#Swap Force Chapters

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Listed below are the Bonus Mission Maps found in the Swap Force chapter, Fantasm Forest:

Chompy Sauce

[huffle-dork]

Long Live the King

Chapter 10: Heart of a Storm

Read Fantasy Masks | Read Swapboys | Read the first FM adventure | Other Multiverse Adventures | Read on AO3

Back in the other clearing, Dr. J is still trying to wake up Henrik. The side of his head was bleeding so the good doctor tended to that as fast as he could. But, he still wasn’t waking up and Dr. J was worried he could be concussed. Or… he probably was but he wasn’t sure the severity.

Thinking fast, Dr. J sees the remains of one of the jewel-like fruits from earlier. He grabs one and cuts into it and then waves the fruit in front of Henny’s nose, just trying to expose the smell of it.

Henny’s eyes shoot open and he shoots up, “Verdammter Scheiß!” he shouts then holds his hands over his nose, blinking tears out of his eyes. He looks up at Dr. J as he throws the rotting fruit away. “Juwel… what- happened? Where are the others?? Where’s Alt??”

“Alt f-freaked out and you got hurt- the others went to get him back,” Dr. J explains quietly. He inspects Henny’s eyes and looks relieved there’s not an immediate sign of a concussion. “Are you alright?”

“Ah… my head is aching but… I-I am okay…” He pushes himself up and then helps Dr. J up. “We should hurry to find our friends! What if more kelpies or scary monsters are out there??”

As if on cue, a faint humming whine starts approaching. There's a light in the distance, and it's getting closer. Aneirin has been casting the ball lightning spell over and over. Whenever the last one bursts into a small shockwave of electricity, he immediately creates a new one and rolls it across the floor. It burns through the undergrowth, leaving a black trail for him and Magnificent to follow. Magnificent has kept up with Aneirin this whole time- determined to find his cub.

Dr. J and Henny stiffen at the sound. Henny pushes JJ behind him and holds onto his pocket watch, faint magic shimmering around his hand. “M-Maybe that is Alt?”

“They went the other way…!” Dr. J whispers. He looks around and finds his bow and fumbles to nock an arrow.

The ball lightning bursts into the clearing and both the boys jump and exclaim in shock. Henny tries to cast a pause spell to keep the lightning in place.

Instantly, the ball freezes. It's almost beautiful, actually, with its arcs of electricity hovering in midair. But its still deadly.

Henny’s eyes widen. Holding this spell is already straining- it must be very powerful. “What is this??” He gasps.

And then the King appears. He stumbles to a stop, surprised to see these two all by themselves in the woods. Then he grins. "Well, isn't this a sight." And his eyes lock onto JJ's face. "A bit familiar, even."

Magnificent stumbles in right after the King, catching his breath. He’s about to ask why they stopped when he sees the others and he grins. “Well well well! If it isn’t my two favorite puppets!”

Henny gasps and pushes Dr. J more behind him, “M-Magnificent!”

JJ looks at the King and swallows nervously. He does not like how he’s looking at him. His hands tremble on his bow.

“Oh put that down Jameson- we both know you wouldn’t hurt a fly~” Magnificent chuckles before he turns deadly serious, growling at the two with glowing eyes. “Where is he?”

Henny’s eyes widen, then he glares at Mag, baring his teeth. “He is not here. And we will not let you hurt him anymore!” He grabs his watch and spins the dial backwards- trying to see if he can get the ball lightning to rush back at the King and Mag.

The King's eyes widen. "What in the damn--?!" It's going backwards?! No time to think about it! He runs out of the way, trying to grab Magnificent but his grip isn't tight enough and he slips free as he rushes to the side.

Magnificent tries to rush away but then the lightning hits him dead on, sending him flying back as he yells out. He lands in a heap, electricity crackling and burning at his skin.

Henny looks surprised- “T-that worked?” He whispers.

Aneirin winces. He looks at Henny. "You. Drop that device."

Henny’s eyes widen as the King commands him. He doesn’t hesitate and does so. The pocket watch stops glowing and falls to the ground with a soft ting.

The King lunges forward immediately to try and grab it, simultaneously sweeping his seax in an arc to deter the two from getting too close to him.

“No!” Dr. J cries out and tries to shoot his arrow to stop the King- but the seax sweeps it back and he gets away with the watch.

Henny shakes out his head, “H-Hey! That is not yours! Give it back!”

The King backs away a little, grinning, dangling the watch from its chain. "It's funny that people think a plea like that will actually work," he says.

Magnificent pushes himself back up with a growl and whirls on Henny, anger palpable in his eyes, “You miserable fake magician! I should string you up by your fucking neck!”

Dr. J nocks another arrow and shakily aims it again. “Not another s-step! Either of you!”

Raising the seax, electricity crackles outward. "Go on and try. Lightning is faster than arrows." The King glances back at Magnificent. "Don't get carried away, Mag." He pauses. "How hurt are you?"

Dr. J doesn’t lower his trembling arm- but he doesn’t shoot either. Henny looks around for his weapon.

“Not enough to keep me down,” Magnificent growls. He glances at the watch and snorts, “The tall one is useless without that watch. And Jackson has been very well conditioned… but he's weak. They won’t be useful Iike Alt… but we might could use them as… leverage?” He suggests, grinning towards the King.

Aneirin's eyes light up. He grins right back. "What a great idea. The others are sure to come back." He moves he seax to the side, slicing through the air, and green lightning circles around Henny and JJ, crating a rough barrier.

Henny and Dr. J cry out, backing up and bumping into each other’s backs.

Henny turns and glares at Magnificent and the King. “You will not win this! The Elders are already helping us! You all will lose!”

Aneirin grins. "And so you think this land's gods will swoop in to save you? Ha! Let me tell you something, Henrik. If they could stop me, they would have done it a thousand years ago."

Henny bares his teeth, “They have! The Winged Elder brought Alt back to us! I will not be scared of a pompous false snake of a King!”

Meanehile, Dr. J is trembling so hard, trying not to look Magnificent’s way- afraid of what he’s going to do to the both of them. He’s been trying so hard to be a rock for the others- but here… all he can remember is that dark dungeon cell, flickering with green light.

The King’s eyes flicker over to JJ. "And don't hide behind false confidence. I can tell you're scared. At least your companion isn't trying to hide it. Those are some strong memories, hmm?"

Dr. J’s gaze flickers to the King and he trembles more. He can see into his mind?! His mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out.

Magnificent giggles, “Now… isn’t that a good puppy? Remembering his place… to be seen and not heard.”

Dr. J’s eyes fizzle with static and he completely drops his weapons now, standing up straight.

Henny turns around to see this and desperately starts to shake JJ’s shoulders. “no no no! Juwel! no you can’t fall into that again! Please!”

Aneirin grins. He glances at Magnificent. "That's a helpful trick you have there."

Magnificent grins back, “I told you he’s very well trained~ not worth much but- very fun to mess with~!”

And then the King looks back to Henny, his expression darkening. "And you should not speak about things you know nothing about. This isn't your world. You don't know how it works. I'm betting that your Alt still hasn't been restored to how you remember, has he? So shut up and stand there and wait."

Henny yells out in anger, looking like he’s ready to burst through the lightning and fight the King and Mag. But, the King’s command has him freezing in place, lips snapping shut. His eyes are wide with terror but- he can’t move.

Magnificent looks delighted, “Oh this is gonna be such a sight to see~!” He giggles. “Our cub will be putty in our hands again~!”

"Indeed." The King flips the seax in his hand. "No use hiding, given how overt this is. So let's get ready for them to return. They can't have gone too far, can they?" He closes his eyes, casting out his senses for others' thoughts. "Yes... I can feel them coming closer. It won't be long now."

Magnificent eyes glow bright with mad hunger, “Good.”

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

Alt kept trying to glitch ahead as they make their way back- but he’s in no condition to. So soon enough, Bro is carrying Alt to keep him from being reckless.

Jackieboy was worried they’d get lost after all that excitement so he used his bracelet- following the blue orbs back to their resting spot. But then… the orbs flicker and then pulse with purple light. Jackieboy freezes, then looks back at Alt and Bro. “…I-I don’t think that’s a good sign-“

Jackie speeds up a bit, taking the lead. "I don't know anything about magic, but that definitely doesn't seem like a good thing."

"Isn't purple--A-Alt had purple on him earlier, isn't it--the sign of--" Marvin stammers. He reaches back and grabs Henrik's hand, who's lingering behind, pulling him a bit quicker.

"Hurry!" Chase says, nocking an arrow while he runs.

Jameson sees him doing this and does the same.

Soon, the crackling green energy of lightning comes into view. Jackie draws both his swords. "It's not just him!" he says, voice rising in volume.

Alt is panicking, simultaneously wanting to hide and wanting to run to his friends. "No no no! Nonono!" He pops and fizzles in Bro's arms, curling up and gripping at his head with his good arm as the hero pushes to go faster.

Jackieboy draws his knife and tries to catch up to Jackie.

They burst out into the small clearing and see it. The circle of lightning with Henny and JJ frozen inside, and Magnificent and Aneirin standing there, waiting.

"Well hello there," Aneirin says, grinning. "Welcome to the circle."

Bro and Jackieboy cry out at seeing Henny and Dr. J stuck. JJ doesn't acknowledge them at all, but Henny's eyes try to flicker towards them, looking fearful.

Chase gasps. He hesitates, not wanting to hurt JJ and Henny.

But Jameson reacts instinctively, loosing the arrow he has drawn.

Aneirin is not expecting that at all. The arrow hits him square in the shoulder and he stumbles backwards. The branches of the Wyldwood rustle. For a moment, the green in his eyes flicker, replaced by blue. And then it steadies again. "Oh. We're doing that, then."

"Fuck yeah, Jameson!" Jackieboy shouts.

Magnificent yells out at Aneirin getting hurt and then stands in front of him, baring his fangs at the cluster in front of them.

Bro's eyes glow bright blue in anger, and he helps set Alt on the ground. "Let go of our fucking friends." He growls dangerously, pulling out his sword.

Magnificent cackles madly and strides forward, "Not until you give back something of ours."

Alt shudders at this, gripping at his head as it starts to fill with static again.

"Oh Alt~! Come here, kitten." Magnificent tries to command.

"N-No!" Alt wheezes, eyes flickering wildly again.

Magnificent frowns angrily, his eyes glowing bright. Then, he breathes and tries to let his voice ring out smooth and charismatically. "Come now, Gentlemen... This can all be solved without more bloodshed, hm? Just... come back with us, Alt. And we'll free your friends~"

"Oh sure, of course you will," Marvin drawls, venom in his voice. "Of course we should believe you, you look so trustworthy, I'm sure we can do whatever you say. I know that if I was you, and I am, in one case, I would kill the rest of us as soon as I had what I want."

"You're not helping, Marvin!" Jackie snaps. "Alt, don't listen to them! They're not going to keep their word."

Aneirin stands up straight, breathing heavily. He reaches for the arrow in his shoulder, raising his seax--and in one swift motion, severs the arrow's shaft close to where it's embedded in his skin. He doesn't even flinch as the seax comes so close to him. "You don't know we won't," he says calmly. "We're on our own path right now, it will be more beneficial to go our separate ways and avoid conflict."

Chase shakes his head. "You're lying," he whispers. "You've wanted to kill us for so long. You won't let us go."

A small smile flickers across Aneirin's face. "Well, this is a dangerous place. Perhaps I won't need to kill you."

"Yes, you sound like such a reliable person," Marvin mutters.

Alt grips harder at his head, whimpering and biting back his sounds of distress.

“Leave him alone! Stop fucking torturing my brother, you sick fucks!” Bro screams, energy crackling around his arms like lightning.

“We haven’t hurt him, Fantastic!” Magnificent grins, “He offered to help us~! Didn’t you, Alt?” He flashes his eyes and creates a false image of the TRVLR, broken from their arrival. Alt doesn’t understand what it is but he knows it’s important. “You’re helping us find a way home, right?”

Alt’s eyes fill with purple and his face relaxes slightly as he breathes, “…y-yes… I… I need to help… the TRVLR…. It’s broken. I… I have to get us home…” He says distantly.

He starts to straighten up and walk towards the King and Mag but Jackieboy lashes out and grabs his arm. “Alt no! He’s lying!”

Jameson helps pull Alt back. They LIE, Alt! he signs frantically. Remember that?! They hurt people! He hesitates, and then pulls down the neck bow he wears, revealing the faint + shaped scar on his throat. This is the King's fault!

Alt still tries to pull himself forward, but being pulled back by both Jameson and Jackieboy has his injures flaring in pain- snapping him out of trance for a second. He's able to catch Jameson's signs and see his scar. His eyes widen. "T-The King... t-took your-?!"

"No it's not," Aneirin says, putting a little bit of influence into his voice. "You're mistaken."

The influence washes over Alt though and his eyes flash and glaze over slightly.

Even the rest of the fantasy guys look a bit unsure at that, buying into the influence, but Chase shakes his head. "No. No. No! You can't do this! You're not going to do this!" He pulls the bowstring back and quickly fires. He can't bring himself to shoot Jack's body, so he aims for Magnificent.

Bro doesn't seem affected and as he sees Chase going for Mag, he yells and goes for the King.

Chase's arrow hits Mag in the stomach and he yells out and stumbles back, digging his claws around his wound. He looks at Chase with murder in his eyes. "I'll roast your head on a fucking SPIKE-!" He screeches. "Enough fucking games! Alt- get rid of Chase Brody!"

Alt stiffens, eyes trying to fill with Mag's toxic magic again and he gasps, trying to fight. But, soon enough he slumps, his eyes filling with purple. He turns on Chase and growls, drawing his own seax and lashing out to cut him.

The King blocks Bro's sword slash, effortlessly deflecting it with his own seax. He laughs. "Amateur work," he smirks, and slashes back, electrifying the blade of his weapon.

Bro screams as the king's blade slices down his chest, shocking his body and making him fall back in a trembling heap.

"CHASE!" Jackieboy cries. He hurries down to his side then shakily holds his knife out at the King, trying to protect Bro. "F-Fucking get away from him!"

Meanwhile, Chase sees Alt coming. He whirls around and blocks the cut with his bow. The blade cuts deep into the wood but doesn't break it. "Alt! No!"

"Chase!" Jackie runs for him.

"N-no, I got this, go help other-me!" Chase insists.

Jackie hesitates, then nods and runs after Bro.

Jameson grabs Alt from behind and pulls him away from Chase. Alt cries out as Jameson grabs him but he tries to shake him off, growling.

"Alt, listen to me!" Chase says. "You're stronger than this! We know this! All your friends know this! They cannot control you. They cannot control you."

For a moment, as the forest rustles, the sunlight coming from between the branches turns the antlers on his mask golden.

Alt briefly looks at Chase and his eyes flicker wildly. The magic seems to fade all together as he sees the golden antlers, his eyes widening. Then, he narrows them in determination and nods, green-blue glowing bright in his eyes. "... y-you're right. They can't." Then he smiles a bit, "... not when I have friends like you."

Chase grins. "Precisely. And you have more friends, too. Friends who are in danger right now." He jerks his head towards the circle where Henny and JJ are stuck. Alt grins too and nods.

Meanwhile, Marvin conjures a shield around him and Henrik, whose vacant expression has turned glazed as he twitches slightly. Marvin glances around frantically, wanting to help but wanting to protect Henrik more. He grabs him and shakes him, urgently trying to snap him out of this.

"Or what?" Aneirin grins. Jackieboy trembles back, nearly falling over Bro. "You think you can hold me off with your--" Suddenly, with a sudden bellow of a shout, Jackie appears and brings both his swords down on the King.

The man barely dodges in time to avoid a devastating blow. Jackie breathes heavily. "You... stay... away from them."

Aneirin blinks. Then grins. "Fine, then." And he attacks Jackie with his seax.

Jackie knocks it to the side but the King keeps his grip on it and darts closer, ducking under Jackie's attempted slash but having to back away again as a second slash follows up. The two of them stay like that for a few seconds, dancing around each other. Jackie's strength in his sword fighting was always his agility, but the King is faster.

By now, Marvin has managed to get Henrik somewhat back to himself. He's currently rummaging around through his bag, looking for something.

Behind Chase, Alt catches the glimpse of a bird amongst the trees.

<Strength. It is within him.>

Alt looks back towards the others. He catches the glimpse of the bird and his eyes widen. Then, they fill with green-white light and crackles with electricity as he grins.

He can feel it inside himself... the heart of a storm.

Magnificent yells out in rage at this and in a buzz of static turns into his tiger form and charges at Chase, Jameson and Alt.

Alt whips around and panics at seeing Mag charge and then tries to find that strength. He grabs Chase and Jameson and pulls them down with him.

In a buzz of energy that leaves the hair on their arms sticking up, they're suddenly surrounded by familiar, electric green-white wings coming from Alt's back. Chase and Jameson gasp in awe at seeing the wings again.

Magnificent isn't expecting this at all- and the wings sweep out and knock him back. He roars in pain and then skids across the ground, stilling into a sparking heap.

Alt's wings flare out and he looks at them and then himself and then he laughs. He's awake this time- in control.

Back by the King, Once it looks like Jackie has a handle on him, Jackieboy turns Bro over and starts pressing on his wounds. "Chase- Chase-! Stay with us... Please!" He cries.

Bro is gritting his teeth in pain, eyes shut as his wound burns and crackles from the electricity. But, The wound isn't bleeding- Jackieboy finds this out quickly. Soon enough, he blinks open his eyes and pushes himself up, panting but seeing Jackie in trouble. He grits his teeth and gathers up power in his hand- then tries to shoot lightning at the King.

Jackie feels the crackling of lightning behind him and jumps backwards barely in time. Bro's lightning hits the King square in the chest and he staggers backwards.

And something... strange happens.

The trees rustle, and the shadow beneath the King's feet writhes--then disappears. And for a few seconds the green disappears from the King's eyes, replaced by a normal blue. The seax slips from his hands and he breathes heavily, swaying on his feet like it's been a long time since he stood.

Those blue eyes dart around the Wyldwood, and a hoarse voice comes out of his throat. "Kawair--"

And then the shadow returns and the King suddenly collapses.

Chase watches Magnificent get pushed aside and scrambles up. He's just in time to see everything happen with the King. His eyes widen, and he silently mouths the word the King said. A word that, thanks to the translation spell, everyone knows. "Help me."

Bro's eyes widen and Jackieboy drops his knife in shock.

Alt's head also snaps to the King, with enough time to see the control drop.

As the King collapses, The lightning around JJ and Henny lessens but doesn't vanish--though the Command on Henny does. Henny blinks out of the Command and then backs up, going to try to shake Dr. J awake again. "J-Juwel!"

But- Dr. J wakes up almost immediately, magic snapping out of his eyes. He shudders and leans up against Henny, who catches him.

Marvin tentatively drops the shield now that the King and Mag are--at least temporarily--incapacitated. He walks up to the lightning circle trapping JJ and Henny, scanning it. "Hey," he says. And he kneels down to the ground, rolling something under the circle. It's a small glass bottle, with one half of it filled with purple liquid and another half filled with pink liquid. "Pour that out. Not all of it. But Henrik thinks it might help."

Behind him, Henrik gives a little wave.

Henny blinks and then perks up excitedly seeing the potion. He looks to Marvin and nods, popping open the bottle and pouring about half of it out.

The liquids pour out onto the ground. Once they start to mix, they form a white mist that spreads across the ground and rises up. The lightning flickers as the fog reaches it... then eventually stops.

Henny looks around excitedly and hurriedly helps Dr. J up and out of where the lightning was- just in case it comes back. "T-Thank you! Mein gott... that was awful...."

JJ nods silently, clinging to Henny's side.

"The magic in the potion might be interfering with the magic in the lightning," Marvin explains. "Something about how the spirit's power is so different. They repel each other. Like the ends of two lodestones." He glances at Alt. "Probably also helps that your friend is distracting him."

Distracting is a way of putting it.

Alt's eyes flare brighter and- he does something reckless. He knows he won't have long before this burns the magic out of him.

He needs to extend the timer.

He finds one of the magic fruits again and takes a huge bite before shaking himself out, letting his magic fizzle bright around him. Then, in a mix of flying and glitching, he makes his way over to the King, landing in front of him and flaring his wings out in an intimidating display.

Jackieboy gasps, "A-Alt?"

Jackie backs away to make room for Alt. He looks confused, but glances at his other self and nods. "Let's let him work," he says.

The King stirs soon, lifting his head--revealing that his eyes are green again. Aneirin looks up at Alt. For a moment he goes a bit pale. But then he scowls. "What? Do you think you can scare me?" He starts reaching for his seax.

Alt smirks, "Kinda." He lashes out to try to grab the King by his collar.

Aneirin gasps slightly as Alt grabs the collar of his shirt, then scowls and grabs Alt's wrist, trying to push him away...but the blast Bro hit him with has left his muscles weak. Or is it that his control over the body is still shaky? No! He won't let that happen! He's been here for years now, he won't lose it now. Silently, he glares at Alt, waiting for whatever he's trying to do.

Alt's eyes are like an angry storm as he growls. The air is electric around them- almost suffocating. "I should fucking just end you for all the suffering you've caused! For all the shit you've put us through!" He opens up his other hand and a massive ball of green blue lightning forms.

Bro's voice cracks as he tries to call out, "A-Alt! No!"

"No no no no no!" Chase rushes forward. "Alt, he's possessed!"

Jackie almost grabs Alt's shoulder but then stops, deterred by the electric wings. "Chase is right, there's—there's—y-you're talking to a possessive spirit right now—'spiolash', we call them. I-it's taken over the real King's body."

"And has been in control for the past seven years!" Chase adds. "W-we can't—Jack—"

Alt stops himself as everyone yells at him. His eyes widen as they explain he's possessed. Especially when he hears the name Jack.

Aneirin grins. "I don't think you'll be able to convince him that easily, Chase mak Brody," he whispers. Maybe if he can throw Alt off by opposing this, he'll be distracted for long enough for him to grab his seax.

"Didn't you see that just now?!" Chase asks. "H-he was there for a moment! He—" He looks down at the King. "I know you're still in there! W-we're working on it, I-I promise!"

Aneirin laughs as he feels Aodhan trying to call out to Chase. Poor fool. Fools, actually. The both of them.

Alt looks back down at the King with a conflicted expression. His grip on him loosens for a second before he holds on a little tighter.

"Alt- please!" Bro calls out, "Hear them out!"

Alt seems too angry for a second, his expression getting stormier and his wings rising higher. He brings the King closer to him, their faces just barely touching. For a scary second- it looks like he might actually try to hurt him. Then, his expression softens as he tries to look past those hateful green eyes- towards whoever is trapped inside. "... you said you needed help. How can I help?"

Aneirin scowls. "I don't know what you think you can do, you idiot," he hisses, tightening his one-handed grip on Alt's wrist. "You don't understand. None of you do. I am eternal. You can't defeat me."

"Shut up! For the love of the Deaths!" Marvin shouts.

"I-I, uh, I usually talk to Jack through dreams--these magic ones," Chase explains. "I don't--know if you can do that--"

Alt bares his teeth at Aneirin, more electricity sparking between them. Then, Chase's statement makes a hazy memory come back.

Of... another man- that looked like him. He had glitched into Dr. J... and came out, waving his hand. 'I just did what I had to do. Alt might learn how to do this on his own someday.'

He knits his eyebrows together, "... I dunno if I can do that... but I can do something."

In an instant, Alt's body and his wings turn into a cluster of green, blue and white pixels and then they dive like a bolt of lightning into the King's head.

This sensation is familiar, and yet so different. Alt spirals through nerves and neurons, searching, parsing through thought pathways covered in a strange shadowy substance... until he gets to a spot where it's clear. Buried deep beneath all these shadows. Sounds filter in first, and then visuals, slower. This isn't real. He knows that. It feels more like a lucid dream. But what's said here is true. Most of the environment is vague and fuzzy. When he looks to the sides or behind him, he just sees a weird fog, like someone drew a fantastic background for a drawing and then used the blur tool to smear it all together.

In front of him is a man sitting on the floor. His face and build is exactly like the King's... except for the blue eyes. He wears fine clothes that have rips and tears in them, some of them edged in crusty red-brown. Chains connect his wrists, ankles, and neck to the floor. He looks surprised to see Alt there. 'You're... here?' he whispers.

Alt blinks open his eyes and looks around in confusion- then his eyes fall on Jack. The real King. His heart aches at seeing the King trapped and he tries to hurry over to see if he can... do anything. Is there anything he can do? "Y-Yeah I'm here! I can help- I can- do something!"

Jack laughs. 'S-sorry, it's just--it's really good to see someone else. Or... it's not really 'seeing,' but... it's nice to interact with someone else.' His faint smile falls. 'I-I'll tell you the same thing I did Chase. If you break the chains they just come back the next time. They're not real. They're whatever he wants them to be. But--but I think they have a plan out there. Chase has said they're on their way to find something. He hasn't said much, since he--Aneirin--can hear us in here. But I think... it's something that can help.'

Alt stops and looks back at Jack with a concerned and desperate expression. "...T-There has to be something I can do! I-I'm here... The Elders are helping-! E-Even if I don't know you- I can't just leave you here...!"

Jack laughs again. There are silver tears lining his eyes. He blinks them away. 'I... really appreciate that, Alt. You're so kind. But I... I don't know. I don't know what there is to do.' He shakes his head. The motion is accompanied by clinking metal. 'I'm just trusting that what Chase and the others are working on can do it. There's... there's a future where Aneirin is defeated. Jameson saw it. They're reaching for that. Alt... if you want to help, get Magnificent out of here. Take him back to your world. Those two are fucking terrifying together. Th-they can't both be here.'

Alt also has slight tears in his eyes. He slowly nods, "...I... I can do that... I'll make sure he never comes here again." He shakily sighs and looks away, knowing that means they probably can't come back either... not if Mag will try to find them every time. He finally looks back up at Jack, his eyes burning with determination. "... they'll save you. I trust them- I trust the Elders. If they could save me... they'll save you. I know it."

'...thank you,' Jack whispers. He gives Alt a watery smile. 'I-I hope they do. Chase definitely isn't going to give up. I can hang on until then.'

Alt gives him a small smile. "I know a Chase... they're really stubborn when it counts." He laughs lightly.

Jack pauses. 'And, um. In the more... immediate moment. If you have to knock out my body or something, do it. I really don't mind if it means Aneirin can't do anything.'

Alt hesitates then goes to put his hand on tops of Jack's and squeezes it. "Okay... just... stay strong, Jack."

Jack squeezes his hand in turn. 'I will,' he says. 'I swear it on my name. Farewell, Alt. Thank you.'

"Farewell, Jack."

And then, back out in the physical world, glitches start to form around the King's body before a collection of them burst back out and Alt's body forms again. His body stays a solid color for a second- bright green as his wings flare out.

The King's body had been slumped for about a minute while Alt had been inside his head. Once Alt is out again, Aneirin is back in control. He tries to get to his feet--

But before Alt even fully forms back, he grabs Aneirin again and then punches him straight in the face with all the strength he can muster- enough to bruise immediately.

There's a loud crack kinda like thunder before Alt lets his body drop back down and he blooms fully back into color. He glares down at his body and spits, "Jack says Fuck you, mu Rith."

Aneirin lies on the ground, stunned for a moment, and then tries to get up again, moving slowly.

"Can we... can we knock him out, you think?" Jackie asks.

"Oh, please?" Marvin adds.

"What--you two!" Chase stammers. "We just made it clear there's someone else in there!"

"Alright, but the spirit's going to kill us if we wait," Marvin says. "Can we knock him out?"

"Jack said it was okay," Alt calls back, "He just doesn't want this fucker to do anything."

"Well... if Jack says it..." Chase says reluctantly.

"Who wants to do the honors?" Jackie says.

Alt looks ready to rear back his foot and kick his lights out but he stops himself.

"Jair should get to do it," Marvin suggests.

Jameson looks at the others. Aneirin was still trying to move, slowly reaching for the seax.

There's no time to debate. Jameson draws his knife, walks forward... and slams the hilt into the King's head.

He collapses immediately.

Meanwhile, Alt glances at the body of Magnificent, who is struggling to get up now. He glares, "I'll take care of my bastard now.”

"Alt wait you're-!" Bro tries to call out.

But Alt doesn't hear him as he glitches over and then lands with one foot on top of Magnificent. He growls darkly, pushing his hand against Magnificent's snout as the tiger tries to react. His eyes fill with green white light and crackle as he snarls, "I'm giving you the taste of your own fucking medicine!"

There's another loud crack of thunder as lightning seemingly strikes the two. There's a roar of pain and then the light fades. And as it does- there's a body of a cat curled up on the forest floor, crackling with electricity.

Alt staggers back and unsteadily sways on his feet, looking down at the cat with a distant expression.

Everyone’s heads whip over in unison to see Alt and the cat.

"H-Holy shit-" Jackieboy breathes. Henny holds a hand over his mouth and Dr. J looks pale.

Marvin's eyes widen. "...oh," he whispers. "Don't... That's not... permanent, is it?"

“No…” Alt says dazedly, “Just until we get… get…”

The timer’s up.

Alt’s eyes roll up into the back of his head as his wings and the energy around him disappear in a quick zip, bursting up into the sky. Alt is immediately pale as he falls- and he lands in a boneless heap on the ground.

“Alt!” Bro cries, pushing himself up and rushing over to his side.

Jackie, Marvin, and Jameson all immediately abandon the King and rush over to Alt. Chase hesitates just long enough to be sure the King is breathing before also rushing over. The other swaps aren’t far behind.

Dr. J pushes forward and goes to feel his pulse and the others back up to give him space. It’s extremely high- his skin feels like it’s on fire. But he’s breathing- even if it’s fast and labored.

JJ tries to open up his mouth to tell everyone but, he finds he can’t. So he signs, He’s okay. High fever and pulse but… he’s breathing.

The fantasy boys look confused at the gestures he's making, and Marvin quickly casts that same translation spell as when Jackieboy, Henny, and JJ showed up, just in time to catch the end of his signing.

"Breathing is good," Jackie says quietly.

Henny sits back, stunned by all of this. Jackieboy seems to be too, lightly putting his hand on Henny’s shoulder.

Bro bends over Alt and then slowly goes to pick him up and then hugs him gently, hiding his face against him. His shoulders are shaking.

Henrik approaches Henny and Jackieboy, taking a moment to lean against the two of them, collecting himself. "D-do we... rest?" he says in a quiet voice. "Rest... seems good. That... last time... worked."

Henny blinks and then puts his arm around his other self, offering him comfort.

Dr. J nods, We should rest. I don’t think there’s much more we can do…

What about the cat? Jameson asks.

The cat isn’t moving but is breathing too, the magic still crackling around him. There’s some kind of green-blue rune in the center of his forehead- like a seal.

What is that seal?

"It must be keeping him in the cat form temporarily," Marvin says. "Good that it's temporary. I wouldn't want to be trapped as a cat. I mean... maybe if I could turn myself into one... but then what if someone traps me while I'm a cat?" His rambling is not really directed at anyone, more just him coping with the worry he feels towards Alt.

Jackieboy stares at the cat, “…Mag trapped Alt as a cat once. A tiger. Made him believe he was one for like… a month. Guess he finally had enough magic to … turn it on him.” He says quietly, seeming kind of out of it. “…he deserves it.”

