#filed under: the archives and lost files

[amywritesthings]

the archives & lost files. / three wick candle / a geto x gojo x reader fic

i had this preview of a throuple fic i had planned like two years ago just sitting in my drafts, and i figured i could maybe start a series of 'archives and lost files'. aka the fics / concepts / etc that may one day rise to fruition - or may never come to be!

this was supposed to be a short series when i was really into jjk. maybe one day i'll return to it, but here's the prologue for those who may have been interested !!

pairing: geto x gojo x reader fandom: jujutsu kaisen word count: 1k+ tags: arranged marriage mention, forbidden romance, secret polyamorous relationship/throuple, angst, hurt/comfort, set around hidden inventory arc, dividers by @/saradika-graphics

“We could just… go.”

The words tumble out of your mouth faster than you mean them to.

Even with the hesitance hanging at the end of the sentence, your brain lags behind with the exhaustion weighing down your ankles.

You can imagine Geto’s expression, though you purposefully angle your peripheral to avoid it. A lot of your life has been this way: discovery and avoidance, a push and pull wearing the threads of your clothes thin.

Discovering his disappointment, his anguish, his ever-looming empathy will surely break you, so you avoid it. Push against the pull. Push, push, push—

And go.

Like it’s as simple as leaving this beach blanket crowding your shoulders together. Like it's as easy as Gojo’s laugh as he kicks water with his bare feet, thrilled at how cold the water is — you guys gotta get in here, it’s insane! — and oblivious to what looms ahead.

It’s easier not to burden the sole bachelor of the Gojo clan with more weight on his shoulders.

(You enjoy when he’s loud, a bursting firework to your melancholy. Telling him would fizzle that spark — or overcharge it to an accidental wildfire.)

You stare at the gradual sunset beyond Gojo’s spiny back. He bends at the hips, fumbling for the perfect sea shell to finish his trifecta masterpiece. The other two shells sit right by your little toe, finally dried from the afternoon sun.

One is black and strong in its ridges, bigger than any shell you’ve ever set your eyes on, but it has a tiny chip at its base. Gojo must have overlooked that tiny detail, too excited that he’s found one that can completely encompass your palm.

That’s Suguru, he proudly states.

(Suguru, like you, entertains whatever Satoru presents.)

The other sitting beside the black shell is a brilliant blue and smoother, as if exfoliated by sand with love. This one took hours for him to find — soaked to the bone, he crawled up the sand with a tinge of sunburn and a wild look in those bright blue eyes of his.

Gojo flicked the little thing to you in a coin toss, forcing you to catch it mid-air. Is that you? 

Nope. The ‘p’ popped with arrogance. You.

Subverted expectations: the Satoru way.

Searching for the Gojo shell has taken up the rest of the evening, leaving you and Geto stranded as the evening hours begin to creep in. 

Yet considering what awaits you in the upcoming months, you’re happy to hear your stomach growl from lack of dinner and to feel the chill of the incoming night.

“Is that what you want?”

The soft voice to your left takes you out of the moment.

Avoidance isn’t enough this time. Your chin turns, and soon you’re met with the compassionate stare of your friend. 

In the orange glow of the setting sun, he’s ethereal; his wrists remain locked, his thumb and index finger looping together over his raised knees. His swim shorts have dried. Sand peppers his bare feet.

The rogue lock of hair sitting against his temple shifts when he turns closer to you, dropping his volume an octave.

“To leave?”

No.

You never want to leave Okinawa. You never want to leave your dorm room bed in Tokyo. You never want to see a single sunset like this again, not unless—

“Not unless it's with both of you,” you confess in a murmur.

Geto’s dark-eyed stare remains meaningful, brave, as he soaks in your words.

You stretch your legs out to give your aching body something to do, burying your feet into the soft tan sand ahead. “They’d probably find us pretty quickly anyway.”

“Not if Satoru knew.”

Geto remains serious. He remains staring at you. High alert, should you begin to falter.

An old habit — Geto takes care of everybody but himself.

Gojo whoops and hollers in the background, smacked into the sea by a surprise wave.

You both continue watching one another.

“If Satoru knew—”

“He should,” Geto interrupts gently.

“Suguru,” you warn just as lightly. 

Whispers on the summer wind.

Just like your arranged marriage proposal, rotting away in a scroll somewhere in the bottom of the backpack you carried to the beach today. Even now you can feel its invisible presence in the salty air, threatening to choke you into submission.

Because that was the point of the trip, right? To enjoy one last day without burdens with the two boys you’ve always loved — that you always will love — until reality creeps up to what Jujutsu higher ups hiding behind opaque mirrors expects from you.

What Jujutsu society expects of you.

“Barbaric,” the dark-haired boy starts. “We both know that these archaic, barbaric traditions need to die. I’ve kept your secret like an oath, but I can’t keep Satoru out of the loop much longer. You want to run? Then say the word, because we’ll be on a plane tomorrow. But we aren’t leaving without—”

“I would never leave without him,” you interrupt this time, eyes shining with a flurry of emotions you so rarely allow bubble to the surface. 

Swallow down, down, down — until they no longer exist.

It’s why you’ve enlisted the help of Suguru over Satoru. He knows a thing or two about consuming things that make you feel sick.

“I just… know how he’s going to take it,” you tell him, flickering your attention back to crashing waves to the shore.

Gojo’s back is turned to the two of you, basking in what little sun remains over the horizon. His white hair shifts in the wind — his Infinity is disabled.

At peace.

As carefree as he is, as arrogant as he can be, you know he very rarely feels peace.

“Likely as well as I did,” Geto reminds at your side.

Your head shakes.

“No,” you say. “Worse. Much worse.”

You can see it: the frown forming in your peripheral vision. You blink further to the right. 

Avoid.

“If Satoru knew,” you finally start again, well aware of the infliction in your voice. “Then there would be no stopping him. If Satoru knew, then he would—”

“—help you.”

Geto’s Hawaiian shirt rustles as he detaches his hands to place one onto yours, his interruption soft. Reassuring. 

You stare as his thumb runs across your skin before meeting his gaze, shaking your head.

“...he would burn them all to the ground.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

THE ARCHIVE OF AFFECTION (AND OTHER CRIMES)

— ongoing case files, tooth-rotting exclusives, and other crimes against literary sanity. updates are irregular, but the delusion is consistent. read tags and descriptions on your own risk.

౨ৎ FRONT PAGE EXCLUSIVES .ᐟ

— red string of fate collection

౨ৎ BREAKING NEWS: FRESHLY FILED .ᐟ

— even softer than expected , kill switch 03 , infinite void? more like infinite errands , shy girls suck the best

౨ৎ UNDER SURVEILLANCE: UPCOMING RELEASES .ᐟ

— a treatise on inconvenient attraction , bake me up, buttercup , bloom in the blood , love comes in small sizes 03 , love thy neighbor 03 , kill switch 03

౨ৎ EDITOR’S PICKS: MY PERSONAL CRIMES .ᐟ.

— free throws and figure drawings , told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

౨ৎ HIGH-PROFILE CASES: LONG FICS .ᐟ

— free throws and figure drawings , told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead! , diet pepsi

౨ৎ ONGOING INVESTIGATIONS: SERIES .ᐟ

— a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd! , love comes in small sizes , love thy neighbor , kill switch

౨ৎ LOCAL DISRUPTIONS: SHORT FICS .ᐟ

— roses bloom the prettiest in ruin , no one else needed to notice , all’s fair , love & war , wherever you want it, baby, i’m taking you there! , bet on blue , ivy , panopticon , illicit affairs , warmth waits here , skip me again and i’ll glitch your heart , shy girls suck the best , infinite void? more like infinite errands! , even softer than expected

౨ৎ PSYCHE PROFILE: SATORU GOJO (IMAGINES) .ᐟ

— rich boy roommate satoru , frat boy satoru

౨ৎ OFF THE RECORD: DRABBLES .ᐟ

— satoru x oblivious reader , making satoru blush , satoru’s pint sized copy fails the quiz satoru helped him review , satoru being a tease , yandere satoru w/ servant reader , isekai’d game protag nerdjo x not so npc saintess reader , lost princess reader x etiquette teacher satoru , satoru ’helping’ you take a pregnancy test , satoru vs your period mood swings , temporarily genderbent satoru showing up on ur first date , satoru bakes cookies , magical girl reader x satoru , delulu & yearning nerdjo x shy reader , kid satoru and shikigami reader , basketball player satoru drawing his artist girlfriend reader

[leyavo]

| Into the hornets nest | 5

Part Five: nothings as simple as just filing a report.

🐞Previous parts > [Bug’s masterlist]

The wheel keeps turning, a viscous cycle you can’t quite seem to escape. If you’re up, there’s plenty knocking you back down. And right now the hits keep coming.

You should have known better, should have questioned the archives assistant requesting your presence in the dingy paper archival basement. Thought that maybe you’d have to go over your report before the meeting, but no.

The aisles and aisles of documentation lost in the shadows, a few dust covered lanterns shining a pathway through the maze of shelving units. You just hoped you’d be able to find your way back.

No waiting for you in the dim lit office was Captain Reynar. The turn of the key clicking behind you, but you didn’t look back. Basic survival 101.

Reynar sits on the edge of the desk, muscular arms stretching the fabric of his sleeves as he crossed them over his chest. Flexing as if he were displaying his strength. Be careful now bugs can get crushed.

His call-sign Wasp before he became a captain, because he looked like he was chewing on the stinger. Face twisted and turned up in disgust. Ugly fucker.

It’s not like you can swing at a Captain, so you’re fucked either way. The departments skeleton crew wouldn’t hear you if you were to raise your voice. And you’re certain they’d turn a blind eye if they saw Reynar. You’re just another sergeant getting reprimanded.

“Think I don’t know ya.” Reynar’s toothy grin sends a shiver down your spine. His eyes rake up and down your figure, sizing you up. “No wonder you like slipping under the radar, wouldn’t want everyone to know, eh.”

“What do you want?” There’s no use dancing around whatever this is, they always want something. As long as you don’t lose your cool, you might have a little control on the situation.

Reynar clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Is that how you address your superiors, Sergeant?” He pushes off the desk and circles you, his words spat like venom.

He’s nearly a foot taller than you and you’re not small to begin with.

“Only when they drag me down to the basement with no consideration to protocol,” you snarl, not quite able to hide the curl of your lip as his face leans into yours.

The tic of his stubbled jaw flickers and he falls back a step, but it doesn’t remove the wave of nausea washing over you. So many things screaming in your mind, but you can’t act on them. Not when he’s a captain, not when he’s got so much influence over you.

His meaty hand circles your arm and forces you into a seat. A lone lightbulb swinging in the room, his head knocking the heated glass with a hiss. It doesn’t seem like it’s been used in years, the dull hum of electricity buzzing through the room.

“Ah, speaking of protocol.”

You open your mouth, but the palm of his hand smacks into the back of your head, shutting you up. Black dots cloud your vision and you just about catch yourself before you fall out of your seat.

Reynar drags the back of the chair across the room and sets it beside the filing cabinet. His boot planting in between your legs on the metal folding seat, daring you not to move an inch. You eye the watch on his wrist, a clunky timepiece that costs more than your monthly salary. There’s no way you’re making your meeting now.

“Where was I?” He scratches his chin, gaze dropping to yours. “Your friend, what’s his name…Roach. Wouldn’t want the sergeant to get in trouble for hitting a superior?” He leans forwards, arm resting on his knee and you try not to move away. Back straight, neck aching as you stare at him, you’ve dealt with worse than a man on a power trip.

There’s no way you’re talking your way out of this one though.

“Haines is a sergeant…” you’re cut off again, a hit to your temple and the side of your head crashes into the filing cabinet. Your ear ringing and whirring, you can’t mask the sharp intake of breath as you try to focus on the captains words.

Reynar grabs your face, fingers grasping your chin as he tilts your head to look at him. Tears threatening to spill over your lashes, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

“He’s a lieutenant now, nothing stopping us from saying he was promoted a few days before.” He says it like the incident didn’t take place over two weeks ago. As if they can just gloss over the fact there’s a trail of paperwork and a system to follow.

Oh, you’re definitely fucked. You’re starting to wander who Haines really is and whether he’s connected to someone higher up. Double fuck.

“Leave Roach outta this,” you seethed, head jerking out of his grasp.

Reynar removes his boot off your seat and chucks a pair of handcuffs into your lap. You have to close your legs in order to catch them before they fall to the ground. “Dominate hand, cuff it to the filing cabinet,” he barks, digging in his pocket and pulling out the key.

“I’m not…”

The captain’s in your face in the blink of an eye. Your head crashing into the filling cabinet again, “I recon you’ll get out in eight minutes, sergeant,” he says, the snap of metal curling around your right wrist. He yanks your arm up to the filing cabinet and secures it to the handle.

He raises the tiny key, placing it on the desk in the middle of the room. Even pushes it a little further out of reach.

Bastard.

Rage spreads like wildfire across your chest, the burn climbing up your throat. You lunge for the for the captain, but you’re yanked back by the cuff.

He laughs, taking slow and deliberate steps to you.

“The 141 guys might be untouchable, you however I can touch,” the captain strokes your cheek, knuckles tracing the faded scar there. “A contractor, not fully integrated into their team for another two months.” His palm tapping your jaw like he would a dog.

The tender skin on your temple is hot, dull ache throbbing. His gaze flickers to the small nick on forehead, he licks his thumb and swipes it across the across the dried blood. His other hand clamped on the back of your head so you can’t move.

