarios of Suguru living his day-to-day life took your mind hostage, and it wasn’t until a hand placed on your shoulder had you jolt away, your wet eyes introducing you to a slightly blurred image of Satoru crouched in front of you. Behind him Yaga stood with a scowl.

“You know as well as us this is what has to happen,” Yaga said strictly, as his arms crossed over his chest.

You scoffed at the audacity of him talking to you with so little compassion, your sadness slowly turning back into the agitation that had led you out of the room in the first place. “You’re unbelievable,” you whispered as you shook your head, averting your eyes because the look you’d give him with be nothing but cruel.

“Geto is dangerous. We have a responsibility to take him-“

“Don’t do that,” you demanded. “Do not guilt me into being okay with this!”

“That’s not what I’m doing, but I know what Geto does to you and I have to make sure you won’t be a liability.”

You abruptly jumped to your feet at the sound of his name, Satoru following your lead ready to intervene as you were so clearly fuelled by a decade old heartbreak.

“Take his name out of your mouth,” you seethed through gritted teeth, placing an accusatory finger on his chest. “If that’s all you’re going to say about him and remember him for, you don’t get to speak his name!”

“He’s a murderer. He’s dangerous,” Yaga said calmly, but the animosity was still heard.

“We’ve heard the story enough times, but Suguru is more than this cult, this agenda, and you know that,” your voice cracked, fighting back tears.

“Listen to yourself,” still calm, “you’re talking if he’s the same boy that you fell-“ with a raise of your eyebrows he instantly cut himself off, knowing he’d cross the line if he finished his sentence. “That attended here.”

“He’s in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.” One of your sharp heaves cut though the conversation. Satoru spoke your name softy as he tried to place a hand on your shoulder again, to which you instantly stepped away. “No, don’t touch me!”

He said your name again in the same sad tone. “You know what we have to do.” All the years you’d known Satoru, you could recall every single time you’d heard him as absolutely devastated as now. He might be able to fool everyone in that meeting room that he was behind this mission wholeheartedly, but you saw through his facade. You knew he was struggling as much as you were.

“No, I know, fuck-“ you cut yourself off as you pressed your hands to your eyes as if it would be able to stop your tears. “I know all that but please don’t expect me to mourn him before I have to!”

For a few moments, it was only your sobs that filled the silence between the three of you. And again he appeared in your mind, but not how he usually did.

No, he appeared how you’d seen him just hours prior.

When he’d arrived earlier that day, you were sure your heart stopped for a moment. An overwhelming and suffocating feeling of true melancholy dominating your body, which had kept you in the back of the crowd. Partly because you were frozen in place, the shock of seeing him again causing all your limbs to malfunction. But also partly because you were scared of what his reaction to seeing you would be — suspecting he might treat you like everyone else, preaching his crazy, religious tangent to you just the same.

He had looked so much like himself — yet so different. His hair was still long, his features just as beautiful, and his aura oozing confidence. It was so clearly your Suguru you were looking at, but the contrast of how you’d witnessed him his last weeks with you was unmatched.

And it broke your heart all over again. Because based on how he had presented himself, he seemed to have found a purpose he previously believed he had lacked. This dark path he was on had given his life meaning, where he performed so assertively to the point he had been able to draw in a group of devoted followers who genuinely believed in what he was promoting.

Why hadn’t you been able to give him that reassurance?

You finally got your sobs under control to some degree, taking a deep breath before removing your hands to meet their piercing eyes.

“I’m aware of what has to happen,” you said weakly, a relieved wave washing over Yaga. “I’d never do anything to put these kids in danger. But I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not fine with this. I’ll never be.”

“I know,” Yaga said carefully, finally giving you a more tender look.

“I’m still his,” you whispered, drying the silent tears with the back of your hand before turning to look at Satoru. “I think I’m ready for this day to be over,” you sniffled.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, me too,” he breathed as you walked up to him, letting him pull you close to him with an arm across your shoulders, having you reactively cling on around his waist.

Despite the pain that pulsated through your body, you hurried to find Satoru, who’d just about defeated his opponent when you reached him. You shouted his name as you leaned forward, hands resting on your knees, desperately trying to catch your breath.

He instantly turned at the sound of his name, one hand rubbing his shoulder as he came to meet you halfway on the deserted and destroyed highway.

“Something’s not right,” you panted.

“There’s no time to speculate,” he rushed to say as he quickly grabbed your shoulders to spin you around and pushed you in the opposite direction. “The city is still crawling with curses. Help Nanami, he probably wouldn’t say no to your powers.”

Satoru crashed right into your back when you buried your feet into the asphalt, bringing you to an abrupt halt. Spinning out of his grip you turned to look at him, eyebrows pinched together.