Marvin shudders. "Trapped as a big cat... for that long... I suppose Magnificent does deserve it, at least for a little while."

Jackie frowns. "Maybe..." He picks up his swords and sheathes them, then looks back at the King's body lying on the ground. "What are we going to do with him?"

"Didn't we bring rope?" Marvin asks. "I'm sure I saw it in one of the packs."

Henrik starts grabbing the bags. He's looking around for somewhere good to possibly camp for the night.

As he and Jackie discuss that, Chase walks over to Bro and puts a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't say anything. Just stays there, supportively.

Bro is mumbling, holding Alt’s trembling, beaten body. It’s almost too quiet to hear- like a prayer. “…I just want one adventure… one adventure where you don’t get hurt… why are you always getting hurt, Anti…?”

He stiffens slightly as Chase touches him then lifts red lined eyes to look at him. He stares at his other self for a second before leaning against him, wordlessly thanking him. He sets Alt back down on the ground, but close enough to keep an eye on him.

Henny watches the others with a worried expression. “We cannot go home with Alt like this…” he mumbles sadly.

Dr. J now sits on the other side of Jackieboy, leaning up against him. He looks exhausted.

“…I guess we’re too far away to go back to the camp by the cliffs, huh?” Jackieboy asks, looking around at his tired everyone is. “Plus you all have your… your quest.”

"Much too far," Marvin agrees with Jackie. "It's starting to get dim, and I'm sure we don't want to walk around during night. And... yes, there's that." He looks around. "I know vaguely where we are and where we need to go. You guys... Once Alt is better... I don't know. Nevermind. I'll talk about it later once Alt is better."

"Better?" Henrik sits down sort of near Alt and Bro and Chase. "Um... s-supplies? Yes?" He's struggling to stay tethered.

"Henrik, last time you had something to help with a fever, right?" Chase asks quietly. "Something with witchcraft in it? Do you have that still?"

"Mm-hmm." Henrik takes a jar out of the bag. He hands it over to Chase, who offers it to Bro.

"I'm sure Alt will get better," Jackie says from where he is with the King. "He just had to rest last time we saw him do this."

“Henrik… you can rest too, it’s okay.” Bro says gently. He takes the salve and nods, going to spread it on Alt’s blistering skin.

“H-He ate more of the fruit- to give him a boost.” Jackieboy says with worry. “Henrik said he shouldn’t eat anymore… t-that his fever could burn up his body…”

Alt whimpers and scrunches his face up in pain, breathing fast, face covered in sweat. His veins are glowing green again- just like the last time. Pulsing with green and blue light, a hint at the power used. The salve sorta seems to help but it’s also hard to tell.

“He pushed himself when he was already injured…” Bro sighs. “Plus all that magic…! What if he…”

“…w-water,” Dr. J chokes out quietly, hardly louder than a whisper. “H-he needs water. To start. T-to cool down the fever and f-f-flush it out.”

“Water, of course.” Jackie nods. “It’s a good thing we packed some, isn’t it?” He looks around for the bags. Jameson has moved them all to one area and is already looking for all the water flasks.

Jackie hurries over to help, grabs one, and rushes over to Bro and Alt to hand it over. He glances at Henrik as he does. “Bro is right. You can take a break.”

Henrik blinks and looks up at him. “I-I-I am a doctor I need to—and I don’t want to untether—”

“I-I am a doctor too, Henrik,” Dr. J says quietly, “I can help, p-please rest.”

“It’s okay, Schneep,” Marvin says quietly. “We’ll help you get back. For now, stop pushing yourself.”

Henrik hesitates, then nods. He leans back against a tree and looks up into the branches.

JJ looks back to Bro and shakily says, “Alt m-might be able to drink if we can w-wake him up just enough… w-we need to make sure he doesn’t dehydrate w-with a fever this high.”

“Oh Juwel! We can use the fruit trick you did with me!” Henny says and rushes to grab one of the bad fruits.

“Ah jeez Hen be careful-“ Jackieboy tries to warn.

Henny smiles and then takes a knife and just barely cuts into the skin. “Do not worry, my friend. we just need enough for him to smell.”

“B-Be ready with the water, Chase,” Dr. J advises.

Bro holds Alt up in his lap and hovers the water flask near Alt. Henny leans in and holds the fruit near Alt’s nose.

Alt gasps, his eyes snapping open. But they’re still filled with pulsing white-green magic. He coughs and almost falls back limp but Bro catches him and puts the flask to his lips. “Drink, Anti, please-“

Deliriously, Alt is able to drink a bit of water with Bro’s help. But soon enough his eyes slip shut and he falls completely limp again.

“I-If we can f-find a rag we can cool him down with the water too-“ Dr. J mumbles.

"We just need some cloth, then?" Chase says. He pauses, then starts ripping his shirt from the hem.

Chase you don't have to do that, Jameson says.

But by the time he's finished saying that, Chase has already torn off a chunk of his tunic. "It's fine, we can patch it up once we're done here," he says.

Jameson sighs. He whistles for Chase's attention and then throws another flask of water his way.

Chase leans far to the side, barely catching it. He wets the bit of cloth with the water and crouches down next to Bro and Alt. "Here."

Bro smiles gratefully at Chase and takes the rag. He puts a bit more of the salve on Alt’s forehead then puts the wet cloth over it. Alt exhales and seems to relax some at the cool feeling.

"Him being asleep is probably fine, right?" Marvin asks. "I know sometimes you don't want someone to fall asleep, but it's probably alright in this situation, right?"

“I don’t think it’s like a concussion…” Bro mumbles, “I think it’ll be alright.”

"He spent all his energy," Jackie mumbles. "Remember, we compared it to your magic last time."

"If you keep bringing up the fact that I saved your sorry ass but then fell asleep for three days afterwards--" Marvin cuts himself off and shakes his head. "You're right. I think we figured out that was similar."

“I think… Marv- I mean… Mag used to tell me… that when you use a lot of magic sometimes your body just- forces you to sleep to gain that energy back. Kinda like… shutting you down so all your strength can be put back into getting your levels back to normal.” Jackieboy explains.

“…exactly like a fever.” Dr. J says, “sickness forces us to rest so the body can fight off the infection. Except in this case- it’s forcing Alt to rest so he can’t use any more magic.”

Marvin nods. “Precisely. Your body shuts down so you won’t do anything else.

Henny frowns in worry and then goes to take Alt’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “…do you think all of this might have fixed his memory…?”

“… I suppose we’ll see.” Marvin mumbles.

“He seemed to know who you all are,” Jackie says slowly. “Which is a step forward. Maybe… maybe once he wakes up, his memory will… settle? And if it doesn’t, I’m sure we can help.”

Chase sighs. “If we’re going to be waiting here for a while, let’s get the bedrolls out. We brought an extra one for Alt.”

Jackie nods, and he and Chase and Jameson start setting up a camp.

The swaps nod though they look concerned. Henny keeps holding Alt’s hand and rubbing his thumb against it. Jackieboy half hugs Dr. J against him. Bro keeps moving around the cloth to wet Alt’s forehead and neck. The magic is his veins just barely seems to dim but- it’s something.

Marvin, meanwhile, picks up the new cat Mag and sets him down next to the King, who is still unconscious and has been tied to the nearest tree. Draco sniffs the Mag cat then jerks backwards, fur along his spine standing on end.

The Mag cat’s eyes blink open as Draco approaches and then staggers up and hisses at him. He then seems to realize he’s still hissing and looks down at himself. He starts to freak out, yowling in distress. He backs up into the King’s side and continues to hiss towards Draco, tail curled around him and ears back.

“Oop- guess the cat bitch is up.” Jackieboy winces.

“Guess so,” Jackie mutters. “I feel sort of bad threatening a cat.”

“Don’t,” Marvin says. “He’s not really a cat.” He grabs Draco and gently pulls him backwards. It’s harder than usual as Draco has his claws out and digging into the ground. “Alright, Magnificent. Here’s the deal. You’re going to be stuck like that for a while. And sure, you could wander off into the Wyldwood if you want, but that seems very dangerous for someone of that size. So. It’s probably better for you to stick around.”

Magnificent crouches down, pressing his body against the King's leg and hisses at Marvin. He flattens his ears at Marvin's advice but glares at him with bared teeth.

What about the King? Jameson asks. Is he waking up soon?

Marvin glances at the King. He reluctantly reaches out and shakes him. The King’s eyelids flutter and he groans slightly but doesn’t really move much more. “Probably soon.”

When he tries to shake the king, Mag tries to swipe at him with his claws.

"God he's gonna be a nightmare to deal with," Jackieboy mutters.

"No worse than he usually is," Bro sighs.

"Ah- true. At least this way he can't magic us and shit-"

Marvin pulls his hand back sharply. "All above! I wasn't going to do anything to him, you know!" He glares at Magnificent. "Why do you even care? You know he's probably using you."

Magnificent just keeps hissing and growling at the others, protectively sticking by the King.

Can I point something out? Jameson says. Unlike Magnificent, the King can still use magic right now.

"Damn it, that's true." Marvin pauses, thinking. "The commands are the greatest danger to us, though, and he can't use those if he can't speak..."

Chase raises an eyebrow. "Do you think Magnificent is going to let you get close enough to gag him?"

"I don't need to." Marvin takes some light from his amulet and casts that same silence spell from earlier, except much smaller, just big enough to cover the King and one other person. Marvin says in handspeak, It won't be a problem if we can't hear the commands.

The others blink in surprise at the spell and then Jackieboy gives Marvin a crooked grin. "Clever!"

Bro frowns remembering what Marvin said to Mag and looks back at him, "...you know... I dunno if they were... actually using each other this time. Maybe they would have but... out of all the villains me and Alt have met? ... the King is the most like Mag... in terms of goals, if anything... the need for power and control."

"...that is probably why they were so scary together..." Henny says in a small voice.

Jackie shudders. "I can't imagine what they would have been able to do together. It's good that we've stopped them here. If we've stopped them here." He glares suspiciously at Magnificent and the King. "I know that Magnificent is going to go back to your world, but what do we do about him?"

"I don't know if we can drag him along," Chase says slowly. "Wherever we're going will help us defeat him. I don't think we'll want him knowing what's there."

He's probably resourceful enough to break out eventually, Jameson says. We could just... leave.

"I'd feel bad about abandoning Jack, though..."

"...I think Jack would understand..." Bro says quietly, "... I mean you guys said it's been 7 years...? As much as it sucks... h-he can probably wait a bit longer. Just to make sure you have the best chance of success."

"It is not abandoning either." Henny tells Chase gently, "You will come back. I am sure Jack knows this..."

"Plus, now maybe you'll be better equipped when you guys come next!" Jackieboy grins, "We've seen a bunch of monsters- so you'll know better what to expect!"

While they discuss this, the King slowly starts to stir. Aneirin opens his eyes and instantly notices the rope tying him to the tree. He starts to struggle but the rope holds him tight. Then he notices Marvin. He tries to say something, but of course, the spell is muffling his voice. His eyes widen, and then he glares at Marvin, pure anger in his gaze.

Marvin silently backs away.

Aneirin keeps glaring at him for a while, then looks down and notices Mag there. He blinks, surprised, unsure how to react to him being 1) a cat, and 2) right next to him.

Mag looks back up at Aneirin- and looking at his eyes, the King can recognize who it is, if he hadn't figured it out already. He has the same scars around his blind eye and a rust-like marking like his mask. The rune on his head pulses with Alt's magic. He looks almost- embarrassed to be stuck like this, his ears flattening. He curls up, giving the King a bit more space but staying close. He glares at the others, his tail flicking angrily.

Aneirin's eyes widen as he realizes what this cat is. A smile flickers across his face for a moment but it quickly fades as he realizes that he doesn't actually like seeing Magnificent suffer. Not like this. He mouths the Glasish word for "sorry."

Mag looks back in time to see him mouth the word. He huffs slightly- then presses his head against Aneirin's leg.

"Yeah, I guess..." Chase says slowly. He looks over at the King. "Jack, if you're hearing this right now, we'll be back for you."

Aneirin glares and makes a gesture that the Swaps don't recognize but which is clear from the context and how offended the fantasy guys look.

"Well to you, too!" Marvin gasps.

As if on the same wavelength, Bro and Jackieboy glare then both of them flip the King off at the same time.

"Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!" Jackieboy curses in Irish.

"... where the fuck did you learn that?" Bro asks, blinking at Jackie.

"...I dunno my mam used to yell it at anyone who pissed her off-"

The others can recognize what it means though thanks to the translation spell: May the cat eat you and the [devil] eat the cat!

...strangely fitting.

Aneirin looks at Jackieboy in surprise and confusion, which quickly turns to anger. He scowls and looks away, deciding to ignore that.

Henny and Dr. J exchange looks and then break into quiet giggling.

The fantasy guys look at Jackieboy with confusion before Marvin starts giggling along with Henny and JJ. "That's a good one, we should remember it," he says.

Jackie starts giggling as well. "I'm not sure what a 'defel' is, but I think I get the point of it."

Jameson smiles and starts taking food out of the food bag. We should have supper. Of course, we'll save some for Alt, too.

Bro looks over to Jameson and smiles gratefully, "Thanks, Jameson... I'm sure he'll be super hungry when he wakes up."

"Oh yeah- dude's a monster when he's hungry." Jackieboy grins. "Though- nothing rivals you when you're starving, Bro."

Bro shrugs with a grin, "Imma big strong boy! I need all I can get!" He then makes a face while he thinks,"oh yeah to explain… From what I know- whatever spirit is possessing the King is probably the closest a devil could be." Bro giggles. "So ah- ah... what did you call it? A ssss something-"

"'Spiolash'," Chase says. "Though often people just call them possessive spirits. There's some superstition that saying that name will draw their attention and they'll possess you." He glances at Aneirin, who rolls his eyes. "Though this one is strangely powerful."

"Or like- if there's any evil Elders they’d be like a devil." Jackieboy shrugs, "Probably not cuz the Elders seem cool. But like- in our religion... that none of us practice but we know- the devil used to be like a god, but fell from grace and became a bitch ass."

"Man I love when you talk church, Jackie," Bro laughs, "You should become a priest."

"Please do not." Dr. J sighs in exaggeration.

The other swaps all laugh.

"The Elders aren't malicious, but they will strike back if you cross them or their domains," Jackie explains. "I wonder... would it be possible for an Elder to fall from grace and become wrathful?"

"Isn't there a story about the Celestial Sisters that's like that?" Marvin wonders.

Henrik suddenly starts. "No, those are cheap untrue cult variants. Luna did not wish for power from Sola, Sola was not a tyrant to her sister, both of those versions are wrong and their followers are prejudiced assholes."

"Hey, welcome back, Henrik!" Jackie says cheerfully. "Are you hungry?"

"A bit." Marvin passes him a small packet of food. "So apparently all we needed to do was say something wrong."

"Apparently."

Jackieboy opens his mouth to say something at hearing the name Luna but Bro preemptively smacks him. "Do not expose these guys to my little pony Jackie i swear to god-" He hisses as Jackieboy tries not to break into laughter.

Dr. J smacks him too. "Be respectful!"

Henny smiles at his other self, "Glad you are back, other me! I was very worried for you..."

Henrik smiles a bit. "Th-thank you. I am still feeling a bit strange, but better."

"Better enough to correct people," Chase chuckles.

"Are there really people like that who follow the faith?" Jackie asks.

"Back on the east continent, yes," Henrik says. "Those who say Luna is evil are often the sort who like to control others, and those who say Sola is evil are often the sort who like to cause chaos. Neither of the Sisters would approve of that. They rule together but separately, a balance between order and freedom."

"There are some people who use the Elders to justify their bad behavior as well," Marvin mutters. "We're lucky they're few and far between."

Henny shifts a bit, "To be fair- people do that with some of our religions back home too. There is... always evil people who twist faiths to suit their narratives. It is sad... they do not come from a place of wanting to learn, but of hate."

Jameson looks at Jackieboy, confused. Ponies?

Jackie laughs a bit. "What a shift of tone."

Bro hits Jackieboy again and Jackieboy exclaims, "OW! Stop hitting me! Technically you brought it up!"

"Only cuz I knew you were going to you, ya fucking meme lord!" Bro exclaims.

"I was gonna bring up that my daughter likes the show and the princesses! And say that the story of Luna and Celestia was similar! That's it! Why ya gotta assume it was something bad??"

"Cuz I will never forgive you for the rainbow dash thing-"

Dr. J sighs, "How on earth were you gotta explain a colorful pony show to people who don't even know what a TV is, Jackie?"

Jackie pauses and then knits his eyebrows together in thought. "... uhhhhh-"

JJ looks up to the sky in exasperation.

The guys all look confused at this conversation.

"A show? Like... a play?" Marvin asks slowly.

Dr. J looks relived, "Yes, kinda like a play."

"So it's a story of some kind," Chase guesses. "Maybe an ongoing one like those morality plays--did you guys see those?" The question is addressed to the guys from this world.

"I never saw them as a kid, but there were a lot of performances when we were living in the same city together." Jackie gestures to himself, Marvin, and Henrik.

How do you put on a play about horses? Jameson says, confused.

"Well I'm sure it is not literally a play, just like a play, for our understanding," Henrik says.

"That is a good way to describe it-" Jackieboy muses. "But it's more like- a play... in a tiny box- the TV- and instead of actors it's pictures that move. They create stories that way! But with... lightning. It powers it and shit."

"Is a 'tíví' like those metal devices you have? Last time Chase and Alt brought some, they are this big and showed pictures on them." Henrik holds up his hand, mimicking holding a phone.

Meanwhile, Aneirin is gently banging his head against the tree, half-hoping to knock himself out again instead of listening to this inane chatter. Internally, Jack is actually pretty fascinated with all this.

Bro blinks and then brightens up, laughing, "Oh yeah! The first time we met- I-I tried to give you my phone!" He starts to laugh, "I thought that- that you might know how to get service! I was so fucking confused- I hadn't realized we were somewhere they wouldn't work! I remember you holding it like it was something super important, Henrik!"

"What did they say about it?" Henny asks with a tilted head, "Maybe they were just as confused as I was!"

"I have no idea- they were speaking Glasish and we hadn't found a way to translate yet!"

Henrik chuckles a little. "I was showing Jackie how neat it all was. Everything was so smooth and the angles were so perfect and there were those tiny lines and holes--I had never seen such fantastic craftsmanship."

"To be fair- the phones aren't made by people," Jackieboy says, "They're made by machines! That's why they look so neat. S'different from here where everything is made by hand."

Bro laughs more, realizing how ridiculous he was when he first got here. "I remember being convinced I was in a really realistic ren fair- and like- it took me forever to realize Jackie was Jackie cuz they're were saying it more with a D- Dyaki-"

"oh my god- Chase-" Dr. J laughs, shaking his head. "Your mind astounds me."

"My name is Dyaki," Jackie says, confused. "That's--that's how you say it? I suppose you all are pronouncing it more like 'Dshak-EE'... And then you're pronoucning Tshais like 'TCHaays'... wait hold on. I'm... I'm having a moment here. It's been all off, hasn't it? That spell is strong for correcting all the pronouncing."

Marvin laughs a little and The swaps laugh too.

"Yeah it's a crazy spell huh? I'm glad Alt found one that can work so well..." Bro says, lightly smoothing back Alt's hair as he rests. Alt stirs slightly and then presses into Bro's hand, kinda like a cat wanting to be pet. He seems to be cooling down. Slowly... but enough. Bro smiles.

Jackieboy pulls something out of his bag, "We still have our Phones but- they're dead right now. They have to be powered to work. Alt might be able to get them working when he wakes up!"

"So yes, Henrik a TV is similar- but much bigger," Dr. J shows, making the gestures for how big one is, "And it plays moving pictures on the screen for us to watch."

Moving pictures? Jameson leans forward, eyes lighting up a bit. I saw something like that once! Clearly it's nothing at all like what you're talking about. But I saw a device with pictures on it that, when it spun fast enough, looked like motion. I can't remember the name of it, but I LOVED it.

"Oh oh!! I know what that is!!" Henny says excitedly, "That sounds like a zoetrope!!”

Jameson brightens. Yes, that's exactly what it was called! I don't think there's a word for it in handspeak, though.

”We had some in my time too! But I remember being so entranced by the tvses and bright pictures when I first arrived." Henny giggles.

"I could not get you away from the TV for like a week," Dr. J says, shaking his head with a smile.

"It was so pretty and bright! and funny!"

"A 'fón' and a 'skrín' and a 'tíví.'" Chase laughs a little. "These are all such strange words... And we know about how your world uses lightning for so much. Alt said last time that you even use money that way. Here, we still use gold. Or sometimes jasper, which is a sort of crystal."

Dr. J looks to Chase, "Oh! How fascinating! We use... lightning, yes. But, us old fashioned folks still use paper money too."

"I think you're insane for still carrying cash, Jay," Jackieboy laughs.

"It helps me stay on top of things! Plus it was easier to use with Henrik since he understood it."

"I still do not understand the money card..." Henny says, shaking his head. "How does it hold it all? Where does it go??? It is so tiny!!"

"Do you think the name of things like, uh, zoetropes, are being translated by the spell too?" Chase wonders.

"Ugh. I don't want to think about that. It makes my head hurt," Jackie mutters.

"Oh, but your head doesn't hurt at the idea of lightning money?" Marvin says teasingly.

"It doesn't, but that's because it's all so strange that it's easier to just accept it," Jackie says. "And I've never seen these tívís or money cards but I am right now experiencing the translation."

"Zoetrope is an older word now- and it was made up by someone, using other older words. So, now it just means that!" Henny grins, "Learning about where words come from fascinates me too because I know many languages. My mother was German and my Father spoke English and French. That is why my accent is all over the place!" He giggles.

This is fun, Jameson says cheerfully. I love hearing about these differences, it's so fascinating.

Dr. J smiles, "I like learning the differences too. It is so interesting, especially because this place is not a one on one on how we understand our own past."

"Oo, I have one more question," Chase says. "Bro, you mentioned a 'ren' fair earlier, that you thought our camp was one when you first appeared. What is that?"

"Oo! Is it like a training field for warriors?" Jackie asks excitedly. "Because I do think that our Phantom camps resemble those fields sometimes."

Bro blinks and then laughs, " A Ren fair! Short for 'renaissance'-"

"Which is basically a big fancy word for a certain time in the past," Jackieboy explains, "A time with knights and kings and people riding horse back and fighting with swords-"

"So- very similar to here." Bro cuts him off with a chuckle, "The whole thing isn't like a training field but! There's places where performers will act out fighting scenes with swords or jousting tournaments to show how people fought. Or let you try archery. Its a way for us to connect and understand our past better and see re-enactments on how they lived. And like- buy cool shit too. People love old fancy stuff."

"It's like playing pretend! And you get to dress up!" Jackieboy grins.

"Which is why I thought I was in one when I first came, "Bro laughs, "No one dresses up like this on a normal day back home."

Henrik chuckles. "Yes, I remember your strange outfit well. It was so bright, I cannot believe you all wear colors like that all the time. Dyeing cloth must be so much easier there than it is there."

"People always love older times," Jackie sighs. "We still tell stories about the old days before the kingdom was united."

Still stuck in the silence spell, Aneirin mutters something with a dark expression.

"Maybe if we ever go to your world you can take us to one of these fairs," Chase says. "I doubt we will, but it's an interesting thought. We can compare more differences."

"You want to go to another world where they have moving pictures and use money created by lightning... and you want to see the things that are already similar to here," Marvin sums up.

"...it does sound a bit idiotic when you say it like that."

Don't feel bad, Chase, I understand, Jameson says. The familiar is appealing.

"Personally, I would like to see more outfits from the other world," Henrik says.

"I will say, woman's outfits back home? Fucking stellar man- Zara and Kelsie have such pretty clothes." Jackieboy sighs with a lovesick smile.

"Ooo, and you mention being able to travel really fast, I'd love to experience that," Jackie adds.

"I'm still curious about blue raspberry myself," Marvin says. "Your food must be so different."

"Man- I'd love to take you guys- but I'm afraid the differences might blow your minds," Bro laughs, though it sounds a bit sad.

"It is... hard to adjust, but it is also wonderful." Henny says with a smile. He looks at the others and seems timid for a second before he sighs and tries to look brave. "If you all do come some day, I can help! Because I... am also out of time. Not nearly as much as you are here but I told Jameson- I believe it is a 90 year difference between where I was living to where we are now."

"You are also out of time?" Jackie repeats, eyes wide. "Whoa... that's also breaking my head."

"To be honest, It was breaking my head as well," Henny giggles.

"You've adjusted like a champ though, Schneep!" Jackieboy grins and pats Henny on the back.

The taller gentleman blushes and hides his then idly fidgets with his hands- "It was so strange to be somewhere where everything was so slick and shiny and bright. The signs would shine bright like the sun but move in ways I could not understand. It was hard too because at the time I could not hear too. But... everything is bright- clothes, hair, the sights. The food is so many flavors! Things you would not even think of! Spicy and sweet and creamy and so so salty. And everything is- electric! Powered by lightning and so so fast- but... I like it. So much." He grins, patting his bright teal hair. "Sometimes I go to find things I understand when I am overwhelmed but- finding new things to learn is very funny too." He then blinks and laughs, "In a way- coming into the Wyldwood was very similar to me coming to our world the first time. So strange and fastastical and... kind of scary."

Jameson grins. It's a bit hard to adjust to, but I imagine it's hard for these guys to adjust to our world, too. As hard as it would be for us to adjust to theirs.

"It would be hard, but maybe one day," Jackie says. "It sounds so fascinating. I know that you all have a tool that allows you to travel to other worlds. The, uh... 'tráfelr'? That's not at all how you say it, I know." He laughs a little. "We don't have that here, but I'm sure there's a way with magic. We can come visit you and see all these bright sights."

"It sounds so interesting," Henrik agrees.

"Yes, it really does." Marvin's eyes light up. "A world with all these same things--not to mention magic that works differently. I'd love to explore it some day."

"We'll try to find a way," Chase says. "Once we have everything settled here, we can try."

Bro makes a thinking face, "Hm... we could use the TRVLR maybe but- I dunno if it's powerful enough to jump like 10 people at once..."

Alt's eyes flutter open slightly. He blearily looks out and then mutters, "...doorway..."

The swaps all freeze and Bro leans down closer to listen to Alt, "What was that, Alt?"

"mm... t'ere's a doorway h..here..." Alt mumbles quietly, "...was lookin' for it... s'like the one with the... the inverted us-es... the f-first ones..." He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a shuddery breath.

Bro's eyes widen, "Like the one Mag found in Sclera?"

Alt nods tiredly and slumps back down. "mmmaybe... could use..." He opens back up his eyes but seems to be struggling to keep them open. "...dunno... needs gli'chin..."

And then he's out again.

The others start, all unconsciously leaning forward as Alt stirs slightly. And then back when he falls asleep again.

"A doorway?" Marvin repeats. "You know... there are rumors that float around among wizards about a stone arch that can do incredible things. Maybe... that's what he means?"

"And that's why the King and Magnificent brought Alt here?" Chase asks. "To try and find another way to get to other worlds?" He looks towards the pair, but Mag is a cat and Aneirin is still under the silence spell, and even if they were able to talk it's clear from their expressions that they wouldn't. Mag flicks his tail and bares his teeth at the others as they look their way.

Chase turns back around. "Well, like I said, we can try after everything is settled down here. Maybe Jack can tell us once he's free. He's been there for anything that spirit has said."

"What about the ghlishing?" Jackie points out.

"There has to be something here that can work the same way," Marvin says, determined. "If this is something that exists in multiple worlds, it only makes sense that it would appear in worlds where it could be used."

"Yeahhh from what I know- it takes black magic and glitching," Bro says, re-checking over Alt and rewetting the cloth to keep cooling him down as he talks. "But, none of those are really here if Mag and Alt aren't. So... I'm sure there's another way. Otherwise, why would it be here? Someone had to have made it. Even if it was a long ass time ago.”

Dr. J nods and then looks back at the King and Mag. "... I think waiting would be wise. Our world isn't going anywhere. We'd be delighted to have you- but even more so if you can travel to us safely."

Jameson looks around. Well, to talk about something else, it's getting dark. Should we stop and try to sleep?

Jackieboy stretches and nods, "Probably... it's been a long day."

"You know it's been one if you're agreeing to sleep," Dr. J smirks at Jackie.

Jackieboy shrugs.

"Yes... maybe more sleep would be good- so Alt can get all the rest he needs too." Henny agrees.

"...we might need to stay up to monitor his temp-" Dr. J starts to say.

"I got it," Bro volunteers. "And I can wake you if anything seems bad."

"If you can wake me in a few hours that would be great," Marvin says. "Well, no, more than just 'great'. I need to renew the silence spell eventually, otherwise that bastard can start using commands."

"Remember to sleep yourself, Bro," Henrik says. "Maybe Marvin can take second watch?"

"I'd be fine with that," Marvin agrees.

Bro looks reluctant but eventually nods, "Okay. I can do that."

"The rest of us get some good rest, yes?" Henrik says.

Don't worry, I'm sure we're all tired, Jameson says.

"It's been a long day," Chase agrees.

"Good night, everyone."

"Good night." Jackie holds back a yawn as everyone lies down to sleep.

"Goodnight, all together!" Henny says brightly.

Bro helps to set Alt up in the extra bedroll and then sets himself up to watch over him. At least for a bit.

[birdpersonz]

so im like 80% sure it was confirmed that in every skylanders game there's technically a new portal master but that got me thinking

concept where there's an in universe portal master that experienced all of the games, for a sprinkle of angst maybe they were a child during ssa and had to mature fast as to command their skylanders and drop kick the evil bald child

perhaps they even helped rehabilitate villains by the time of imaginators when some of them become senseis

just some thoughts ive had over the past couple of days and if i actually commit to a full length fic of this you bet im going to throw in some trauma, mental breakdowns, and identity crisis because why not this is a troupe of a child having to grow up way too early and they miss out on most of their childhood and barely learned to be a portal master since eon fricken died and wasn't there to guide them

[potatoesandsunshine]

the thing about heartache by the number is like... i Get It. i Understand this quest. i have played it probably twenty times and watched it back through like seven thousand more times for the dialogue and i can see through the layers of it. heartache by the number to me is a stained glass installation. i am looking through it at this point.

[sttoru]

‘and if i only could, i’d make a deal with god, and i’d get him to swap our places. .’ — kate bush

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. gojo satoru x wife!reader. fluff to angst (no comfort). spoilers chapter 261. reader’s pregnant. major character death. mentions of blood, death. nicknames ‘pretty, sweets’. not proofread bcs i couldn't through the tears. i cried nine times writing this so.. good luck! wc: 3.6k

“he’s kicking again,” satoru chuckles excitedly. he’s been clinging onto you ever since you got back from your doctor’s appointment. your baby boy is growing up healthy and there don’t seem to be any complications.

you smile and rest back against the velvety pillows. you’re enjoying the affection you’re receiving, the kisses and nuzzles against your swollen tummy makes every bit of suffering worth it. your husband is going to be an amazing dad, that you can tell.