“Just enough time for you not to make your meeting.” He pouts, pressing his finger to the cut and drawing a wince from you. “John will not be pleased that you let him down. Made him look a fool.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head and the dread twists the knot in your stomach.

Of course, they don’t want you to plead your case and ruin a ‘good’ man’s reputation. Want to make you look like you’re flaky so that no one will take you serious. To drive a wedge between you and the 141. Because if you can’t make time to fight for yourself, who’s going to fight for you?

“And Roach?” You spat, shaking the cuff around your wrist. You don’t know why you were more concerned for Roach, but you don’t want anyone else getting dragged into whatever this was.

Reynar pauses in the doorway, hand hovering over the handle. “Well no meeting, no report. Well done sergeant.” He nods, slipping through the door.

Silence, the lightbulb swinging from the ceiling, yellow glow sweeping across the shiny key.

You inch closer to the desk, slow so not to be yanked back when you come too short. The last stretch of distance, you curl your fingers around the chain connecting the two cuffs and lean over, arm reaching. Your fingertips brush the edge of the dusty wooden surface, but you’re nowhere near the key.

“Fuck!” You spring back, dropping the chain from your grasp and kicking the chair beside you. The metal ring around your wrist bites into your skin, blood weeping. You tug on the cuff, trying to break the handle of the filing cabinet, but it doesn’t budge. All it does is let the metal sink further into your flesh.

Think, think. You bite your nail, eyes trailing every single item nearby. The chairs too heavy to lift with one arm, the filing cabinet weighed down and secured to the wall. There’s no way to break the drawer lock with, no paper clips to pick it.

You walk as far as the cuff will allow you to and balance on one leg, lifting your boot and dragging your heel on top of the table. Still too short. Dropping your boot to the ground, you hook the front of your foot around the table leg and drag it towards you. It takes a few tries for you to tug it closer, enough for you to snatch the key and free yourself from the cuff.

Three minutes, not bad. You twist the door handle, but it doesn’t open. Of course Reynar would lock that too, might as well have buried you in shallow grave. You can’t kick it down as it opens into the office.

A breeze of warm air hits the crown of your head as you step back and you tilt your gaze to the ceiling. Whirring fan pushing the stuffy and dusty air. You stand on the chair, wedging the nameplate from the desk between the fan blades.

Dirt rains down on you as you break the fan and yank one of the blades out. Thankfully it’s old and made of metal instead of plastic. You search the desk drawers, wrapping some tape along one side of the fan blade.

Now you’ve got a pry tool, you wedge it between the door and the frame, hitting the lock until it breaks. Wood splinters and a chunk missing from the frame as it opens.

You run down the rows of shelving units, shoulder crashing into an archivist, but you don’t have time to apologise. Not that you would, the bastard could have let you out but didn’t.

The maze making you feel like a rat running through the alleys. You won’t make it to the meeting, but you sure as hell are going to push yourself to make it to the armoury. Hoping that Price would hear you out.

Whatever hornets nest you’ve kicked, you didn’t have the luxury of asking for help. No, your name was dragged in mud. If Captain Price won’t listen, then who will?

The light blinds you as soon as you force the door open and enter the main building. No longer underground shrouded by shadows, a few soldiers eye you suspiciously.

You spot Roach’s helmet, the only one that dresses in full gear before actually getting to the armoury. You elbow your way through the crowd waiting to go into the canteen. A few hands shoving you deeper into the bodies.

He turns as if sensing you’re behind him, but he doesn’t stop. No he quickens his pace, slight tremble of his head that doesn’t go unnoticed. You both sign in to the armoury, the rest of the team already checking weapons and talking between one another.

You swipe a cap off the rack as you walk in, slipping it on and covering the small cut on your forehead. Gaze dropping to your sleeve as you make sure it’s covering the dried blood circling your wrist. You can tend to it later.

Roach shrugs you off, his gloved hands unclasping the ammo box on the table.

“Roach, look I…” you keep your voice low. He’s angry, you would be too if you’d stuck up for someone and they didn’t show up to back you. His silence isn’t something that bothers you, it’s the way he won’t even look at you or give a verbal response like normal that does.

“Bug! Gear up,” Price barks, the chatter dwindling to nothing as they all turn to you. His piercing glare leaving no room for anything else.

Lieutenant Riley stares at you, pausing the inspection of his gun. Gaz and Soap scan the room, well aware of something going on that they’re not privy to, but they’re too focused on the op to give a damn now.

You shove your tactical vest over your head and tighten the straps. “Captain, I can explain…” you murmur as he walks up to you and it takes everything in you keep your spot. Straight spine and chin lifted as you look up at him.

“Not the time,” he says, tugging the strap at your hip and tightening your vest. He keeps it in his grasp and leans in, “Do not let your problems fuck up this op, this is years worth of planning. Understand Bug?” His hot breath fans against the side of your face.

“Yes, Captain.”

He lets of go of your vest and you stumble back. You busy yourself with checking your weapons and loading your ammo. Double checking your pack and basic medi bag. The Captain relays the mission and the objective.

You just need to make it through, you don’t know how many days with lieutenant Riley and Roach. Working in threes to extract intel.

Looks like you’ve kicked another hornets nest.

[Part six]

✨ It’s getting complicated. Please note I am dyslexic so there might be errors/mistakes. I do try to edit a few times but I will miss stuff. Thanks for reading - Leya

[leviathanleva]

Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[4k words]

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 1 "The Savior"

Since the day you were born, there was something horribly wrong with you.

You had no immune system, your skin was paper-thin, you couldn’t exercise without collapsing, and every nerve in your body was in constant pain. There was no use for you aside from being a measly archive keeper and book transcriber. Your father was a weak man, despite your disabilities and how costly it was for the rest of your Vault, he kept you alive, consumed by the idea of finally finding a cure for his little girl.

Every single moment since your birth, you had spent in this squeaky clean, insanity-inducing, paper-ridden medical room. Everything was plagued by the stench of medicine and spirit, disinfected down to the core. The floor and walls and even the ceiling were covered in a leather cushioned layer to prevent any injuries, sparkling white, of course. Who needed color when the stench of new paint might cause you a migraine?

In honesty, you’d give away half of your miserable life just to see color outside of the packaged book covers stacked neatly on the floor. You built a makeshift city out of them, following the pictures drawn in an old magazine you’d read ages ago and kept hidden under your pillow. With time, you learned how to make paper flowers out of some stray files that nobody would miss. You had to find some solace, something to keep you from crying your delicate heart out every night because this was no way for anyone to live.

You weren’t just isolated from the world above, but from everything, only getting glimpses of the bright metal vault corridor and bustling dwellers whenever your father would open that wretched vacuum-sealed door to give you medicine. You knew people’s names and faces, everyone in your vault was memorized to the letter, but you’d never met them and probably never would.

You were never given your own Pip-boy, never assigned as a potential marriage candidate, and you’d never have children or any family once your parents passed away. A small part of you knew that you wouldn’t even outlive them, frail and genetically inferior as you were. You’d die within the next few years and you’d take the burden of your existence off the shoulders of everyone who worked tirelessly to find a solution to your illness.

You waited for that day with hope, dreaming of the end of the torture and solitude.

You had pleaded with your father that night with angry tears in your eyes to at least bring you coloring pencils or crayons or a radio to chat with the rest of the residents and make friends. But, as usual, he had refused gently while rocking you in his arms, cooing at you with a regretful tone and pain carving deep wrinkles in his features. Then he’d smiled at you, melting away your worry and frustration and misery, and he’d kissed your forehead tenderly. He still treated you like a little girl and to him, you’d always be one. He wiped your tears away and hope shone in his eyes, they looked exactly like yours, that was the only thing you’d taken from him. Everything else was a gift from your mother and you often looked in the mirror just to remember what she resembled.

She’d stopped visiting a long time ago, months, maybe even years, you weren’t sure. The passing of time was a fickle matter when you were caged in a cushioned prison every single day.

Your father hummed softly, lulling you while he gently tucked you into the nursing bed and secured the oxygen mask over your mouth. He was your angel, your only salvation, your only source of conversation and comfort and interaction and love. He adjusted the catheter back into your vein before fluffing up your pillow.

“This might be it, Sweetheart.” he whispered while watching you doze off slowly, his gaze held such affection for you. He placed a new IV bag to drain into your arm, one you’d not seen before, but you trusted him. This was nothing new. He came up with a new medicine recipe every month, without fail. “This might just be the cure. You’ll tell me how you feel tomorrow.”

You can only sigh and give your best smile, unable to share his enthusiasm after so many failed attempts. He rubbed a thumb over your sickly-colored cheek, his skin like sandpaper against yours, worn and calloused from spending a lifetime in the vault’s field.

“Have some faith in your old man.”

“I do, dad…I’m just so tired of this…”you bite into your tongue to keep more tears from spilling, and your bottom lip trembles despite your best efforts to tame it. Watching his face falter breaks your heart and you suck it up, push your tantrum down and pout instead. “And you’re not old.”

He laughs at your whiney remark, the first laugh he’d had in a long time, and he slicks back your hair, taking note that he needed to trim it soon before it got too long. Maybe when he had the energy, he’d sit down for more than a few minutes and braid it like he used to when you were just a child.

“I know you are, Baby girl, I know.” he shushes you with the utmost care and stands. “Just a little longer and you’ll be strong enough to help your pop pick out the tatoes. Get your pretty hands all dirty and then have a big plate of spam for a job well done.” he gazed at you, masking his sorrow and bitterness at the cruelty life had forced upon you. His hand hovered over the lamp switch and he glanced one last time at the brand-new IV bag slowly emptying in your bloodstream. “Night, Sweetheart. Love you.”

Too stricken with grief over your miserable lifestyle, you didn’t return his tender words, hoping he understood and knew that you loved him just as much if not more. When the lights went out, your eyelids closed, squeezing out a few lonely tears in the darkness before you begrudgingly drifted off to sleep. A dreamless slumber when you were gently rocked through the foggy confines of your subconsciousness.

Your one wish was to see the world outside, uncaring if it were a wasteland or a paradise, ignorant of the dangers and naïve towards the people who potentially lived up there. You just wanted to be free, even if it would cost you your life, you wanted to see the sky just once, wanted to prove to yourself that no, it looked better than any picture your father had shown you. You wanted to swim in the ocean and see fishes and see a whale, a creature so big it was unfathomable to imagine, you wanted to taste the salty sea water and become sick and just be happy to be alive for once. You wanted to feel the grass beneath your feet, to touch snow and dance in the rain until you slipped and fell in a puddle only to splash in it because you’d never seen or felt any nature.

You just wanted to live…

The hours ticked by in a hazy blur as you lay lifelessly on your bed. Your room was partly sound-proof, you heard nothing of the ruckus slowly brewing beyond your medicinal prison. Sleepy soundly, you didn’t hear the slaughter, the begging and pleading voice on the brink of crying before the sickening cracks of broken bones. You didn’t hear the crazed ramblings of the raiders stalking your fellow vault dwellers like it was a game of cat and mouse. Your vault was slowly succumbing to chaos and rampage and it was only when the electricity went out and your door unlatched that you were startled awake.

You bolt up with wide eyes and in a panic, gaze averting to the door and heart skipping a beat when you realize it’s open. With a small grunt and a relieved inhale once the oxygen mask is ripped from your face and tossed on your pillow, you scramble to stand. The IV is disconnected from your arm with an expert touch, replaced by a cotton ball to obscure any heavy bleeding from the open puncture wound. Your bare feet shuffle over the soft floor, slippery against the white leather because you’d unknowingly started to sweat from anticipation.

Was this just another cruel dream?

You walked to the exit with timid footsteps before opening the door wide enough to stick your head out. An incessant voice kept repeating how disappointed your father would be if he saw you sticking your nose out and potentially catching an infection from the unsterile air. That voice was dismissed promptly, this was your first chance at seeing anything beyond the medical room and you’d rather die than miss it.

Had the power gone out? But that was impossible. The power never went out, there had always been a steady flow of electricity for as long as you could remember.

The lights flickered, most were broken, letting the eerie darkness overwhelm all corridors except for one.

“Hello?” you call out hesitantly, shaky voice hoarse with sleep and anxiety both. Looking around, you couldn’t see much, there wasn’t a soul in sight and the silence was deafening. “Dad?”

Nothing. Nothing and no one.

A hand clutched at the door to support your buckling knees and you breathed deeply, encouraging yourself to be brave, that this was your chance. After dutifully gnawing on the inside of your cheek you stepped forth into the crossroads of corridors, letting go of the door and leaving everything familiar and safe behind. Your head whirled so much your neck popped multiple times as you frantically looked around in the scarce light and as terrifying as all of this was, it was also heaven unknown. You had never seen so many things – plant pots, plants, all bright green and juicy, you’d stuck your nail in a particular one only to feel a strange gooey discharge on your finger. It was a succulent, you’d read about those somewhere, very sturdy indeed, very pretty, but had no smell. You liked them already.

The further you went, the more a nagging thought kept creeping up your spine like a chill.

Where was everybody?

You kept looking, following the corridor and under the guidance of blinking lamps. You knew the Vault like the back of your hand after spending countless hours studying its diagrams, having nothing better to do. Now you were experiencing it in person. No longer needing to strain your imagination to picture every nook and cranny, you could see it with your own eyes. The floor was so cold under your feet, but you didn’t care, too high on adrenaline and pure joy to notice such a small inconvenience. A hand glided absentmindedly against the wall, tracing over pipes and posters and glass windows until you prickled your finger on a jagged edge and winced away.

You stuck the winger in your mouth with a pained scowl and glared up, searching for the source of your misfortune.

You froze.