“Satoru, what’s going on?”

“The city is being attacked-“

“Satoru,” you interrupted firmly, seeing right through his poorly convincing act. With a deep sigh, he fully removed his bandages, his eyes conveying a message of genuine concern.

“He’s not here.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense! This is where his plan holds the most ground. And he is proud, he’d want to be-“ your words instantly died in your throat when it finally dawned on you. Your mouth ran dry, eyes flicking madly between his. “Oh my god, he’s at the school.”

Goosebumps suddenly covered your skin, your breath growing rapid at the idea of him there with Yuta and Maki. You didn’t want to believe it, that this was the core to his plan, that he had traveled beyond the line of redemption.

Satoru reached out to take a reassuring grip on your arms again. “They’re going to be fine, Toge and Panda are there too-“

“What?” You exclaimed, feeling your shoulders raise with fear.

“I sent them there as soon as I figured out he wasn’t here-“

“Hold on!” You pulled out of his grip, taking a step back. “You sent them there? When? How long have they been there? When did you figure it out?”

“Calm down, please,” he begged hunched forward, nearly appearing small. “He won’t kill them. I’m headed there now.”

“Wait-“ you raised your hands, your head spinning from all the confusing questions raging through your mind. Trying to find a footing in all the madness, you locked eyes with him again to capture his stare. “You were going to go back there without me.” You saw how he gulped nervously, standing up straight in order to to regain some sense of poise.

“Listen to me, okay?” He annunciated clearly, hands hovering in front of him in innocent defence. “What’s about to happen tonight,” he had to take a deep sigh in order to find the right words. “You shouldn’t have to see it.”

You felt yourself shrink. “You’re saying he’ll die.” It was supposed to be a question, but you knew it too. From everything that had gone down tonight, and from the trust Satoru had in the decisions he’d made — it had all lead to this.

“Stay here! Let me take care of it, okay?”

“Satoru…” your voice came out hoarse, hearing the sad desperation in his suggestion.

For a moment you considered it. Maybe letting Satoru fix everything that needed to be fixed to save you the agony it would bring to witness your worst nightmare — but there was no way you could accept it.

First of, it wouldn’t be right for you to let Satoru carry the burden alone. He too was losing one of the most important people in his life. What kind of friend would you be if you loaded all that trauma on him?

And secondly, you knew you’d regret it forever if you didn’t see him.

“No,” you said before taking a deep breath. “No, I’m coming with you.”

“Are you sure? One hundred percent sure?”

As he gave you one last chance to back out, you simply nodded to confirm. “I have to.”

And here it was. The worst moment in your life.

The second you’d returned to the school, you and Satoru had acted on pure instinct, splitting up to find Suguru as fast as possible. But you found the kids first, instantly overcome with worry at the sight of them so exhausted and beaten up.

In between their groans of pain, they managed to string together a somewhat coherent storyline of the fight that had taken place. As their explanation started to take form, you had to fight to keep a straight face as the tears threatened to break to the surface.

Somewhere on the grounds, Suguru was walking around bloody, beaten and alone.

Knowing the kids where okay for now, you excused yourself before you proceeded to search for either Suguru or Satoru. And soon enough, you stumbled upon Satoru crouched down in an empty street in front of a dark alley.

You slowly approached him, eventually revealing Suguru leaned up against the alley wall in a lot worse state than you had imagined. The sight had you draw a sharp breath before covering your mouth, stopping the sobs from filling the space between you.

“Well, I must be dreaming,” Suguru smiled weakly, instantly wincing in pain once the sentence was out.

Scarcely you shuffled past Satoru to sit down next to Suguru. You wanted to touch him, but the scene of him so hurt only had your hands twitching an inch away from actually touching him, nervous you’d only make his pain worse if your fingers were to connect with him.

Pleading whimpers tumbled out of you, trying to come up with any solution to help him, take some of his pain away.

“Suguru-“ your voice cracked, having his eyes connect with yours.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you again.” His voice was so weak, telling you just how fragile he was. You knew any attempt of healing him would be entirely useless — you weren’t even sure what it was that was keeping his heart beating at all.

You finally let your desire overcome your terror, with the lightest touch cupping his face, your thumbs slowly stroking his cheeks. “Me neither,” you sniffled.

His eyes slowly traveled between yours. They were unchanged, telling you he had so many things he wanted to say but he didn’t have the energy to confess any of them. All he managed to force out was a weak “I’m sorry.”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” you cooed softly. You knew you weren’t going to be able to take any of his pain away, then the least you could do was make his last moments as comfortable as possible. Choking back the sobs that you knew would escape eventually, you gave him a trembling smile. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“At least we get one last sunset together, right angel?” The sound of your nickname after all these years, had you slip for a second, a small sob protruding out. You turned to take in the scenery.