“hey, little guy—don’t give ya mommy a tough time,” satoru huffs and gently taps the side of your stomach that was last kicked by the unborn baby, “that’s my wife, y’know?” you giggle at the scene in front of you and close your eyes, relaxing your body.

a comfortable silence hangs in the room. satoru’s warm hands cupping and rubbing your round stomach add to the tranquil atmosphere. the weight of your husband’s head presses onto the front of your plump belly—ear pressed against the stretched skin as if expecting to hear your baby boy talk.

after a while, you open your eyes. you hear a sniff and then the usual silence follows. you look down at satoru settled between your legs, hugging your waist and resting his cheek on your tummy. he’s awfully quiet and you’re unable to see his eyes because of his bangs.

“toru, everything okay?” you carefully ask. your voice comforts him for the next couple seconds, before his muscles tense up once more. satoru tries his best to seem unaffected by the many thoughts scurrying through his head.

“mhm,” your husband nods and forces a small smile. though, he can’t keep the facade up any longer. the longer you’re pregnant, the more worried he gets about a certain something; something that’s been bothering him ever since.

it’s the reason why he doubted even having kids in the first place.

“i—well. i don’t know, sweets,” satoru sighs. a deep sigh that shatters the mask he’s had on for so long. his brows furrow and his eyes dart from one place to the other. his fingers stop their movements on your stomach. they curl around the material of your shirt instead; showing a clear sense of vulnerability.

satoru seems. . . afraid, yet also angry. perhaps at himself, perhaps at the world. you don’t utter a single word. if there’s anything you want, it’s for your husband to speak about his inner turmoil freely. you’re the only person who he can have such emotional conversations with—the only person he can be himself with.

the real gojo satoru.

not the strongest.

that’s why you’re not surprised when satoru opens his mouth to confess the inevitable to you. “i’m scared,” his voice cracks. it’s a faint change in tone, but it is noticeable to you. you’ve been his lover for long enough to notice every minuscule thing.

the white-haired man lets out another sigh. you brush his soft bangs out of his eyes and instantly notice the sudden weariness in them. normally, those beautiful blue eyes shine brightly, yet that light has now dimmed.

you pat his head and satoru immediately leans into your touch. you allow him to process his own emotions and words before speaking up.

“scared?” you ask quietly and carefully, giving your husband space to explain.

satoru nods. there are a thousand thoughts running through his mind. all those thoughts he’s tried to suppress since the day you’ve announced your pregnancy. maybe even before that—at the day of your wedding.

he’s sat down with you a few months into the marriage, to have the talk about kids. he seemed to be delighted to have children with you, however there have always been some dark and hidden thoughts lingering in the back of his mind.

the sorcerer has chosen to ignore them for the longest time. he’s been trying to convince himself that he has nothing to worry about. you’re going to be fantastic parents and your children are going to be extremely loved.

the day you surprised him with your pregnancy, was like a dream. satoru cried - which he rarely does - so it was an emotional night for both of you. neither of you could wait to meet your child—happy with whatever gender.

despite all of the optimism and enthusiasm, satoru’s struggles with his inner thoughts have not yet ended. he doesn’t want to bother you with it. you seem so content and he does not want to ruin that at all.

but even the strongest without limits has to reach a breaking point.

“yeah,” satoru speaks up, his voice hoarse. he kisses your belly button, hoping his child doesn’t pick up on his distress somehow. your husband closes his eyes as he places his forehead against your tummy, praying that the heavens above hear his pleas, “i don’t want our kid to inherit my cursed techniques. at all.”

your hand doesn’t stop stroking satoru’s hair. you don’t flinch at his words, nor do you immediately discard his worries. in all honestly, you’ve shared the same feelings before getting pregnant.

you know how satoru’s treated by the jujutsu society. it’s dehumanising how he’s seen as a weapon of some sorts. a weapon that could solve all problems—one that cannot rest until its duty is done.

you despise it. you’ve told satoru about your hatred for the toxic society, even going as far as asking him to move to a different country without telling anyone. you’re sick and tired. you can’t recall the amount of times that you’ve cried alone, in the bathroom, after you’ve seen the state your lover comes back home in.

the white-haired man always seems so tired. his eyes and head hurt because of them overusing his cursed techniques. there are even days where satoru doesn’t put his blindfold or sunglasses off at home.

and when you try to talk to him about it, satoru simply assures you that ‘he’ll be fine’. you believe him in the moment, but you don’t know for how long you’ll be able to keep that trust.

you’re letting him break, slowly yet surely, right in front of you. he’s working himself to his demise. it’s nothing out of the ordinary to not want the same for your child.

though, you’re sure that it’ll be fine even if your baby boy inherits satoru’s techniques. that’s because you two are going to protect him with all you have. no one is going to treat your child like a weapon—not while the both of you are still alive.

“i don’t want our child to take over the burden i carry,” satoru continues. his brows are furrowed and his lips are pressed into a thin line. he’s already thinking about all the possibilities that can follow with the birth of your son.

he can hide his child from the world, but wouldn’t that be too restrictive? he can keep an eye on him every second of the day, but wouldn’t that be overprotective?

you notice satoru’s internal state of panic increasing, so you quickly cup his face. you lean down and press a firm kiss against his lips, to which he instantly responds. his breath hitches and he sits up on the mattress, deepening the kiss as his hands hold you by the back of your head.

he needs this—you—more than anything else in the world. if it wasn’t for you, he’d have lost his sanity long ago.

you pull back after a good minute and pant. you chuckle as you notice the slight pout on satoru’s lips. he never seems satisfied with just one kiss, which is adorable. you coo and pepper his face with small pecks, “aww.”

it’s comforting to the sorcerer. he closes his eyes and his mouth forms a small smile. you’re doing an amazing job at calming him down. satoru’s muscles relax and he finds himself nestled between your legs soon enough.

you realise that he’s still somewhat afraid for the future of his child by the way he’s playing with your shirt. his head lays on your chest and his long fingers trace shapes on your exposed skin.

“i know, honey, i know,” you murmur against the top of his head. you massage satoru’s scalp gently, nearly making him purr because of how incredible that feels. you stare at the ceiling and continue your little talk.

“i’ve thought about all of it too,” your fingers find his undercut, playing with the little hairs. all you can hope for is that your partner stresses less about the outcome of your pregnancy.

if you can do one thing for him, it’d be that. reassuring him that you’ll both do your best for your child will surely put him at ease. your husband has enough to worry about anyway.

you want to share that burden. you don’t want him to carry the world on his shoulders alone—he’s got you for that now.

“but i think that our son will be fine. why? because he’s got you,” you smile and kiss satoru’s forehead. it’s his favorite type of kiss and it works wonders when you comfort him. his ocean eyes regain their sparkle, both because of your unconditional love and trust in his parenting skills, “our boy will grow up fine and protected because he’s got you as his amazing dad, yeah?”

satoru takes some time to let your words sink in. your trust in him is a beautiful thing. of course, he’ll protect his kid no matter what. both you and his kid will be safe for as long as he’s alive. you’re going to be a happy family—one that he’s always dreamed of having.

he isn’t going to raise his child to be the strongest. he isn’t going to raise his child as an heir to the throne. he isn’t going to raise his child as his legacy. he isn’t going to raise his child as a tool.

his son will have a normal childhood and he will guarantee that. satoru will give his kid what he didn’t have as a child himself;

unconditional love and support for whatever his son wishes to become.

satoru raises his head and leans in to kiss you, hugging you to himself. he adores you so much, you’re all he needs to feel like he can do anything and everything all at once.

carrying the world on his shoulders so you can live peacefully in it is all satoru does it for.

“heh, damn right. i’ll be the best husband and dad ever.”

. . .

but in the end, your dreams are just dreams, right?

an escape from reality, that’s all dreams really are. all those times you’ve sat together to pick the furniture you want to place in the nursery, to paint the room a baby blue, to buy clothes and toys, diapers and carriers, to giggle about the places you would love to visit as a family, to think about possible baby names, to joke about whether your son will say ‘dada’ or ‘mama’ first — all of it were naive, hopeful dreams.

perhaps you were too caught up in them to realise that reality will hit when least expected.

satoru and you have lived in your own bubble—your own little fantasy world where tragic fates does not exist. no one in this planet would suffer if life worked that way.

no one on this planet would have to pick up the phone and have their world shatter, their dream bubble pop. to have all hope lost in the span of a second.

grief is a scary thing. it’s devastating and it will consume you whole. you don’t realise that until you experience it firsthand. losing someone close to you will break you in half. it’s a punch to the gut.

especially if it’s your husband. someone you considered your partner—who’s promised you to be together forever. maybe those promises were also a part of your fantasy.

maybe they were also but a beautiful lie.

your footsteps feel heavy. you don’t have any energy left in you. every drop has been drained from you the moment you heard the news over the phone. your eyes and head hurt, both feeling like they’re going to burst. you don’t want to accept any of this.

the faces of the people around you are a blur. they’re all holding their head low, their hands gathered in front of them to show respect. no one speaks—all the room is filled with are your sobs. the loud cries you let out in hopes that they wake you up from this absolute nightmare.

you drag your feet to the examination table in the middle of the room. tears continue to blur your vision, though surely, you can confirm the outline of the body laying underneath the blanket.

how could you not recognise the person you thought you’d spend eternity with?

it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. . .

“satoru.” your voice is barely audible. your hands are shaking and your face is stained with endless streams of tears. you stand at the side of the table and you instantly curl your fingers around the edge.

seeing that face from up close hits different. usually, it’d have your stomach fill with a feeling of delight, yet now all you feel when looking at it is unimaginable dread.

the blood on the corners of his mouth. the blanket that’s hiding whatever is left of him from below the waist. the dull eyes that once stared at you with hope and love. those dried lips that normally shone with a layer of gloss.

god, it’s awful. you don’t want this to be true. you’re still waiting to be woken up by your husband. so he can hold you close and hug you, whisper sweet nothings and reassure you that he’d never leave you alone in a savage world like this.

your shaky fingers reach out to his right hand. his skin feels cold and his hand doesn’t hold yours back. your breath hitches and you let out a long, devastating cry. it sounds like a scream for help as your body crumbles—falling to your knees whilst you tightly grip your lover’s limp hand.

“no, god no, please!” you cover your mouth with your free hand, nearly hyperventilating from pure pain. you feel like your heart is going to give up on you. it’s breaking into a million pieces, as does your future. you can’t live without him—you can't do it.

satoru is the sole reason you’ve held out for so long. you were each other’s support system. you can’t do any of this on your own. you can’t breathe properly—your body doesn’t let you.

not until you feel a hand on your back, rubbing it gently. you can guess that it’s shoko, but you’re too distraught to even pay attention to her. you lift yourself up by holding onto the edge of the table, your legs shaking. you sniffle and sob uncontrollably.

you reach out to touch satoru’s lifeless face, as gentle as you always do. you flinch when you feel just how cold his body is—the usual warmth that would comfort you gone, nowhere to be found. you don’t get a reaction from him when you touch his cheeks.

it only serves to remind you of the tragic events that unveiled. you’re still in denial, but the moment feels real. your brain is slowly yet surely processing the information. though, you don’t want it to. you want to live in a world where you grow old with your husband.

where your child is going to grow up with a father figure at home.

“satoru, come back to me.. to us, please,” you beg and beg, hoping he smiles and sits up, telling you that it’s just one of his silly pranks again. when none of that happens, you feel yourself become more hopeless. you hunch over him and cup his face. the same face that would light up whenever you’d touch it.

you hiccup and wail, unable to breathe. you rub his cheekbones with your thumbs, settling your forehead against his. your tears fall underneath his eyes and slide down his temples, making it seem like he’s crying with you.

you wait for satoru to respond, but he doesn’t. there’s an eerie silence on his part and you’re panicking. you need him to comfort you, but he isn’t there to do that anymore. you’re left alone, all alone.

“i can’t do this without you—we can’t do this without you,” you stammer between sobs. you can’t go through life, knowing satoru isn’t going to be there for you. he isn’t going to come home anymore. he isn’t going to cuddle you to sleep anymore. he isn’t going to experience what it’s like to have a family of his own. he isn't going to be able to hold his child and to play with him.

you blame life for being unfair—always taking away the people who don’t deserve it. satoru hasn’t done anything to deserve this. he just.. existed. his fate of becoming the strongest, decided at his birth, is what has lead to his death.

you continue to sob to yourself. you refuse to acknowledge anything or anyone else in the room. you’re solely focused on your husband. or rather, what’s left of him.

remembering how excited satoru was to spend the rest of his life with you and your future children pains you all the more. he’s been stripped from a normal life. you’ve tried your hardest to give him that said normal life, yet your hopeful dreams have gotten you nowhere.

you wipe your tears away for the first time in a while. your grief is making you delusional—disoriented to the point you try to make yourself feel better. you force a smile and hold tightly onto satoru’s limp hand, trying to speak through your quiet sniffles.

“o-our boy is gonna be born soon,” you chuckle bitterly and place satoru’s hand on your belly. it’s gotten bigger over the months and you’re already eight months along. he was so close to meeting your child—so close. yet his tragic destiny did not allow him to.

you hope he’s been happy with you for as long as he lived. you hope you’ve somewhat relieved him from his misery for as long as he lived. that burden he carried, the world he carried on his shoulders. . . it doesn’t seem to want to detach from him. even after death.

you press a deep kiss against his forehead. satoru’s favorite spot to be kissed at, you remember. you wish he feels it in the afterlife; wherever he may he. as long as he’s in a better place now, one that treats him well. this current world has been too cruel on him. it doesn’t deserve to home someone like your husband.

“i wish you were here to see your son. to see our baby grow up, you'd be so proud, honey,” you kiss satoru’s forehead again. it’s all you can do stop yourself from losing it completely. you know satoru would tell you to be strong, for his sake. for your unborn son.

“i’m going to tell him all about you, ‘kay? i'm going to tell him about how awesome his dad was,” your voice breaks for the nth time. you’re still in the first stage of grief, though you try to seem strong in case satoru is watching from somewhere.

that’s what he did when he was the one going through a tough time. he’d act brave and fine, putting on a mask to make you worry less, telling you all kinds of reassuring words while he was suffering internally.

now it’s your turn to safely send his soul off to the afterlife. to let satoru pass away in peace, with him knowing that you’re going to live on for him and for your child. it’s the least you can do at the moment.

you put on a brave face, staring into his lifeless eyes, smiling through the unbearable pain. you’re sure he’s still listening to you from somewhere. satoru’s always told you that your voice is soothing, so you do your best to calm his soul and reassure him that it’s fine for him to rest.

“i’ll do my best to raise him, yeah? so you.. you just rest.”

rest was a foreign word to the sorcerer. this world didn’t give him an ounce of peace. he’d either be overworked by his family or the jujutsu society, and if it isn’t work, his inherited techniques were slowly killing his brain and body.

you’re praying that satoru has none of that in the afterlife. you’re praying that he can live a normal life, eternally. so that when you join him one day, you both won’t have to suffer nor share the burden. you can live out your dreams without anyone interrupting.

not even fate.

“you deserve to rest. you really do,” you sigh.

soon enough, you feel yourself crumble again. you burst out in tears once you realise that he’s actually never coming back to you in this life. you bury your face in the crook of his neck and sob loudly, not holding back your emotions anymore. you just can’t—you can’t act brave when your second half has been taken away from you so suddenly.

you hope that you succeeded into sending him off without any worries. you can’t help but continue rambling to yourself, “i’m going to miss you s’much. oh, my baby.”

you lift your head back and stare into satoru’s eyes once more. did he think about you when he was on his deathbed? did he see his life flash before his eyes, including his many memories with you? did he see what could have been?

it’s unfair.

you give him one last bright smile and gently close his eyelids for him, hoping his lost soul saw your face before you did so. with one last kiss on his lips, you whisper your final words;

“please wait for me on the other side, my love.”

[pangur-and-grim]

my books so far:

Apparently, Sir Cameron Needs to Die - after the revealing of an unfortunate prophecy, a knight and a mad sorcerer find they have a mutual goal: keeping the knight alive. obviously, homosexuality ensues. (bought by Titan Books, will be published in february)

Fool of a Ghoul - a hideous ghoul is resurrected from an unknown corpse, and enslaved by a witch, who enters it into a three-stage slavic-themed death game. the ghoul would much rather be writing poetry, or getting kisses from the witch, but it is what it is. (still waiting to hear back from my agent about this)

The Auf - a changeling’s life is thrown into disarray when the human it was swapped for as an infant comes back to usurp it. (government of Ontario gave me a grant to finish this, first draft is aaaalmost done)

Choggeloth the Undying Makes a Friend - a cat-loving demon is forced to halt an alien invasion. (only have the first ten chapters written, but this one is banger I promise)

[duskidolsmut]

Karina X Male Reader - "Fucking the Dirty Neighbor"

"You live on a quiet street, but everything changes when you start spying on Karina, the hot Korean neighbor who lives next door. She has a habit of taking showers and rubbing herself with cream naked, with the window open, driving you crazy with desire. What starts as a secret dirty act turns into a hardcore whoredom, with her calling you inside and involving you in a game of rough sex, provocations and some bullies that will make you go crazy."

Tags: Voyeur, Hot Neighbor, Brutal Blowjob, Hardcore Sex, Domination, Submission, Throat Fuck, Forced Orgasm, Spitting, Slapping, Humiliation, Sexual Blackmail, Open Window, Pervert, Plot Twist

W: 5.236

The summer air on that quiet street was thick, and the open windows were an invitation—both to the breeze and to the secrets of others. You never planned to become a voyeur, but she made it impossible to resist. Karina, the Korean neighbor in the house next door, was an irresistible mystery: a woman in her early twenties, tall, with curves that looked sculpted and an air of confidence you only admired from afar. Her bedroom was just a few meters from your window, and the thin curtain she never closed was like a private movie screen.

It all started by accident on a sweltering July night. You saw her come home at 10 PM, her hair tied in a messy bun, her body exhausted from work—maybe as a model or dancer, you guessed, judging by the way she moved. She stepped into her room, turned on the lamp, and began her ritual: a long shower, steam escaping through the slightly open window, the sound of water falling like a whisper pulling you closer. When she returned, wrapped in a white towel that barely contained her curves, you swore you’d look away. But then the towel slipped, pooling at her feet, and her golden skin glowed under the soft light—round breasts, a narrow waist, toned thighs. Your pulse spiked, and you froze as she grabbed a jar of lotion and began massaging herself: her fingers gliding slowly up her thighs, rising to her breasts, squeezing them lightly as if she knew she was being watched, then tracing her neck with an almost erotic delicacy.

In the days that followed, it became an addiction. Each night brought something new: On Monday, she let her damp hair down and dropped the towel on purpose, staying naked longer as she stretched on the bed, her hands roaming her body as if testing her own allure. On Wednesday, she swapped the towel for a sheer black nightgown, the fabric clinging to her damp skin as she danced alone to muted R&B. On Friday, she opened the window wider, the heat making her sigh as she sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing oil into her legs, eyes closed and head tilted back in what felt like an unspoken invitation. You caught yourself holding your breath, the summer heat blending with the fire building inside you, your heart pounding so loud you feared she’d hear it.

Weeks passed like this, each night a chapter in a silent obsession. You noticed details: the small tattoo on her ribcage that only appeared when she turned, the way she bit her lip while checking herself in the mirror, the low laugh she let out when reading something on her phone. She never seemed to see you—until that night. The air was heavier than ever, and Karina, post-shower, let the towel drop as usual. Only this time, as she massaged her breasts with lotion, she paused. Her eyes locked onto yours through the window, sharp and penetrating, as if she’d known all along. Your stomach dropped, but before you could hide, she smiled—a slow, dangerous, almost predatory grin. She stood, still naked, and walked to the window, her body lit up like a promise. With a single gesture, a curl of her finger, she beckoned you. "Come here," she mouthed, soundlessly, and you knew there was no turning back.

On the way to her place, your legs trembled, sweat trickling down your neck. She opened the door wearing only that black nightgown, the fabric sticking to her still-damp skin. "Enjoy the show, little spy?" she asked, her voice husky and teasing, as she pulled you inside and locked the door. Her eyes devoured you, and she stepped closer, the scent of vanilla and warm skin enveloping you. Her fingers grazed your chest, trailing down to the waistband of your pants, and she laughed softly. "You watched me for days… now you owe me something in return." She pushed you against the wall, her body pressed to yours, her lips inches from yours, breathing heavily as her hands gripped you with a mix of punishment and desire.

The hallway’s dim light sharpened the shadows of Karina’s sharp collarbones, the elegant curve of her neck, the tantalizing valley between her breasts as they rose and fell under the sheer black camisole. Her scent—vanilla lotion mixed with the damp heat of her post-shower skin—wrapped around you like a drug. Her hands were already in command: one undid your belt with deft fingers, the other pinned your wrist above your head against the wall with a force that made you swallow hard.

“You stood there so long, watching my every move…” Her voice was a rough whisper, laced with sarcasm and desire. “Did you think I didn’t notice?” Her knee pressed against your groin, firm and deliberate, wrenching a moan you tried to stifle. She smiled—slow, dangerous—and closed the distance with a cruel kiss, her tongue exploring your mouth with a slowness that drove you wild, a thread of saliva connecting you when she pulled away.

“Let’s see if you can handle this,” she taunted, peeling off the camisole in one fluid motion. The fabric pooled at her feet, revealing pert breasts, hard nipples, the narrow waist and hips you’d fantasized about for weeks. Your hands reached for her, but she shoved them back against the wall. “Not yet,” she growled, biting your lower lip until it stung. “You owe me.”

She sank to her knees, her gaze daring you to look away. Her fingers dragged your zipper down slowly, freeing you, the cold air a stark contrast to the heat of her breath. “Hmm,” she hummed, eyes widening for a split second as she gripped you, feeling you harden under her touch. “Bigger than I imagined… and I did see you trying to hide it.” A low laugh vibrated against your skin as her lips closed around you, starting with a slow, deep suck that made your muscles tense.

Karina was in absolute control. One hand tightened around the base of your cock, guiding it as she took you in a hypnotic rhythm—now slow, her tongue swirling the tip, now fast, swallowing you to the back of her throat just to hear you choke. Her other hand slid between her own thighs, fingers moving rapidly as she touched herself, muffled moans buzzing against your skin.

“Rock fucking hard,” she said, pulling off just to smirk up at you, spit glistening on her chin. “Almost impressive.” She took you again, hungrier now, eyes half-lidded with pleasure as she fucked herself with her fingers, the wet sounds mixing with your groans. You grabbed for her hair, but she pinned your wrists to the wall, iron grip unyielding. “I’m* in charge here,”* she whispered before speeding up, her hot, slick mouth pushing you to the edge.

You felt your climax building—and so did she. Her movements turned frantic, fingers plunging deeper as she moaned around you. When you came, she swallowed every drop with a guttural sound of satisfaction, her body trembling as she came at the same time, hips jerking. A trickle of cum escaped the corner of her mouth; she wiped it with her finger, licking it away with a smug grin.

She rose slowly, her breasts brushing your chest as she stared you down, still breathless. “Good boy,” she purred, voice thick with sarcasm. Then, icy cold: “But I don’t need you anymore.”

Without warning, she shoved you toward the door, your clothes still tangled on the floor. “Out,” she ordered, yanking it open. Dazed and weak-kneed, you tried to protest, but she cut you off: “I got what I wanted. Don’t make me repeat myself.” She pushed you into the dark hallway, tossing your shirt after you, and slammed the door with a bang. The night’s silence swallowed you whole, her taste still on your lips, your body throbbing with a pleasure she’d given and taken with equal ease.

After that night—after Karina kicked you out with a frosty smile and a “don’t need you anymore”—something shifted. The curtains of her bedroom, once a portal to her nightly rituals, stayed shut. Night after night, you tried to peek, but all you saw was thick fabric barring any glimpse of her. The lamp still flicked on at 10 PM, the muffled sound of the shower still seeped through the cracked window, but Karina had locked you out of her world. As if she knew you were there, waiting… and this silence was your punishment.

The obsession grew like a fever. During the day, you’d see her leaving the house—tight jeans, a loose blouse, her hair tossed to the side as if nothing had happened—and she wouldn’t even glance your way, passing you on the street with a disdain that burned. At night, trapped in your room, you’d try to dull the craving with feverish jerking off, replaying the heat of her mouth, the way she’d dominated you, the sound of her moans as she touched herself. But it wasn’t enough. Every attempt only fed the hunger for more—more of her, of her control, of the pleasure she’d given you before ripping it away without mercy. You started losing sleep, eyes aching from staring at her closed window, wondering what she was doing inside.

Weeks bled together, frustration twisting into a knot in your chest. You needed her, needed to prove you could have her again, that you weren’t just some disposable toy. Then, on a sweltering August night, something shifted. After days of drawn curtains, you looked out and saw—hers were open, just a crack, enough to give you a sliver of her room. Your heart hammered as you crept closer, starving for even a glimpse.

There she was. Karina, on her knees—but not alone. An older man, maybe 40, salt-and-pepper hair, athletic build, stood over her, pants open, fists tangled in her hair as she sucked him with the same fierceness she’d once used on you. You’d seen his sleek black Mercedes parked outside earlier. Now here he was, groaning low as Karina worked him, lips slick, eyes lifted in devotion—a look that made your hands clench.

You watched, blood roaring in your ears. She took him slow, then fast, pausing to tease him with lazy licks, and the man threw his head back, lost in it. Like she was performing for you, knowing you were there, powerless behind the glass. Rage swallowed you—at her for shutting you out, at him for being where you craved to be, at yourself for still wanting her so badly. When he came with a grunt, her swallowing every drop before wiping her lips with a smirk, you nearly shattered the window with your fists. He straightened his clothes, patted her cheek like she’d done a good job, and left, the Mercedes purring into the night.

You snapped.

Down the stairs in a frenzy, across the street, pounding on her door hard enough to rattle the frame. Karina opened it slowly, still in that black camisole, hair messy, lips swollen from what she’d just done. She blinked at you—surprised for half a second—before that mocking smile curled her mouth. “What do you want, little peeper?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed like you were an inconvenience. “I told you it was over.” Her voice was poison, but her eyes glittered with something you couldn’t name—challenge, maybe, or pleasure at seeing you so wrecked.

You opened your mouth, anger and lust tangling your words. “You think you can use me and toss me out like that? I saw you with him. I know what you are.” Your voice shook but carried weight. She laughed, low and sharp, stepping closer until her perfume hit you like a punch. “And what am I, huh? A slut who gave you the best head of your life and left you begging for more?” Her head tilted, studying you. “You’re obsessed. Pathetic.”

Karina’s sharp laugh still echoed in your ears, her words—"Pathetic"—burning like acid. The rage, mixed with weeks of pent-up desire, exploded. Suddenly, you grabbed her hair, the silky strands slipping between your fingers as you yanked hard, pulling her face close to yours. "I’ll show you who’s pathetic!" you growled, voice ragged with fury, eyes locked onto hers. Her eyes widened for a split second—surprised by your audacity—before she tried to wrench free, hands shoving against your chest. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?" she spat, voice dripping with disdain, but there was a tremor there, a crack in her armor.

You didn’t back down. Still gripping her hair with one hand, you slammed her against the hallway wall, the impact wrenching a grunt from her. With your other hand, you tore down your pants and boxers in one rough motion, freeing your already half-hard cock from its prison of frustration and obsession. Before she could react, you shoved her face downward, the vanilla scent of her skin mixing with the sweat of your anger. Instinctively, her mouth opened—maybe from shock, maybe from hidden desire—and you thrust your cock inside, straight down her throat. Karina gagged, eyes watering, but she didn’t pull away; instead, a wicked glint flashed through them, as if this were a game she already knew.

You started fucking her throat, violent and unhesitating, as if you could erase every taunt she’d ever thrown at you. The sounds were brutal—wet gags, choked breaths, the slap of your hips against her face. This was a twisted game, and you felt it: she wanted to be used like this, like a filthy whore, but was too proud to beg. Her hands clawed at your ass, fingers digging in as she tried to pull you deeper, to set the pace. But you resisted, tightening your grip on her hair, pinning her head to the wall. "You don’t get what you want, you bitch," you snarled through clenched teeth. "Not unless you ask for it."

Her frustration burned hotter—you saw it in her glassy eyes, the way her body writhed against the wall. You yanked your cock from her mouth suddenly, thick strands of saliva stringing from her chin onto her designer camisole. Pulling her head back by the hair, you spat in her face, the glob hitting her cheek and sliding down her neck. "You’re a fucking slut," you said, voice shaking with rage and lust. "All that talk, but what you really want is for me to choke you on my cock, isn’t it? Too scared to admit it. Say I’m right."

She took a shaky breath, lips trembling, face flushed with humiliation and need. Then, in a broken whisper: "Yes… you’re right. I’m a slut. Please—fuck my throat. I need it so bad. Please." It was a genuine plea, and for a second, you almost pitied her—all those hungry, hidden needs masked by her act of control. But pity didn’t last. You shoved your cock back into her mouth, thrusting deep, and gave her exactly what she’d begged for: a brutal face-fucking. She gagged, body jerking with each snap of your hips, spit and mucus dripping onto her thousand-dollar camisole, pooling on the polished hardwood. You didn’t stop, abusing her throat like punishment for every night she’d teased and denied you.

Karina tried to look up at you, but you spat in her face again, the fluid streaking down her lashes. "Don’t fucking look at me unless I say so," you ordered, and she obeyed, eyes downcast as you kept going. A minute later, heat coiled in your legs, cum boiling in your balls. You slowed slightly, just enough to growl, "Look at me now." Her tear-streaked, red-rimmed eyes lifted, your cock buried to the hilt. "I’m gonna come soon," you warned, voice rough. "And it’s a lot. Better be ready."

She didn’t have time to react. You pistoned into her again, hips slamming against her face. Twenty seconds later, you shoved in one last time, cum erupting straight down her esophagus. She convulsed, choking violently, body shaking as spit and semen spilled from her lips, splattering the floor. When you finally pulled your softening cock free, she gasped, chest heaving, a wet burble of cum and air escaping her lips. Karina collapsed to her knees, face a wreck—spit, tears, and cum smeared together, camisole ruined, eyes glazed with exhaustion and something else. Satisfaction, maybe.

You stared down at her, the hallway silent except for her ragged breaths. For the first time since you’d met her, she was wordless, her pride left in the puddle of filth on the floor.

Karina was still on her knees, face a mess, chest rising and falling as she tried to recover. But you weren’t done. The fury and lust she’d stoked in you for weeks still burned, and now that she was broken, you wanted more—to shatter her completely. You grabbed her hair again, yanking her upright, ignoring her weak whimper. "Get up," you commanded, and she staggered to her feet, eyes wet but with a flicker of anticipation beneath the shattered pride.

You landed a sharp smack on her ass, the sound echoing, then shoved her camisole up, revealing black lace panties clinging to her round cheeks. Dragging a finger along her slit, you felt the fabric soaked through, hot and slick. She let out a shaky breath, her body betraying her again as wetness dripped down her thighs. With one rough tug, you ripped the panties off, her half-hearted "Stop…" only making you laugh before you spanked her again—harder—leaving red handprints on her golden skin. "Time to shut that pretty mouth for good," you muttered, shoving the torn lace into her mouth like a gag.

Now she was fully exposed—smooth, hairless, glistening. You threw her onto her back, burying your face between her legs before she could protest. Your tongue circled her swollen clit slowly, her taste flooding your senses as she writhed. You pinned her hips down, relentless, the circles tightening until her thighs trembled. Then—without warning—you clamped your teeth around her clit and bit down. Just enough.

Karina shattered.