Blood, everywhere, oozing down the wide hole in the window and silently gushing out of the disemboweled corpse of a human being, still warm. And even through the liters of blood and the sickening feeling of nausea that had your eyes dart to the floor, you immediately noticed the dark blue suit they were wearing. A dead vault dweller tossed through the window so hard they’d broken through and gotten impaled on the glass.

A vault dweller.

Dead…

DEAD!!!

You stumbled back and wretched, stuffing your mouth in the crook of your elbow and sputtering saliva as your stomach churned with bile. You bumped into a metal cabinet in your stupor, scraping for purchase as your legs lost all function, knocking over a clock and a radio that came to life as soon as it hit the floor. The sound echoed through the Vault, like a haunting melody to the arrival of a new victim, lured out and ready for slaughter. You.

Horror. A massacre, as the light flickered your eyes feasted on more marred flesh and ripped skin and so much blood. Crimson splatter and trails of handprints were strewn over the walls, the echoes of an dire struggle which ended in vein, trails of violence were etched into the hallway. You couldn’t hold it in anymore, you threw up, clutching at your stomach as you let out the traumatizing sight the only way your body knew how. Doubled over and twitching as the shock was replaced by such a raw feeling that you nearly lost your mind.

Corpses littered the floor beyond, caked in their own entrails, skulls bashed in, unrecognizable and still and…

“Hi there, Princess.”

A chill went up your spine as you realized that the frilly white dress you wore wasn’t enough to keep you warm beyond your room. Your skin littered with goosebumps, thin hairs standing up in fear as you stiffly craned your neck and looked back to the other end of the corridor. What little color was left in your face dissipated at the sight.

A man, disfigured and disgusting, with wild hair and wilder eyes and a grin that shook you to the bone stood there. He was shirtless, showing off a large hairy belly and covered in stick-poke tattoos, one of his legs was replaced by what you made out was a metal stick of sorts. He was three times your size…and he looked at you with such perverse intent that you nearly screamed. A vile creature, not even human anymore.

“Don’t be scared, Pretty.” he leered, chapped lips and rotting teeth and a foul blackened tongue, and raised a large palm in front of him to halt you from moving. “It’s okay…Come here. Come to me.”

Instinct took over and you automatically stepped back, not daring to take your eyes off him.

“Ah, don’t do that now.” he warned sweetly and slowly began walking towards you, creeping closer every time the lights flickered off. “You’ll just make this harder for you, yeah? Come to Eddie, Sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

Everything about him screamed evil. He looked deranged and capable of things you’d never even begin to imagine.

A surface dweller. A survivor. A killer. A monster.

The moment his boot sunk in a pool of blood and squeaked against the floor realization hit you like a speeding truck. The grim expression should have been his sign to catch you, but you were already leaping over corpses with a blood-curdling screech. Your mind raced as you tried to orientate yourself through the corridors, bolting over shattered glass and spoiled food and so many dead bodies.

You needed to get out. Leave. Escape.

OUT!

His hollars bellowed behind you, alerting the rest of his friends because of course there were more and now they were aware of you and hunting you down like a deer in the forest. You let the tears run down your cheeks, forced the questions of your parents’ whereabouts and health because you already knew the answers, but you let them sink you’d end up like them or worse.

A horde of footsteps nipped at your bare heels and you sprinted and begged your weak little legs to go faster. Sucking in air as adrenaline pumped through your veins like poison, you jumped and ducked and whirled and assured yourself that you had the upper hand here, you knew the vault better than them. You stood a chance, you’d survive.

When the elevator came into view after you rounded a corner you nearly cried out in delirium. A roar nearly deafened you and you flinched, but your pace only increased as you pleaded and struggled not to trip over your feet. They were desperate, clawing at the air to try and reach you before it was too late. Your lungs burned with strain, your muscles felt like they’d tear any moment, but you kept pushing, high on horror and anger and a newfound zest for self-preservation

Salvation. Your only chance to live.

Your shoulder screamed in pain when you slammed against the metal walls of the elevator and thrusted your fist against the button vigorously.

“Come on. Come on. COME ON!”

“Get back here you little whore!”

“Please!” you wailed, screaming and stumbling back when a rusty axe collided with the shutting doors and made sparks fly with an ear-piercing screech. A hand flew up to cover your squinted eyes, sneering and sobbing as the raiders banged on the outside of the elevator and shot conniving curses at your crumbling form. You were slammed down on your arse by gravity as the elevator finally moved, taking you away from certain death as a slew of grim promises were expelled at you from below.

They’d find you, rip you apart, and make you wish you’d just died like the rest of your pathetic vault dwellers. You balled your eyes out, choking on spit and tears and gulping down air as your body shook violently. Clutching at your face, you stared down at your bloody feet with wide, unblinking eyes.

What was this nightmare…

When the elevator came to a halt and the doors reopened you barely managed to stand, the numbness in your limbs proving too much to handle and your upset stomach only contributing. But you had to keep moving, you had to run.

“Daddy…”

With ugly sobs and meek noises of strain and discomfort and utter distaste for your cruel fate, you tumbled towards the ajar vault entrance. Pressing down the button timidly before taking the discarded Pip-boy from the severed hand, you lock your tormentors into their grave and hurriedly tread towards the slowly closing vault exit.

The sun nearly blinds you and the hot desert sun knocks you to your knees as your hands sink to the wrists in sand. You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut before blinking rapidly and shielding your sensitive pupils from the blaring light.

It’s…barren.

A desert, stretching as far as your sight could reach, heated enough for the air to wiggle and dance in the distance, a decrepit city can be seen nestled not too far. A plethora of buildings crumbled to their bases hide away the sealed entrance to your vault, bones are scattered through the coarse sand, human shapes frozen in time, hinting towards a previous era of life on Earth, an era you’d only read about. Again, there wasn’t a soul around no matter how many times you circled your vision.

A wasteland. Painted yellow and orange and contrasting so beautifully with the clear blue sky.

You wanted to marvel and swoon and you would have given any other circumstance, but now, after everything you’d seen, after your mind had been so brutally defiled with images of slaughter, you were incapable. You stood, resisting the harsh breeze and angry sun, clad in nothing but a Pip-boy and a thin summer dress that was everything but white.

You had to walk, seek help, do…something. Anything.

And so you did. Trudging through the sea of sand and stepping hastily as the heat beneath your delicate feet nipped uncomfortably at your skin. Sweat clung to you like a protective layer, washing away any trace of the sensitive lavender shampoo you had used the previous night. Strands of hair clung to your flushed face as you fought a silent and unfair battle against the burning sunrays, one step at a time, with the wind as your only companion. Your nostrils struggled to breathe in enough air, but you didn’t dare open your mouth despite the temptation, fearing dehydration and death as it loomed over you like a shadow.

You walked for what felt like miles, accompanied by your thoughts and nothing else, until the Vault was hidden behind the golden dunes and your feet felt raw. The city was so close now, yet you were so tired, sucked dry by a heat you’d never experienced before, if it hadn’t been for your Pip-boy crackling to life you would have collapsed, too burdened and weak to continue.

You raised your wrist and looked down and were met by a familiar meter.

Radiation.

Something around you was radioactive enough for the device to pick up easily, but there was nothing but waves of yellow hell and you doubted the ground itself was emitting it. Then you heard it. That strange, high-pitched chirping, an alien sound that made your skin crawl and scraped at the back of your head tauntingly.

A scream loud enough to shatter glass ripped through your throat as a sharp sting pierced your ankle. You hit the soft sand with a whimper and rushed to turn on your back before kicking blindly at your assaultant. An ambush from below. Blood trickled from the gash, painting your skin a deep ruby red and spilling over the ground, luring out your predators like moths to a flame.

Insects, roaches too big to be real and too much for your fickle mind to comprehend crawled out of the sand. You’d fallen right into their trap, an unsuspecting victim, a banquet they’d probably not seen since they’d hatched.

Your heart pounded frantically, pulse thumping in the side of your neck as you flailed and screeched, chucking sand at them as they circled you. You wanted to run, every cell in your body fought for you to stand, but you couldn’t, you had no fight left. You’d die here, alone in this decrepit desert and eaten by giant cockroaches and this was going to be the story of your life. You sobbed so pitifully, so angry and bitter and bratty that after everything, this was to be your end. The world spun painfully fast and you wanted to vomit, but your stomach was empty and you only gagged.

With one last scream, you curled in a ball, covering your head with your arms and your legs protecting your belly, as one of the insects lunged forward.

When the gunshot rang in your ears you froze in place and time stopped. The roach flew back, slimy green entrails covering your form like a canvas. The other two hissed and you revolted at the noise, but they were shot a second later, blown to bits, dainty skittish legs twitching as the last few beats of life escaped them. The shadow of your savior dwarfed you completely, giving you respite from the cruel sun.

You roll over and sit up on your knees within a blink only to be met with the barrel of a gun too ratchet and rusted to belong to anyone but a wastelander. You recoil and blink through tear-heavy lashes before roughly adjusting your dress to try and cover your bare thighs from what you presumed was another man. The tip of the gun slid under your chin and guided your eyes up to feast upon your hero. You gulped and whimpered.

He was grotesque, like a man skinned alive and somehow survived, melted skin deformed his features and you’d bet your dinner there wasn’t a strand of hair under that worn cowboy hat. He had no nose, no eyebrows or even lashes, not a spec of hair. He grinned something awful down at you, looking at you like you were a fresh piece of meat, a delicacy among a table covered with rotten food. His stance was wide, torn dark cloth swaying dangerously in the breeze, he seemed almost aetherial in his own twisted and rugged way. You mewled softly as he turned your head from side to side with his gun, gently, mockingly, drinking you in from every angle as if you’d disappear if he so much as blinked.

Your hands clutched at the edge of your dress when he finally spoke and his voice made you inhale sharply and clench your jaw in anticipation.

“Well…Aren’t you a pretty little thing…”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

(Listen, it's 7AM and I need sleep, but this mother trucker didn't want to leave me alone so have a chapter from my hastily strewn-together upcoming story. I'll post it on AO3 and probably here if it even happens. I'll fix mistakes later, don't eat me please.)

Chapter 2 >>>

🌼 Daisy Masterlist 🌼

Masterlist

[imagobin]

📸The Jacob Alden Files📸

Hi... guess what, I'm obsessed with this man, which is tough when most of his source material game aside had been WIPED off the internet... Being a Jacob fan in 2025 is like surviving on crumbs

But when I unlock a new fixation AND there's lost media involved? I get stupidly invested, it's like "Oh, you don't want me to find info about the guy...? Too bad" I'm terrible. But let's go! Let's give Jacob a taste of his own medicine and stalk him back!

Yee Haw I found the old site

Gotta give props to another Lurking for Love fan @starrgirlella for first finding about this, her pinned post started my hunt lol go check her post out too since she has screenshots of Noah Vega's corkboard (supposedly the other dateable character in the game)

Back in 2023 there was an official Neocities page about Jacob! Unfortunately, the original link to that page is dead now...

Or not quite as it turns out.

The page was just archived under a different name, and I found it ✨

SPONGEBOB

Yes, it's literally called Spongebob lmfao ANYWAY you'll see that the page itself is basically just a shell of what it used to look like, but it's still accessible so there's that.

However, in case even the archived site goes down, I did take screenshots of all the info there, to ensure this stuff isn't lost even once the full game comes out & some of this might not be canon anymore.

Screenshots wooo

In the past, Noah Vega's link was the only one that led somewhere, that still holds true, but unfortunately all it leads to now is a black page.

---

The voice claim

Big thaaaanks to @ alanorion on youtube for putting this together! If y'all ever needed to listen to the man's voice...

here you go ❤️

---

Lurking on AO3 for fun facts

I don't often go on AO3, buuut, through that video I did find out some canon Jacob facts are hidden on there, so I had to check things out lol.

Thank you to @ InZzzomnia707 on AO3 for translating all these from Russian to English!

WARNING! Some chapters on here are 18+!!

Jacob Alden's funfacts★ - InZzzomnia707 - Lurking For Love (Visual Novel) [Archive of Our Own]

This work is still being updated!!

I did take screenshots of all this too juuust in case, but I just wanted to share a specific one here that has really only made me love him even more.

Screaming-

---

Highly likely to be the official Jacob Playlist

Cause it's from the same account the playlist from the old site was, not sure tho, but enjoy regardless ✨

---

And that's it folks! This is all I was able to find... for now lmao there's bound to be moooore and I will keep looking until I burn myself out... jk

Hopefully these bits will be enough to feed some more headcanons about him? Some scenarios? It's definitely fed my brain at least- expect some works from me woo!

If you happen to have more canon stuff about him, feel free to add to this! ❤️

See yaaaa!

[reidsism]

➳ FRIGID — S.R

to nav 𓇙 to s.r mlist 𓇙 to records!reader mlist

spencer reid x archivist!fem!reader

a blizzard hits quantico. dr reid checks on the records room, even with basement three feeling like ice

wc: 1.3k

warnings: noneeee omg im on a roll of fluff lately wthhh

a/n: my babies. my lil nerds. written in my notes app at 2am running on no sleep so it’s not like. the best. i honestly kinda hate it lowk but idc i love these two anyway

Quantico is buzzing.

Phones ringing off the hook, agents shuffling out early, everyone murmuring about the incoming snowstorm barreling towards Virginia, the warnings coming in fast.

Hotch left just minutes ago, reminding the team to head home before the storm hits.

Morgan followed, same with Garcia and Emily and JJ and Rossi hours ago.

And now… Spencer’s alone. He blinks at the clock on the wall. 7:12pm.