It felt like cruel irony, the sky on fire with breathtaking autumn colours, as if it was taunting the fact that his life was slowly slipping away. But it sure was beautiful.

“Yeah,” you breathed, shifting your focus back to him. “I guess we’ve deserved that after today,” you chuckled sadly.

His nostrils began to flare and his breathing quickened before you saw a tear roll slowly down his cheek. “Please forgive me.”

You didn’t hesitate leaning forward to rest your forehead against his. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I forgive you,” you tried to comfort him as you could feel him sob quietly under your touch. “I forgive you.”

Never had you felt less powerless, searching every crevice of your brain for any trick or technique to help him, or at the very least, ease his suffering. And you could tell he tried his best not to let it show, but he was so clearly in complete anguish unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

You grasped onto strings of pointless hope that he would miraculously be all healed up and return your embrace like you’d dreamed of so many times since you’d last indulged in his warmth.

His skin grew colder under your hands, once again letting the fear produce violent sobs that you had no choice but suppress. The only way you could help him now was to be there, hold him, love him.

“You’ll stay?”

“As long as you need,” you whispered.

You carefully pulled your head away from Suguru when you felt Satoru’s presence hover behind you. Looking in his eyes, you simply gave him a weak nod, neither of you needing to utter a single word — you knew what happened now.

With careful precision, you repositioned yourself. You made sure not to make any drastic or sudden movements, not wanting to worsen his state by any means.

Leaning with your back agains the wall now, you graciously guided his head to rest against your chest as you cradled his head with as much care as when you were young. Hand stroking his hair to soothe him.

For a split second you made eye contact with Satoru, knowing he was going to give him the mercy he finally deserved. But you knew you couldn’t watch, squeezing your eyes shut and just taking in the feeling of his body resting against yours.

“I love you, angel,” his voice came out barely louder than a whisper, earning him a high pitched whimper before you opened your mouth to answer.

“I love you, Suguru,” you said. As you held him tight to you, you repeated the three words continuously, wanting your voice to be the last thing he heard as he eventually drifted off into endless rest — reassuring him that despite everything, you never stopped loving him.

Then you felt the shift.

Whatever Satoru had done, it had been peaceful, but it had worked — because suddenly his body weighed heavier on you, his muscles relaxed and his breathing died out.

And with the feeling of his life slipping away while laying in your arms, all composure evaporated immediately. The sorrow crushed down on you with vigour that you had no chance to withstand. Your arms tightened around him with all your force, desperate to feel him against you, as it would somehow bring him back.

The sobs you had restrained all day overpowered any control you had, coming out out in waves of loud wails. None of the breaths you desperately tried to take between your cries seemed to reach your lungs, eventually developing into hyperventilating. Eerie ringing filled your ears, blocking out all of your surroundings.

It wasn’t just Suguru that was gone, but all hope of him ever coming back to you, no matter how ridiculous and bottomless that hope had been. As long as he was alive, you had always held on to a naive thought that maybe the two of you could still end up together in the end when you were both old and grey.

That hope was gone now — only to be reserved for your slumbering nights.

And what happened now? There was no way you’d let anyone at Jujutsu Tech or any of the higher ups get to him. You knew they wouldn’t agree to give his body a respectable burial. They would make sure his name was defiled within the Jujutsu community for eternity. If they were going to take his name, they weren’t going to take his body.

After what felt like half a century, Satoru’s voice finally broke through the anxious barrier that had clogged all your senses.

“We can’t stay here.”

You cracked your eyes open, sore from all the tears that had been spilled, meeting his eyes, also stained red from sadness. Watching you intently, Satoru saw how you tried to force out any words to respond, but only sobs and heartaches fell from your lips.

“Come on,” he said carefully as he reached for your shoulders to help you on your feet only for you to cling onto Suguru tighter. “We have to get him out of here.”

Satoru was patient, a tender grip trying to calm you back to reality enough for you regain some sanity. Soon enough, while his hands shyly stroked your upper arms, his words sunk in.

“Okay,” you whispered, slowly peeling yourself away from him. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered again and again, carefully pushing his head off of you, propping him up against the wall with utmost care. But feeling how heavy his lifeless head was brought a sickening lump to form in your stomach.

Steadying yourself, you turned to Satoru again. “Tell me what I have to do.”

tags @sad-darksoul,

a/n this is dedicaded to the lovely anon who requested a painful pt 2, a likeminded individual like me who just enjoys pain with no comfort

reblogs, likes and comments are appreciatedplagiarism not authorized

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