Her back arched off the floor, a raw, animal scream muffled by the gag as the orgasm ripped through her. "FUCK!" Her voice was wrecked, tears streaming, body thrashing like she wanted to escape the pleasure. You didn’t let up, licking through her climax until she collapsed, boneless and gasping.

You kept nipping, sucking, grinding, dragging out every spasm until she didn’t know whether she was moaning from pain or pleasure. Her face twisted, shame dripping down with the sweat, her body trembling—utterly conquered.

You lifted your face, lips glistening with her, and took in the scene:

Karina was wrecked.

Hair wild, face streaked with tears and spit, the camisole tangled around her waist, her ass still red from the spanking.

“Look at you,” you spat, voice thick with disdain. “All tough, but deep down… you just wanted to be used until you couldn’t take it anymore, huh?”

She tried to speak, but only a whimper escaped, her body still shaking.

You stood up, wiped your mouth with a cruel smirk, and slapped her ass just to hear her scream again. Then, with a sharp yank of her silky black hair, you hauled Karina off the floor, the strands slipping through your fingers as she stumbled—weak from the aftershocks. You dragged her to the bedroom and threw her face-down onto the mattress, the bed dipping under her weight, her ass still throbbing from the spanks, red against her golden skin.

Karina’s room was a messy reflection of the perfect persona she sold to the world. The huge bed, its white sheets twisted from being clawed at, dominated the space. The dim lamp cast shadows on the walls, while the sweet scent of her lotion fought with the thick musk of sex. The half-open window let in just a sliver of the night’s heat—and the muffled moans she couldn’t hold back.

She tried to push up on her elbows, her hair falling over her face like a tangled curtain, but you didn’t let her. A sharp smack to the back of her neck echoed through the room as you shoved her face into the sheets, the fabric stifling her broken moan. “You think we’re done?” you growled in her ear, breath hot against her oversensitive skin, your hand sliding down her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine to her marked waist. “You haven’t even begun to pay yet.”

Karina moaned—a ragged, shattered sound—as you yanked the bunched-up camisole to her knees, ripping what was left of the expensive fabric with a satisfying tear. Now she was fully exposed: her ass flushed and hot to the touch, thighs trembling from exhaustion and need, her pussy swollen and glistening, still dripping from your earlier attention. You spat between her legs, the liquid sliding slowly down her slit, mixing with her wetness as she twitched—too sensitive to hide how much she still craved you. “Please—” she started, voice muffled against the mattress, but you were already positioned behind her, the head of your cock dragging against her, pressing just enough to make her breath hitch and her hips arch in reflex.

And then you took her.

One brutal thrust. No mercy. Sheathing yourself to the hilt in a single motion, the tight heat of her swallowing you whole as she screamed, her body bowing violently against the bed. Her fingers tore at the sheets, fabric ripping as she tried to anchor herself, the sound of her cries bouncing off the walls. She was hot, soaked, still shaking from her last climax—and you showed no pity. You fucked her hard, each slam wrenching out a raw moan, every impact making her ass jolt and the headboard slam against the wall in a frantic rhythm. “Take it, you slut,” you snarled, hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises, pulling her back onto you with every thrust.

“Ah—fuck… it hurts!” she whimpered, her voice broken—but her body told a different story. The way she clenched around you, the wetness dripping down her thighs, her hips arching to meet every thrust. You chuckled, low and cruel, fisting a hand in her hair and yanking her head back until her neck formed a taut bow. “Bullshit. You love it,” you growled, teeth grazing her ear before biting down on the lobe, ripping another moan from her. “Every time you spread your legs, this is what you beg for, huh? To get fucked until you can’t take it?”

“Fuck you—” she spat, voice shaky but laced with defiance, even as her body betrayed every word. “Do it harder then, asshole, if you’re so fucking tough!” You grinned, her fire only stoking yours, and picked up the pace—thrusts turning brutal, the slap of skin on skin mixing with her cries until the room drowned in it. “Filthy slut,” you shot back, landing a sharp smack on her ass that made her shriek. “Talk all that shit, but look at you—begging for my cock to wreck you.”

Karina moaned, the sound pitching higher, sharper, and you felt her tighten around you, body trembling as she teetered on the edge. “Yeah—fuck, tear me apart!” she screamed, the filthy words fracturing into gasps, her pride unraveling with every drive of your hips. “Make me forget my fucking name!” You knew she was close—the way her legs started to shake, her clit throbbing against you, slick soaking the sheets. But this time, you wouldn’t make it easy.

You stopped dead, pulling out in one rough motion—the emptiness wrenching a frustrated scream from Karina. She writhed on the bed, desperate, thighs trembling as she ground against the sheets for relief. “No—no, goddamn it, PUT IT BACK!” she roared, voice ragged with need, wet eyes glaring up at you in a mix of fury and plea. You watched her clit pulse, red and swollen, her orgasm trapped seconds from exploding—and smirked, leaning down to hiss in her ear: “Beg.”

The amber lamp light gilded her back in gold, highlighting the fingerprints on her hips, the reddened swell of her ass, the tremble of her spine.

“Please—fuck me—I NEED to come, you bastard!”

Her voice cracked—a cornered animal’s snarl. You smiled. It was beautiful.

The untouchable Noona was just this now: black hair stuck to her face, eyes glazed with tears and lust, mouth open in a ceaseless moan.

“You wanna come?” you taunted, hand closing around her throat as your cock teased her entrance. “Then come how I fucking want you to, whore.”

And then—

You slammed into her to the hilt, balls-deep, her scream hitting the walls like a gunshot.

Karina arched, fingers shredding the sheets, body trying to flee the pleasure it couldn’t control.

No mercy. Every thrust was punishment. Every impact rocked the bed. Every tug of her hair ripped out a dirtier moan.

“Yes—YES—FUCK, RIGHT THERE—!”

She screamed, begged, her words fracturing between the thrusts that pinned her into the pillows. You laughed—low and cruel—your hand smacking her ass just to watch the flesh jolt and hear her shriek louder.

“Look at you,” you spat, sweat slicking your chest. “All tough… now just a sobbing mess, begging for cock.”

She tried to reply, but you sped up—

Harder. Deeper. Until she trembled like a leaf in a hurricane.

“I— I’M GONNA—!”

You knew. Felt her clench, her sex pulsing, legs locking in spasms.

Then it hit. The orgasm tore through her like a riptide, wrenched out before she could resist. Karina screamed—a guttural, animal sound shredding her throat—her entire body convulsing as she squirted, hot liquid gushing down her thighs and soaking the mattress.

You felt her grip you so tight it nearly dragged you under, inner muscles fluttering in wild spasms, her legs giving out as she collapsed face-first into the sheets. “God, god, I can’t—!” she sobbed, tears streaking her face, body shaking as if electrocuted, her clit so sensitive every movement now blurred pleasure and pain.

But you didn’t stop. “You come when I say. And I’m not done with you,” you growled, yanking her hips back and pounding into her with the same brutality, ignoring her cries dissolving into whimpers. Her body was a spectacle of surrender—ass bouncing with every thrust, breasts crushed against the mattress, fingers clawing the sheets like they could escape. “Pathetic slut. Look how you gush for me,” you snarled, heat coiling in your gut as she unraveled. She tried to speak, but only incoherent moans spilled out, her brain short-circuited by forced pleasure.

You felt your climax building and, with one final deep thrust, emptied into her, cum filling her as she shuddered, still trapped in the aftershocks. “Take it all, you filthy thing,” you hissed, locking her hips in place until you were spent, liquid dripping down her thighs when you finally pulled out.

Karina lay wrecked—body limp, breath ragged, the sheets soaked beneath her. She couldn’t even lift her head, just whimpered weakly, face streaked with tears, saliva, and humiliation, hair plastered to her sweat-slicked skin.

The room fell silent save for the heavy sound of your breathing. You and Karina lay tangled in the damp, wrecked bed, the satin sheets now a soggy tangle of sweat, spit, and fluids. The lamp cast weak amber light over her body: black hair stuck to her forehead, thighs still twitching, ass marked by spanks and scratches. You lounged beside her, chest rising and falling as the heat of brutal sex slowly faded, the night air drifting through the cracked window, thick with the musk of sex.

Karina looked broken—eyes half-lidded, body slack against the mattress, soft moans escaping like echoes of the orgasm you’d wrung from her.

For minutes, you stayed there, resting in the wreckage, the silence almost comforting after the chaos.

Until a sound cut through the air—a deep voice echoing from the living room.

She froze, eyes widening in pure panic. Before you could react, she sat up fast, her body still trembling, and shoved you hard.

"Get out. Now!" she whispered, her voice hoarse and urgent, pointing to the window. "Go out the window—quick, he can’t see you!"

Dazed, you grabbed your clothes tangled on the floor, heart hammering as she practically threw you out. You scrambled over the sill, bare feet hitting the damp grass outside, and ducked behind a bush, peering through the cracked window—your voyeuristic instincts flaring back to life.

Karina barely had time to yank a short robe over her naked body when the bedroom door swung open. It was him: the older man you’d seen earlier, the silver-haired Mercedes driver, the one she’d sucked off hours ago. Only now, she called him "Dad."

"Forgot my wallet," he said, voice steady as he stepped in, dark eyes scanning the room. He stopped, face hardening at the scene—Karina naked under the loosely tied robe, the bed wrecked, sheets stained, the unmistakable scent of sex hanging thick in the air.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, voice dripping with a rage that made her shoulders hunch.

"Dad, I… it’s not what it looks like. I was just��just having fun after what I did with you," she stammered, tugging the robe tighter, face flushed with shame and fear. But the lie was weak, and he knew it.

The man stepped closer, eyes blazing, and before she could retreat, he slid a hand between her legs with a roughness that made her gasp. His fingers came away glistening, slick with the cum still dripping from her—your cum.

"Who was here?" he snarled, gripping her wrist with his free hand, eyes locked on hers. "Who fucked my little girl, Karina? Tell me. Now."

She shook, lips parted, fear plastered across her face as she struggled for words. "I… I didn’t—"

Outside, hidden in the dark, you felt your pulse in your throat, adrenaline laced with a perverse thrill at seeing her cornered. The man looked ready to explode, his soiled hand raised as if to strike, when his pocket buzzed—a shrill ringtone slicing through the tension. He cursed low, releasing her to answer, his expression stone-cold as he listened.

"Fine. On my way," he barked into the phone, eyes never leaving hers.

He stuffed the phone back, jabbing a trembling finger at her. "This isn’t over, Karina. When I get back, you’ll tell me who did this—and he’s fucked."

Without another word, he snatched the black leather wallet off the dresser, turned on his heel, and left, heavy footsteps fading until the front door slammed. Karina stood motionless, arms wrapped around herself, hands covering her face as she breathed fast, the robe slipping to reveal the marks you’d left. Outside, you crouched in the shadows, cold sweat trickling down your neck, mind reeling at the twist—her, the dominatrix now a daughter caught red-handed, and you, the dirty secret she couldn’t name.

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[clockwayswrites]

The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 2, Part 2

Masterpost (Thank you jaythefae for reading over this so that I could post it! This migraine has me writing a lot of swapped words.)

Okay, okay fuck. That wasn’t what Wally was going for at all!

It was a tower! Like Titan’s tower and the lightning bolt was supposed to be him. He was trying to tell them who he was, not spell doom. Who made a tower doom?

Wally put his fingers to his lips and paced. Or paced as much as he could. If he went too far from Danny (and boy had it taken a long time to even learn Danny’s name) he would… disintegrate, for lack of a better word. And wow did Wally want a better word because he did not like disintegrating. People shouldn’t disintegrate!

“Okay, okay, I can work with this! I did go through a major—” Wally leaned in to try and hear the conversation. Danny was clear enough, but anything Mina (or not Danny) said was like listening to the words through wind storm.

“…upheaval and destruction. Change, basically,” Mina said.

He wished she’d shout.

“And… change is doom?” Danny said. He sounded as dubious as Wally felt about that.

Mina shrugged. “People don’t — change. Like — so they get grum— and then— and tada! Change bad.”

“Well, I mean. Of course they went through a change, they’re dead,” Danny said.

Wally winced so hard he bumped into and through Danny’s shoulder. Danny shuddered at the touch.

“Or if not dead, trapped somewhere,” Danny added with a glance towards where Wally was standing.

It was a good sign that Danny was starting consider that Wally wasn’t a ghost. Wally really, really didn’t think that he was dead, after all. But how to get across that he was trapped in the Speed Force? He didn’t think there would be a card for that.

Wally zipped over to Mina’s side, took the cards, and shuffled through them. He really wished that he knew what these damn things meant. A small part of his brain said that messing with the cards like this was messing up the meaning, but fortune telling wasn’t real. (At least not normal human fortune telling.) Once he had finished stacking the spread set with cards he hoped would be useful, he put the cards back and returned to Danny’s side.

The world blurred and crackled around him.

This was using too much energy that he didn’t have. Something had to come from it.

Please.

This had to help.

-

“Well, that wasn’t any help.”

“Don’t say that Danny,” Mina said, but even she was frowning slightly down at her cards as if they were a puppy that had piddled on the floor.

“Do you want to go grab some food? I’m craving one of those avocado, tofu, and facon sandwiches from that place you love.”

“Oh, yes, that sounds excellent,” Mina said, perking up. She stood from the table and started back towards the kitchen. “But before you go, I want to give you some of a special tea. It will help you settle into a sort of zone so that maybe you can have a better chance of connecting with your spirit without you being hurt.”

“Mina Aleshire, are you giving me drugs?” Danny gasped dramatically as he wandered after her, Hubris held limply in his arms.

She paused in opening the cabinet, as if really having to consider the question. “Well, nothing illegal?”

“Mina!”

“It’s an herbal blend!” she argued. “Just, maybe don’t have anywhere to go or anything to do for a few hours after taking it. You know, just in case.”

Danny sighed. “The worst part is that I’m really considering taking this mystery herb blend.”

“It’s better than having seizures,” she pointed out as she handed him a little satchel.

“It’s better than having seizures,” he agreed and took it.

-

The tea smelled like rain and honeysuckle. Danny cradled the mug he was using more carefully than the thick, chipped ceramic warranted. The warmth seeped into his palms and bones. He breathed the pungent smell in and then let out the breath slowly.

He didn’t know if this would work.

It was almost certainly a bad idea, what with him being not entirely human, but it was at least an idea. Danny had never seen one of Mina’s readings go so badly. It went so badly that Danny felt certain that the ‘ghost’ had been interfering. The problem was, is that Danny didn’t know if the sabotage was on purpose or from ignorance.

He wanted to believe that it was ignorance. That the ghost had been trying to tell them something, but in doing so had messed up the reading. But Danny always wanted to believe the best in people.

It had gotten him burned too often.

It might get him burned again if the ghost was really out to hurt him. Mina couldn’t give him the clearest answer on what the tea was going to do, but Danny was pretty sure that it was going to make his spirit less attached to his body for a bit so that he could commune with the things not of this realm. A less attached spirit meant one that was easier to sever.

But he was already half dead, so what did it matter?

Or so he told himself.

Before he could run around the logic again, Danny tipped the mug back and took a long, slow sip. It was spicier than he expected, but in a good way. He drained half the cup steadily as he slowly settled into the mound of pillows that made up his bed. It really wasn’t half bad, for magical drug tea.

“I think I can smell that from here. Which, dude, is saying a lot because I’m stuck in the Speed Force.”

Danny hummed. “What’s the Speed Force?”

“What’s the—can… can you hear me? Can you actually hear me? Did the weird tea do something?!?” the words came in such a rush that they were hard to follow. It didn’t help that they sounded like they were coming from a badly tuned ham radio.

“Slower. You have to be slower. I can barely understand you. You’re static. You’re always static to me,” Danny said.

“Sorry. I’m sorry! I’m sorry I am and that I hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t mean to. But you’re the only one that I can hear and see! I need your help!” The words sped up and up again until they were a blur—a roar—a scream—

The mug hit the mattress and bounced onto the floor with a crack as Danny clutched at his head to try to block the sound out.

The talking stopped.

His head continued to ring.

Danny curled up into the pillows with a whimper.

It was a minute or days later when Danny felt fingers running through his hair. They were wonderfully warm.

“—always hurting you. You keep trying for me though, don’t you?”

“Wanta help,” Danny mumbled.

The fingers stilled then picked back up their path. “I need the help too, which is… I’m supposed to be the hereo here, you know?”

“You’re dead,” Danny said.

“Ugh, no! Come on, you were finally moving away from that idea, Danny! I’m not dead! I’m trapped in the Speed Force.”

Danny finally found the strength to roll himself over. Bright blue eyes set among fiery hair and a beautiful scattering of freckles blinked down at him. Danny reached up an unsteady hand to brush over one of the freckled cheeks.

“Speed Force?”

“What gives me my powers. Something went wrong and I’m trapped. You seem to be the only one that can hear or see me and it’s hurting you.”

“Yeah, seizures suck,” Danny said. The world around them was just a swirl of color. Like when a ride at a carnival was spinning so fast that nothing was real anymore. “I don’t think I’m going to be okay when I wake up.”

They laughed, but it was a bitter, choked off sound. “No, Danny, I don’t think you’re going to be okay either.”

“Oh. How can I help you?”

They shook their head, red hair flew about. “You should focus on yourself.”

“Already hurt,” Danny pointed out. “Make it worth it. How can I help you?”

Their blue eyes searched his and then closed as they gave an almost keening whine. Man, they really were worried about him, weren’t they?

“If you can remember, go to Titan’s Tower,” they said finally. “Ask for Nightwing and… and tell him that I said that he's a real dick, okay?”

Danny blinked.

The world spun and spun and spun.

“What?”

“He’ll know what I mean,” they insisted. “He’ll know it’s from me. Tell the Titans that I’m with you and I’m trapped in the Speed Force and I need them to get me out.”

There was an alarm screaming now. Was it time to get up?

“And take care of yourself a little, okay?”

People were shouting.

“Okay.”

The world went dark.

[januaryembrs]

MY BABY, HERE ON EARTH | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [BONUS]

Description: the NINE months of pregnancy

Word count: 10.9k

warnings: pregnancy duh, babies, giving birth, c-section, ummm body fluids? lots of emotions, nausea & sickness, talks of weight gain and stretch marks.

authors note: y'all... there you have it. I will be back to finish their story but until then this is my goodbye piece until I have finished my hiatus to write my own book and start uni (again). I can't wait to take these two (three) on the final lap they deserve but for now.. I hope you enjoy pookies being pookies.

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MONTH ONE. The one where she finds out.

She hadn’t meant to find out when she did. It had been just a routine implant swap that she’d had twice already in the last six years. 

“Any blood clotting, any pain at all?” The nurse asked, jotting down a few notes on her form as she sat back on the bed and waiting for the numbing cream to take hold. 

She shook her head. “It’s weird as hell to feel and when I think about it too long it freaks me out, but no, no pain,” She said and the nurse chuckled, nudging her glasses up her nose.

“And finally, is there any chance that you’re pregnant?” She asked, no doubt having rehearsed the same script about thirty times that day alone.

Bugsy gave her a flat smile, “Small chance, but I guess that’s what this is for, huh?” 

The nurse looked at her then, as if mulling over the words before she said something, “Small chance?”

“I mean, nothing is a hundred percent effective,” Bugsy tried to weasel her way out of the awkward conversation, because she had absolutely no intention of letting the nurse know her and Spencer had been at it like bunnies since the Hotch had forced them to take medical leave. Who knew having so much time on her hands with her very handsome boyfriend would have that effect? 

The nurse pursed her lips, and already the woman felt like she’d said too much. 

“Alright, we’re going to do a routine test, just need a quick urine sample,” Bugsy felt her cheeks heat, though she was in no position to argue. Her discomfort must have been more obvious than she thought, however, as the nurse went on to explain, “If I give you this implant and there’s a fertilised egg, it can lead to ectopic pregnancy, in which case you’ll need surgery. Trust me, honey, peeing in a cup is your easy option,” 

She gave the practitioner a small nod, wondering if she needed to message Spencer to say she’d be running a little late. She knew he was likely doing the sudoku in the waiting room magazine, since he’d refused to let her come alone. And even though she’d told him she would be fine on her own, he’d seen through it, had even offered to get her ice cream on the way home for putting on a brave face. 

And yet her face was nothing short of horror struck not even half an hour later when the nurse showed her the stick with empathetic eyes. 

“Congratulations,” The woman said cautiously, a fake smile plastered on her face as the girl stared at her, utterly gobsmacked. 

“But, I thought…” Bugsy stammered, running a finger over where the nurse had removed her implant, “But I had everything ready, I never let it get late, I did what I was supposed to,” 

“You said it yourself, honey, nothing is a hundred percent effective besides abstinence-” 

“That’s just what parents say to make sure their kids aren’t banging every Tom, Dick and Harry out there!” Bugsy was near screeching, the worry in her tone clear as a bell and her chest hot with panic. 

Pregnant. She was pregnant, there was no way she could be…

Except there was exactly a way she could be, seeing as she struggled even on a dry spell to keep her hands off Spencer longer than a few days at a time. And he was just as bad.

The nurse huffed, rifling through her drawers for a handful of pamphlets. She passed them to Bugsy whose mouth was still bobbing with more expletives she held herself back from saying, and it wasn’t until she saw the happy couple on the front of the first one, holding a very swollen and round bump that she thought she might be sick. 

Comical timing, she hissed at herself. 

“There are always options, sweetheart. Abortion is legal in Virginia, if that is what you decide, however there is always information and support that we recommend looking into before you make a solid decision,” Her response was professional even though her expression was compassionate, and Bugsy knew she must have looked scared because that was exactly how she felt and she had little to no room to hide it. 

Abortion? Is that what she wanted? Except it wasn’t just about what she wanted, it was what Spencer wanted too. Even if he would argue against that being the case in a heartbeat, even if he would tell her she had every right to be the only one to make a decision, no matter what he thought. But maybe it wasn’t so much about needing his opinion for that reason, and more it was because she had absolutely no clue what to do and Spencer was always good at making sense of the things she didn’t know how to deal with. 

She nodded silently, her mouth dry as sandpaper as she took the leaflets and stuffed them in the bottom of her purse where she hoped Spencer wouldn’t go looking. 

She barely remembered standing on liquid legs, barely remembered the way her chest felt tight and her head spun as she thought of the fact her body had a baby growing inside it. 

No, it wasn’t a baby. Not yet. It was likely the size of a grain of sand, miniscule. That wasn’t a baby, that was nothing. 

But it would be. Eventually. It would be hers and Spencer’s baby.

And she wanted to tell him, wanted to tell him the second she saw him there in the waiting room, his head shooting up the second the door opened and she left looking a little ill and shaken. 

“All done? Everything go as normal?”  He preened, standing immediately as she neared him, his hand immediately weaving around her shoulder to pull her close by. Gently, ofcourse, because she had a big, fat bandage where her implant should have been. 

“Y-yeah,” She stammered, hoping he didn’t hear the shake in her throat. Yet she knew immediately that he did. Because he leaned in to give her a delicate kiss to her forehead not even a moment later, “C-can we go straight home, I’m not feeling ice cream anymore,” 

He looked worried, as anyone who knew her would because Bugsy turning down free pudding was a blaring red siren in his eyes.

“Yeah, sure,” He said, stroking a gentle hand over the side of her head and leading her where he’d parked the car. 

And it was that worry, the same cloud that hung over him for months with Scratch and his mom and the Dirty Dozen and everything else that was put onto his shoulder that made her shut her mouth right then and there. He didn’t need one other thing to contend with, not when he was already carrying the weight of the world. 

And so she wouldn’t tell him. Not yet at least.

MONTH TWO. The one with the scan.

“Spence, would you stop worrying, I’m sure everything will be fine,” She urged in the gentlest tone she could muster. Yet she was a hypocrite, because she felt her hands shaking as she sat in the chair, trying to adjust her sleeves for something to do and Spencer stopped his leg from bouncing. 

Looking over at her, he sighed, holding out a large palm and weaving her fingers in between his and she flicked a look over at him, her own eyes nervous. 

“I’m sorry,” He gave her a guilty smile, “If it helps, it’s half excitement too,”

And she smiled then, shaking her head as he squeezed her hand gently. 

“Me too,” She confessed, looking down at her stomach that didn’t seem all too different than usual. She’d felt a few symptoms up until this point, a bit of nausea but that was nothing she couldn’t handle, headaches here and there. But it wasn’t anything exactly life changing that she’d expected when she’d always thought of pregnancy. 

If anything, none of it felt real quite just yet. Having only been a few weeks since she’d told Spencer, they’d spent the majority of the time searching for houses and appointments and gynaecologists and neonatal care, and whenever they were free, they were trying to get used to the idea of the two of them as parents.

“Did you know they’re around half an inch long by now,” Spencer said, his hazel eyes falling to where her shirt hid her stomach that had yet to change no matter how many times he stared at it, “About a third of that is made up of their head,”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” She shrugged, stroking her thumb along the edge of his pinky finger, “It’s your kid, they’re going to have biggest brain out there,” 

He snickered, lifting her hand to press a kiss to the back of it softly, “If they have even half your brains, we’re going to be raising the next Galileo,” 

“Mr and Mrs Reid,” Their heads shot up at the midwife, Bugsy fumbling for words to correct him as the two of them stood up to greet him with bashful smiles. She didn’t need to look at Spencer’s face to know he’d gone bright red. 

“It’s uh, Prentiss-Reid,” Spencer spluttered as they entered and the nurse looked again at his chart with wide eyes, his cheeks a little pink himself and he ushered the two of them into his office with a smile. 

“So it is, I do apologise,” He said earnestly, holding a hand out to gesture Bugsy to sit on the reclining bed, “I hate to stereotype, but usually when dad books the appointments, its because their wives are already doing a hundred other things,” 

“It’s okay, it happens,” She said with an awkward chuckle, avoiding Spencer’s eyes because they still hadn’t had that talk. Even though she knew her mother would frown at her grandchild being born a bastard, she didn’t care much for Elizabeth’s opinion. It wasn’t like marriages had ever led to good things for her mother anyway. 

She hopped up onto the examination cot, her heart quivering just the slightest in worry because the smell of bleach and rubber made the whole thing real. Until then, having a grain of rice growing inside her seemed like a fever dream since she’d only had a handful of side effects, throwing up could have easily been passed off as bad chicken, the head aches could have just been her eyes straining from using her computer too much. 

“Okay, everything feels okay, Mom? Nothing concerning at all?” And then the midwife said things like that, mom, and the part of her that almost forgot she was pregnant came to a screeching halt. 

She’d be a mom. Someone would call her mom. The thought of it made her suck in a breath.

“Uh, no.” She cleared her throat and felt Spencer grab her hand, “Morning sickness is kicking my ass, but nothing worrying,”

The nurse chuckled, and she felt Spencer rubbing his thumb over the back of her palm, his eyes burning into the side of her head. 

“Well, if it’s alright, I need you to lift your shirt up a little so we can have a see what’s going on,” He said with a kind smile, and she realised then he’d slipped latex gloves over his hands, and brandished a bottle of gel. 

She nodded absently, doing as he said and lifting her shirt to sit under her breasts, drawing the hem of her skirt down so he had a space to apply. And the second he did she sucked in breath through her nose, the cold of the air conditioning chilling her to her marrow, and she tried telling herself that’s why her hands were shaking. 

She felt Spencer’s fingers curve through her hair, and she reminded herself to breathe, looking over at him with nervous eyes she hoped he didn’t see straight through. But judging by the way he scooted the chair forward and gave her an encouraging smile, she guessed he’d seen the flicker of doubt in an instant. 

“It’s okay, it’s going to be fine,” He murmured, his own fear buried deep somewhere she couldn’t see anymore the second she had been the one to look to him for help. She knew she wanted this, knew she’d always dreamed of Spencer and her having their happily ever after. She knew whenever she’d let herself think of a little boy with chocolate curls and hazel eyes that she wanted all of that and more. 

But it was all so… real. Like seeing a movie come to life, and she was starring centre stage. Her body wasn’t a disposable shell that held thirty plus years of stupid mistakes and regrets and tattoos she’d decided she hated now. Her body had a whole other human inside it. 

The midwife clicked the machine on, the transducer wand ready in his hand as he gently put it on her lower stomach, barely a few centimetres from her panties, and she wondered why they showed the wand roaming over the woman’s belly button on tv shows since that was entirely wrong and not nearly as embarrassing. She let out a shaky breath, and Spencer stroked her head again, forcing her to give him an unsure look, like she was trying to calm herself for his sake but couldn’t.

His eyes were anxious though he squeezed her again with a smile and she saw it immediately, like he too was trying to be brave for her. 

She had never loved him so much. 

“Apologies for the shock, I know the gel can be a little cold,” The nurse said with a grin, and it was only then she realised the screen had lit up with a black and white image, one she’d seen a thousand times when she’d studied neonatal procedures for her degree. 

She knew that was her womb lining, and that was the amniotic fluid and that right there-

Bugsy froze, and judging by the way Spencer’s hand tightened around her own, he had too. She felt her mouth drop with a laugh of shock, and she sat up slightly to take a closer look at the monitor. 

“And there is baby,” The midwife said, his expression warming as he watched Spencer’s stand up to lean over the bed, not once letting go of the woman’s hand, the two of them utterly enraptured in the screen, “Probably about the size of a raspberry,”

And Bugsy laughed, her eyes lined with tears as she looked up at Spencer’s equally wetted hues. He was grinning from ear to ear when he looked down at her, and it wasn’t long before he brought his lips to her forehead, his nose and throat burning with a held cry. 

“Do you hear that? A whole raspberry already?” She said, her voice wobbling and he giggled, sitting back in his seat and rubbing his cheeks with his sleeve. “I am good at this cooking thing, might as well call me an easy bake oven,”

Spencer shook his head with another chuckle, his eyes trailing back to the little blob on the screen that looked more like a toy alien than anything else, and held her hand between both of his like he was in prayer. 

Because Spencer never believed in anything sacred and divine until he met Bugsy.

MONTH THREE. The one where they tell everyone.

“What are you doing?” Bugsy jumped out of her skin as JJ all but materialised behind her. She looked over her shoulder guiltily, her hand still half way through pouring out her mug of coffee Derek had handed her before he left to get lunch. 

She turned to see the blonde with her own steaming mug of decaf in her hands. She’d been taking the lack of caffeine much better this time around since having a second baby to breastfeed, considering she was nothing short of evil when she’d had Henry, which had been Spencer’s words not Bugsy’s. And it wasn’t as if the woman could blame her. She was grouchy when she didn’t get her regular dose even before being pregnancy, Derek had once gotten a kick to the shin when he’d disturbed her on a day she’d been too busy to grab one on her way to the office. 

She was a fiend for the bitter god. And everyone knew it. Which was exactly why JJ’s eyebrows were all but raised into her hairline seeing the girl who would usually be in the stages of withdrawal by now tipping the drink away. 

“Uh, the milk tasted funky,” She excused, though the way JJ narrowed her eyes at the poor excuse told her it hadn’t passed by a mile. 

“Right, the milk that Hotch picked up this morning?” JJ pursed her lips, sliding her own mug onto the side and jutting her hip. 

And as if he were summoned, Hotch sidled up to the kitchenette, Rossi and Tara hot on his heels as they flicked through some paperwork, and his head shot up the minute he heard his name. 

His eyes trailed to where the girl flipped her mug upside on the drying rack, and his brow furrowed. 