The office is nearly empty, just two agents still packing up at their desks, but he knows they’ll probably be gone soon.

And then he frowns. Because he knows you probably left before the rush of the evening crowd, you hate the crowds. But you’ve lost track of time before—many times, in fact, and instead waited for the end of the evening rush to head out.

But today he just has a… a weird feeling. Like something’s wrong, a tugging low in his gut that just won’t settle.

So he grabs his scarf and his messenger bag and heads onto the elevator, pressing B3 instead of G.

He watches the numbers drop on the screen as he descends three levels below the rest of the FBI.

As soon as the doors open—cold. Dry, stinging cold.

Like, actual, literal basement air-conditioning-in-February cold. The kind of cold that bites at your skin, sinks into your very bones and stays there.

And the hallway here is always cold but this- this makes Spencer tug his coat a little closer to himself.

He walks to the only door, peeking into the room labeled Records Archive like he has before.

“Hello?” he calls out. “Dewey? Are you still here?”

No answer.

Just the faint hum of the vents and the shuffling of paper and the clicking of the long-busted space heater.

Wait… shuffling of paper?

He steps in further, about to call out again when—

A sneeze.

He rounds the corner of a hulking shelf to find you curled up on the floor, huddled under three thick blankets with a coat on, boxes of files scattered around you like a little fort.

You look frozen—your poor nose. He’s half-convinced it’s about to chip like glass. Your lips are trembling, your fingers, gloveless and shivering, grip the folder in your hands tightly.

You’re actually shaking.

Spencer gapes at you, all shock and worry. “Oh my god,” he drops to a crouch, panicked and furrowing his brows tightly. “What are you still doing here? Why didn’t you go home?” There’s something not far off from horror in his voice. “It’s freezing down here.”

You blink at him, tired, a little hazy. Dazed, in a way. You look at him blearily, like you’ve just woken up from a nap. “Metro’s shut down.”

His brows don’t relax from their tightly knitted form. “Why didn’t you take a cab?” he asks, taking the folder out of your hands and setting it on a box nearby.

You shrug lamely. “…I don’t trust taxis.”

There’s a pregnant pause, Spencer eyeing you carefully. There’s a glint in your eye, one he doesn’t recognize. He sighs, fully dropping to a kneel now. His coat is wrapped tightly around him, and it’s really fucking cold in here, but he shrugs it off and drapes it over your shoulders anyway.

His hands rub gently up and down your upper arms, bringing some warmth to your body. “Do you trust me?” he asks softly, warm brown eyes peering into yours.

And it’s that that breaks you. Not the cold, not the incoming snow, not even this cold, dark, underground room.

It’s him. Just that look on his face, kind and earnest and concerned and—god, you don’t know if anyone’s ever asked you that before.

So you nod. Slowly, softly, hesitant, perhaps. But no less sure.

And he smiles, this soft, warm little thing that curls gently at his lips.

He moves to a crouch again, taking your trembling hands into his as he helps you stand from the ground. “Okay.”

You follow him out of the records room slowly, quietly, his hand hovering just over your back. You’re wearing your own coat with his still draped overtop, having shrugged off the blankets and left them in a heap on the floor. You’re going to have to clean up tomorrow.

You feel warm, though. For the first time, perhaps, in this frigid hallway of sublevel three.

His hand brushes yours gently in the elevator, just once. Just enough.

You don’t pull away.

You’re walking out of the lobby and towards the parking lot when he speaks up. “You don’t trust cabs?” he asks softly, curiously. There’s no interrogation in his voice, just genuine wonder.

You shake your head silently. You haven’t for a long time. Too risky. Too personal. Too dangerous.

He smiles warmly, opening the passenger side door of his car for you. “I’d like it if you would tell me, one day. Why, I mean.”

You blink up at him, seating yourself in the car. “You want to hear?”

Spencer just looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous, preposterous, like you shouldn’t have had to ask. “Of course. It’s you.”

You’re silent as he rounds the car and starts the engine.

He drives you home in his little beat up Volvo, heater on full blast, the softest tones of Bob Dylan’s Shelter from the Storm coming from the radio.

You almost laugh at the irony of it all, but he’s already pulling into an empty spot in your building’s parking lot, and you’re about to get out when he’s turning off the ignition and getting out of the car himself.

You blink in confusion as he rounds the front of the car, opening your door for you. He helps you out with a warm, gentle hand in yours and you just… stare up at him.

Spencer simply shrugs. “I’d like to walk you up, if that’s alright,” he says plainly. “Just make sure you get inside okay.”

The snow’s falling a little heavier now, the big white flakes landing in his fluffy hair and on his shoulders and, oh.

He looks pretty like this.

You just nod, pushing the thought away as a tiny hint of a smile tugs at your lips as you lead him upstairs.

You unlock and open your apartment door and he looks around.

It’s… sparse. Empty. Quiet.

Bare walls, but cozy corners. There’s a thick blanket on the back of the couch and stacks of books on the floor. Historical prints, file boxes used as bookshelves, a cup of tea half-drunk on the coffee table, a mahogany throw pillow on the chair.

He stares for a moment. Then smiles. “It’s nice,” he says, hands nervously wringing at the strap of his messenger bag.

You blink at him, turning around to face him. “Really?” you ask, brows furrowing in veritable confusion.

“Mhm,” he nods, still smiling. That kind of soft, shy, sideways smile that reaches his eyes and nowhere else. The kind he gets when he’s being totally genuine. “I don’t know. It feels like you.”

And really- it should be an insult. This place is barren.

But… it is you, isn’t it? Little else but papers and history and warmth? Browns and greys and all comfort and home?

You smile up at him, shy and a little nervous. “Thank you, Dr. Reid. For the ride.”

He nods. “I wanted to, honestly.” He huffs a laugh. “I can’t believe you were going to stay in the records room.”

You wince. “Yeah, maybe a bad idea in hindsight.”

“It was really cold down there.”

“I know. Thank you again,” you smile.

He backs up a step. “Anytime, really.” His eyes glance to the elevator. “I’ll um,” he clears his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nod shakily. “For sure. I’ll see you then.”

And when you close the door, your little apartment feels just a tad warmer than it did last night, even as the weather rages outside.

But you pause as you’re toeing off your shoes.

Spencer’s coat still rests on your shoulders.

You fling the door back open and peek down the hallway but- he’s gone.

You sigh. You really will have to see him tomorrow.

And somehow, the thought makes you smile.

[paluding]

MODDERS WANTED!

Maxis lost and found: Sims 2 werewolf faces?

Nope, I didn't use any custom face templates or sliders to make this render. This werewolf face IS in the game! Once again, nothing to download here, at least not for now. Hopefully we can make this an actual thing. All the details and research under the cut 🐺

So I was digging through the Pets EP files the other day for a project I had in mind when I found these meshes:

The "Arch" in the name caught my attention, because that's how the CAS face templates are named as well, so when I loaded the preview I found these really cool werewolf faces!

That got me thinking… this was probably intended for the werewolf transformations, right? Looks like the devs scrapped this idea on the final Pets release. @/hypersaline already restored the werewolf fangs, and I was wondering if it would be possible to restore these faces too.

Are "temporary face sliders" overlays even a thing in this game? The closest interaction I can think of is the Plastic Surgery station and its preset faces for the failed surgeries, but those just create a new face in the genetic data of the Sim, which is permanent unless the player gives them another plastic surgery session. The ideal thing would be morphing the face with these "sliders" when they transform into werewolves, and then remove them once they go back to their human shape.

Anyway, I figured I could extract the meshes and see if I could preview the faces in Blender just to showcase them. The files are pretty broken, they don't even have a UV map and the vertex order is all over the place. So after some tedious vertex snapping shenaningans I kinda remade them in Blender. Here's how they all look, compared to the base second face template in the game:

Adult Female Face (afArchLycan):

Adult Male Face (amArchLycan):

Teen Female Face (tfArchLycan):

Teen Male Face (tmArchLycan):

No elder faces as far as I know, and obviously children werewolves aren't a thing in the vanilla game.

The modding skills needed to restore something like this (if it's even possible) are way out of my scope. So yeah, if any modder knows a trick or two about how to implement this face transformation back in the game and feels brave enough to give this a try, please count me in! My DMs are open. I'll be more than happy to help with anything I'm able to on the meshing department 🙇‍♂️

Until then, at least here's a showcase archived of what could have been for Sims 2 werewolves 🌝

[arknights-imagines]

Hiya 🥹 Exe here!! Sbsjss so here is the Federico imagine I flash-wrote at 3am in one hour... that I mentioned in a post earlier today lolsksks

'Rico is my favourite and it made me v v happy to write something for him for you guys... Even if no one asked for this specifically 😭🥹🤲!! And also!! This marks the first writing on here for Federico's alter aaaa 😭🥰

Anywho! I won't ramble too long lolsnsjsj as usual I sincerely hope I've done Federico justice here 🥹 his character has really grown...!!

And I really hope you all enjoy 💘!!!

(also trying some new formatting out sbshhs... We'll see if I end up keeping it 🥹🫶)

Taglist for Executor/All Writing!:

@vesvic

@donsofwaste

@dracomultiverse

@marahuyos

Cor Novum

in which the Saint decides that now, he will acknowledge his heart; for you, he will properly ponder love.

Imagine format; very mixed perspectives, some bits from the Operator and some bits from the reader, written in second person!

Contains: Executor the Ex Foedere, gender-neutral Doctor as the reader, established relationship, Executor calls you 'love', LOTS of mentions of things and references and stuff from Executor/Executor the Ex Foedere's archive files/Operator Records, mentions of possible spoilers for the events of Hortus de Escapismo and Zwillingstürme im Herbst, LOTS of exploring of Federico's character, fluff and romance wbhshss 💕! Also not fully beta read so please excuse any errors 🥹🙏

Word count: a bit over 2.5k!

——————–

Executor would argue, the first catalyst for change in him - was you.

Since the signing of his contract with Rhodes Island, of course, a multitude of other catalysts have kindled the amassing change. His appointing as Saint had taught him faith, every death at the Sanctilaminium Ambrosii had taught him perspective, his pursuit of Arturia in Zwillingstürme had taught him patience, and the blue hue of the sky taught him solace.

The resulting changes of these were utterly irrefutable, so much so that everyone who watched or spoke with Federico now would have all confidence in stating that His Beatitude, Saint Federico Giallo could no longer be synonymous with the Notarial Hall Executor, Federico Giallo. His heart had only begun to stir, his brain had only begun to stray from logic, since his title of Saint, they would argue.

Federico, however, argued otherwise.

No; not his new role, not the unexplainable lives lost on the Sanctilaminium Ambrosii, not his long-awaited confrontation with his soror, not even that day at the Art Gallery. While he would not say these had no piece in the growth of his heart, it was you, and it had always been you, whom touched it very first.

After all - you had taught him love.

…

Previously, many would joke that Executor was your lover only in title, because they never would witness proof of any loving; seeing the both of you on dates or outings was a rarity that rivaled a cloudy day in Laterano, his public displays of affection were never more than handholding hidden under the loose sleeves of his old uniform or a brush of his lips against your temple, and any warmth ever in his expression when he turned to face you was simply too miniscule for anyone to notice but you.

“Hey…don’t tell anyone I asked, but…Is Federico really dating the Doctor? Or, did he just make that up to get those people from the R.I Engineering Department to stop asking him on dates?”

“I know, right?! I mean, I’ve never even seen the two of them kiss!”

“Who’d wanna date that hardass, anyway? Besides the looks, what could possibly be the win there?”

“Maybe he’s really good in bed?”

“Him?!”

So, imagine everyone’s surprise when, one afternoon when you were hurrying down the hall towards your office with Amiya at your side and a stack of paperwork in your hands, the ever-stoic Saint paused his stride in the opposite direction upon seeing you. He halted you with a gentle hand on your shoulder, leaned down to close the difference in height - and unceremoniously, wordlessly, expression unchanging, pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead before continuing along.

Suddenly, where there was only a brush of lips when he had ascertained nobody was looking, is now a forehead kiss whenever he might see you. The kisses were not the limit of it, either.

Soon came dessert boxes containing your favourite sweet just in time for lunch; “Love, please accept this. It aligns 91% with your preferences, and I also noticed you viewing similar desserts from the menu of Rhodes Island’s cafeteria. I thought you might enjoy it.”

Then he took your paperwork upon himself, double how much he already used to; “I have taken care of your paperwork as of last night. I organized the recruitment reports alphabetically by candidate surname, categorized the Operation summary reports by completion status, and sorted all letter mail addressed to you by sender, and date sent. Hm? Why?” He’d tilt his head, halo catching a glint of the lights overhead, “Should I have an exact reason for performing favours for my significant other?”

And, incredulous as it was, compliments began from him, albeit as best as someone as plainly-spoken as Federico Giallo could manage; “You look as nice as always, love.”

The whispers lingered in the hallways for days, somehow even squirming their way into the cubicles of the Notarial Hall offices. Had he been put under the hex or spell of someone’s Originium Arts? Had he grown sick of people not believing your relationship?

Federico cared not at all, as was expected. His explanation came only to you, and only when you ask.

…

You piped up one evening in your office, head pillowed in Federico’s lap after he had insisted you rest after hours of paperwork, “Federico?” Affection melted the ice hue of his irises to an azure blue when his eyes flick to yours peering up at him, and his fingers squeezed yours ever-gently where both your hands were intertwined over your tummy, “Yes, love?”

The Sankta had always softened around you, toward you; however, it had only ever been visible in the inch of tension his shoulders lost, in the slight dilation of his pupils, in the way his brows and jaw untightened by a hair. Now, adoration touched upon each of his facial features, he allowed it with no protest or restraint. Your head tilted slightly as you blinked up at him, eyes rounded like a curious doe, earning a tiny quirk of one platinum white brow from your lover.

Restraint — restraint is what Federico is suddenly devoid of, you realize.

The Federico Giallo who had never seen value in understanding, in considering, in allowing his emotions to wander, maintained a vice-like grip on his heart and commanded all actions by order of his systematic, logical brain. No physical contact, as it was too distracting to his duties; no time spent on determining the destructive effect of his chosen method to execute his task, if it proved to be the most efficient one; no attention spared toward anything not regarding a mission or his duties, because there was no benefit in such. Many had assumed such was only possible, either because he was a robot or he was devoid of any and all emotion.

You understood, however. It was never that Executor was unfeeling, instead that he had leashed, handcuffed, and tied up his emotions into inescapable bounds to be never loosened. It was logical, you supposed; emotion would do little to benefit the Sankta with the black-ringed halo, the ever-set jaw, and pale blue eyes fixed onto his mission.

Yet now, the Federico Giallo who’s lap you rested your head on tonight - the Sankta with the black-ringed halo, head always finding itself in a contemplative tilt, and wandering eyes that notice too much - had loosened the aforementioned restraints.

When you snapped back from your thoughts, a smile crawled slowly upon your lips when you noticed Federico had allowed his affection to linger on his face for so long, it was tangible; his softened facial features now made him akin to a vanilla gelato scoop from one of the Lateran ice cream carts.

You finally disturbed the silence, beating Federico to it before he could open his lips to ask why you’re staring, “What’s up with all the…you know?’ Your free hand lifted to gesture vaguely to your desk, occupied by stacks of Federico-organized paperwork and a now-empty sweet box from one of Laterano’s dessert carts, “You loving me extra lately?” When his eyebrows knitted together slightly at your wording, you added in a rush, “Not that I’m complaining! It’s just…”

He allowed you to trail off completely before he replied, “You are referring to the sudden increase in my acts of affection.” His gaze shifted away from yours to flick between the paperwork, the dessert box, then to the spot on your forehead he’d designated as the receiving area for his kisses. A nod from you followed, “Yes. I didn’t…say something that made you feel forced to…be more affectionate, did I?” The possibility of this caused uncertainty to waver your tone now, and a concerned frown replaced your smile, “Federico, you don’t have to be more ‘lovey’, I love how you ar--” “No, you did not.” As if to apologize for cutting you off, Federico tightened his hold on your hand once more, “Please do not misunderstand…this was not incited by anything you have said. Simply, I…”

The Sankta paused, lips closing and eyes casting off to the side before he lifted the hand not holding yours to cradle his chin; a gesture you’ve now learned meant he was considering his words. He never used to do that before.

“His Holiness advised me to ponder my actions more thoroughly. To wonder my reason for doing something, and the reasons others might perceive. To take further action even if it is unnecessary for my mission or duties.” Formality cooled his tone again upon the mention of the Pope, yet affection lingered on his words like sugar stuck on his tongue, “...recently, after completing a book I had purchased in hopes to gain further understanding, I had come to realize that you will struggle to perceive my affection in its whole unless I express it through multiple outlets.” His hand lowered from his chin to return to his side, not without brushing his fingers over the ends of your hair in a motion you question the coincidence of, “After concluding this, I determined the only solution was to begin to display the affection I hold for you in various ways.”

Your heart melted into liquid within your ribcage at that, and you stammered out in an attempt to distract him from the rosy hue rising to your cheeks - though, considering it was Federico, he had undoubtedly noticed already -, “Wait, wait, what was the book about?”

“Love languages.” The steadiness he explained this in could convince someone this was an academic topic, “In particular, the book described the giving of gifts, physical touch, words of affirmation, and acts of service.”

Your eyes widened and your lips fell agape with a noise of realization, “Oooh. I see now…that’s where all that came from. You learned it from the book!” In a swift motion, you rose to sit up and lean your body against Federico’s shoulder, curling up much like a kitten to a furnace. No tension stiffened his body upon the contact - and his arm slid around your waist with protective weight, to press you oh-slightly-closer. “Yes.”

His confirmation was paired with a nod, a miniscule movement as to not disturb your comfortable position as you tucked your face against his throat, “The book had explained as well, that as a partner, I utilize the ‘love language’ you most prefer. As I did not know which was your preference…I decided the most beneficial course of action was to trial each one until I could determine which you were most receptive to.” His voice quieted as he trails off, murmuring to himself against your hairline, a new habit you had noticed more frequently these days, “However…I am concerned I lack proficiency in the method of ‘words of affirmation’...I have referred to your appearance as ‘nice’ seven times consecutively now…”

Heat blazed on your cheeks now, and you were unsure if it was from embarrassment, upon the realization that Federico had been scrutinizing each and every of your reactions to his new acts of affection, or if it was from delight, buzzing around your heart at the fact that he had planned so elaborately only to find the best method to love you. Your head ducked further under his chin to nuzzle your face against his chest, cheek pressed just over his heartbeat before your voice left muffled against the fabric of his uniform, “Federico…you didn’t have to do all that. I really, really liked it, but that was a lot of hassle for you. You could’ve just asked…”

While his arm remained where it was draped around your waist, the other lifted in a slow movement until his hand was cradling your nape; his fingers were expectedly cool, and yet yet his touch is oh-so-warm in contrast, and you did not fail to notice how hands that used to hesitate over your skin settle with more ease now, “Yes, perhaps. However, the book had advised against such, as it would be…unromantic.”

You snorted before you could catch it, head whipping from his chest to tilt your face upward at him, “Mmph-- Why are you worrying about that? Federico, I’m not with you because you’re romantic.” The slight furrow between his eyebrows returned again, this time paired with the tiniest downward tugs of the corners of his lips, and you jolted when your poor wording settled on you, “No, no, I mean…”

A stutter, before you exhaled with a sheepish grin. Instead of words first, your hand rose to tuck stray platinum hair away from his eyes, the stubborn bits along one side of his face where he’d grown it longer, to allow time for your flusteredness to fade and your words to find you again. Federico’s head tilted towards your touch, his cheek catching a brush of your fingers.

“I mean…” You began again, hushed this time; his eyes were rapt on you yet rounding at the edges once more until it seemed like his pupils were melting, and you forced yourself to swallow the hitch that threatened to disturb your words at the sight, “I don’t love you any different for any reason…much less the ‘love language’ you ‘speak’ to me with. I love you because…you’re Federico.”

For a moment, by the slight tilt of his head and downward of his eyes, you were unsure if he would understand; too vague, too rooted in emotions he has not become acquainted with yet, too cheesy. You opened your mouth to elaborate, though your words paused on your tongue when you swear you notice the corners of his lips tilted upward by millimeters. Instead of questions - though he seemed full of them lately -, his reply came as a nod against your hand and a word softened to a murmur, “...I understand.”

Federico leaned in to close the space between you, tilting your head with the hand he still had resting on your nap; a breath, then his lips pressed an air-light kiss to the particular spot on your forehead. He lingered for one moment, two moments, three, before he retracted enough to find your eyes again, “I too, love you as you are, and as you will be.” A pause, hesitance, however restraint no longer surged forth to halt him and strangle his affection, “...and I no longer see a beneficial reason to hesitate in expressing this.”

Your hands tightened slightly where they’d slid to rest on his chest in some nonsensical worry he would pull away, shoulders perking up with a held breath as your heartbeat suddenly thud-thud-thudded in your ears. In your few moments of wide-eyed silence, you wondered if Federico would decide what he has said is too far and renege on it.

No; his softened gaze remained fixed to yours, his arm remained around your waist, his hand remained cradling the base of your head, and his lips remained shut. Even his halo and wings seemed to still completely. Not a single semblance of his previous restraint tugged at even the corner of his sleeve.

A second thud-thud-thud became unmistakable under one of your palms, and for a moment you were sure Federico had caused your heart to swell so much it had duplicated, before your eyes flicked down and you realized. Under where one of your palms was placed upon his chest, his own heartbeat is hurried, loud - and full.

The twitch in his jaw was telltale that Federico considered words, though aware as he was that they rarely favour him well, he instead moved. A gentle hand lifted; one too gentle to be the same one that operated a shotgun that had taken more lives than he had lived years, too gentle to be the same one that had pulled the trigger to send bullets between eyes or into chests with finality, too gentle to be the same one that has torn the heart clean out of an Originium beast.

It raised to rest over your own and pressed it firmer against his heartbeat.

“Love.” The term of endearment left his lips more of a breath rather than a word, “This is acceptable?”

You chimed with mirth, hand pressing closer in order to catch the stutter of his heart when you do, “More than acceptable, Federico.”

Undoubtedly, this was not the same Sankta whose certificate you had received that very first day. This Sankta wore a new title, wore a different uniform, and had a heart grown too large. And yet, undoubtedly, this Sankta - with the same blue eyes, platinum locks, and obsidian halo and wings - was still Executor. You could never doubt the softened hue of Federico’s eyes, like the sky on a sunny day, when they settle upon yours.

And likewise, Federico now found it was impossible to deny that his heart - the one he understands he swore in oath only to Laterano, the one he should be discarding if he is to serve the Law as expected of him, the the once racing so freely beneath your palm now - has ever belonged to anyone or anything but you.

Tysm for reading 🥹 Executor loves you v much! 🫶!! All my writing is dedicated to all of you guys and to loving AK's Operators~

[marvelishmanda]

Our Ghosts Are Present Tense

Prague's morning folds like an old letter, its edges softened by time and loss, a city of survived silences, trams tracking scars across cobbled skin.

I'm foreign here again, with passport permission. They say this makes me safe, but a stamp is thin asylum— history teaches quiet suspicion, doorways know how shadows wait.

Across an ocean, my birthplace breaks the bones of promises: ICE vans as dark as cattle cars, due process rerouted online, while children whisper unanswered in doorways left empty.

Legal residents are now erased, mouths gagged and wrists zipped tight, lives excised by red ink and signatures— justice, a closed-court spectacle, is shipped to private rented cells The bitter weight of paper mutes screams like snowfall— “Temporary”

I walk Prague counting brass plaques, tracing ghost names worn smooth, my tongue twisted by the consonants of families once disappeared— do we still call it history when it never ceased its haunting?

My queer body moves slow, bones wary, trembling under the threat of erasure— the state's gaze finds difference, defines it, tracks it, files it away, waiting to rewrite the conditions of our right to exist.

I fold mourning like the laundry, ache for fathers deported mid-dinner, plates still steaming, shoes untied, images of childhood sliced sudden, cleaved from belonging like limbs— and wonder how countries learn so well to carve apart families like meat.

Written in bloodlines and borders, a thousand laws deceive, deliberate: safety nets turned to snares, visas revoked between clock-ticks— homelands dissolved under our feet— there are no warning shots when law is the weapon.

I no longer recognize my homeland, but I’ve always known it this way even when I didn't see how often its stars were burned with gasoline, its eagle was strangled by violence. This is the freedom that has always dragged humans from factories, hospitals, dreams to prisons built of forgotten files, quietly shredded before dawn.

This mourning is an inheritance: watching families become headlines, yet again, catalogued casualties in archives I'll never live to read.

Each dawn my shadow greets me, asks timidly if today is the day someone writes my obituary in newsprint, misspells my name in quick ink— foreign body, collateral damage, legal at the wrong time, wrong place, erased by a footnote, voice hushed like ash, falling quietly on freshly rewritten borders.

I hold memories warm inside my lungs, say their names slow in solidarity with the erased, the disappeared. I remember here, now, openly, we must sharpen outrage into a blade, that blade into truth, truth into resistance.

Let us bare that blade against oppression, glinting sunlight into dark corners, slicing through iron bars. Let their captive birds escape, carrying in their tongues the names of all else who disappeared.

Let us hold onto each other fiercely, no matter the weight of history, no matter the shadows of borders. We will carve space for our breath, for our bodies to exist, to be known.

Let us be evidence, openly, beautifully here— our complicated names, our stubborn survival.

Our voices will rise together, woven from the threads of those lost, never to be silenced again.

History must not silence us again.

[hxney-lemcn]

The Riddle of Love — Gotham! Edward Nygma x gn! reader

summery: Edward's interest shifts to someone who indulges in his love of riddles.

tw: bullying (?), kristen kringle is a warning all her own in this fic, implied rejection (not really tho, Ed's just awkward).

a/n: I hope so much that I wrote all these characters correctly. I have riddler fever rn and really wanted to write for him, but I've always been scared that I'd write him too ooc. I think I did good tho.

wc: 3.1k

Master List

“What is it that no one wants to have, but no one wants to lose either?” I asked. I already knew it was a lost cause. Edward Nygma was the smartest man I had ever met. Dorky? Yes. Nerdy? Absolutely. Smart? Incredibly. So trying to impress him at his own game wasn’t exactly the smartest move. Yet, the first time I gave him a riddle to solve (which he solved ridiculously fast), I don’t think I’d ever seen him so happy. So I continued to scour the internet in my free time to try and find obscure riddles. 

Although this riddle wasn’t that obscure. I was running out of riddles to find, and I sure as hell couldn’t make my own. 

“A lawsuit,” Eddie replied without missing a beat, still focusing on testing blood samples. 

I couldn’t stop the pout that formed on my face, “It’s not fair how smart you are.”