“Is everything alright?” He asked, and she huffed in response, wiping her hands on her jeans. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” She grumbled, shaking her head, “I don’t know what you’re all so wound up about, it’s not like I’m dying, I just don’t feel like coffee today-”

“Oh my god,” Penelope gasped where she crept behind Hotch with her very favourite octopus mug in tow, one that was nearly thrown to the floor when she heard the words pour from the girl’s mouth, “Are you sick? Like in the body or in the head? Rossi, check her pulse, I’m going to get a thermometer-”

“Pen, I’m fine,” She said unconvincingly and she tried to skirt past the group that seemed to have her surrounded. Seeing Spencer pulling up the rear in search of lunch she felt herself sigh in relief, because he would think of a much better excuse than she ever could. 

She had barely been able to keep her mouth shut for the months they had been secretly dating, and had relished in the peace it brought her when everyone knew. But the midwife had said it was common to keep things under wraps at least until the first trimester was over. Apparently the million of questions that were sure to be heading their way would cause her unnecessary stress, though she’d argue having to sneak to the sink every morning and dispose of a delicious looking coffee was torture enough. 

“What’s up?” Spencer asked as she ducked towards him, his hand consciously wrapping around her waist, and she huffed again, looking to him with a silent plea.

“They’re profiling me,” Bugsy said, and he felt his gut knot because he should have known it wouldn’t be long before they caught on. It was their job to pick apart out of the ordinary behaviour, and Bugsy going teetotal on caffeine was definitely something of a head turner.

“I told you that diet would cause a stir,” He joked, hoping they bought his pathetic attempt of an excuse, as he gave her side a gentle squeeze, and hoped that he could lead her back to her desk like she was a lost little lamb being prowled upon by nosy wolves that rarely took no for an answer. 

And it almost worked, almost, until JJ snapped her fingers and pointed at his wandering hand. 

“See that, that is the fourth time you’ve been all touchy and weird this week,” The blonde surprised, her brows furrowing, “Bugsy hates PDA, usually by now she would have whacked you over the head and called you a perv,”

Bugsy smashed her lips together because she couldn’t exactly disagree with her. That’s exactly what she usually did. Usually would tell Spencer to stop being so horny in a place of work even if she felt her cheeks heat at the delicate grabs of her stomach fat. 

But whether it was the little bean now around the size of a small lemon that had made her mellow and affectionate, or whether the lack of caffeine really was making her feel vulnerable, she wasn’t sure. And the whole thing was only made worse by Hotch’s eyes burning into the side of her, and she felt the trail of his gaze head straight for her stomach. 

“Come to think of it, I only saw you with a lime and soda at Savannah’s birthday last week,” Rossi pointed out, wagging his finger in her direction, his brown hues widening in thought, “When Penelope asked if you wanted tequila you said-”

“I’m all tequila-ed out,” Penelope chimed in with the same frown, “But that can’t be, when have you ever been tequila-ed out, that’s like impossible, even that night we had to help Spencer get you in the shower because you’d thrown up everywhere you were demanding more,”

She felt her cheeks heat thinking about her twenty ninth birthday, or atleast the parts of it she could remember of it before the rest of the gaps were filled with black spaces of time that she guessed had been robbed from her by the shots she piled on. 

“Maybe I just didn’t feel like tequila, can a girl not live in the moment?” She tried to rebuttal, only Penelope gave her a blank look that told her to try again because the Bugsy she knew would slap her for saying something so dumb. She opened her mouth to correct her again, but Hotch beat her to it. 

“You know Hayley got really affectionate a couple months into being pregnant,” The man said, his eyes swirling with something proud and warm when he saw Bugsy’s head flick to him like she’d been caught red handed, which they had. “Though, if you ask me I think she was just a little sorry for herself that I took the coffee away,”

There was a beat of silence, and the room held its breath. Even Tara, who had only known them the best part of a few months raised her hand to her mouth in shock, and Bugsy shot a look at Spencer in utter defeat. 

“We tried,” She said with her shoulders shrugging, and it was then that the office was filled with a piercing scream that turned a fair few heads and the infamous octopus mug was thrown clear across the kitchen floor, one of his tentacles snapping clean off. 

“OH MY GOD, IT’S TRUE? YOU’RE PREGNANT?” Penelope wailed like a banshee, and Bugsy couldn’t help but break into a smile, nodding at the woman who screeched again and yanked her in for a tight hug, “Oh my god, there's going to be three of you, three geniuses, three little einsteins that I want to smush together and kiss all over-” 

“Garcia, I think she needs air if she’s going to make another little genius,” Rossi said, and the tech analyst pulled away aghast, cupping Bugsy’s face that was still grinning ear to ear with a chuckle.

“Oh my god, I didn’t hurt you did I? Or the baby- Oh my god there’s a baby in there!” 

Hotch wrapped a rare yet tender arm around Spencer’s shoulder, giving him a little pat and a “Congratulations” while Rossi smiled knowingly between the couple and JJ had her turn smothering Bugsy in a tearful hug. 

And by the time Derek had walked into the office with his everything bagel hanging between his teeth and a tea in his hands, his onyx hues fell to Penelope, JJ and Bugsy exchanging weepy words while Tara handed them tissues with her own sparkling eyes.

“What fresh hell did I miss?”

MONTH FOUR. The one where she starts looking different.

She huffed, her fingers gripping the edge of her jeans and yanking them up her thighs as far as they would go. She felt like everything had shrunk in the wash, or like she was trying on a doll’s wardrobe. Surely she hadn’t gained that much weight in just a few months, but then again she’d been all but living off chocolate pudding cups since the Bean decided it wanted sugar, sugar and more sugar. 

She grunted in annoyance, her arms and back aching where she was leaning over to pull at the infernal things. She barely had a second to pout childishly, before kind hands were wrapping around her stomach and a mouth kissed at her neck tenderly. 

“What’s wrong? Talk to me,” His voice was honey sweet, thick and goopy with love overflowing as he pulled her to his chest, his hand caressed the bump that seemed to be getting in the way of her and her favourite jeans. Spencer knew she tried to ignore the symptoms that almost every woman felt during pregnancy, he knew she compared herself to how JJ had handled both pregnancies gracefully and looked better than ever even as a mother of two. He knew she hated complaining because she didn’t want him to think she was miserable carrying their kid, but god was she getting sick of her clothes pinching her in.

“I’m getting fatter,” Bugsy grumbled, her eyes darting to the vivid lines that had deepened into the crease of her hips within a few weeks and she winced, “I’m not even halfway, how does this kid want to eat pudding all the time?” 

Spencer frowned, shaking his head slightly because he refrained from telling her what a silly statement it was, knowing it would only make her feel worse, and instead pressed delicate kisses to her jaw, squeezing her closer. He’d noticed the stretch marks, just as he’d noticed her face and hips gathering weight a bit more than usual, and was just grateful there was even more Bugsy to love. 

“You’re eating for two, you’re literally growing a whole life inside of you. I think that is more than enough grounds to eat whatever you want,” He murmured, biting the inside of his cheek when she sighed as though she didn’t believe him, “Honey, clothes are replaceable. What your body’s trying to do is create a little bubble around you and this little pudding fiend so you can feed them when they’re out here,” 

Bugsy knew he was right. She’d spent well over a hundred hours researching hormone levels and how pregnant bodies are changing all hours of the day to accommodate the foetus, she knew it was normal for things to look different. Had it been on anyone else she wouldn’t have batted an eye. But it didn’t make the sting of seeing her body morph into one she didn’t recognise any less harsh.

“I know,” She hummed somewhat defeated, turning in his arms to press her face in his neck, “I just didn’t expect it to happen so fast is all,”

Spencer smiled warmly, because every day he thought she had gotten impossibly prettier. He hadn’t believed in ‘pregnancy glow’, in fact he’d chalked it down to some sort of innate scientific survival tactic that associated a vulnerable woman with looking angelic, at least not until he’d woken up to see her stomach protruding from her pyjama top in a clear curve shape and he thought her face looked like she should be in some Monet painting, dozing in a field like a wide eyed doe. 

“I know, it’s a lot for anyone to go through. But you know I’m so grateful for you,” Spencer said, and he felt her smile without even seeing it. Her fingers wove into his hair at the nape of his neck, kissing a trail up his chest because he suspected she looked somewhat embarrassed. “Besides, I’m not complaining. It means I get to do this,” 

She felt two large hands grab at the fat of her bum cheeks and she squeaked in surprise, even though she heard him laugh in her ear at her reaction. That had been another thing she’d noticed, and how could she not. Penelope said just the other day that she was ‘baking a bun in the oven and cake in the trunk’ with a little wink, and she’d had to excuse herself quickly for lack of a response. 

And Spencer wasn’t lying. He wasn’t complaining with any of it, not by a long shot. 

MONTH FIVE.  The one with the mood swings.

“So you guys really don’t want to know the sex?” JJ asked, sipping on her tea as she chatted with Bugsy who was balancing biscuits on top of her now protruding stomach. It was as if overnight the baby had stretched out enough to make themselves a damn penthouse suite in Bugsy’s tummy. 

“We want it to be a surprise, either way we’re going to love the little bean, even if they do keep kicking my bladder at four am,” She said, balancing the tenth cookie on the tower she’d made, reaching over carefully for another one, “I swear if the bean kicks my cookie tower I’m giving them a hideous name,”

“It’s good to feel the baby kicking at this stage, it helps develop their joints and bones so they’re stronger when they’re born.” Spencer inputted helpfully as he slid a fresh mug of decaf tea over to her desk.

“Next time the baby kicks your uterus walls, Spence, gimme a shout and we’ll discuss how great it is,” Bugsy said with a small smile and he paused, looking at JJ as if he was caught in a trap, suddenly well aware of his mistake. 

“Point taken,” He conceded quietly, and JJ chuckled because she’d seen Will just as hesitant to piss her off in both of her pregnancies. And she knew Bugsy would never hold it against him, that Spencer’s head just ran away from him sometimes. 

She halted her little game and carefully leaned over to draw the mug to her lips, too impatient to wait for it to cool down fully and she barely spotted Derek swooping around the corner of the desk.

“Good morning, Mommies and Daddy Genius,” He greeted in that chirpy tone, his hand snatching up the top cookie and scarfing it down before she could protest. 

Bugsy shared her snacks all the time, it was a no brainer that they took a bite here and there out of each other's goodies before they could get a smack to the wrist. And Derek had certainly noticed a few of his Rolos missing the last time he bought a pack, and a particularly cheerful Bugsy smirking at him over her desk. 

It wasn’t a huge deal, and yet Bugsy sat up in a gasp, and the entire biscuit tower fell to a crumbling mess on the floor. 

“Well done, princess, Hotch is going to-” Derek stopped mid sentence when he saw her sniffle, and his eyes widened at the sight of her eyes glistening with tears, “Bugsy- are you okay-”

“My cookies! Derek!” She whined pitifully, and she buried her face in her hands, “My cookies, I was so going to eat the shit out of those, they were gonna be so good, Derek,” 

Morgan looked gobsmacked, his head whipping between the woman leaning against the desk with an understanding smile and Spencer who was already rubbing her shoulders with his lips smashed together, trying not to laugh. 

“Honey, it’s okay, he didn’t mean to,” Her partner tried to coo, though he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the way Derek scrambled to draw out his wallet. 

“I’ll get you more, Bug, I swear, they sell them by the deli down the street, right?” He asked, jittering in his bones because he’d never made her cry before. He worried or a moment Hotch might just put him on sabbatical leave for such an offense. Emily would probably fly to Virginia just to cave his skull in, “I’m sorry, I’ll go get more, I’ll even get you strawberry milk-”

“Chocolate milk,” She wailed, and JJ slid a box of tissues over to the pitiful girl with a silent snicker. She remembered all too well the feeling of unexplained emotion crashing over her, and she didn’t doubt that the tough faced Bugsy would be back to normal any moment soon.

“Chocolate milk, got it,” Derek said, with a nod, and he all but darted for the elevators, in a hurry Spencer somewhat suspected was down to the fact he feared for his life if Penelope got a whiff of what happened.

Bugsy sniffled for a moment, drawing a tissue out the box and dabbing her eyes sullenly, her feelings slightly worse for wear even if she had a small inkling of doubt that she was really so torn up about the cookies as her body made it seem. 

But she had been thinking about them all morning; made herself promise she would only eat them once she got the stack fifteen high at least. 

“Are you okay, baby?” Spencer asked, his gaze empathetic as she snuffled her sobs into the palm of her hands. He wasn’t too worried, even if he hated seeing her cry just as much as anyone else did. And it wasn’t that he didn’t take her seriously. But when she’d been crying just that morning because her shower gel spilled on the floor and tipped almost all the way out, or even when she’d stepped on a snail walking into the building and smushed it into the ground, effectively killing it, he seemed to be getting used to her mood swings. 

She sniffed woefully, “I was really looking forward to those, and now I think I was too mean to Derek and…” Her eyes glistened with fresh tears, and the sight of it made Spencer sigh, leaning forward to kiss the side of her head because it must be difficult being so out of your usual self for nine months. 

“And what?” He prompted softly. Only she burst out crying again, reaching forward to drag him into a hug that told him she was feeling extra sorry for herself.

He wouldn’t blame her. Would sit through every weep and sob and tantrum if it meant he got to show her even more times over that he loved her endlessly. 

However he did have to hold in the giggle when she wailed; “I think I really do want strawberry milk,” 

MONTH SIX. The one with the false labour. 

She had been in Hotch’s office when she felt it. 

Embarrassingly so, her first thought was trapped gas. She’d gotten a lot of that considering the baby had decided it craved spice, and had been planning to excuse herself when it felt like her whole abdomen seized as if she’d been hit with a particularly nasty period cramp. 

Her hand flew to her stomach where she sat with Hotch reviewing her latest reports, the same quarterly check the whole team was mandated to have with their boss since Cruz became section chief. Hotch didn’t miss a beat, the folder in his hand hitting the desk in an instant as he tensed, looking at her with caution. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, and she held her breath for a moment. Spencer was out with Rossi giving a lecture in Washington DC, JJ had the day off for her mom’s birthday, Penelope and Morgan were taking Tara to lunch to show her a few more of their regular spots. It was just them and Anderson in the office for the next few hours, possibly the worst time out of any to have an empty floor. 

“Yeah- I just, woah,” Her stomach gave another lurch of a painful twist and her hand slapped on the table to keep herself steady. She breathed through the pain, because she’d had much worse only that wasn’t what was making her heart race. It was fear. Because she wasn’t due for another twelve weeks at least, and while she’d heard of baby’s being born as premature as six months, she knew premy babies suffered major complications later on, let alone the stress their body goes under during the actual birth. 

Bean, as the team had affectionately named the baby since the couple had firmly decided they didn’t want to know the sex, was about the size of red cabbage, tiny in the scheme of things even though it felt like just a few minutes ago they were a grain of rice. 

“Okay, it’s okay, stay calm,” Hotch said in a smooth voice, gentle yet reassuring as he rounded his desk in a flash and put his hand on her shoulder, “Do you feel like you need to use the toilet? Any back ache or irritability?” 

Bugsy breathed out through her nose as her lungs jittered with nerves, “N-no, I don’t need the bathroom, why would that matter?” 

Aaron stroked a large kind hand down her spine, watching her face scrunch in pain for a second time, and he slowly began directing her towards the door, taking small steps so she wasn’t rushing. “Needing to use the bathroom is an early sign of labour, it’s your body's way of helping expand your pelvis to accommodate the head. Any back ache or frustration at all?” 

He didn’t care that he’d had to repeat himself, not even when he was usually so against it, because he could feel the own unease rising in his throat like bile even if he tried to keep his face as neutral as possible. 

He would be damned if he let her see how worried he was, and so he swallowed heavily, holding his other hand out for her to take when they approached the stairs. Anderson was on his feet in seconds when he saw his unit chief leading the woman with a tightly concealed frown, fumbling around for his phone. 

“Agent Prentiss?” He exclaimed, darting around the mess of chairs and paper and desks to approach them, “Would you like me to call Dr Reid? An ambulance, perhaps?” 

“She's alright, I’m driving her to the ER, thank you Anderson,” Aaron responded politely, his hand still resting on her back, and the agent nodded, digging around for his keys. 

“I can drive, if you’d like to ride in the back with her,” Grant offered with worried eyes as Bugsy’s face crumpled in agony again, and Hotch’s head whipped to her, and his composure crumbled for a moment. 

“Bugsy, hey, it’s okay, we’re gonna be okay, honey,” He cooed, and Anderson was quick to open the glass doors, “Did you pack a bag at all-”

“No, Spencer told me I should but I said it was too early, why is that man always right,” She grumbled, her footsteps weary and jittery as the three of them got into the elevator. 

Hotch fought a smile, trying to remember everything he’d memorised before Hailey had Jack. The 5-1-1 rule blared through his head, and he glanced at his watch for a fraction of a second, and he wondered for a moment if he was going to have to write off a company vehicle for the fact his youngest agent gave birth in the back seat. 

“I’m afraid that’s just how Reid operates,” Hotch said, pulling his phone out to dial the man in question and let him know where they were headed, “It’s probably nothing, Hailey was getting cramps all the time once she reached her third trimester, but we’ll get you checked out to be safe,” 

“Really?” She looked at him with pitiful eyes and he nodded with a tight smile, committing to his illusion of calmness even if he swore he hadn’t felt so scared in months. 

Because it wasn’t just Bugsy anymore, it was Bugsy and her baby. Her and Reid’s baby. The two people who deserved their happy ending more so than anyone else he knew. 

And he felt her hand slip into his then as she accepted his answer, in fact she didn’t let go the entire time she waited on Spencer and Aaron was in no rush to leave her side. Even when she lay back on the table and had the midwife checking everything over, he stayed by her head (no doubt to avoid a very awkward conversation), stroked her hair when she fretted through a few more cramps, even when Spencer burst in through the door with Morgan at his heels looking like the two of them had just ran a marathon.

“Is everything okay- what’s wrong- do you need fluids- do you need ice-” Spencer rushed on his odd breath, his chest puffing with inhales, and he pretended he wasn’t seeing stars floating across his vision. 

“I’m assuming by your reaction you’re dad,” The nurse said, pulling off the blue gloves and dropping her mask from her mouth.

“Yes, he is, he’s dad,” Morgan filled in for him as Spencer all but fell back against the wall, because he really should have drank something other than soda and coffee this morning. He was close to swaying on his feet when he stepped over to his girlfriend, and she took his hand in the her own, or atleast the one that wasn’t occupied by Hotch’s tight hold. 

“Don’t worry, everything is alright with mom and baby,” She said, noting down a few things on her chart and the four of them took an audible sigh of relief, “Braxton Hicks contractions are very common in your final trimester, it probably felt like a lot because your baby is moving to into the anterior position ready for birth,” 

Bugsy’s head flopped back against the pillow in comfort and she forced herself to take a few deep breaths, willing her heart rate to go back to normal. Braxton Hicks, she should have known. Her head had been fuzzy the past few weeks as it was, but she supposed the moment she’d thought there might be something wrong with the Bean, all of her logic had flown out the window. 

But at least she’d had Hotch to keep her level headed, and-

“Oh my god, Anderson,” She jolted up, her legs stuck in the stirrups the midwife had place her into while she examined everything, “We need to tell Anderson, the poor guy was so worried,”

Hotch chose not to tell her he’d seen Anderson go as white as a ghost the second she’d turned her back, and instead patted her leg as Spencer went to speak to the midwife a little more, no doubt picking apart every single symptom she’d presented in that huge, worried head of his. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Anderson is fine, honey,” He said earnestly, and she looked at him like a kicked puppy, entirely sorry for the panic she’d caused, “Let’s just get you your underwear back, huh?”

MONTH SEVEN. The one where they decorate the nursery.

“What about Elias,” 

“Veto,”

Bugsy pulled a shunned expression as she carefully rolled the wallpaper up the wall. 

“Mason? Niko, stop,” She proposed, one hand on the wall while using the other to push the nosey feline away from the wet paste she’d been brushing on the wall. 

He sat politely at her chide, blinking at her with those big eyes as he watched her work with a twitching tail, almost entertained at the woman who had ballooned up in just a few weeks struggling to do a relatively easy task. 

“Hmm, Mason can go on the bench,” Spencer responded where he was sitting at the other end of the wall doing the same thing only much faster, though she’d argue it was a little easier since he wasn't carrying a large coconut strapped to his stomach.

They’d left the apartment just two weeks ago. Derek had been the one to help them cart their small amount of furniture into the modest house on the outskirts of West Springfield. It was large by Spencer’s standards, even if Bugsy had seen what grandeur looked like in her own childhood homes, but it didn’t matter. Because walls and floors and fancy grand pianos had never bought her love. Yet the first evening they’d spent in their new home they had slept on a mattress on the floor, the list of things to do the following day rattling around their heads. But they had a home. They had the picket fence with the nice school down the road and the bus stop within eyesight of the kitchen where their kid would one day walk to their door with a book bag and glasses like Spencer’s. 

She had never felt like she belonged somewhere until she had a home with him. 

“What about Ada for a girl?” Spencer called over his shoulder, where he had almost caught up to where she was still working on the small patch of wall. The paper was proving frustrating for her swollen fingers, considering the entire thing, when put together, made up a mural of little woodland creatures amidst a forest and left zero room for error, “Named after Ada Lovelace, the woman who pioneered computers,”

Considering it for a moment, she nodded, “That’s pretty. Ada makes top ten,” 

Flipping the last part up to stick against the thick glue, she ran her hands over the seams to be sure it aligned perfectly with the rest of the picture. Satisfied when it matched and a little fox stared down at her, she smiled, tilting her head up where Spencer was standing over her, watching her concentrate. 

“All done!” She chirped, and he bent down to give her a kiss to her puckered lips, sliding a hand beneath her arm to help her up. 

“Looks perfect, you’re really carrying the team honey,” He mused as she got to her feet with a little whine, wrapping her arms around his middle in a proud hug. 

“I know, what would you ever do without me?” 

He laughed, looking at her with an adoring gaze.

The light cracked through the open window, laying over her face delicately. The house was still bare, still in need of carpets and a good dusting, still had leaky pipes and ants in the pantry. Yes, they had a pantry now. But it was a start. It was a home. 

“I say we leave the cradle for another day, baby is calling for frozen grapes again,” She said, rubbing a hand over her protruding belly button and he smiled. Spencer could have sworn he was the luckiest guy in the world when he called her his friend. He thought maybe he should have bought a lottery ticket the same day she told him she loved him. The day she became his girlfriend he thinks he may have died and the past three years have been purely a dream. 

But watching the breeze kiss her cheeks and stroke her hair, watching her eyes rove over the room that would keep their baby safe and warm in just a few weeks, even seeing her smile at him like he had handed her the whole universe in a box when she was the one growing a whole human inside her; Spencer felt like his life was so much better than he ever hoped it would be. 

“Frozen grapes, coming right up,” He said, slipping his fingers in between his to help her down the winding staircase which had been a winner for her immediately. It’s like we have a castle, Spence. “You or the baby could ask for a whole damn ox and I’d give it to you.”

She laughed, holding onto the bannister as they headed downstairs to the kitchen that was in dire need of fresh paint. 

“What if I said baby wants a holiday to Cancun and another cat,” 

“I’d say baby is onto something there,” Spencer said, sweeping her from the final step and giving her a wet kiss to her head, “But first, grapes.”

MONTH EIGHT. The one where she gets cranky.

“Oh my god,” She groaned as she threw herself into her wheely chair, her button up shirt barely accommodating her stomach that was well and truly ready to pop.  

Derek Morgan loved her, he truly loved her like she was one of his sisters, dare say he had loved her since that day he’d carried her out of the church she was held hostage in by Cyrus. He had seen her at her rock bottom, had seen her graduate with flying colours, had even put his job on the line for her; covered her back from a stupid mistake at a bar when she popped a little molly on government pay. 

Derek loved her. He did. But the moment he saw her slump into her chair, her face scrunched up in frustration, he was collecting his mug of coffee and all but bolting for the door and heading straight for Penelope’s lair. 

“Back pain again?” JJ asked, flitting past a very frantic Morgan and heading towards Rossi’s office with a stack of papers in her arms. Bugsy let out something close to a growl in return, and JJ took it as a yes.

“I swear I have been pregnant for years,” She huffed, barely reaching over to where her keyboard sat at her desk. Tara nudged it forward for her to grab, because it seemed like she was on her breaking point enough as it was, and received a brief nod of thanks “I can’t remember a time when my back didn’t hurt, or my boobs were aching or my head wasn’t all fuzzy and weird and- OH for the love of god SWITCH ON YOU PIECE OF SHIT,” 

JJ’s brows raised as the keyboard mouse went flying off the side of her desk in protest, rolling straight past where Hotch and Spencer were strolling through the office, her boyfriend carrying the biggest Strawberry Milkshake he could find on this side of town. 

If Hotch wanted to say anything about her damaging property, he thought it smarter to keep his mouth shut as she swivelled to face the two of them, her expression already irritated by the worried stare they shot her way. 

“What?” She said with a bite, and Spencer raised his hands in surrender, which left her gaze to slide to Hotch. 

And Hotch loved her too, loved her more than he would ever admit. But he swore he the second her eyes clamped on his, Aaron Hotchner considered an exorcism might be necessary. 

“What, what are you staring at me for?” She snapped, throwing her hands out like a bratty teenager, and Hotch cleared his throat before he spoke, something embarrassingly close to fear shaking his vocal chords.

“Have you given any more thought to maternity leave, yet?” He asked and her eye twitched, and it was as if he saw the stapler was next on her list of things to send flying off the table, preferably straight at his head. “I would be more than happy to pull some strings so you take longer off after the baby is born, maybe even Spencer could start his paternity early-”

“What?” She said for a third time, like she was a broken record. And she knew she was being unfair, perhaps even cruelly so. But she would make it up to them later, when she was in a better frame of mind. Her underwear rode up and pinched where her uterus had begun to drop, her trousers itched for whatever reason, her face was hot from just walking from the elevator to her chair and that was just since she’d entered the office. She hadn’t got much energy for showers anymore and so washing her hair became some ugly affair where Spencer got in with her and did it for her, only last time he put a little too much product on and got the suds in her eyes and they had spent twenty minutes rinsing her face, naked and dripping wet, over the sink. She felt awful, awful for how she was being so irrationally rude, but it was like every inch of her being was uncomfortable. And there was still another month to go.

“Good god, man, don’t poke the bear,” Tara hummed as she passed, taking her own half full mug to the kitchen to escape whatever was rumbling in that hot head of hers. 

Hotch swallowed heavily, noticing how Spencer stayed deadly quiet no doubt because he’d learned his lesson in trying to force Bugsy into doing something when she was like this, “I’m saying I think it would be good for you to take some time off, you’ve both worked hard enough as it is and with the baby being so close, it would be good to take it easy for a few weeks-” 

She pressed her lips together, because she knew he was probably trying to help, probably trying to be considerate, and yet the heat of annoyance bubbled up inside her all the same like a kettle on the precipice of boiling.

“If you want the big scary pregnant lady out of your way just spit it out, Hotch,” She snapped, scowling at him in a way he remembered Hailey doing when he so much as sneezed too loud.

And he couldn’t find it in him to be mad at her. Because anyone with eyes saw she was uncomfortable, he knew if she was anything like his own ex-wife then she wouldn’t be sleeping nearly as much as she should, that more than likely their kid would be already kicking with long, scrawny legs to get out and show the world what they were made of. 

Hotch was saved from the firing line when his guess was proved almost immediately, and she groaned with a hand to her abdomen. 

“Spencer, would you tell your kid they’re not a linebacker and that my kidneys aren’t the damn ball,” She complained, and her partner flashed her a brave smile, leaning over her to rub where she was caressing her battered organs. 

“Actually, right about here will be your spleen since the baby has pushed everything around at this stage-” And with that Hotch darted towards his office because Bugsy looked ready to clip someone around the ear, and he didn’t have the heart to write her up for it.

Although for the sanctity of his team, he rushed her documents through the same afternoon and gave her an extra four weeks pay in lieu of a truce. 

MONTH NINE. The one with the birth.

It had been fourteen hours already when the doctor mentioned the word caesarean. 

“Caesarean? We never planned for a C-section,” Bugsy’s eyes widened where she was intermittently sucking down gas and air, Spencer patting her forehead down with an ice wet cloth. 

But then again she supposed she had never planned to go into labour when getting the laundry off the washing line while Spence painted the porch. 

He looked at her with nervous hazel hues where her face sparkled with sweat and water, her hand squeezing him tightly as another contraction hit. 

“I’m afraid we have few options left, Miss Prentiss,” The midwife said, a woman around her age that was already masked up after prodding around her cervix for a few hours, “Fourteen hours is rough on anyone and we’re not seeing any movement past your pelvis. Any longer and you or your baby might be at risk,”

And it was the truth, but it was a harsh one, and tears sprung to her eyes hearing those last few words. She had never had any delusions it would be easy giving birth, it was revered as the most painful thing anyone could go through, but she had assumed on a hope and a prayer that things would go smoothly. 

“I know it’s scary,” Spencer found his voice after a second, their hands clasped tightly together because there was more chance of snow in hell than there was he was letting her do this alone, “But, baby, you’re doing so well, and you’re almost there,” He said in a watery sweet tone, dabbing at her brow once more and the two of them exchanged a teary look, “It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be okay, they’re going to numb you for the whole thing and when it’s over we’re going to have our baby, huh?” 

She smiled ruefully because he was trying desperately to cheer her up, even though it sounded like he was reassuring himself just as much as he was her.

And she nodded, because she knew he was right, and more than anything she wanted their baby to be safe, even if it meant having her insides scooped out like she was some russian nesting doll. 

“O-okay, yeah, c-can Spencer stay with me?” She asked nervously, and the midwife smiled, pressing a button to call for the anesthesiologist.

“Ofcourse, honey. Just try to relax, we’re going to arrange an epidural for you,” She said in a voice that told Bugsy she’d practised staying calm in an emergency a thousand times. 

Bugsy breathed through her nose, feeling Spencer swoop in to wipe the lone few tears dribbling down her cheeks. 

“It’s gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay,” He said, his voice bustling with nerves and she wanted to tell him the same, wanted to tell him she loved him more than ever for trying to put a brave face on for her sake. But she couldn’t, so she nodded frantically, leaning her forehead against his cheek and taking a few more deep breaths. 

–

“You’re doing great, honey, you’re being so brave,” Spencer reassured in his biggest voice, his hand carding over the side of her hot face gently. There was blood, there was so much blood, and the sound of her monitor was the only sound that was constant and not at all worrying with its steady heart beat. 

The midwives were flitting around the room, the lead obstetrician making careful incisions and handing various things Spencer didn’t want to see over to his co-workers. Because he loved their baby already, couldn’t wait to meet the mini him he’d been dreaming about since he was a boy himself, but Bugsy needed him first. She was his everything, his whole life, his whole universe fading between clear consciousness and a slightly loopy gaze as she relaxed on the table. 

“Is it over? Are they here, are they okay?” She slurred, looking over at him where his hair was covered in a blue scrub cap, his entire body wrapped in protective uniform to minimise the risk of infection on her body. 