I didn’t see Ed’s lips twitch up, how the praise I didn’t think twice about saying impacted him more than he’d like to admit. It was quiet for a few minutes, and I looked back down to the papers I had brought with me. Sometimes, I found myself working in the forensic lab when I could. One of the perks of being a criminal data analyst. I could make my notes on paper, and then just copy them into the computer later. 

Since I was a data analyst, I was in the record archives often. I was acquainted with Kristen Kringle, which obviously led me to Edward Nygma. She would complain about him if I came in after he had left. At that point I didn’t know him, but I also found her complaints unfounded. I’d let her vent, but I’d also speak up for him, which made her glance away in what I assume was guilt. Then there were the unfortunate times that I’d walk in on his awkward flirting. I’d just tensely put away or take the files I needed for my research and leave them to it. 

But after enough times, I’d caught him in the middle of one of his riddles. An easy one, probably to dumb it down for Kringle so she’d be enticed to answer it in the first place. Yet he had caught the attention of the wrong person. Although that didn’t seem to put a damper on his mood. He only sent me a tight lipped smile with a little ‘ding ding ding!’. That’s how I was caught hook line and sinker. His mannerisms were oddly endearing to me, and that’s how our odd little friendship formed. 

I was brought out of my reverie as Eddie shuffled over to his microscope, “I am a nine lettered word and rhyme with perfection; I am another name for love. What am I?”

I blinked, not ready for a riddle, even though I always should be in the presence of him. I looked up from my work, and I noticed how Eddie was sweating, his cheeks flushing a bright red. I tapped the metal table anxiously, the word love had thrown me off my game and my brain felt empty of anything else. I mumbled words under my breath that rhyme with perfection. 

“Deception, reception, perception,” I mumbled, yet none of them fit the rest of the rhyme. The longer I took, the more anxious Eddie seemed to get. “Affection. Oh! The answer is affection!”

Ed cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses, “Y-yes, that is correct. G-good job.” My proud smile fell into a more awkward one, thinking over the implications. That riddle sounded like one he’d save for Kringle. Was he running out of riddles as well? The thought alone was preposterous. It was tense for a bit. And when I realized I had nothing left to do but input the current data I had on some wanna be gang leader. The sad part is I knew that the cops aren’t going to be the first ones who get them. 

Even though I needed to leave, it felt wrong for some reason. To leave the situation after Edward had seemed to admit something in his unique way of sharing. I didn’t want to assume his feelings, yet I knew he also wasn’t one to just state them willingly. Biting my lip anxiously, I decided to just do it. 

Walking over towards Ed’s hunched form, I leaned down to place a light kiss to his cheek, “I’ll see ya later Eddie.” Then I booked it out of the room, leaving behind a very flustered dork. 

It wasn’t much later in the day when Doctor Lee Thompson entered my office. It wasn’t much of an office. The dark walls made the space feel enclosed, and it barely fit my desk and the few cabinets it held. Yet I didn’t mind it since it was a space for myself. Lee, on the other hand, was another acquaintance whose office was nowhere near mine. She’d only come to my office for a few reasons, if it was work related (which was rare since our departments weren’t similar), or if it was personal. Sometimes she fessed that it seemed I needed some company, that it would do me no good to spend all this time alone in my office. Other times…it was on a more personal note, about Eddie and I’s relationship. 

She plopped a candy bar on my desk, a placating move that was all too familiar.

“You must’ve done a real number on Ed,” She smirked, sitting on my desk. Due to the tiny size of the room, and the nature of my job, I didn’t have a seat for guests. 

“What do you mean?” I asked. Deep down, I knew exactly what she meant. I knew Edward was an awkward man, and his experience with flirting was an ultimate zero. Yet it was hard to imagine that he was still affected by a small gesture of affection… Okay maybe the gesture wasn’t that small, for either of us, but still! 

Lee’s smirk widened, “I think you know exactly what. Poor little Ed kept stumbling over his words when I brought you up. Something must’ve happened.”

I unwrapped the candy bar as she spoke, wanting to avoid any thought of the earlier moment. Looking back it was so awkward and a terrible attempt at…what? Flirting? Was that my intention? I didn’t even know my own intentions! 

I took a bite from the candy bar, savoring the sweet flavor before having to explain the painfully awkward memory. When I managed to explain the event, Lee couldn’t stop herself from chuckling, causing me to finish my candy bar with a bitter look. 

“That sounds like something you’d both do,” She smiled.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” I huffed, trying to fight off the flush of embarrassment I felt. 

“Nothing,” She sighed wistfully. “But you two really take your time, huh?” 

“Shut up,” I scowled. 

“Okay, okay,” She threw her hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll stop teasing…for now. But seriously, I think you two would be cute together.”

I let out a childish groan, “I get it. Is there anything else you need?” 

“No,” She smiled as she stood up. “Just wanted to see what had Ed all wound up.”

I rolled my eyes, but my heart skipped a beat at the implication. As Lee saw herself out, my mind kept racing. What was Ed doing right now? What was he thinking about? Did he really care enough about my opinion, about my affection, that he was still affected by it? I stared at my computer screen, the cursor blinking mindlessly. Glancing at the time, I scowled as I realized I still had 30 minutes left to my shift. The idea of going home, having a relaxing dinner and then maybe treating myself to a warm bath. 

…

That was only the beginning. It seems that Eddie’s admiration had shifted from Kristin Kringle to me. It was flattering, to say the least. At least to me. Once I gained Ed’s attention, I seemed to have gained his colleagues attention as well. Typically, I didn’t work with the officers, I’d research criminals, then that data would be added to the files. So when I walked past James Gordon and Harvey Bullock, I never thought twice. But when Ed had waved at me, that cute tight lipped smile on his face as I waved back, a smile of my own adorning my face, it drew the attention of the two detectives. 

"Careful Ed,” Harvey mocked. “Don’t wanna scare them off.” Jim only glanced up briefly, not interested in the situation in the least. I watched as Ed’s smile twitched for a second, Harvey’s words seeming to get to him. I felt my smile slip, not liking how they treat him in the slightest.

“He…didn’t do anything wrong,” I shrugged, before waving goodbye, making my way to the record archives. Not only them, but even Kringle was looking at me more than just as a person to vent to. 

“I feel sorry for you,” She stated, adjusting her thick rimmed glasses. Her hazel eyes held their usual air of judgment as she placed some files back in their spots. 

“Why?” I asked, flipping through to find the person I needed. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” She asked, raising one of her perfectly maintained eyebrows. “Edward’s got his eyes on another victim.” I frowned, anger bubbling within me at the way she always found new ways to insult him. 

“I wouldn’t describe it like that,” I managed to grit out. “I find the sentiment sweet.”

“Wait,” Kringle paused, turning to look at me with disbelief. “Do you…like him?”

I sighed, finding it hard to focus on the task at hand with this irritating conversation, “Would there be something wrong with that?”

“Isn’t it kind of weird how fast he switched?” She asked, a hint of jealousy in her tone. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he loses interest in you.”

I slammed the cabinet shut in a bout of rage, leaving the room before I do something I may regret…or lose my job over. As I exited, my scowl worsened when I realized I didn’t even get what I needed. 

“Hello!” Edward’s excited voice greeted me as I entered the break room. When my gaze landed on him, I felt my expression soften, my shoulder’s relaxing. His brown eyes were so expressive, that silly smile on his face never failed to melt my heart. 

“Hey,” I muttered back. Looking over the options in the vending machine. Just get something to eat, and hopefully I’ll feel better. 

“Is…something the matter?” He asked, fidgeting with his glasses. I let out a long sigh as I sat across from him at one of the few tables. 

Taking a bite of my snack, I took some time to gather my thoughts and feelings, “Sometimes I just hate people.”

His eyebrows raised, nervously fidgeting with his tie, “Th-that’s…understandable.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, finally cooling down. “Someone was just saying some really mean things and it got to me.”

Edwards’ demeanor changed in an instant, a frown replacing his smile, and his eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of concern and anger, “Who?”

I blinked, “What?”

“Who insulted you?” He asked, fists clenched. This wasn’t what I was expecting. He would get annoyed, yeah, but he’d always just stew in it until he calmed down. And he was barely angry when I was around, which was something I was proud of. So seeing him react so harshly was unusual. It made me feel a bit appreciated, that he cared enough to get this angry over it, yet it was also unsettling.

“They…they were insulting you,” I clarified, rubbing my arm awkwardly. “And trust me, I was ready to do some things that would’ve gotten me fired.”

Ed blinked, calming down drastically at the revelation, “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “I swear if she says one more damned thing about you I’m gonna…” I strangled the air, the only way I could express how frustrated her insults made me.

Edward fake coughed, his cheeks tinged a light pink, “I assume you mean Miss Kringle.”

I paused, hoping it didn’t hurt that his past interest was still as rude as ever. “I didn’t even manage to get the files I needed,” I grumbled, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

“...I can get them for you,” I felt my heart crack. Was he still interested in her? Was that why he was so ready to go into the den of the woman who so readily insults him? 

“Oh, no you don’t have to do that,” I shook my head. “I’ll just have Lee do it.”

Ed blinked, seeming to think over something before standing up, “I’ll be right back.” Before he was fully out the door he paused, “Whose case files did you need?”

I couldn’t help the tiny grin at how eager he was as I gave him the names of the people I needed files on. Yet that smile fell. Was he really so excited to get a chance to see Kringle that he almost left without knowing what files he needed? I finished my snack, getting a drink from the vending machine while I was at it. My mind continued to make up terrible scenarios that could be happening at that moment. How she could manage to crush Ed’s precious heart even more than she’s already managed to.

Ed was back quicker than I realized. It took him less than ten minutes! He set the files I needed on the table, that tight lipped grin on his face as he waited for my input.

“Oh! Thank you!” I thanked, flipping through the files to make sure they were all there. “She didn’t give you any trouble, did she?”

“No,” He replied simply. As I met his gaze, that’s when I finally realized that he was truly over Kringle. I should’ve felt disturbed at how intense his gaze was, at how strong his emotions seemed to be when he wasn’t even trying. Yet I only felt flattered, important, and wanted. Emotions I wasn’t completely used to, and caused my heart to stutter at how strong my own emotions were becoming. 

Standing up, I leaned in and kissed his cheek again, this time a bit more confident then the last time I did. I waved goodbye as I walked out with the files he gave me. I felt pride swell within me as I watched Eddie become a flustered mess as I left. It was a good mood lifter as I watched him fumble with his usual nervous ticks, before he was finally out of my sight. 

…

Edward’s courting tactics only seemed to grow after that. I wasn’t sure what changed him to do so. I could only speculate that Lee had something to do with it. She kept stopping by my office, asking how Ed and I were doing like she hadn’t just seen us the day before. I can’t lie, I was reveling in the attention that Ed was giving me, and I could tell he’d revel in my attention as well. A mutual pining on both sides. 

Normally, I’d be okay with that. Too scared to try and push things forward. Edward Nygma was different. He was just so…amazing. I’ve never felt so strongly towards someone. He was sweet, attentive, smart, and overall lovely. I couldn’t just settle for pining, I wanted to experience what it would be like as his lover. 

Which led me to this horrendous mess up of a confession.

I dressed up a bit nicer than usual, hoping to impress the cute dork. I felt confident in myself, an emotion I don’t feel regularly. I greeted Lee, who seemed like she guessed the occasion and sent me a wink when I walked past. 

“Hey Eddie,” I greeted, setting a cup of coffee down on the counter.

“Oh! Hello,” He greeted me, smiling. “You seem chipper this morning.”

Nudging the coffee towards him I smiled back, “It’s a good day today. I got you a coffee.”

“You didn’t need to,” Ed replied sheepishly, not used to people giving him things. 

I only shrugged, “I wanted to.” I tapped the counter I was leaning on as nerves started to slowly creep through me. So, before my anxiety could get the best of me, I blurted out, “What is mine but only you can have?”

With furrowed eyebrows, Ed actually paused to answer a riddle for the first time during this little game we had. His eyes flitted around the room, like he was trying to avoid the answer. I know he was smart enough to figure it out, so the fact he was taking so long to answer caused my heart rate to spike from anxiety. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I was reading the room wrong. I blame Lee for feeding me a wrong understanding. 

“I…uh…” Ed stuttered over his words, sweat dripping down the side of his face. Shit, shit, shit! I shouldn’t have said that. He does know the answer, I found it online easily, he obviously knows. He doesn’t feel the same and now he’s trying to find a way to politely reject me. 

“Nevermind!” I exclaimed, trying to quell my nerves by getting the fuck out of here. “Stupid riddle! Never needs an answer. I should get to work.”

“W-wait!” Eddie called out, making me stop in my tracks. So close yet so far. “I can be a fruit, I can be on a calendar, I can be important, and I can be forgotten. What am I?”

Turning back around, I watched as Eddie picked at his nails. We both seemed like complete messes at the moment. It was hard for me to think of anything due to my previous failure of admitting my feelings. I bit my lip awkwardly, trying to stop myself from making any more of a fool of myself.

“I…I’m not sure Eddie,” I chuckled solemnly.

Clearing his throat, he adjusted his glasses before admitting, “A date. W-would you accompany me on one?” I stared at him with wide eyes, unsure if I heard him correctly.

“Y-yeah! Of course I will!” That tinge of embarrassment was quickly overpowered by exhilaration. The smile that stretched across my face almost hurt with how big it was. Eddie’s smile was also wide as he still couldn’t meet my eyes.

“Is…is tonight okay? Dinner? 7 o’clock?”

“That sounds perfect.” 

And to make the moment better, I kissed his cheek before parting, excited for what the night held for us.

[0mg-bird]

How Did It End?