He cradled her face again, shaking his head, “Not yet honey, you’re doing so good, it’s nearly over,” Spencer said, pressing his brow against hers because he had a mask over his mouth and couldn’t kiss her properly, “I love you so much, I swear I’ll try every day of my life to repay you,” 

“You’re being mushy, you’re freaking me out,” She joked as if she was her regular self, because the midwives had all warned him that the sedatives would take the edge off her nerves. And he chuckled, even if he was worrying enough for the two of them, sniffling behind the stuffy mask he had to keep on until she was in recovery. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I just want you to be okay,” Spencer said earnestly, and he pressed a kiss to her head anyway even if she wouldn’t feel it with his mask, “I’m gonna get you so many milkshakes when this is-”

There was a wail behind the curtain they had draped over her stomach, and both their breaths stopped in their chests. 

“Is that…” Bugsy started, her eyes wide and alert even if seconds ago she had been almost drunk, “Is that it- is that them?”

And another scream resounded around the room as if to answer her. 

Spencer swore he had never felt tears well in his eyes so fast until one of the midwives brought a wriggling, wrinkly bundle around the curtain, and within seconds he felt his cheeks sodden with tears. 

“Oh my god,” He said his smile reaching his eyes as the little creature was put on Bugsy’s chest, and it was only then he realised she was weeping too and he resumed his position stroking her head, “It’s a-”

“It’s a girl! Spencer, we have a girl!” Bugsy’s grin went from ear to ear, her eyes round and adoring at the ugly, scrunched face still screaming at them, her eyes closed and her skin covered in a white goop, “Oh my god, she’s so beautiful,” 

“I told you she’d take after you,” Spencer said, not minding the nurses sewing Bugsy up as they stared at their little girl, Bugsy’s arms holding her body weight delicately though she didn’t quite know what she was doing. 

Spencer was quick to remove the mask once they cleared him to, and the second he was freed he pushed his lips to his girlfriend’s, their mouths equally as salty and sodden as one another with the way their cheeks washed with tears. Pulling away, he looked at her in the eyes, the same eyes he’d always loved, the same eyes he’d know in any life, in any world, in any fog, and their smiles were damn near blinding. 

“I love you so much, I swear I’m going to make it up to you, anything you want,” Spencer said, kissing her again, his hand resting over hers where she held their baby girl on her bare chest. 

She didn’t have the heart to tell him she already had everything she’d ever wanted right there with her. 

“I love you so much more, Spencer,” She said quietly, the two of them pulling away when the little girl squealed again and they chuckled, quickly rushing to calm her cries as they looked at her as if they had yet to realise she was real and she was theirs, “Oh my god Spencer, you’re a daddy,”

“Bugsy, you’re a mommy,” He said with raised brows and she gasped, giggling with glee as her free hand flew to grab his face and pull him in to kiss her again, “We’re a mommy and daddy,” 

The two of them burst out laughing even though overjoyed tears lined their eyes again, and Spencer trailed a large finger down her chubby cheek softly, her skin shrivelled and pruney like she’d been submerged in a bath for too long. 

“Spencer, she’s perfect,” She said after a moment, her breath completely stolen when she took her in, the small head completely covered in dark hair, which she had already suspected would be there from the amount of times she found herself itching at her stomach. Her tiny fists waved in the air as her sobs subsided, beginning to warm up to the skin on Bugsy’s chest, and Spencer audibly choked in a cry of his own when her eyelids slowly blinked open and revealed forest hues damn near identical to his own. He pushed his temple to Bugsy’s again as she carefully swayed her from side to side.

“I’m never going to let anything hurt you,” He murmured, his breath warm on her collarbone and his baby girl stared back at him like she understood, even though he knew that was pretty much  impossible, “Either of you,” 

Bugsy sniffled with a wobbly smile, her hands shaking as she held her daughter up, “Do you want to hold her?” 

Spencer looked ready to wail all over again, not that she would ever hold it against him. The two of them had been weeping all day, and their kid was a real tear jerker to look at with her thick lashes and wide eyes. 

He was quick to pop open his shirt, holding his hands out nervously as she placed the baby in his arms, his fingers supporting under her head the whole time he brought her to his chest. 

Bugsy smiled, the midwife checking in with her for a moment before they were ready to wheel her into the other room to rest up, while Spencer looked entirely enamoured with the little bundle in his arms. 

He was a dad. He had made this beautiful, perfect little girl with the woman he loved more than anything in the world, and somehow she had given him even more reasons to feel so lucky. 

“Hello, you,” He said through bleary eyes, smiling through a chuckle when he saw just how tiny she looked in his arms, and he had never seen anything look so fragile, “I’m going to try be the best dad you could ever have, okay? I’m gonna be there for all the lame parties, and the sleepovers and the big games and every single time you need help on your homework, I’m gonna be right there with you.” 

“What name are we putting on the chart?” The midwife asked as Bugsy watched Spencer murmur to the sweet face that looked up at him in wonder, “Or is it just Baby Girl Prentiss for the moment?” 

“It’s Reid,” Bugsy said with a smile, as Spencer poured even more of his gentle heart out in promises she knew he would keep until the day he died. And she knew without checking with him the name they chose weeks ago was perfect; the one they’d decided on just a few days after the nursery was finished and she had yet another bowl of frozen grapes to chow down on while they admired their work. 

One for his mother, one for Emily. 

“Ana Emilia Reid,”

–

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[jungwnies]

roommate from hell - oscar piastri (2/5)

୨ৎ : pairing : oscar piastri x gn!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : forced into an accidental roommate situation, oscar and you struggle with clashing habits, sarcastic banter, and unexpected tension…until frustration turns into something much deeper.

୨ৎ : genre : romantic comedy & light angst (barely...) ୨ৎ : tws : forced proximity, mild conflict, emotional tension, and mutual pining. ୨ৎ : wc : 813

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : you guys the love and support i've been getting on this series literally makes me so happy and motivates me so so so much, i can't wait to finish it up shortly and have all the chapters out within the following weeks <3 i love you all so muchhh!!

Living with Oscar Piastri was a test of patience.

Not because he was loud, or messy, or the type of roommate who left dirty dishes in the sink for days. No, that would have been easier to deal with.

Oscar was the opposite, too neat, too quiet, too good at being passively annoying in ways that weren’t technically wrong but still managed to drive you up the wall.

Three days in, and you had barely seen him outside of the occasional pointed glance when you left a blanket unfolded or turned the TV volume up too high. He had his own schedule, waking up ridiculously early, disappearing for most of the day, coming back late at night, and somehow managing to leave no trace of his existence in the apartment.

You would almost think he wasn’t living there at all.

Except for the silent war unfolding between you.

It started small. You noticed how your things on the bathroom counter would shift slightly each morning, your toothbrush moved just an inch to the left, your skincare bottles rearranged like they were being judged. Then there was the thermostat battle, where you’d turn it up one degree warmer only to find it adjusted back down the next time you checked. The first time your music mysteriously disconnected from the Bluetooth speaker, you thought it was a glitch. The second time, you knew it wasn’t.

In retaliation, you swapped his sugar with salt. He noticed immediately, gave you a long, unimpressed stare, and poured himself a new cup of coffee without a word. You thought that was the end of it until you found all of your laundry neatly folded but with one sock missing from each pair.

It was all so petty.

And yet, neither of you stopped.

The turning point happened when you made the grievous mistake of drinking the last can of Monster Energy in the fridge.

It had been sitting there all day, untouched, practically begging to be taken. You weren’t even a big energy drink person, but the satisfaction of claiming something you knew Oscar would want later was too good to pass up. So you grabbed it, cracked it open, and took a long, slow sip, savoring the taste of victory.

You had no regrets, but that was until Oscar walked into the kitchen and stared at the empty can in your hand.

"You did not just drink my last Monster," he said flatly.

You took another sip. "Oh, I definitely did."

His eyes narrowed. "You don’t even like energy drinks."

“I do now,” you said, lifting the can like a toast.

Oscar exhaled through his nose, glaring like you had personally offended him. "Unbelievable."

"Consider it compensation for the psychological damage you’ve caused me."

He didn’t say anything else, just grabbed his keys and left the apartment without another word. You grinned to yourself, thinking you had won this round.

You should have known better.

That night, when you went to grab something from the fridge, you discovered that everything you liked, your favorite snacks, your iced coffee, even the leftovers you had been looking forward to, were gone.

In their place, the fridge was fully stocked with only Monster Energy.

You stood there, staring at it, before calling out, "OSCAR."

Silence.

Then, from his bedroom, came a smug, "What?"

"You’re a child."

"I’m just preparing for your new energy drink addiction."

You slammed the fridge shut. "I hate you."

"Don’t drink my Monster next time."

The pettiness continued, but somewhere along the way, it softened.

Maybe it was the way Oscar started making two cups of coffee in the morning instead of one and never mentioning it, just leaving an extra mug on the counter for you. Maybe it was how you began grocery shopping together out of convenience, turning bickering over cereal brands into something weirdly normal. Maybe it was how, despite all the arguing, you realized you actually liked having him around.

One evening, you both ended up on the couch watching a reality show neither of you would admit to being invested in. It was late, the apartment quiet except for the background noise of contestants arguing over some ridiculous challenge. You felt yourself growing tired, curling up under your blanket, struggling to keep your eyes open.

At some point, without thinking, you let your head drop onto Oscar’s shoulder.

You felt him tense slightly but didn’t move away. There was no sarcastic remark, no dramatic sigh of protest, just a brief pause before he shifted, letting you settle against him more comfortably.

You mumbled something incoherent, too tired to care about what was happening, and Oscar just… stayed still.

For a moment, everything was quiet.

Then, barely above a whisper, he muttered, "…I don’t hate you, you know."

You wanted to reply. You wanted to ask him what the hell that was supposed to mean. But sleep was already pulling you under, and before you could react, everything faded to black.

taglist : @sugarfreerbr , @no-144444 , @window-to-nothing , @judelina , @littlegrapejuice , @formulaal , @spikershoyo , @eclipsedcherry , @whispersofthewild , @1-queenofpotatoes-1 , @obxstiles , @poppysrin , @a-beaverhausen , @blakebearsblog , @fastandcurious16 , @imdyinghelpplease , @reginalaufeyson-holmes , @percy-jackson-fan909 | (comment to be added ... bolded couldn't be tagged)

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[beuxwhoyouare]

Never Wanted Kids

Brooklyn looked up at her boyfriends domineering stature. A cold look remained on Louis’ face…except it wasn’t Louis giving Brooklyn the cold shoulder.

“I don’t know why you followed me to the gym BROOKLYN. You’re pregnant and can’t do shit. You’re just holding me back from getting a good pump. Kinda like that night we got you knocked up.” Louis taunted the pregnant woman sitting on the bench in front of him.

“Brook…you don’t have to be like this. I’m sorry. I’ve learned my lesson…just please give me my body back.” The docile women replied quietly not trying to give away their truth out loud to avoid looking absolute insane.

The pair had been dating for years and Brooklyn always made it clear she never wanted kids, but that never stopped Louis from finding ways to go in unprotected. When that wasn’t enough he switched out her birth control until one day he got what he wanted. Brooklyn was devastated and rightfully felt violated. Something snapped that day for her.

He wanted a kid so badly then she was gonna give it him. Days turned to weeks turned to months of research before she finally found the pieces to exact her revenge. One night she prepare the ritual while Louis slept, while the results weren’t immediately apparent Brooklyn went to sleep that night hopeful the next day would be the response to the nights’ magical ceremony.

That brings us to today. The woman 7 months pregnant woke up with none of the aching back pains she’d been feeling but instead an aggressive sexual vigor. As she swung her feet off the bed she was propelled up by a foreign strength.

She didn’t need a mirror to confirm the new truth she lived. She grimaced with satisfaction knowing she was done with the misery. She went to the restroom to go examine the body she long observed but now could fully take advantage of. As she callously took off any clothing she was wearing she stood in front of the master bedroom en suite mirror and began stroking the very thing that impregnated her.

She knew the show would be in eye line for “Brooklyn” when she woke up. Adding grunts and moans to put on an even more primal display of the swap that just occurred. She could feel a climax coming when a scream came from her side. The realization that her boyfriend was aware of his situation and what was going on in front of her was enough to do the trick.

Rope after rope coated the mirror and nearby sink. She got some on her finger and satisfactorily walked out of the restroom nude to greet her new baby momma. As a shocked Louis tried to question what Brooklyn did she silenced him with the finger she wiped the mirror with. Like he forced her to do what he wanted she channeled that energy now.

“Lick it clean.” Brooklyn demanded.

As Louis tried to protest and move away, Brooklyn used all his former strength to keep her in place. He was stuck and he knew it. Resigned to his current situation he obliged.

Louis continued to beg and plead with her to give him back his body but that didn’t stop Brooklyn from going to the gym and test her new body. If he wanted a kid he could have it but that doesn’t mean she was going to sacrifice the life she wanted to have. Freedom, youth, and now….it may be different but so much sex. She may not have the same equipment but she still have things anyone can work with. Looks like she’s going to make ‘Louis’ bisexual now. She wasn’t going to let the limits of one abusive man stop her. She thought as she gallivanted across the gym restroom half naked after her post-workout shower.

All the energy spent crying and pleading forced Louis to crash once the couple returned home. Plenty of time for Brooklyn to pack a go bag and leave this chapter behind. Being ripped away from her life sucked but not as much as having that kid wouldn’t have.

[unofskylanderspages]

Did you know? Oddly, Rampant Ruins' lighting changes in the area surrounding the Speed Zone entrance. Stepping into this area will cause the moonlight to temporarily transform into sunlight.

[missarchive]

american jesus⁴ ☆

spencer reid

part one part two part three part four

summary; In the final chapter, the dynamic between Spencer and the reader has evolved into something quieter, less fraught with complications. There’s a sense of ease in their connection now, a comfort in simply being in each other’s presence. While the future remains uncertain, they both seem to find a certain peace in the current moment, no longer overanalysing what comes next. The chapter closes on an unspoken understanding, leaving the path forward open, undefined, but somehow, still shared.

cw; +18 minors dni, SMUTTTT, sugar baby/daddy dynamics, inexperienced reader, pleasure dom spencer, fingering, dirty talk, munch!spencer, unprotected p in v, multiple orgasms, reader calls spencer "sir", idk guys this one's super fucking filthy, spencer cums inside, angst, fluff, praise, cum eating/swapping, spencer grovels for forgiveness, slight love-bombing, spit swallowing, slight overstimulation, spencer's a total perv, lmk if i've missed anything <3

an; the final part!!! thank you for sticking with me through this, this is the longest fic i've written to date at about 12k! P.s. this is written with jesus reid in mind <3 xoxo

It’s been weeks since that argument, yet the memory of Spencer’s words still lingers like a wound you can’t help but poke. Immature. Reckless. You’ve played them over and over in your head, dissecting the way his voice cracked on the harsher syllables, the fear and frustration behind his outburst.

But none of that matters now. He made it clear where he stands…or doesn’t. And you’ve resolved to move on, even if it means pretending your chest doesn’t ache every time you see him.

He walks in, hair slightly disheveled, a stack of papers clutched to his chest. His fingers twitch against the edges, knuckles white. His eyes skim the room, carefully avoiding yours, but you still feel the weight of his presence. He’s ignoring you, and it shouldn’t sting as much as it does.

“As we discussed last time, the concept of memory consolidation…”

His voice, usually a source of comfort, now feels like a barrier. You watch him intently, your hand resting lightly on your notebook, waiting for the moment when you can contribute something meaningful to the discussion.

When the opportunity arises, you raise your hand, heart thudding in your chest. His eyes flicker in your direction for a split second before skimming past you. He calls on someone else.

You blink, lowering your hand slowly. A flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck, and you fight to keep your face neutral. Maybe he didn’t see you.

But Spencer did see you.

In fact, he saw you the moment you walked into the room, your head held high even though he knows—God, he knows how much he must’ve hurt you. Every second he spends pretending you don’t exist is another stab to his chest, another reminder of how he pushed you away with words too sharp to take back.

Spencer knows he should’ve handled things differently. He shouldn’t have yelled. He shouldn’t have called you immature, reckless, or whatever else his panicked mind had thrown out in an effort to create distance. But the fear—the crushing fear—of losing everything, of losing you, had twisted into something ugly and defensive.

Ignoring you feels like punishment, like standing in the wreckage of something he helped destroy. And yet, he convinces himself it’s the right thing to do. For his job. For your reputation. For the tiny shred of professionalism he has left.

He hears your voice rise again, another eager attempt to participate, and for a moment, his resolve cracks. His gaze lifts, just for a second, but he forces it back down, pretending to sift through his notes. He picks someone else, his voice coming out tighter than before. He can’t let himself soften. Not now.

By the end of the lecture, you feel like you’re being crushed under the weight of his indifference.

As the other students begin to pack up, you linger in your seat, pretending to adjust your notes. Spencer busies himself at the podium, organising his materials with too much precision. Every fiber of him wants to speak to you, to say something, but he remains silent.

When you finally leave, without so much as a glance in his direction, his shoulders sag. The door clicks shut behind you, and he exhales shakily, gripping the edge of the podium to steady himself.

He knows he messed up.

And he’s starting to realize that letting you go was the biggest mistake of all.

Spencer stares at the empty lecture hall long after you’ve left, his fingers absently tracing the worn edge of his notes. The silence around him is deafening, amplifying the thoughts that have been circling his mind since the moment he pushed you away.

He shouldn’t have said those things.

The memory of your expression—hurt, betrayed, yet still defiant plays on a loop in his head. He’s analyzed it a thousand times, picking apart the exact moment he saw the light in your eyes dim. It was right after he called you immature, right after his voice wavered with something dangerously close to regret, but he’d pressed on anyway, too caught up in his fear to stop himself.

He thought cutting you off would make things easier. That ignoring you would put some much-needed distance between you both. But every time he sees you in class, looking straight at him with that quiet determination, he feels like the world is shifting beneath his feet.

Tonight, he doesn’t go home right away. Instead, he finds himself at the local bookstore, pacing the aisles aimlessly, running his hands over book spines as if the answers might be hidden somewhere in their pages. His thoughts are a mess, apologies, regrets, the gnawing ache of missing you, all tangled together in a knot he doesn’t know how to undo.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he stops in front of a small display of classic literature. A collection of short stories catches his eye, your favorite author. He remembers how passionately you spoke about them, how you’d once challenged him to find deeper meaning in the prose when he’d claimed it was too sentimental.

Before he can second-guess himself, he buys the book.

The next morning, he’s in the lecture hall early, long before anyone else arrives. His hands tremble slightly as he pulls the book from his bag and places it carefully on your desk, tucking a small note inside the front cover:

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I miss talking to you.

He hesitates for a long moment, staring down at the message, before quickly retreating to his usual spot at the podium. His heart hammers in his chest as the first students trickle in, and when you finally walk through the door, he forces himself to look away.

You pause at your seat, your brow furrowing at the book resting neatly on your desk. Your fingers brush over the cover, and for a split second, Spencer allows himself to glance up, searching your face for any reaction. But you don’t look at him. Instead, you slide the book into your bag without a word and take your seat as if nothing happened.

Spencer swallows hard, disappointment settling in his chest. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

But he’s not giving up.

Not yet.

You haven’t acknowledged the gesture—not in class, not after, not in the fleeting moments when your eyes almost meet across the room. You carry the book with you now, tucked safely in your bag, but you haven’t said a word about it. Not even a glance in his direction.

And it’s driving him insane.

Spencer isn’t used to feeling this way, this gnawing guilt, this helplessness. He’s spent his life solving complex puzzles, breaking down human behavior into patterns and probabilities. But you? You’ve always been the one thing he couldn’t quite calculate.

So, he tries again.

The next morning, when you walk into class, there’s something small and unassuming on your desk, a cassette tape, carefully placed where only you would notice.

Your fingers hover over it for a moment before you pick it up, inspecting the label scrawled in Spencer’s familiar handwriting:

Songs that remind me of you.

You stare at it, expression unreadable. For a moment, Spencer wonders if you’ll just leave it there, push it aside like it means nothing. But then you slip it into your bag without a word, and his chest tightens with something halfway between relief and frustration.

Still, you don’t speak to him.

But that doesn’t stop him.

A few days later, there’s a cup of your favorite coffee sitting on your desk before you even arrive, the heat still lingering in the cup. The note attached is short, almost tentative:

Thought you might need this.

You hesitate again, fingers tracing the rim of the cup as you glance around the room, like you’re trying to catch him in the act. But Spencer is already at the podium, pretending to review his lecture notes, though his ears burn with anticipation.

You take a sip.

And though you don’t say anything, Spencer catches the tiniest flicker of something soft in your expression before you steel yourself again.

It’s not much. But it’s enough to make him keep trying.

The next week, small gifts keep appearing—your favorite pen when yours mysteriously runs out of ink, a folded paper crane sitting in the middle of your notebook, even a neatly written study guide with helpful annotations in the margins.

Each time, you pretend not to notice. Each time, Spencer wonders if you’ll ever forgive him.

He knows he messed up. He knows words alone won’t fix this. But he hopes, God, he hopes, that maybe persistence will.

At first, you think the book was a fluke.

Maybe he left it there by accident, a leftover impulse from the time when things between you were different—when he would listen to you ramble about your favorite stories and pretend not to be impressed by how much you cared.

But then the cassette tape appeared.

You remember sitting in class, holding it in your hands, staring at the neat, careful handwriting on the label: Songs that remind me of you. A lump had formed in your throat, and for a second, just a second, you thought about confronting him. Asking him what exactly he thought he was doing, why he felt the need to dangle these little reminders of what you used to be in front of you.

But you didn’t. Instead, you shoved the tape into your bag, ignoring the way your hands shook slightly.

Then came the coffee. The stupid cup of coffee sitting on your desk like it belonged there, warm and familiar and him. You almost didn’t drink it out of sheer stubbornness, but the note: Thought you might need this, sat there staring at you, and somehow, it felt worse to let it go to waste.

So you took a sip.

And the worst part? It tasted exactly the way you liked it. Because of course he remembered.

The next time it was your favorite pen, smooth and easy in your grip just like the one you always used—until yours ran out of ink at the worst possible moment. You’d stared at it for too long before finally picking it up and using it, your chest tight with something you couldn’t quite name.

And now, as you sit in class, your fingers trace over the paper crane he left on your desk this morning. It’s small and delicate, made with precision that you know took time, and something about that unsettles you more than you’d like to admit.

He’s trying.

And you hate that it’s working.

You keep telling yourself that you should stay mad. That you should hold onto the anger from that night—the words he flung at you like knives, the way he made you feel so small. You remind yourself of the humiliation, of the ache that settled deep in your chest when he turned away and left you standing there alone.

But still… he remembers. The coffee, the songs, the little things that no one else would ever notice. And that’s what makes it harder to push him away completely.

You glance toward the front of the room, where Spencer is hunched over his notes, pretending to be absorbed in them. But you know better. The tension in his shoulders, the way he hasn’t called on you in weeks, the flickers of his gaze when he thinks you’re not looking—it’s all there, plain as day.

He’s waiting.

And you hate that a tiny part of you is waiting, too.

The gifts keep coming.

At first, you think they’ll stop after a few days, that he’ll get tired of the silent treatment you’ve been giving him. But Spencer Reid is nothing if not persistent.

Today, it’s a folded piece of paper tucked inside your notebook, carefully slipped in sometime before you arrived. Your chest tightens the moment you see it, and despite your better judgment, you unfold it with a quiet curiosity.

It’s a handwritten list.

Books you might like.

Your eyes skim the titles, some you’ve mentioned in passing, others completely new but eerily fitting your taste. You swallow hard, your fingertips lingering over his handwriting, neat and deliberate, as if he put real thought into each selection. Because he did.

You hate how well he knows you.

Sliding the paper into your bag, you pretend not to notice the way Spencer's shoulders shift slightly at the podium, like he’s waiting for some sign that you’ve seen it. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. Not yet.

You should be angry. You are angry. But underneath it, something else festers—something warm and unsteady that you’re not ready to face.

The next morning, there’s something different waiting on your desk. A small, almost inconspicuous flower, nestled between the pages of your textbook. Pressed and delicate, like it’s been saved for a long time.

You pause, staring at it longer than you should, before carefully closing the book around it and moving on as if nothing happened. But your heart betrays you, thudding hard against your ribs as you struggle to keep your expression neutral.

Spencer, standing at the front of the room, doesn’t look at you once. But you can feel the weight of his presence like gravity pulling at you.

This silent game you’re playing, it’s exhausting.

He’s trying.

And it’s getting harder to ignore.

By the end of class, you find yourself lingering, watching him from the corner of your eye as he pretends to organise his papers. Your fingers brush the edge of the book in your bag, where the flower is safely tucked away, and for a brief moment, you consider saying something—anything.

But then you remember how easily he walked away last time.

So instead, you leave without a word, ignoring the way your heart feels just a little heavier with every step you take.

The gifts stop.

You don’t notice it right away. It’s only after a few days of arriving to an empty desk, no thoughtful notes, no carefully placed trinkets, that it finally sinks in. At first, you feel relieved. No more gentle reminders of what you lost. No more soft apologies tucked between pages and beneath coffee cups.

But then why does it feel so… disappointing?

You shake the thought away as you sit through another lecture, taking notes with the pen he gave you. The small reminders are still there, whether you like it or not.

And that’s when he changes his strategy.

“Y/N.”

His voice stops you cold, just as you’re packing up your things. It’s the first time he’s said your name in weeks, and it sounds almost foreign on his lips, careful and unsure.

You look up slowly, wary, your heart hammering in your chest. “Yes, Dr. Reid?”

His mouth presses into a thin line, and for a second, you swear he looks almost hurt. His fingers fidget with the strap of his bag, and there’s something in his eyes, something regretful, something desperate.

“I—” He hesitates, glancing around at the few lingering students still shuffling out of the room. “Can I talk to you?”

You stiffen, forcing yourself to stay neutral. “About?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, and you can practically feel the weight of all the unsaid things hanging between you. “About… the class,” he says finally, but the hesitation in his voice betrays him. “Your last paper. I had some thoughts.”

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but it wasn’t that. And for a moment, you almost believe him—almost fall back into that easy rhythm of long discussions and shared ideas. But you catch yourself, steeling your expression.

“I think I’m managing fine,” you say, slipping your bag onto your shoulder. “Thanks, though.”

You turn to leave, but he steps closer, too close, and you have to fight the urge to back away.

“Y/N, please.”

The crack in his voice is almost enough to make you stop. Almost.

But instead, you keep walking, ignoring the way his presence lingers behind you like a shadow.

The next lecture, it happens again.

And the one after that.

Every time, he waits. Every time, he calls your name, softer, more insistent. He tries to start conversations, little ones, harmless ones, asking about assignments, books, anything to get you to talk to him. And every time, you walk away, pretending you don’t notice the way his voice trembles just slightly when you turn your back on him.

But you notice.

It’s almost routine now.

Class ends, you gather your things, and before you can make it to the door, Spencer is there—waiting, watching, always just close enough that you can’t ignore him entirely.

“Y/N, wait—”

You don’t. You keep walking, pretending not to hear the quiet desperation in his voice. But he’s not deterred.

The next class, he tries again.

“I wanted to talk to you about—”

“I have to go.”

And again.

“I—uh, I found this article I thought you might find interesting—”

“I’m busy.”

Each time, his voice gets a little softer, his eyes a little more tired. But he doesn’t stop. If anything, he’s getting bolder.

One afternoon, you’re halfway out the door when he catches up to you, falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “there was this study done on avoidance behaviour. It found that people who actively avoid situations tend to experience heightened stress and—”

“Seriously, Spencer?” you snap, stopping in your tracks. You whip around to face him, and for a second, he looks almost startled to hear you say his name. His first name.

His mouth opens, then closes again, as if he doesn’t know what to do now that he has your attention. His fingers fidget nervously with the strap of his bag, and his eyes—those ridiculous, stupidly expressive eyes—are wide and earnest.

“I just…” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. “I miss talking to you.”

You inhale sharply, that familiar ache creeping into your chest. “You don’t get to do this, Spencer.” Your voice is quieter now, but firm. “You don’t get to push me away and then decide you want me back when it’s convenient.”

His face falls, and for a moment, you almost regret saying it. But then he nods slowly, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I just… I don’t know how to fix it.”

You hold his gaze for a beat too long before shaking your head and walking away.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like a victory.

You start seeing him everywhere.

At first, you think it’s just bad luck—running into him outside the library, at the campus coffee shop, even near the quiet corner of the park where you like to study. But after the third time in one week, it’s obvious that it’s not a coincidence.

He’s trying. Again.

You spot him before he sees you this time, sitting on a bench near your usual spot, a book in his hands but his gaze flickering up every few seconds, like he’s waiting, hoping you’ll notice him.

You consider turning around, walking the other way, but something inside you tightens at the thought. You’re tired of running. Tired of pretending his presence doesn’t affect you.

So, you sit. Not next to him, but close enough that he knows you’ve seen him. Close enough that you can feel the tension humming between you, thick and heavy.

A few minutes pass before he speaks. “I didn’t know you liked this place.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “I doubt that.”

His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile, but there’s something almost sad in it. “Okay,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I might have… remembered you mentioning it once.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Spencer—”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice quiet but insistent. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I just—” He hesitates, fingers gripping the edges of his book like it’s the only thing grounding him. “I wanted to see you.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart stutter. Like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

You look down at your notebook, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your chest. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” he says again, softer this time. “But I’m going to anyway.”

You don’t know whether to be annoyed or touched.

After a moment, you sigh, flipping open your notes and pointedly ignoring him. But you don’t get up to leave.

And Spencer, for once, seems content just sitting there. Close enough, but not too close.

The days that follow feel like a delicate balance, each encounter with Spencer nudging at the edges of your resolve. At first, you tell yourself it’s nothing, he’s persistent, sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s breaking through. You’re still in control. You remind yourself of all the reasons you keep him at arm’s length, the walls you’ve built around yourself, stronger than ever after everything.

But as the days stretch on, those walls start to feel more fragile.

You see him again, this time outside a classroom. He’s standing near the door, arms crossed, looking uncharacteristically uncertain as he scans the crowd for you. When his eyes find yours, it’s like he’s finally breathing. Like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

“Hi,” he says, voice slightly hesitant, but his smile, that familiar, soft smile, makes your chest tighten. “I—uh—I’ve been meaning to ask, if you’re not too busy... Would you like to grab coffee after class?”

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes. He’s persistent, you can’t deny that. But there’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes you hesitate.

“I don’t know, Spencer,” you reply, voice a little firmer than you intend. “You don’t have to keep trying.”

His smile falters, but he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he steps forward, just a little, and you notice how his fingers flex against the strap of his bag, the quiet anxiety there. It makes your heart twist, but you push it away.

“I know. But I want to,” he says simply, with that same quiet intensity. “I miss talking to you. It doesn’t feel right not... having you around.”

Something in his words catches you off guard. You feel a flicker of something inside you—something you’ve been trying to ignore for too long. His presence has become like a ghost in the back of your mind, never quite leaving, always lurking. And for the first time in what feels like ages, you wonder if maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

You glance at him, letting your guard down just a little, before you let out a sigh.

“Alright,” you say, almost reluctantly, “But just coffee. No more… no more trying, okay?”

He looks at you like you’ve given him the world, and something inside you cracks just a little bit more. “Okay. Just coffee.”

It’s a small step. But it’s a step forward. And somehow, that feels like the beginning of something you’ve been trying so hard to avoid.

Spencer’s already sitting at a table in the corner, a book in front of him, but the second the door opens, his gaze snaps to you. He doesn’t even look surprised—just relieved.

“Hey,” he says, standing up quickly, his voice just shy of uncertain, but his smile genuine. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

You glance around, taking in the space, trying to ignore the way your heart starts to race just seeing him there. “This place is... different.”

Spencer gives a small shrug, eyes flicking to the side. “I thought it might be nicer—less busy. You know, somewhere we can actually talk without having to yell over the noise.”

You stare at him for a beat, almost surprised by how considerate he sounds. “I didn’t think you’d know the first thing about quiet spots.”

His lips curl into a sheepish grin. “I guess I’m full of surprises,” he says, his tone light but a bit uncertain.

You can’t help but chuckle, feeling the tension between you start to ease. “Okay, I’ll admit, it’s nice.”

Spencer looks relieved, but his gaze softens a little. “I’m glad you think so. I wanted this to be… better. For us.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. For a second, the air feels heavier. He’s not just here because he wants something from you. He’s here because he wants to be with you, in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to consider before.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he leans back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “I know I’ve probably been too pushy lately. I get it. But I just… I miss you. And I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I just want to be here. If you’ll let me.”

You blink, caught off guard by the honesty in his words. You feel a twinge in your chest, something you haven’t let yourself feel in a long time. “Spencer…”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice softer now. “I know. I’ve been trying to figure it out, how to give you space. But I don’t want to let go either. I want to be around. Even if it’s just this—just coffee and talking. No more... no more rushing things.”

You take a breath, your gaze drifting to the table. His words are simple, but there’s something in them that makes it hard to push him away.

“I’m not saying I’m ready for everything to just… go back to normal,” you admit, your voice quieter. “But I don’t want to keep avoiding this, either.”

Spencer’s eyes brighten at that, and he leans forward just slightly, his gaze intense but warm. “No pressure. I’m not going anywhere.”

You can’t help but nod, the corners of your mouth turning up a little. “Okay. Just coffee, for now.”

His smile is soft and real, like it’s been a while since he’s had a reason to show it. And in that moment, you think maybe—just maybe—you’re beginning to let him in.

You tell yourself it’s still nothing. Just coffee. Just familiar habits that are hard to break. But when you find yourself walking into that same quiet café again—when your eyes immediately search for him—you know you’re lying.

Spencer’s already there, his usual spot by the window, fingers wrapped around a cup that’s probably gone cold by now. He’s staring out at the street, lost in thought, and for a brief moment, you consider walking past, pretending you didn’t see him. But then, as if sensing you, his head turns, and his eyes meet yours.

This time, there’s no nervous startle. Just a slow, tentative smile.

You sigh, stepping forward before you can talk yourself out of it. He stands when you reach the table—always the gentleman—and you wave a hand at him, rolling your eyes. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know,” he says easily, but the way his fingers twitch at his sides tells you he’s still figuring out how to act around you.

You sit, and before you can even glance at the menu, there’s already a cup in front of you. Your usual, just like last time. You arch an eyebrow at him, but he only shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Thought I’d save you the trouble.”

You could argue—tell him not to make assumptions—but the warmth of the cup in your hands feels... nice. Familiar. So instead, you take a sip and let the silence stretch between you.

Spencer fidgets with his sleeve, then glances up through his lashes. “How’s your week been?”

It’s such a simple question, but for some reason, it catches you off guard. You hesitate before answering, “Fine. Busy.”

He nods like he’s cataloging the information, filing it away for later. “I, um... I was reading something that reminded me of you.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a book, sliding it across the table. “I thought you might like it.”

You stare at the book, your fingers hovering over the worn cover. It’s thoughtful, maybe too thoughtful, and for a second, you feel the familiar urge to pull away, to remind him of the distance you put between you.

“Spencer...”

“I know,” he says quickly, leaning back. “No expectations. Just... I saw it and thought of you. That’s all.”

You hate how easily he reads you, how effortlessly he disarms the excuses you’ve been holding onto. With a quiet sigh, you pick up the book, flipping through the pages absentmindedly.

“Thanks,” you murmur, and when you glance up, his eyes are soft, hopeful but not pushing.

For the rest of the coffee, you let the conversation flow in slow, careful steps—nothing too personal, nothing too deep. But the walls you’ve built aren’t as solid as they used to be.

And when you leave, the book is still in your hands.

It starts creeping in when you least expect it.

Little things—quiet moments that used to be yours alone—are suddenly filled with the weight of his absence. The inside jokes that no one else would understand, the random facts he’d blurt out when he got nervous, the way he’d always—always—remember the smallest things about you.

You catch yourself thinking about him more than you’d like to admit. Wondering what book he’s reading now, if he’s still showing up at that café, if he’s sitting by the window hoping you’ll walk through the door again. And it’s infuriating—how much space he takes up in your head despite all your efforts to keep him out.

But it’s not just in your head anymore. It’s in your chest, a dull ache that lingers whenever you pass by the places you used to see him. And slowly, inevitably, your resolve starts to slip.

The first time you slip, it’s barely anything. Just a text.

Did you ever finish that book you were telling me about?

You stare at the message for longer than you should before hitting send. And when the reply comes almost instantly—Yeah. It made me think of you.—you realise just how much you’ve missed the way he always ties things back to you, like you’re still a constant in his world.

You tell yourself it’s harmless, just a conversation. But one text turns into another, and another, and soon enough, you’re back to talking late into the night, the glow of your phone illuminating your pillow as his words make you laugh—really laugh—for the first time in a while.

The second time you slip, it’s worse.

You go to the café, fully intending to sit alone, to prove to yourself that you don’t need him there. But the moment you step inside and see him, already sitting in the corner with a book he’s barely paying attention to, it’s like something inside you cracks.

His eyes widen when he notices you, surprised but hopeful. He doesn’t say anything right away, just watches as you walk over and slide into the seat across from him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t know what to say at first, but then Spencer offers you that small, tentative smile—the one that always used to break through your walls—and suddenly, you don’t feel like fighting it anymore.

"Hey," you say softly.

His eyes soften. "Hey."

And just like that, you're back in that quiet space between friendship and something more.

The third time you slip, it’s undeniable.

You find yourself reaching for him, metaphorically at first, sending texts when your day feels off, calling when you can’t sleep. But then it becomes literal. A touch here, a lingering glance there.

You miss him. More than you want to admit. And Spencer, being Spencer, doesn’t push. He just waits, patient and steady, like he’s always been.

And maybe... maybe you’re finally starting to realise that you don’t want him to wait anymore.

It’s late when you hear the knock at your door. Too late for anyone to be stopping by without a reason. You hesitate, staring at the door like it might answer for you, your heart already picking up speed in your chest.

A part of you already knows who it is before you even look through the peephole.

Spencer stands on the other side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, his hair a little messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it too much. There’s something in his posture, an uncertainty, a restlessness, that makes your stomach twist.

You consider not answering. Pretending you’re not home. But deep down, you know it wouldn’t change anything. So, with a slow breath, you unlock the door and pull it open.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is too quiet, the air between you thick with words left unsaid.

“I can’t stay away anymore.”

The words come out in a rush, his voice low but desperate, like he’s been holding them in for too long. His eyes search yours, pleading, hopeful. “I tried, I really did, but I—” He swallows hard, shifting on his feet. “We need to talk.”

You should say no. You should tell him it’s too late for this—too late for him to show up at your door like this, looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him together. But instead, you step aside, letting the door swing open a little wider.

Spencer hesitates, his breath hitching, before stepping inside. He stands awkwardly in your living room, looking around like he’s trying to remember how it felt to belong here.

You cross your arms over your chest, leaning against the door. “Spencer, what are you doing here?”

He lets out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I just... I couldn’t do it anymore. Pretending like we’re okay with things being like this.”

Your throat tightens, and you hate how much his words affect you. “We were doing fine,” you say, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

“No, we weren’t,” he counters, his voice soft but certain. “I miss you. And I know I messed things up before, but I—” He pauses, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t want to keep pretending like I don’t care. Like I don’t need you.”

You swallow, looking away. “Spencer... it’s complicated.”

“I know,” he says quickly, stepping closer. “But I don’t care how complicated it is. I don’t care if you need time, or space, or if you’re not ready to figure this out yet. I just—” He exhales sharply. “I need you to know that I’m not going anywhere. I never was.”

Your resolve, the one you’ve been holding onto so tightly, wavers under the weight of his words. The way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing that makes sense in his world, makes your chest ache.

After a long pause, you sigh, running a hand over your face. “Spencer... you’re impossible, you know that?”

He smiles—small, but real. “I’ve been told.”

You shake your head, but there’s no real fight left in you. “Fine. Talk.”

His shoulders relax, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, and as he sits down on your couch, you realise something terrifying.

You missed him too.

Maybe more than you were willing to admit.

Spencer sits on your couch, his fingers laced tightly together like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching out. His knee bounces slightly, nervous energy spilling out in little ways, but his eyes stay locked on yours, unwavering. Determined.

“I don’t care about my job,” he says, and it’s so sudden, so absolute, that it takes you a moment to process it.

You blink at him. “Spencer, what are you—”

“I don’t care,” he repeats, leaning forward, his voice low but insistent. “If it’s my job that’s keeping us apart, I’ll leave. I’ll get a position at a different school, another department—hell, I’ll move out of the city if that’s what it takes.” His words come in a rush, desperate and unfiltered, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “I just... I don’t want to lose you over this.”

Your chest tightens, a sharp ache settling deep inside you. “Spencer, you’ve worked so hard to get where you are. You love what you do.”

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “No. I love you.” His voice cracks, just slightly, but he presses on. “The job, the school... none of it matters if I don’t have you.”

You stare at him, words caught in your throat. This is Spencer—logical, pragmatic Spencer—offering to throw away everything he’s built because of you. Because he wants you back. And it’s terrifying.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” you murmur, shaking your head. “This... this isn’t something you can just throw away.”

“I have thought about it,” he insists, his eyes pleading with you to believe him. “I’ve thought about nothing but this. Every day. Every night.” He exhales, his hands gripping the fabric of his pants like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “I can’t keep pretending that work is enough to fill the space you left.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. The weight of what he’s saying, what he’s offering, hangs heavy in the air between you.

After a long pause, you shake your head again, weaker this time. “You don’t have to do that, Spencer.”

His eyes soften, and for the first time tonight, his voice is gentle. “But I want to. I want to do whatever it takes to fix this. To be with you.”

Your throat feels tight, emotions bubbling up to the surface faster than you can push them down. “Spencer...”

He leans forward just a little, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Just tell me what you want. If you tell me there’s still a chance, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

You feel your resolve crumbling, piece by piece, under the weight of his sincerity. The way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered—makes it so much harder to hold onto the walls you’ve built.

You take a shaky breath, searching his face for some kind of answer. And for the first time in a long time, you realise that maybe... maybe you don’t want to fight this anymore.

Your eyes search his, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The doubts, the fear, the stubborn voice in your head telling you to keep your distance. None of it matters.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. Like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

You don’t think. You just move.

One second, you’re sitting there, caught in the gravity of him, and the next, your lips are on his, soft and searching, your hands curling into the front of his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

Spencer freezes, just for a beat, and then he’s kissing you back, his hands hovering over your sides, hesitant—like he can’t quite believe this is real. But you feel it in the way he exhales against your mouth, in the way his fingers finally find their place on your waist, holding you like he’s afraid he might be dreaming.

It’s not slow, but it’s not desperate either. It’s something in between—familiar and new all at once, a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back for too long.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against his, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. Your heart is pounding, and you can feel his racing just as fast beneath your hands.

“Tell me this isn’t a mistake,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath.

You shake your head, eyes fluttering closed. “It’s not.”

His grip on you tightens, and the relief in his expression is enough to make your chest ache. “I don’t want to lose you again,” he murmurs, and there’s something so raw in the way he says it, like it’s the only thing that’s mattered all along.

You tilt his chin up gently, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Then don't.”

A low groan escapes Spencer’s chest, and in an instant, he’s pulling you into his arms with a desperation you didn’t know he had in him. His lips crash against yours, hot and urgent, as if he can’t get close enough. The kiss is deep, raw, and hungry—neither of you holding back any longer.

You lose track of who’s moving who, but suddenly you’re pressed against the wall, Spencer’s body firm against yours, his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. His lips part yours as his tongue makes its way inside, a sigh slipping from your mouth at the intensity of the kiss. You tug at his hair, hard enough that he groans, but neither of you pulls away. Instead, he presses into you, every inch of him consumed with the desire he’s been hiding—just as much as you’ve been hiding yours.

His cock digs into your hip as you press yourself up against him, a flutter low in your belly. God, how you want him so badly. 

He tears his mouth away from yours, panting. “I’ve wanted this,” he mutters against your lips. “I’ve needed this for so fucking long, y/n.”

He nips at your chin, at your neck, anywhere he can, moving lower. Your head falls back against the wall as he trails open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone, his hands gripping your hips. You can feel the pressure building inside of you, a wild, uncontrollable fire.

“Spencer,” you gasp. “Please...”

His lips ghost over your clothed nipple, then his teeth are tugging on your bra, pulling the cup down. He licks over your skin, his breath hot against your flesh. Then he’s sucking you into his mouth, his tongue swirling over you, dark brown eyes gazing up at you. His hands grip your ass, kneading the flesh there as you squirm against him.

He moans, releasing your nipple with a soft pop. His fingers trail down your stomach, palms pushing your skirt up around your waist when you feel his fingers graze your underwear.

He slips his fingers beneath the fabric, his thumb slowly rubbing at your clit. A whimper tears its way out of your throat.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, his teeth tugging at your nipple. “Gonna make you cum over n over. Gonna make you beg for it.”

You’re already there, but you don’t tell him that.

Instead, you push back against him as his fingers start to thrust inside of you. Your underwear is still in the way, but it doesn’t matter. 

“I want this,” you tell him. “I want everything you can give me.”

He makes a noise against your skin, and you know that he’s giving in. That he’s letting go of his fears of crossing the line, of being inappropriate with a student. Of the ethics, of the potential consequences.

As he keeps kissing your neck, his fingers slipping inside of you harder and faster, you realise that you want this for more than just the moment. You want to explore these feelings between the two of you, to see where they take you. If they can take you somewhere special.

He groans again, and you hear the unmistakable sound of his zipper. You feel him press against you, his cock hard and thick through his underwear. He’s still wearing his trousers, but his cock is free, rubbing up and down over your clit.

“Gonna cum, Spence,” you tell him, the words coming out of your mouth in a rush. Your legs are shaking, your knees weak. Your orgasm is building, breathing growing heavy, just threatening to spill over. “Fuck, please, I need to—”

He grunts, his hips moving faster, pressing you back harder against the wall. You can feel him, feel his cock throbbing and hot against your sensitive flesh..

“Look at me,” he orders, pulling away from you.

You force your eyes open, staring up at him as your orgasm rips through you. It’s blinding, overwhelming, making your vision blur. He leans forward and kisses you, swallowing your moan whole. The taste of his tongue in your mouth is dizzying.

Spencer breaks the kiss first, pulling his fingers out of you as your orgasm recedes. You blink up at him, dizzy, as he lifts the fingers to his lips and licks them clean.

“Taste,” he whispers, pretty eyes flitting to your lips as he brings his mouth back to yours. You can feel rough stubble rasping against your skin, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when you're finally getting what you want.

You press into the kiss hungrily, tasting yourself on his tongue, letting out a soft noise of need as his tongue explores your mouth.

He turns you around, his hand on your chest pushing you into the wall as he leans over you. His breath is hot against your neck, your shoulder. “Bend over for me,” he whispers, his voice deep and raspy. “I’m not going to fuck you just yet. First, you’re going to cum on my tongue.”

“Spencer,” you groan. He’s going to tease you, to torture you until you can’t think anymore.

You’re dripping with need, your pussy clenching as you feel him slide his fingers inside of you again. He works his way up your back, then down to the curve of your ass. He rubs a circle over the flesh there, teasing. You know what he’s doing.

His mouth is on you suddenly, and all you can do is gasp for air. His tongue is hot and slick against your clit. He presses inside, his lips and tongue rubbing over your sensitive flesh.

You groan, your hips twitching as he keeps licking into you, pleasure so strong that it’s almost painful. Your pussy aches, clenching with the need to be filled.

“Please,” you pant. “Fuck...”

Spencer makes a sound in the back of his throat, then his fingers are back, thrusting deep inside of you, rubbing over your g-spot with his fingertips.

“Fuck, angel… taste so good, always knew you would,” he grunts into your weeping cunt, voice muffled against your flesh.

You can barely breathe.

Spencer is relentless, using his tongue to make you feel things you never have before. He’s got your clit trapped between his teeth, his fingers curled inside of you.

The pressure building inside of you again, climbing higher and higher.

Your legs give out and you feel Spencer hold you up. Finally, he pulls away and you’re sagging back into his arms, breath coming in gasps and pants.

Spencer holds you upright as he drags your skirt back down over your hips. Then he’s turning you around, pulling you close as you tremble in his arms.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers. “I can’t believe I waited this long to touch you.”

He kisses you again, the taste of your pussy still on his tongue. You moan against him, your head spinning.

“Please, don't make me wait,” you gasp, pushing back against him, feeling his cock throb in response.

“You want my cock, angel?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you pant. “Please, fuck me.”

And then he’s kissing you again, tongue parting your lips and slipping inside your mouth. You feel him walking you backwards, towards the couch in his living room. 

He sits on the couch and pulls you onto his lap, moving to straddle him as you kiss him, his cock throbbing against your inner thigh.

“Wanna sit on this cock, pretty girl?,” he growls, breaking the kiss. “Show me how much you need it?”

Your lips are swollen from his kisses, your skin hot all over. He helps you up as you move to straddle his cock, gripping your waist to keep you balanced as you sink down, feeling him nudge against your pussy before finally pushing inside.

Your head falls back as you cry out, feeling your pussy stretch around him. You’re so wet that it’s easy, but he’s still big, bigger than you’d ever taken.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “It feels...”

Spencer swallows hard as he stares up at you. “Yeah, angel?” he murmurs, his hands skating over your thighs to your hips. “Tell me how it feels.”

You start to move your hips, grinding yourself down onto him. It’s a slow, sweet torture. Every time you clench your pussy around him, his eyes flicker closed for a moment before he opens them again. His gaze is fixed on yours, dark with need.

“Spencer,” you moan, leaning forward to kiss him.

He groans into the kiss as you start to ride him, picking up the pace. Your hips roll against him over and over, making the couch creak and groan beneath you. “I said tell me how it feels.” 

“Fuck! Feels so so good, sir,” you babble as you break the kiss. You’re close again, cunt pulsing as you take him in his entirety. His hands knead at your ass, guiding you up and down.

“I’ve got you,” he pants, his lips moving over your neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He groans and then you feel him start to move beneath you. His hips thrusting up into you as you grind down, the sensation so overwhelming that it makes your vision blur.

Feeling your pussy clench around him again, you hear him make a noise in the back of his throat, then you’re cumming again, your body trembling above him as the pleasure spills over inside of you. Spencer holds you close, his arms wrapping around your back as his hips thrust up into you again.

“Spencer,” you cry, your head falling back. He’s still thrusting into you, still fucking you as he groans in pleasure.

He cock spilling inside of you, pulsing as he buries himself deep. His arms tighten around your back, holding you close to him. Your body shudders against his as he groans and pants, his breath hot against the bare skin of your neck. You feel his lips on your skin, soft and sweet.

You stay like that for a long moment, Spencer buried deep inside of you as you catch your breath. You blink down at him in surprise, feeling his cock fill you up again.

“What are you doing?” you ask him, your voice barely above a whisper.

Spencer’s eyes open, his pupils wide with need. He swallows. “Shh, angel. Just take it,” he tells you, his voice hoarse with need. “You're a good girl, aren't you? Gonna take what I give you?”

You feel him start to move again, his hips flexing up and down. You’re still sore from the last time, but the sensation of his cock rubbing against your sensitive walls makes your eyes flutter closed.

“Oh God,” you gasp. He’s picking up the pace now, fucking you with a hunger and desperation that makes your head spin. His cock somehow feels even bigger as he thrusts into you again and again, his hands holding onto your hips, keeping you in place. 

His lips are soft and gentle against your own, tongue moving into your mouth.

Crying out into the kiss, your orgasm comes fast, overwhelming you so quickly that you can’t even process it. You feel his thick cock pulse inside of you, the wet sound of him filling you up again making your head spin.

You’re both gasping for air as you come, your bodies trembling against each other.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you collapse on him or lean back. Instead, he keeps moving, his hips thrusting up and down in a rhythm that makes your head swirl.

“Spencer—”

“Not yet,” he gasps. His eyes are wild, his pupils so dark and wide that they make you feel dizzy. “Not yet, y/n.”

You can feel him filling you again, his cock rubbing over your sensitive walls. Your pussy clenches around him again, even though you’ve already cum. He groans, his voice so loud in your ears that it makes your body shudder.

“Sir- fuck… Spencer,” you whimper.

He presses his lips to your throat, licking at your skin. His hands are still holding onto you, keeping you upright even as your legs threaten to collapse beneath you. You feel like a puppet, your strings being manipulated by the movements of his cock.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp. Your vision is blurring now, breathing coming in short gasps. His cock is relentless as he thrusts in and out of you, making your cunt clench around him again.

Your orgasm tears through you, wild and uncontrollable, pussy milking his cock as he keeps pumping into you.

Spencer grunts as you cum, his breathing heavy as he buries himself inside of you. His cock pulses inside of you, hard and deep. 

You collapse into his arms, barely conscious.

He holds you there as his cock starts to soften, still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy. Your limbs feel heavy, your head lolling against him as you struggle to catch your breath.

“Fuck,” he whispers in your ear.

Your pussy clenches again at his voice, his lips moving over your skin, kissing and licking you, murmuring words against your skin.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get enough of you,” he whispers.

You let out a soft whimper of response, your body feeling overstimulated. Every movement of his mouth over your skin makes your pussy clench.

“Too much, Spencer, it’s too much.” You whisper, making no move to push him away.

He groans softly in response, his hand sliding between your legs and down to your pussy. You try to squirm away from the touch, but it’s no use. His finger is rubbing at your clit as his tongue moves inside your mouth, making your head spin.

“Spencer,” you gasp. “Fuck.”

He growls something deep in his throat, his finger moving faster. “You can do it, baby. You can give me another.” Your eyes are rolled back, your head pressed against the couch behind him.

You shatter apart in his arms, his mouth swallowing you whole. 

He holds you close for a long moment before he leans forward to kiss you softly. He murmurs words against your lips, words that are sweet and gentle and loving, then you feel him shift your body so that he can pull out of your pussy.

You make a soft whimpering sound as his cock slides out of you, feeling the cum drip down your thighs. He reaches between your legs to cup your pussy, feeling the wetness drip out of you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Look at that. So fucking full of my cum.”

He pulls his hand away and holds it out towards you. He looks up at you with dark eyes as he moves his fingers to your mouth. You watch as the cum drips off them and down your chin as you lean forward and lick them clean, swirling your tongue around his digits, collecting your mixed release.

Spencer groans, cock twitching against your thigh, still half-hard. He pulls his hand back, rubbing the cum over your pussy.

“Stay like that for me,” he rasps, his voice full of need. “So fuckin’ pretty, such a messy girl.”

“Anything, Spencer,” you whisper back.

You watch as he strokes himself again, groaning as his cock hardens again. You feel empty without him inside of you, like a part of you is missing.

It’s not long before you feel his lips on yours again, his tongue moving into your mouth.

“I have to taste you,” he growls against your lips. “I need to taste you, need to taste us.”

He breaks the kiss and presses your head to the side. You watch in a daze as he moves down your body, lifting your skirt up over your hips and leaning forward. His hands press your thighs apart as he stares at your cum-drenched pussy.

“I think you can cum again for me,” he murmurs.

You whimper in response.

Spencer presses his thumb to your clit. You cry out as he rubs at you, feeling your body tremble again. You’re barely able to hold yourself up at this point, your muscles so overstimulated that you’re trembling all over.

“Please—”

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Please what, angel?”

You whine in response.

“Please what?” he growls again. “Ask me nicely.”

Your eyes flutter closed. You feel his thumb rub at your clit again, and your pussy clenches.

“Please,” you gasp. “Spencer. Please, just need you.”

He kisses your thigh again before moving up towards your mouth. Lips move against yours as you tremble against him, his kiss hungry and deep. You feel your head spin as you try to return it.

He breaks the kiss and looks up at you, his gaze hungry. “Open your mouth for me,” he growls.

You do as he asks, parting your lips as he moves towards your mouth, then he’s spitting inside of it, his saliva dripping down your chin.

He rubs his spit into your skin with his hand, leaving it there, watching it glisten over your lips and chin. His hand moves back to your pussy, rubbing his cum into you again. He keeps going until you’re dripping with it, until the cum is running down your inner thighs.

“Look at you,” he rasps, leaning forward to kiss your lips again. “Look at what you did.”

Then you feel him lean forward and lick up his cum, his tongue rubbing against your sensitive clit. You make a noise deep in your throat and try to arch into him, his hands holding you down.

“No,” he rasps. “Stay still.”

“But—”

He leans forward, licking at you again. You can’t take your eyes off the sight of his tongue moving over you, can’t help the way your body shudders in response.

Spencer looks up at you as he licks at you. His eyes are dark with hunger, his mouth dripping with his cum. “Stay just like that,” he growls. “Such a good girl, my pretty little angel.”

His tongue making you shudder as your orgasm builds again. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking against him, your clit so sensitive that you’re almost sobbing, cunt clenching so hard that you feel like you might explode.

You cum hard against his mouth, his tongue licking at your release even as you clench around it. His tongue never stops, even as you whimper and thrash out against him. He holds you down and licks you until you’re a trembling, shuddering mess against him.

Then finally he pulls back, looking up at you with hungry eyes.

You look up at him dazedly, your body still quivering. Your legs are still draped over his shoulders, your pussy open to him. Cum is still dripping down your thighs.

Your eyes widen as you watch him stroke himself, his hand moving fast. His eyes are fixed on your pussy as his cock stiffens, as his breathing comes faster and faster.

Then he’s leaning down, kissing your pussy one last time.

You can’t help yourself from arching against him, even though he makes no move to touch your clit this time. Your body is too overstimulated, too sensitive to his touch. 

Spencer kisses over your pussy again and again, making you tremble as you feel his cock rub against your thigh. You hear him grunt as his cock pulses, feel his cum soak your pussy all over again. His mouth moves over you again and again as you tremble and whimper, his cum dripping over your swollen cunt.

Finally, he pulls back, finally allowing you to collapse onto the couch, barely able to keep your eyes open.

Spencer pulls you into his arms, holding you tight against him. You lean forward, burying your face in his chest as you try to catch your breath. You hear him whispering words in your ear, sweet and soft.

“Good girl, baby. Such a good girl for me,” you hear him murmur. “Did so well, made me so proud.”

Then his fingers are back between your legs, rubbing at you with gentle strokes. You hear his voice whispering words of praise, telling you what a good girl you were for him. Your pussy clenches against his fingers, and you make a small sound of pleasure. You feel boneless now, your body heavy and relaxed.

“I’ll take care of you,” you hear him whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you, baby.”

You lean forward against him and let yourself melt, his fingers rubbing at your oversensitive pussy as he murmurs praise in your ear. You close your eyes and let him take care of you, let him do whatever he wants to your body.

You know now that you’ll do anything for him.

You feel your pussy clench against his fingers one last time, and then you’re out, held in his arms as the cum runs down your thighs. You feel him whisper one last thing in your ear before you fall asleep. You can’t quite make it out, but you know it’s something good. Something sweet.

You sleep in his arms as he holds you tight, his fingers still buried in your cum-soaked pussy. 

Nestled against Spencer’s chest, the silence between you comforting yet heavy. There was an undeniable tension in the air, like you were both waiting for the other to say something. He eventually broke the silence, his voice hesitant but determined.

“I’ve been thinking... about us.” Spencer shifted slightly, his hand still resting on your back, his fingers tracing small patterns against your skin. “The money. Our arrangement... I don’t want to stop giving it to you.”

You tensed at the mention of it. You’d been trying to push that part of your relationship into the back of your mind, but hearing him bring it up again—especially now, when things felt so different—was jarring.

“I don’t need the money, Spencer,” you said quickly, pulling slightly away from him, your gaze searching his face. “I never needed it. Not from you.”

His brow furrowed, his hand gently grasping your wrist, his thumb brushing over your skin with a quiet insistence. “I want to give it to you,” he said softly, his tone a little more urgent now. “It’s not just about... the arrangement we had before. It’s about me taking care of you, providing for you, because I care about you.”

You shook your head, your chest tight. “I don’t want you to do that. I don’t want to feel like I owe you something. I just want you, Spencer. Not the money, not the... arrangement.”

He let out a long breath, clearly frustrated with the distance between what he wanted and what you were saying. “You don’t owe me anything. But this is how I show you that I care. You don’t get it. I don’t just want you physically, or emotionally. I want to take care of you. I want to make sure you have everything you need. If that means money, then that’s what I’ll do.”

His words were persistent, full of a quiet desperation that made your heart ache. “You’re not getting rid of me,” he continued, his gaze intense. “Not now. Not after everything.”

You felt the tension building inside you, a tug of war between pride and the vulnerability his words offered. He was right in one way—you didn’t want to feel like you were taking advantage of him. But another part of you knew he was genuine. He wasn’t just trying to control you, or manipulate you. This was him trying to protect you, in the only way he knew how.

“I... I don’t want to need it,” you whispered, barely able to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to need anyone like that.”

Spencer’s thumb ran across your cheek, his touch gentle but firm. “I understand. But you don’t have to need it. You don’t have to feel like you’re relying on me for everything. But let me do this for you, please. Let me take care of you in this way.”

There was a quiet, almost painful silence as you thought over his words. You felt the battle between your independence and his need to provide waging inside you. He was so certain, so unwavering in his desire to take care of you. And you knew, deep down, that this wasn’t just about the money. It was about him wanting to feel like he was enough for you—like he could give you something, be something more than just a professor or a lover.

With a soft sigh, you finally relented, your eyes meeting his. “Okay,” you said quietly, your voice tinged with hesitation. 

His expression softened immediately, a mixture of relief and something else you couldn’t quite name. “Thank you,” he said, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch tender. “I just- I want to take care of you… in every way possible. I need to do that.”

You nodded, your heart still pounding in your chest, but now it felt a little easier to breathe. You were navigating this relationship together—despite the secrecy, despite the complications. And now, despite the money, too.

The morning light crept through the blinds, painting the room with soft hues of gold. Spencer sat at the kitchen table, his book in front of him, but his attention was somewhere else. His glasses were perched low on his nose, and his hair was slightly messy from sleep.

You leaned against the doorway for a moment, watching him, feeling a small, contented smile tug at the corner of your mouth. “Early start today?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

He glanced up at you, his smile gentle and easy. “Couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts.”

You moved to the table and sat across from him, the space between you feeling familiar now. It wasn’t filled with tension or expectations—just quiet comfort.

After a moment, you spoke again, this time quieter, more thoughtful. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How easy it feels now.”

He set his coffee down, his fingers lingering on the cup. “Strange how?”

“Like we don’t have to overthink everything.” You shrugged, leaning back slightly in your chair. “Like we can just... exist here, like this. Without any of the complications.”