Post Prison! Spencer x Fem!Fiancee Reader

Summary: Almost four months since Spencer came home and the fairytale that once was your life has come crashing down around you.

Warnings: ☹️ ouch. Angst. PTSD. Taylor Swift ‘How did it end?’ coded. hurt/comfort. this hurt to write, don’t hate me. Reid my poor baby has some stuff to work out.

W.H. Auden once wrote,

‘Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky and feel its total dark sublime, though this might take a little time.’

Poetry was something you were no stranger to, given the fact you taught an advanced creative writing class at the local high school.

You once enjoyed poetry.

But now, when the words feel like knives aimed at you, you can’t bear to indulge in the afternoon readings like you used to.

Instead, afternoons are spent in an apartment that somehow lost its warmth. Before, you’d claim it’s because Spencer was gone, that things would be brighter when you brought him home. He’s been home for three months, a little longer, the weather has begun to change, warping into a melancholy winter. You sit at your desk, staring at your computer screen, spinning your engagement ring around your finger.

You’ve been trying to get back into writing, trying to revisit your archived story. Though, it’s hard to revisit a fictional romance mystery when there’s nothing to inspire it.

Groaning, you delete half of the last paragraph you’ve written and try to type something that isn’t cliche. Pushing through the urge to stop, you write until the words flow thoroughly and there’s a key turning in the door.

There he was, the love of your life.

Spencer trudges into the apartment and drops his bag by the door, his shoes find a home beside it. The circles under his eyes are darker than they were this morning when he left, he runs a hand through his hair and glances over at you when you stand with a grin.

“Hi.” You do your best to beam, conveying just how much it excites you to see him.

“Hi.” He mumbles, tossing you a tight lipped smile as he walks towards the bedroom.

Trying to push away the sick feeling in your gut, you turn back to your blind optimism and take your glasses off.

It takes eight steps from the bedroom door to the closet, it takes him three steps to pace and grab casual clothes. In about a minute, he takes off his day clothes and pulls on something that doesn’t feel constricting. You memorized every foot step he makes in this home, it’s easy to focus on when you spent some time not hearing it.

By the time he comes back out to retrieve his bag and sit on the couch, you grab up your laptop and sit on the other end of the sofa.

Paperwork and files soon lay on the coffee table and you watch him organize and complete end of the day tasks. Patiently waiting your turn, when Spencer finally relaxes back into the cushions, you slide closer.

“How was your day?” You ask.

He grunts. “Nothing worth talking about. Oh, I’m going to Connecticut next week to do a seminar, I’ll be gone two days.”

You nod. “That’s exciting, right?”

He shrugs, then there’s silence.

You scoot closer. “I was working on some things, I think I’m finally getting back into the groove of it. You want to read the last chapter I made?”

He motions to the coffee table. “Yeah, just leave it there and I’ll take a glance later. I’m debating on if I want to shower before dinner or after.”

“I was thinking we could go out for dinner, we haven’t in a while.” You offer with a hopeful smile.

Spencer frowns. “I’m not really feeling a social scene right now.”

“Oh, yeah, no, of course.” You quickly say. “We could do take out then, Italian maybe?”

He shakes his head. “We shouldn’t do take out anymore, it’s basically inviting a serial killer into our home, giving him some place to come back later when I’m not around.”

Right. The paranoia.

You knew things were going to be different when Spencer came home, and you did your best to adjust with an open mind. Sleepless nights consoling him, countless days spent trying to pull him from his own mind. Through tears and breaking points and a few instances where he utterly scares you, you know he’s still your same Spence, but just a little hardened now. He’s still the man who spent too much on a ring, still the dorky guy you fell for those years ago.

Things are just…a little rough.

“Okay.” You say to his statement. “I’ll whip something up then.”

At the sight of your willingness to give something up, he feels immensely bad.

“No.” He sighs, shaking his head. “No, I’m being stupid. Italian sounds fine.”

The bad habit of being too harsh on himself has been hard to kick, but it’s getting better… you think.

So you order Italian and eat in front of the television while Spencer fact checks what the characters are saying, criticizing the antics of these fictional people. It feels so normal, the whole situation, it makes you momentarily have amnesia, as if the two of you are exactly like before. You lean into his side and laugh at the sitcom, thinking that this Spencer hasn’t experienced what he has, that everyone around the two of you still feel the happy affects of your love, that you test wedding cakes and look for a bigger place. A place the two of you can buy together and start a family.

“I’m gonna shower.” He says, rubbing your shoulder.

Looking up at him, you smile playfully. “Want company?”

There it was, that reminder that things weren’t like before.

He kind of just shakes his head with a smile and leaves without anything else.

You know he doesn’t mean to, but sometimes he makes you feel about an inch tall. He used to look at you with this heavy gaze, something needy, something that never failed to make you feel like the prettiest girl in the world. His hands would find a home on your skin, he used to kiss for fun.

You don’t remember exactly when he last gripped you in a way that wasn’t just polite.

You know he has fears, he has it in his head that he is a danger to himself and you, that his hands are murderous, but it doesn’t feel the best when you’re constantly rejected by the man you’re going to marry.

Rubbing your eyes, you clean up the dinner mess and then go to the bedroom to slip into pajamas. The floor length mirror shines your reflection, you stop to stare.

Maybe you weren’t the first pick, maybe you hated what you saw sometimes, but the thing about Spencer was he was so sure that no one could ever do it like you. A slew of compliments he’d give you, the fever of his love was scorching.

You give the girl in the mirror a smile, then comb her hair with your fingers and smooth your tank top.

Silly enough, you turn to the side, wrapping your arms around an invisible bump, and you smile fondly at the thought. Two kids. A boy and a girl. Little geniuses. That’s what he and you would talk about. The next thing after he marries you, the next thing he’d do was give you a baby. He swore up and down at night when you laid with your head on his beating heart, he’d give you the family you craved and your face would hurt from smiling so much.

All plans are at a stand still now.

And that’s okay, wasn’t it? This was a rough patch and you’re helping Spencer get through it because you’d help him with anything-

The bedroom door opens, Spencer walks in and you step away from the looking glass.

“I’m going to get ready for bed.” You mumble, walking past him, cheeks burning red.

To say the least, Spencer feels horrible. Here you were, giving him your undying loyalty, holding his hand through all of it, and he’s the reason life has stopped. You’re so brave about it, always patient and understanding.

He hates it.

You should be angry, you should be arguing. He knows his bad moods kill you, he knows you’re waiting for things to be normal again and they won’t. You get up in the middle of the night when he’s asleep and put on your wedding dress, just to smile at yourself and promise that soon, it’ll be better. You think he doesn’t realize, that he’s passed out, but from the bed he watches you turn in front of the mirror and bite your lip, the way you always do when you’re too pleased with something. Then he sees you cry, softly, hand pressed to lips so you don’t make any noise and inconvenience him. You only let the break happen for a fee minutes, then you wipe your tears, take off the dress and tell yourself that it’s all alright.

Things will be okay.

What if they won’t?

What if it all just crumbles, every wall of the castles built?

It’s not a matter of ‘what if’s’ anymore, is it? Not when the two of you argue into the morning about things. You’re trying so hard to give him the benefit of the doubt but when he isn’t giving you anything at all, it makes for situations like this one.

Head in your hands, you pause for a brief moment and breathe before looking back up at Spencer. The two of you have been at this for about an hour and a half, all because you mentioned how unfair he’s being. Here you were, taking the scraps he throws to you like you’re a dog, and he’s saying it’s you who is unfair.

“I know you want things to go back to the way they were, but it’s not gonna happen.” He says in that bitter tone you hate, looking down at you, sitting on the mattress.

“I know things are different, Spencer.” You claim. “But I didn’t think I had to be okay with you hardly looking at me, or-or not baring to ask me a simple question like how my day was.”

He scoffs at you, running a hand through his unruly hair. “I’m sorry if my attention isn’t devoted to you now.”

You stand to match his position. “Don’t make me seem selfish.” You shout.

“I’m- you’re not selfish, I just…what do you want from me?” He questions, throwing his arms out and staring at you with absolutely no love in his eyes.

“What do I want?” You reword. “What I want is some progress. Every day I wake up, and I do my best to convince you that you’re not something evil, that these unforeseen circumstances don’t define you, and it’s like I’m stuck in a loop. I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.”

A lump forms in your throat, your eyes burn but you can’t find it in yourself to let those tears fall.

“That’s the problem!” Spencer shouts. “You’re looking at me like I’m some sort of sick animal and I can’t stand it!”

“You’re looking at me like I’m not the love of your life anymore, so I suppose some things change.”

Silence.

Spencer’s at a loss for words.

Your tears start falling now. You wipe at them with fever.

“I’m trying to give you time, Spence.”

“Angel-” He tries to interrupt, only to be stopped with the movement of your hand in the air, halting him.

“Don’t. Don’t be like this. I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but I have felt so alone.” You say with a squeak. “And you just… don’t care.”

He shakes his head, demeanor changing. “Of course I care!”

“Really? Because it feels like you gave up on me when you gave up on yourself.” You gasp lightly, trying to calm your shaking hands. “And that’s mean, baby. I know you have been through so much and you lost the game of chance, and I’m sorry- I am so sorry, but you can’t toss me aside like I haven’t formed my whole life around you!”

It’s strange, standing in a room that once knew laughter and the warmth of your escapades. Only now, it’s ghostly and tired and blue. Spencer wants to defend it, wants to shout that you’re just not understanding him but it’s wrong. You understand him better than anyone ever has, and you’re immensely right, he’s abusing the situation. He knows all of this and can’t help but back peddle like his life depends on it.

“I’m not trying to toss you aside, I’m sorry.” He says, reaching out to grab you, deciding his touch can’t be your downfall.

But you side step him. “But you are, do you not understand? Use that smart head of yours to realize the instance here.” You plead. “If you’re done trying, then I am to because I have no more to give. I’m empty, you took it all from me, Spence. What do I get in return? Nothing, not even a fucking marriage.”

There’s a certain level of hurt that mixes with the anger and creates something crazy in your brain, makes it malfunction and all your repressed thoughts come out.

As you go to leave the bedroom, Spencer follows after. “What does that mean?” He asks.

You need to get out, these walls are whispering with your promises of a future, they’re getting louder.

“You aren’t going to marry me.” You state, searching for some place to hide and sink away.

“Of course I am.” He claims, calling your name to stop you.

“You can’t even pretend like you love me, Spencer, you aren’t going to marry me.”

A hand catches your arm and spins you to face him. His eyes are confused and reeling.

“I do love you, I always have.”

There’s a waver in his voice, is there?

I swallow. “Say it again. With feeling.”

“I love you!”

As the air leaves your lungs in a death rattle sort of way, you just can’t feel the warmth. It makes sense, ghosts have no heat, no matter how beloved they are. You know he expects you to give a different statement than what you do, and it hurts when you tell him the truth.

“I don’t think that’s enough now.”

“Don’t say that.” His tone comes out angrier than intended.

“I just did.”

One might describe him as a scared dog, one who lashes out now like he never used to.

“It’s not enough? Then why don’t you just spare yourself?” He spits, resembling a man you’ve never known, tossing your arm aside, probably too harshly.

The knife twists in your chest, you’re convinced you’re bleeding. Slowly, you nod. The ring seems to hold on for dear life, but you still pull it from your finger and offer it forward.

Everything inside of him feels sick as he reaches out his hand, watching as you drop the diamond into his palm.

With your heartbeat in your ears, you go to the door, sliding into your shoes and grabbing your heavy coat to brave into the weather. With Spencer calling your name, you shut the door on his impending questions of where you’re going.

Spencer stares at the door, and for a moment he can’t believe it all happened like it did. But he said the words and you followed his lead like the faithful partner you are and now you’re gone.

It takes him twenty two minutes before he begins to really panic. What if you’re gone forever? What if some force is going to take you now? Where did you go? Are you cold?

And if you left, that meant he’s alone for good, alone like he’s always been. How could he do this to you? He’s horrible, he’s a monster, all of those things he’s thought about are true.

He sets the ring on the counter, then throws the dirty coffee mug into the sink with such force, it breaks.

He paces the apartment while you stand at Penelope’s door, your dearest friend you only know because of Spencer, trying to hold it together until she comes to find you.

“What happened?” She asks, taking in your appearance.

“I don’t– know.” You sob out.

Two weeks later…

…

…

…It’s a weird feeling, having your spine split in half from carrying so much weight uphill for so long. You know a lot about weird feelings now, that empty space in your chest, Spencer sized, that’s your new lover.

Penelope sets a duffel bag by the pullout couch where you hardly move from, she’s been making trips to the apartment over the days to retrieve what you need.

“Hey, lovebug.” She coos softly, sitting by your knees, petting your mess of hair. “How was work?”

You open your mouth to tell her it was fine, that today was actually a good day, all the way up until Spencer texted you and asked if you wanted to move all of your things out.

A strangled sigh leaves your cracked lips.

This sums up how the last two weeks have been, and you wonder if Pen is a little embarrassed for you yet, the way you can hardly get out of bed.

“Emily and JJ and I are going out…why don’t you take a shower and come with us? It’ll make you feel better.” She says in such a gentle tone, one she’s learned that can get you to do anything.

It drags you to the shower, where you sag against the wall and do your daily crying. Then you get dressed and tame your hair and somehow make it to the bar.

Emily and JJ look at you with pity and you have no energy to be upset.

“Reid’s not enjoying it either.” Emily offers in a corner booth, because the conversation has turned to discussing the loss of your life.

Pen and JJ nod in agreement.