He watched you for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know what you mean. It feels... easier than I thought it would.”

You couldn’t quite explain it, but there was something in his expression, in the way his eyes softened when they met yours, that made everything feel a little clearer.

“Is this what you want?” you asked, the question feeling lighter than it had before.

Spencer took a moment, running his hand through his hair before answering, his voice steady. “I think this is what I’ve been wanting all along.”

You sat with that for a moment, letting it settle between you, and somehow, in that quiet space, it made more sense than it had in the past. There didn’t need to be grand gestures or sweeping promises. Just a simple understanding, and that felt enough.

The rest of the world could wait. You didn’t need to rush toward anything else.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

taglist: @ivet4 @lunarmoonbeam1

[pro-patria-mori-if]

Play the Demo! (Updated 6/15/2025) (Prologue and Chapter 1)

Kortapolis. The jewel of the Kingdom of Edria. The busiest port in Eastern Lysseta. Your home. At least, it was your home. You were born with the sound of the ocean in your ears and the smell of its salt in your nose. Your life revolved around the busy commotion of the port, the fruit stalls that lined the streets downtown, the cafes where people swapped stories and secrets. This was your whole world—until it came crashing down. When Wastoria invaded, everything changed. Soldiers marched in the streets and reduced neighborhoods to rubble. Civilians were forced out of the city, and close friends, allies, and confidants disappeared under the waves of an invasion so powerful that even now, it visits you in your dreams. Years later, Edria is in two. The upland region, the mountains, are still part of Edria. But Kortapolis District is occupied by Wastoria, a humiliation so bracing that sometimes it still leaves your heart pounding with rage. The rest of the world calls Kortapolis District a “disputed zone”. You know what it is: yours. But you won’t let your home vanish behind the pointed guns of the Wastorian military. No: you rise through the ranks in Edria, and soon, you are elected president. A fledgling new democracy, Edria has a litany of problems. But the biggest of all is drawn in careful dashed lines on every world map.  Fixing this may take careful statecraft, a strategic balancing of alliances. It may take cyberwarfare, harnessed by cultivating an ally. It may take economic retaliation, or sanctions. It may take subterfuge, weakening Wastoria from the inside out. It may take war. But one thing is certain. You will make Kortapolis yours again.  You will make Edria whole. Maybe that will heal you, too.

Pro Patria Mori is a sci-fi/fantasy interactive fiction novel where you play as the president of the Republic of Edria, a fledgling democracy emerging from diplomatic isolation.

Content Warnings: depictions of war, discrimination, and torture. Route-specific warnings include past physical, emotional, or sexual abuse (labelled and avoidable)

*Customize President Rezanii. Choose your appearance, gender, background, species, personality, and political outlook.

*Choose your relationship with your missing parents, the nature of your imprisonment by Wastorian forces, and your attitude towards Edria's future.

*Explore a world where magic and technology blend.

*Discover Edria, a Caribbean-inspired country on the brink of democracy or dictatorship.

*Receive diplomatic and personal messages in your in-game inbox and receive news updates on the consequences of your decisions

*Define your term in office. Will you wage war or build peace? Will you push Edria towards democracy or revive the old monarchy?

Vice President Faustino Marellii: your best friend

Romanceable? Yes

Faustino grew up alongside you; it was only natural he’d be your vice president. Before joining your campaign, Faustino was the popular mayor of Alzome, Edria’s capital. He has a reputation for being surprisingly gentle despite the cutthroat nature of Edrian politics. At least, for all issues except Edria’s relationship with Wastoria. He took care of you after you were freed from Wastorian prison and he still worries over your wellbeing. 

Appearance: tall and toned with bronze skin and soft freckles. He has bright violet eyes and wavy, vibrant blue hair, indicative of him being an innate magic user (yadukari) that specializes in controlling ice and water.

Advisor Michi Dandleton: your chief strategist

Romanceable? Yes

Michi is well known in political circles for their workaholic behavior and their remarkable ability to uncover the secrets of their candidate’s opponents. They immigrated to Edria from Adranga shortly after the end of the Edrian civil war, and have never told you why they chose to leave home. They masterminded the campaign that secured you the presidency, and remain a vital part of your staff.

Appearance: average height, lithe build with rosy skin. They have electric blue eyes and short pink hair, indicative of them being a yadukari that specializes in controlling and reading emotions.

Officer Nura Alonar: your bodyguard

Romanceable? Yes, slow-burn romance

Nura was identified as a particularly powerful magic user when she was young, and the Edrian royal guard offered her parents a stipend in exchange for her being sent away and trained. Her parents accepted and Nura left her home for the capital, where she was raised to one day serve the royal family. But when the civil war reached the palace, she and a few other trainees defected to assist the pro-democracy forces. Now she serves as the last line of defense between you and the people who want to kill you.

Appearance: short and very muscular with dark brown skin with significant scarring. She has red eyes and hair, which she keeps in long braids with decorative beads she uses as magic amplifiers. While she’s a yadukari, her training means she can control fire as well as use telekinesis.

Ambassador Junius Felice: ambassador from the Empire of Langostia

Romanceable? Yes, either as a fling or a romance

Rich, arrogant, and almost always jovial, Junius is known in diplomatic circles for his lavish parties and condescending attitude towards democracies and countries poorer than his own. He was born and raised in Langostia, the wealthy and powerful monarchy to Edria’s north. He’s been tasked with rebuilding Langostia’s relationship with their former ally Edria through whatever means necessary—and, ideally, steering Edria away from democracy. 

Appearance: tall with an average build and tawny skin. He has dark brown eyes and long brown, almost black hair. He has no innate magic, but that’s no reason to underestimate him.

Consul Priyanshi Areshka: consul from the Republic of Kalendra

Romanceable? Yes

Priyanshi represents Kalendra, a country Edria has yet to recognize. She was born in Langostia as a vatilti–a class of genetically engineered and cybernetically enhanced people used as spies and soldiers by the Langostian royal family and classified as property under Langostian law. Kalendra was founded by escaped vatilti, and its continued existence and growing prosperity is a long-standing annoyance to Langostia. Priyanshi is still adjusting to life with recognized personhood and is utterly fascinated by the ability to sleep in, eat interesting foods, and insult people without getting shocked by an implant.

Appearance: very tall and toned with warm brown skin and significant cybernetic modifications. She has golden, pupil-less eyes and golden, coily hair. Priyanshi is a sankara, a species of being with innate magic and the ability to easily shapeshift.

Admiral Garzi: the former president of Edria

Romanceable? No

The father of the Edrian Republic and, depending on your choices, a father figure or mentor to you as well. Garzi was an admiral dating back to the Kingdom of Edria and he helped start the civil war after refusing an order to fire on unarmed pro-democracy protestors. He was elected the first president of Edria, largely because he was the only figure voters could rally around. He’s always had a soft spot for you, which you can choose to reciprocate or not.

Appearance: late 50s, stocky build with dark tan skin and deep brown hair that is now going gray after years serving a hostile royal family and then trying to guide Edria into being a new democracy. His eyes are kind, but tired. His appearance makes it clear he has no innate magic, though that hasn’t stopped him from being one of the most popular—and divisive—figures in Edria.

Ambassador Arlo Iltik: the Wastorian ambassador to Edria

Romanceable? No

A patriotic Wastorian and yadukari nationalist, Arlo has been sent to Edria to try and convince the Edrian government to recognize Kortapolis as Wastorian territory through negotiation, coercion, violence, or all of the above. He doesn’t particularly respect you or your country.

Appearance: soft lilac hair indicating mental powers and fair skin. Arlo is average height, but the way he carries himself makes him seem to loom over other people. Deep purple eyes that almost seem to glow. Very fashionable and favors Wastorian styles, which tend to be flowing and dramatic, with bold colors.

@interact-if

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter twelve

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: jack's day off begins with memory and ritual, a quiet reckoning between breath and bone. but peace never lingers long—not in his world.

⤿ warning(s): graphic depictions of violence

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.3k

Jack’s day off is always thin ice—too much space for thoughts to echo—but he marks Veterans Day anyway, the way a believer keeps holy water near the door.

Morning, he rides the bus to the granite memorial by Point State Park, prosthetic ticking softly on the pavement. He traces eight letters on Panel 19—men who joked about Pittsburgh pierogis during chow, who died clearing a road Jack still sees in dreams. He presses his forehead to the cold stone and bargains, same as every year: I’m still here; I’ll make it count.

By noon he’s walking the river trail while herons lift off the water, but for once the sharp November air feels more like medicine than punishment. He times his breathing to the slap of sneakers behind him—old habit, mapping threats even in a city park—then forces himself to look up, catalog the living: a kid chasing leaves, a couple arguing about grocery lists. No IEDs, no snipers, just ordinary chaos. He reminds his heartbeat that it’s allowed to slow.

Late afternoon finds him at a hole-in-the-wall diner with Ahmad from the old unit, the only friend who doesn’t flinch when Jack jumps at slammed doors. They swap dad jokes, dissect the Steelers’ offensive line, but eventually the talk slides where it always does: how silence isn’t peace, just camouflage.

“Quiet stretches never last,” Ahmad says around a mouthful of pie. “Stay frosty, Doc.”

Jack laughs, but it sticks halfway down. He knows Ahmad is right; something in him is always measuring exits—even now, even home.

His day back, he strides back into the lobby expecting the usual routine end-of-shift bustle. Instead he walks straight into a wall of flashing reds and blues. Police radios hiss under the vaulted ceiling; security tape cords off the east service stairwell. A cluster of officers in ballistic vests crowds the information desk while hospital staff hover at the margins, faces blanched with dread.

His heart slams once, hard. Quiet stretches never last.

“Jack!” Dana’s voice slices through the clamor. She barrels toward him, Robby a half-step behind. Her icy blond hair is half out of its clip, cheeks blotched; Robby’s normally playful grin is gone, jaw set tight.

He takes one step, then another, heart punching up into his throat. The din narrows to a single question: Where is she?

“What the hell happened?!” he snaps out instead, voice already half-feral.

Dana intercepts him, fingers biting into his bicep. “It’s the stalker, they’re both on the roof,” she pants. “He’s a lab doc—pathology—has her pinned with a scalpel. SWAT’s staging now.”

The vowels barely register; the meaning detonates. Your rooftop—your shared sanctuary—has been turned into a kill ring. He lunges for the stairwell entrance, but Robby is suddenly there, forearm across Jack’s chest, muscles corded.

“Brother, stop.” Robby’s voice quavers—he never shakes. “Negotiator’s already up. Gloria’s locked down every route.”

Every instinct in Jack’s body screams breach, clear, extract—the algorithm seared into him overseas—but here he’s hemmed in by Kevlar and assault rifles, a medic with shaking, empty hands while the woman he loves is upstairs at knife-point.

Robby and Dana funnel him toward what used to be the reception bay, now a hive of armor and jargon. The Pitt— chronically understaffed on a calm day— was buckling under the strain. Orderlies hustle bewildered patients toward side exits for ambulance transfers; wheelchairs clog the corridor like abandoned shopping carts. A charge nurse argues with two uniformed cops who won’t let her retrieve a critical drug from Pyxis; an elderly visitor sobs into a cellphone, begging for updates on her husband still in radiology. Above the din, overhead pages stutter with diversion orders—all inbound trauma rerouted to Mercy, all code strokes diverted to Presby—clogging an already overloaded city grid.

The admissions desk is gone, buried beneath stacked monitors, tangle of ethernet cables, and a glowing tactical map where insurance forms once sat. Rifles sway inches from IV poles; the stench of gun oil mixes with disinfectant and sour adrenaline. Nurses hover at the perimeter, eyes round, shrinking from the foreign clink of magazine plates in a place built for scalpels.

At the center of it all stands Gloria, white blouse damp with sweat, headset skewed, radio pinned to her shoulder as if it’s grafted to bone. She barks orders like suppressing fire:

“Seal Imaging elevators. Trauma One hot; C-arm standing by. No one but ESU touches the roof hatch— copy that?”

As if on cue, an ESU lieutenant stomps over, ready to clear them out, and Jack is more than ready to square up to any attempt to have him removed. But instead, Gloria plants her palm on the desk and meets his eyes without blinking. “He’s my trauma doctor,” she snaps. “He stays until I say otherwise.”

The lieutenant’s jaw works—unused to hospital brass talking back—but he nods. Gloria rounds on Jack. Her pupils are pinpoints of battle focus. “Stay sharp, but stay here. When they need medical intel you’re their lifeline. We do this by the book.”

Jack’s fingernails bite crescents into his palms. The urge to charge the stairwell is a live current under his skin, but Gloria’s steel sinks into his spine: Hold the line, doctor.

He gulps air that tastes of ammonia and fear, forcing combat breaths—four in, four out—until the roar in his ears recedes enough to think. Around him, chaos snarls: a respiratory therapist yells for security clearance to reach NICU; a porter tries to wheel an intubated patient through a knot of shields; Dana pleads with a patrol sergeant for scraps of information but gets stonewalled. Everyone is starved for intel, and the cops are sealing it up tight.

Robby presses a lukewarm coffee into Jack’s fist—a flimsy anchor—and plants himself like a guard tower. Dana rubs rough circles between Jack’s shoulders, her own tears biting the corners of her eyes. Code tones ripple overhead—someone in Ortho crashing, another ward running out of ventilators—ordinary disasters threading through the extraordinary and present one.

Time stretches like piano wire ready to snap. Jack’s gaze nails the stairwell doors where helmeted officers flow in and out with reptilian precision. Every slight change in their posture dumps a fresh flood of adrenaline into his blood. He counts respirations, memorizes the tremor of the coffee lid, fights the terror that tells him any minute now could be the last minute for the woman he loves.

A fresh stir ripples the phalanx of shields: the ESU incident commander had arrived. Broad-shouldered in matte armor, visor up, he scans the overflowed lobby once, then motions Gloria away from her makeshift desk. She follows, radio muted, and the two disappear behind a bank of wheeled charts—privacy in a sea of chaos.

Jack can’t hear them, but he reads the body language as if it’s vital signs: the commander gesturing upward, two fingers stabbing roof-ward; Gloria folding her arms, shaking her head, jaw a hard slash. He leans in again, she slices the air with a flat palm—No. He answers with an open hand—Option?—then draws an invisible blade across his own throat. Jack’s stomach knots. Gloria’s shoulders sag; she rubs her temples, then finally nods, clipped and furious.

They re-emerge. The commander’s voice is low but carries across the hush of stalled stretchers. “Doctor Abbott,” he says, visor eyes meeting Jack’s. “Subject on the roof is naming you. Only you. He’s threatening to advance if anyone else breaches.”

A collective inhale shudders through nearby nurses. Gloria steps beside the commander, spine rigid. “You’ll go wired—live audio, vest cam,” she orders, not asks. “Hands visible. If the blade lifts, you step back. ESU owns the follow-through.”

Dana’s grip tightens on Jack’s sleeve; Robby’s jaw clenches so hard the muscle jumps. Jack answers before either can object.

“Copy. Get me a mic and a vest.”

An operator hustles forward with Kevlar and a throat mike. As Jack cinches straps, he catches the brief lift of the commander’s brow at the service tattoo on Jack’s bicep, the soft clack of the prosthetic knee. Respect, or recalibration—either way, the tech’s voice gentles while threading the comm line.

Gloria hovers for a single heartbeat, eyes burning. “Slow tone,” she warns. “Open palms. Bring her home.”

“I will,” Jack says, the promise flat as bedrock.

He turns to Dana and Robby—fear and faith sharing their faces—and nods once. Then the tactical wedge folds around him, shields raised, and they move in concert down the corridor toward the familiar stairwell that climbs into November dark, where a scalpel gleams beside the only heartbeat he cares about.

The rooftop is a slab of charcoal under a moonless sky, rimmed only by the faint orange wash of parking-lot lamps below. Jack steps through the access door in a slow, deliberate silhouette—palms open, fingers spread, nothing but night air between him and the man crouched beside the east parapet.

You’re half-folded in the stranger’s lap, knees and elbows scraped. He’s coiled around you like barbed wire—one arm cinched at your waist, the other gripping a scalpel so close to your throat Jack can see your pulse banging beneath the blade. Your tears have carved messy tracks over your cheeks; your chest jerks with soundless panic.

All the bright spirit that greeted sunrise twelve hours earlier is crushed into this trembling knot of terror.

Jack’s heart lurches hard enough to bruise, but his voice comes out steady—field-medic calm. “Dorian. Hands are up and empty, just like you asked.”

Dorian looks over at him, cheek is a blistered patch of red where something scalding had probably struck; sweat beads at his hairline, eyes glittering fever-bright. “I should’ve been first,” he hisses, tightening his grip until you flinch. “If only you hadn’t shown up in her life, she’d have seen me sooner.”

“It’s not a competition,” Jack answers, taking a measured step forward. Every inch he moves is a war against the urge to sprint, tackle, bleed. “No one’s against you here.”

“Liar.” Dorian’s voice cracks, half sob, half rage. “You barge in with your soldier heroics—she was perfect before you muddied it. My notes, my gifts—she understood order. Now look!” He shakes the scalpel in wild emphasis; the blade flashes, too near your skin. Your sob becomes a choking whimper.

Jack’s fingers curl, then flatten. Show no threat. “She’s exhausted, Dorian. Let her breathe. Then we can talk about what went wrong.”

“You went wrong!” he spits. He nestles the edge under your jaw; you freeze. Jack feels his own vision blaze white then narrow to a single target: that trembling wrist. He exhales, forces every molecule of fury down into his boots.

“We both care about her,” he says—voice dropping to that steady frequency meant to slow hemorrhages and heart rates. “And caring means easing her fear. You can do that—right now—by moving the blade away.” He nods at your tear-streaked face.

Dorian’s eyes flick to the knife, conflicted. Jack inches closer, keeping shoulders square, hands still high.

“She’s crying because I disappointed her,” Dorian whimpers, the certainty of his delusion buckling. “Tell him,” he orders you, shaking your shoulders. You sob harder, unable to speak.

Jack’s muscles bunch. The comm in his ear hisses: Seven feet. Clear head-shot. But he breathes, Not yet.

“This isn’t disappointment; it’s exhaustion,” Jack says, voice softening. “Fourteen hours on her feet, then a rooftop wind at night. She needs rest. We can give her that. Slide the blade to the ground, Dorian. Let me check her vitals.”

Dorian’s grip falters—a micro-tremor. He licks cracked lips, gaze darting between Jack’s calm stance and the dark slit of sky beyond the rail, as if weighing two horizons.

Jack takes another half step, almost within reach. Fury climbs his throat—your bruised arm, the tremor in your lower lip—but he buries it beneath the medic’s vow: first, do no harm.

“Dorian,” he murmurs, voice a thread anchoring three frantic heartbeats in the dark, “you’ve got control. Show me.”

The rooftop wind gusts, snapping stale hospital air into their faces. For one suspended moment, the blade wavers—hesitation shining like a crack in glass. And Jack readies every fiber of nerve to slip through that fracture and pull you back to daylight.

Dorian’s wrist trembles. Then—like a circuit finally sparking—he exhales and lets the scalpel slip from his fingers. It clicks against concrete, spins once, comes to rest.

“Good,” Jack murmurs, stepping closer. The night wind cuts between them, smelling of river ice and asphalt. He sees the decision glazing over Dorian’s eyes half a heartbeat too late.

“No one understands balance,” Dorian whispers, almost serene. “But maybe they’ll understand gravity.”

Before the words fully register, he surges upright, hauling you with him. His arm locks across your collarbones, iron-strong despite his wiry frame. Your ragged gasp rips the stillness apart.

Jack reacts—voice lost to roaring blood—but Dorian is already backing toward the parapet. ESU shouts behind him; boots thunder. The rooftop seems to tilt, time shearing into jagged frames: Dorian’s heel hitting the low ledge, your eyes huge with terror.

“Jack!” you scream—the single syllable shredding to panic.

And then he does the unthinkable: with a final, almost tender squeeze, he pitches himself backward, hauling you over the edge into black vacancy. Your cry knifes through the night just as Jack pushes, arms outstretched, heart detonating, every instinct pulverizing the distance between life and a twenty-story fall—

— and the world cuts to white noise and freefall.

divider credit

[bixbythemartian]

50+ Ways to Annoy the Death Witch

Chapter 1: Call her a Necromancer

Ch. 2 >>

I was on the porch sketching when Callahan showed up.

Callahan works for the Council and investigates witchy doings. Mostly in the vein of ‘please lets keep the normies from trying to murder us all’, though that concern has gone down a TON in the internet era.

You’d think it would be the opposite, right? Everybody has a camera, all the time. Surely they’d catch actual magic!

Yeah. They do, all the fuckin time, and they call it something else. Or they do call it magic, and they’re called crazy. You've seen 'em. The internet is full of people who think giants or aliens built the pyramids, people who claim they see shadow people, or think their neighbor controls the cows, they just don't stand out.

Anyway, work has dried up for Callahan and people like him, is my point. It's a much slower gig than it was back in the day.

Is he a witch cop? Ehhhh... he’s the closest we come. Mostly he’s just trying to keep us out of the news, like I said. If one of us was really out of line he’d take it to the council and let them handle it (usually by binding the witch’s magic), but that hasn’t happened in a couple of decades.

He still comes and crawls up my ass every time some teenager finds an old grimoire and brings back the family pet, or whatever.

I stood up as his truck came down the drive. That was my last big project, taking the gravel out and putting pavers in for the driveway. It was expensive as hell, but it means that I can just swap a paver out if one cracks, rather than having to have to deal with gravel all the time.

I do kind of miss the noise of the gravel, though.

That payday was from his last visit, come to think- usually he comes out because he's stumped, and after he's done accusing me of atrocities and grave robbing, he hires me to help him figure out who actually did it.

Pretty often it's some kid with too much magic and not enough sense trying to bring back someone they love. It's always sad, but that's easy to handle. By the time we get involved, they're usually pretty anxious for a solution, because it has gotten out of control.

He parked next to my pickup and got out, strolling over like he had all god damned day. He’s probably in his late 30s, dark hair and eyes. He lives up in the city, these days, but his grandparents went to high school with mine, in a town that gets smaller every year, and are buried in the same damned graveyard.

I first met him in that very graveyard.

“Hey there, Miss Tabitha,” he said. “How’s my favorite necromancer?”

I sighed. He annoys me so much.

“I know, I know, you don’t like being called that.”

“I’m not a necromancer,” I said, for probably the thousandth time.

“Sure, you’re a different kind of death magic witch. Whatever.”

“A necromancer is someone who uses magic to control corpses, and can be any type of witch. I’m a death witch, my power source is the death of any and all organic matter. Some witches get their power from the earth or the stars or weather, mine happens to come from a different natural force.” I don’t know where he gets his from. For a while I suspected it was hair gel, but he switched to wearing ballcaps.

I think he’s balding.

“And you use it to keep your neighbor’s chickens from getting sick and that’s it, huh?”

“I buy eggs off her,” I said. “Do you want something, or do you just get itchy if you haven’t accused me of something unholy?”

He clicked his tongue. “Well, now, there’s a cemetery out in Macomb that’s had some bodies dug up.”

“Macomb,” I said. I knew vaguely where it was- south of highway nine, east of where I lived, but pretty easy driving distance. I’d have to look at a map to be sure, but definitely a place I could drive out and back from in a day and still have plenty of time to get up to trouble. “You actually found a local crime to accuse me of, you’re getting a bit better at your job.” He rolled his eyes.

“What’s going on in Macomb?”

“Well, like I said, some bodies went missing. The cops say it’s funny, it’s almost like they dug themselves out."

"Well, they shouldn't be doin that," I said.

"Right? Coffins are there, just the bodies are gone. I know you’re gonna say it wasn’t you, but it wasn’t you, was it? That’s close enough that you probably draw power from that cemetery. Even if it was an accident?”

“There’s closer cemeteries. Norman has at least two that I know of.”

“Well, that’s fair,” he said. “I gotta ask. Necromancy shit in our neck of the woods? I gotta ask, Tabby.”

“Don’t call me that,” I said.

“Was it you?” he insisted.

“No, it wasn’t me,” I said.

“Alright, that’s all I needed to ask.” Once he'd asked and I'd answered, that was it, he didn't pester me about it again.

“Are you trying to get my help, or do you want to wander around with your thumb up your butt for a few days first?”

“Come on, Tabitha. We’ll pay you the usual rates,” he said.

I sighed at him, just so he knew I was annoyed. “Let me put some pants on and run a brush through my hair, and then I need to see the graves.”

“We’re taking my pickup,” he said. “So, if you’ve got a step stool-”

“Ha ha,” I said. “Wait here.” I took my sketchbook inside, and dropped it on the table by the door, went to find a brush and change into jeans. Grabbed my kit- it’s just got standard odds and ends that one might need when casting on the go, some prepared spells, all stuffed in an ancient maroon Jansport.

I’m probably going to have to get a new bag soon, I’ve had this one since 8th grade, and it’s really starting to wear out.

We head out.

He’s got a 70s Ford pickup he’s been restoring, to sell. Well, he’s been ‘restoring’ it about as long as I’ve been cleaning the house out so I can sell it, maybe longer, and I've been living in the house near a decade, so. Take that as you will.

It’s in decent shape on the inside, and the a/c works, and it’s matte primer gray on the outside, has been for years now.

The road out where I live is dirt, and then it goes to gravel, before you get on something paved.

He looked up in the rearview mirror. “You know, I just figured it was someone else who lived out this way when I came out, but I do believe I’m being followed.”

I looked in the sideview mirror. There was someone behind us, but it was hard to see them through all the dust the truck was kicking up.

Magic came rushing at the mirror, and snapped it off.

“Rude,” I said.

“Did they just snap off my mirror?”

I started cranking the window down. “Turn left if you have to turn, warn me if there’s a right curve,” I said, unbuckling my belt, and wrapping it around my leg. “But try to go straight as you can, that’ll help me aim.”

“It’ll help them aim, too.”

“Don’t worry about them.” Magic whined as it pinged off the vehicle. “You really should shield the pickup.”

“I’m just gonna sell it.”

I pulled myself out of the seat to sit on the window, one hand gripping the ‘oh shit’ handle, my legs clenching the door.

Late model SUV, something dark. I could see why he recognized it right away- it was a sort of dark red and had an engine snorkel. Also some extra lights on front- someone goes out in this truck. Mudding, looks like.

They had someone standing up through the sun/moon roof firing spells at us. He was using something that looks like a gun. That’s pretty common, these days, wands resembling guns.

Wands are a type of prepared spell, they hold charges and you fire off the charges until you’re out. Most people mostly use prepared spells.

Most people just can’t hold that much magic inside their bodies- there’s an upper limit- and so the best way to store the magic they gather from the wind or the stars or the grass or whatever their thing is to make spells and put the magic there. Even the more powerful witches, witches like me with a larger capacity for magic, they tend to store a lot in prepared spells.

Most sources trickle it in. So if you blow your magical load, as it were, you have to wait for it to come back. Recharge under a starlit sky where the light pollution is low. Or lay in the tickling grass.

There’s some exceptions. Sun witches- rare- basically can refuel constantly. Oh, it’s night? Oh, it’s cloudy? The heat in the ground beneath your feet comes from the sun. The sun is a constant, even when it’s not out. Sea witches, too- they have to be in range of the coast, but within that range, powerful. There’s also rumor of one lady up in the midwest who gathers her power specifically from the Great Lakes, and she’s supposed to be one of the most powerful witches in the world.

You know what's also around all the time? Dead shit.

If it is now dead and was ever alive, even briefly, it belongs to me.

Like his wand, a bit of dead wood. I sucked the power out of his wand, and whipped it out of his hand. “Knock it the fuck off!” I shout. I could barely see him, but he looked young.

He swore, shaking his hand. “Ram them!”

The driver I could see even less of, but I could see him shaking his head.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said.

It takes a deep spike of power- the older and longer dead something is, the more briefly it was alive, the harder it is to fuck with.

Gasoline, for example, is derived from something that died at least 66 million years ago, so it’s kind of a big one.

The driver managed not to roll the car off the road as the car engine suddenly stopped working, and Callahan came to a stop.

I figured they'd be alright, they go out mudding, they're used to shit going wrong.

“The hell did you do? It took a ton of power. My nose hairs are burning.”

“Turned their gas into mesozoic algae for long enough to shut their car off,” I said.

"What?"

"Gas is made from crude oil. Crude oil is dead shit. Specifically, algae and plankton from the mesozoic."

"Huh. Your nose is bleeding," he said.

I wiped at my nose, untangled myself from the seatbelt, and managed to dismount from the window and land on both feet, which is about as much as I could ask for.

My right eye was throbbing- I’d drained myself to the last drop for that.

Still, there was a dead skunk on the road, and dead tree limbs, and I breathed magic in. The ache receded, but probably wouldn’t go away until I'd slept.

I walked up to their SUV, the driver keeping both hands on the wheel, like I was a cop. “Hey,” I said. “What the fuck?” I put my hand on the car, and converted all the ancient ocean sludge back into gas. That was easier, but it still made my eye throb.

The wand wielder jumped out of the SUV and got up in my face, tried to shove me against the car, but Callahan grabbed him and pulled him back.

“My grandparents crawled out of their grave, and everybody knows they got a pet necromancer around here. I want them back.”

Now, I’m not actually that easy to intimidate, and he was just a snot-nosed kid who’s barely old enough to drink, if that. But he was also angry to cover up being scared.

“Well, we’re on our way to find out what’s happened. Having to stop for your bullshit isn’t helpful," Callahan said.

“Everybody knows it was you.”

“Sweetheart, if I was raising the dead, why would I start with your kin? I don’t know you, I don't know your grandparents."

He looked at the driver. He had bleached his hair and it was a sort of peachy pink that could have been intentional or it could have been to light a pink over too orange a bleach. The driver had blue-black hair that was definitely box dye. They both looked indecisive.

"It’s probably someone who know your grandparents. It’s like a murder- it’s almost always someone who knows the victim,” I said. He's just a grieving kid, they both are.

“But you’re the only necromancer in the state, maybe the country,” he said. His heart wasn't really in it, though. He was just upset.

“I’m not a necromancer,” I said. “I am a death witch. It’s not the same thing. They died recently?”

He nodded. “We spent a lot of time living with em, Mom was in and out of rehab, and Dad… I don’t know. He wasn’t around until we were older.”

“You get your magic from this side, or your Daddy’s side?”

“They had magic, but they say I got mine from Dad, and he gets his from Mom.” He jerked his head at his brother in the driver's seat.

“Okay. Why don’t you get out in front, we’ll head on out to the gas station, because I need a fuckin energy drink, and then we can go take a look. Sometimes I can see stuff nobody else can, and I have a good nose for corpses.”

“You really think you can find them?”

"I don't know for sure about finding their bodies, but I'm positive we'll get to the bottom of this," I said.

He nodded and, almost sheepish, headed back to the SUV.

“Just try and start her again,” I told the driver. “I’ll top you off at the Valero station, that trick probably pulled some out of your tank.”

The car started, and they pulled around us and sped off.

“You think they’ll be at the gas station?” Callahan asked.

“Mmm. Fifty fifty, but they’ll be at the cemetery, which is what I really care about. C’mon, I want a Monster.”

“You keep drinking that crap, your heart’ll stop.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, climbing into the truck. “Let’s go.”\

Ch. 2 >>

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