The BAU feels like they’re going through this break up at the way Spencer’s moods affect all of them. They’ve never known his anger like they do now, how he’s quick to snap, how the littlest thing sets him off. They’ll spare you, they won’t tell you how he swiped the picture frames off his desk, the ones of you and him. They won’t mention the fact that he hasn’t smiled once, that he looks like he doesn’t sleep.

They won’t tell you any of this but they’ll offer words of condolence or comfort, neither work.

“It’s going to be alright.” Emily encourages, squeezing your hand from across the table. “Heartache doesn’t stay forever.”

JJ nods like it’s going to fix the way you’re as empty as a drum.

“We all know how you’re feeling, don’t worry.” She says, her perfect, Barbie doll smile.

It makes you sick. You really shouldn’t take the anger out on anyone, but you do because there’s so much of it and you can’t stop it from flowing.

“You know what I’m going through?” You question her.

“Yes, I’ve had heartaches too.”

You suddenly can’t stand being here, you need to leave.

“You can go home to a husband, Jennifer, you don’t know how I feel.”

With those as your parting words, you flee, you tell Penelope you need air and you’ll see her at her apartment.

While you brave the cold city, the three women ask themselves how it could have possibly ended like this, with the greatest love of all in shambles. JJ calls Reid, of course she does.

“You need to fix this.” She tells him.

“…How is she?” He asks, sitting on the sofa, eyeing the framed pictures on the wall.

“She’s…lost. She’s ghostly, she-…Spencer, she loves you and she can’t stop. Fix it.”

“I don’t know how.” He says, monotone.

“How did it end, anyway?” She asks, seeing Emily and Penelope return with more drinks.

Spencer sort of sighs, though it’s sad and broken.

“I don’t know.”

- - - -

The air bites, it’s as cold as you feel, makes your bones ache. You wander in hopes of getting lost permanently, but to no avail, you know your city. Your city that feels so harsh and cruel, it’s one big reminder that you used to not walk the sidewalks alone, that you once stole kisses under streetlights. And as you’re walking down fifth avenue and memory lane, your feet drag you to the place you really want to go. In the time you left the bar and got frostbite from the early stages of falling snow, you’ve worked yourself up enough to believe you could stand your ground. Your anger has made a platform to stand on, you’re at the top of the fucking podium by the time you knock on the apartment door.

Why are you knocking?

Your name is on the fucking lease.

You shove the key in the lock and barge in, mouth agape, ready to fire.

And then you see it.

The bedroom door is only halfway shut, but you see movement. In the room that is gray and sullen, Spencer stands with his back to the door, staring at the cascade of white that he has laid on the bed like a memorial, like it was an open casket viewing.

Your podium shrinks.

“I was going to wear my hair up.” You say, causing him to turn and face you.

He’s tired, hair messy, unshaven, and those round brown eyes are the saddest things you’ve ever seen.

“I like your hair up.” He says, the words echo off exposed brick walls.

Heart beats pass, ba-bum ba-bum in your ears and you quickly huff and bush melted snow through your hair.

“I’ll get my things out now, if you want.” You say, choosing words carefully, eyes watching the way his avoid you.

“I don’t have any boxes.” He says, fingers brushing satin and lace before he picks the dress back up, puts it in the dust bag and death marches it to you. “You would’ve looked beautiful…you always look beautiful.”

How is it he can be so blissfully unaware? The smartest man you’ve ever known and he’s saying things to break your heart, with no clue that he’s doing it. You take that dress- that beautiful, vintage gown with the hundred fabric buttons running down the back, and lay it over your arm, then rock back on your heels.

“I can grab what I can and come by when you’re at work to get the rest.” You offer, wishing he’d say all the things you want him to say, like stay and I’m an idiot and I love you.

Spencer only nods. “Yeah. That works.”

“Okay…” You whisper, then drape the dress over the reading chair in the corner, the one too small for the both of you. You used to curl as small as possible on his lap with your legs over the arm and your head on his shoulder.

Every corner of this place is haunted.

In the closet, you pull the string and the lightbulb burns orange. You grab the two handheld suitcases, the ones you came home to find on the bed one day with Spencer telling you he was taking you to London while your school was on Spring Break.

When you come back out, Spencer’s left the room. There was no way he could watch you pull open the drawers where your things sat beside his.

With a knot in your throat, you fold and place things neatly and keep your cool like the mature adult you are.

That is until you grab the MIT t-shirt you’ve worn in. It’s a light gray color now, the neckline stretched so it only hangs right on you and not Spencer. Holding the ratty shirt you refuse to let him toss, that’s when you decide you don’t want to be a mature adult.

You’re a teenager with a broken heart is what it feels like, the world is ending and your soul has been split in half.

One tear comes, and then another, and one more until your face is soaked with your desperation and mourning. You ball that silly t shirt up at toss it away, and decide those suitcases are insufferable and onto the floor they go.

You stare at them, the clatter they made did nothing for comfort. With a raspy sigh, you sink to your knees to put everything back inside, and your blurry eyes drift to Spencer’s socks that appear in front of you after he hears the bang.

Wordlessly and gentle, he lowers his tall frame to crouch in front of you. The look in his eye is fools gold, it makes you think he’s the Spencer he was before everything.

You look at him, sure you look like a mess but you don’t care. Your chapped lips part and he’s prepared for the scolding, for your temper.

It doesn’t come.

“We were supposed to grow old together.” You sob out. “It was gonna be you and me, Spence, wearing matching outfits when we’re eighty, going to senior discount days at the theater.”

Those are the words that bring him back to reality, and the fall is harsh and he’s mortified that he’s done this to you.

You hiccup for air, pushing his hand away that tries to grab the suitcase. “I was going to walk down the aisle to an instrumental version of Heartbeat by The Fray, it’s unconventional but it’s my favorite song.”

“I know.” He whispers sadly.

“We didn’t make a deposit on that little venue with the pond, they gave our spot away but that’s okay, we were going to figure it out because we always do. We always do, Spencer.”

You’re not even sure you’re making sense but he understands, you could go mute completely and he’d understand because you’re his person, who he’s ruined.

“I know. I know, baby, I know.” He keeps repeating, adjusting to pull you away from the mess and into him.

With no strength left, you have no fuel for the fight. You fall into him, face in his chest as he sits against the bed and hugs you like he’s not seen you in years. It’s what it feels like, he hasn’t had you this close in too long. His fingers press into your skin, the warmth is almost groundbreaking in feeling, makes him unsure of where to hold you because he wants to touch everywhere, all at once. A lifeless frame full of hunger, you can’t move as you feel his caring grip in your hair, his lips to your crown as you can’t seem to get a solid breath in.

“Don’t make me leave you.” You plead, curling into him like a whimpering dog, clutching his chest to make sure there’s still a heart in there that beats for you.

Spencer’s crying now, the familiar feeling of fear in his lungs that don’t want to expand if you’re not around. He drags hair out of your face and presses his forehead to yours.

“I don’t want you to leave. Don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” He says with the emotion of the man before.

And just like that, you waltz right back into each other, you know the steps. Sitting in your fairytale, on the cold hardwood floor, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you both determine this isn’t the end of the greatest love affair they’ve ever seen.

You’re not sure how long you stay like this, in his lap, face red and salty as you stare at your bare left hand, but eventually the tears stop for the both of you. Spencer is the first to speak, he gently shifts, his hand sliding up your arm and shoulder to rest on the side of your neck, as if he’s checking your pulse.

“I’m sorry.” He rasps. “I’m sorry for everything, all of it, every single thing I did and said and ruined. I’m an idiot, angel, and you don’t know how lovely you are.”

Like water to a flame, those words are cooling. The grief and remorse in his tone makes you grab that hand checking your lifeline, and hold it.

“I’m sorry too.” You say. “For everything that went wrong and the fact I couldn’t do anything about it.”

His chest shudders, he leans down and kisses your forehead. “It doesn’t matter, it’s over now.”

You tilt your gaze up to meet his eye. “Is it?”

Bless you and the ground you walk on that he should worship better. Spencer gently runs his finger down your cheek and across your jawline. He nods then. “Yeah, baby, it is.”

[worlds-only-dbgt-enjoyer]

Dragon Ball Fic Recs

as many of us think (at least in my fandom buddies circle), dragon ball fic is plagued with The Bad*. however ao3 is one of the few things that renders correctly on my flip phone and im a creative writing major, a huge snob, and sort by new, so I got favorites. This will be an expanding masterlist.

This is personal preference. I read heavily for writing style, and have very few squicks. Please read tags. Essentially all of these authors have other fics in the fandom that are worth reading, but in interest of this being vaguely readable, Im keeping it largely to one per writer.

The Obvious Choices

Most of these came from other fic rec lists, but if I got a tip about it, and liked it anyway, here it is

Contamination-cosmicmewtwo

tags: Post-Majin Buu Saga, Horror Elements, Science Fiction. Kakavege

Summary: While training in the far reaches of space, Goku and Vegeta discover something alien beyond their understanding.

Homeworld Lost-astral_mariner

tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Raditz/Vegeta (Dragon Ball), Bulma Briefs/Vegeta, Frieza/Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Other pairings, Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Raditz (Dragon Ball) Nappa (Dragon Ball) Frieza (Dragon Ball) Bulma Briefs Other Character Tags to Be Added, Horror, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon, Canon Universe, Torture, Genocide, Medical Experimentation ,Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unreliable Narrator, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Rape/Non-con Elements, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Sadism, Masochism, Abusive Relationships, Slavery, POV Raditz, Grief/Mourning, Whump, Angst, Heavy Angst, Tragedy, Exploitation, Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Existential Angst, Sad Ending, Mindfuck, Aftermath of Torture, Rape Aftermath, Blood and Gore, Major Character Injury, Dark, POV First Person, Sexual Violence, Manipulation, Gender Issues, Saiyan Culture, Vegeta Being an Asshole (Dragon Ball), Vegeta is Bad at Feelings (Dragon Ball), Frieza Being an Asshole (Dragon Ball), Illustrations, Nightmare Fuel

Summary:

Via Raditz’s broken scouter, Bulma tries to recover access to Planet Trade networks and technologies to get an upper hand against the androids. But in so doing, she discovers Raditz’s private files—writings and recordings he kept for himself over his long travels with Vegeta and Nappa under Freeza. Tales of their exploits and descent into madness come to change her perception of Vegeta and her relationship with him. Homeworld Lost is a novel-length dark science-fantasy story with explicit violence, horror, and erotica (sometimes simultaneously). Generally canon compliant. Explores Vegeta’s backstory under the Planet Trade Organization and his fraught relationships with his comrades, particularly the twisted bond he and Raditz share. Most of the story is narrated by Raditz, but there are lots of twists. He is an unreliable narrator, and in places, altered mental states allow him to take other points of view. We also get interludes from Bulma as she reads and reacts to Raditz's account.

(be so for real, you're reading this too)

in sua viscera conversum-ovest

Tags: Post-Majin Buu Saga, Smart Son Goku (Dragon Ball), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Vegeta (Dragon Ball), Introspection, Character Study, aftermath of death, Past Character Death, Spit As Lube, Vegito As A Non-Presence, Existentialism, Fusion. Kakavege

Summary: The Earth keeps on spinning. Maybe it's always been a love story.

Full Moon-Vakaara

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply Son Goku/Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Son Goku (Dragon Ball) Vegeta (Dragon Ball) kakavege week 2018, kakavege week, anxiety attack, Mentions of Death, distraught Goku, Background GoChi, Background VegeBul, Open Relationships, het relationships (background), Anal Sex, Oral Sex, slight liberties taken with how alien physiology works, Hurt/Comfort

Goku’s tail is back, but he’s not sure he’s happy about it - especially now that he knows what he could become at the full moon.

Deeper Cuts

may have double-digit hits, may be largely popular, but not recced to me. they do bang though

between friends-yamchacho (origami_monsters)

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Tenshinhan/Yamcha (Dragon Ball) Bulma Briefs/Yamcha, Launch/Tenshinhan (Dragon Ball), Tenshinhan (Dragon Ball), Yamcha (Dragon Ball), Bulma Briefs, Launch (Dragon Ball),Slice of Life, Drabble ,Unrequited Love, Not Actually Unrequited Love, shy tenshinhan, idc that man is emotionally repressed, Canon Compliant, mostly i havent watched it in a long time so idk, Ambiguous/Open Ending, not much actually happens here, talking about feelings

Summary: Bulma and Yamcha think Tien and Launch are a cute couple. Tien and Launch don't.

these days (these nights) are changing-Resacon1990

Tags:No Archive Warnings ApplySon Goku/Vegeta (Dragon Ball)Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Son Goku (Dragon Ball) Son Gohan Chi-Chi (Dragon Ball) Krillin (Dragon Ball) Piccolo (Dragon Ball) Bulma Briefs Master Roshi (Dragon Ball) Android 18 (Dragon Ball) Android 17 (Dragon Ball) Tien Chiaotzu (Dragon Ball) Yamcha (Dragon Ball) Son Goten Trunks Briefs Z FightersPOV Outsider 5+1 Things Fluff and Angst Fluff Angst Brief mentions of past Chi-Chi/Goku and Bulma/Vegeta Vegeta is Bad at Feelings (Dragon Ball) Awesome Son Goku (Dragon Ball) Goku is actually mature in this one guys Hurt/Comfort Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Summary:

Goku just smiles broadly back at him though, shrugging a shoulder in that effortlessly careless way only he’s ever been able to manage. “Wherever you want. The world is our limit.” Vegeta doesn’t budge an inch. “And what if I want to go somewhere else?” Goku’s smile softens. A lump lodges in Chi Chi’s throat as Goku steps closer, bracketing Vegeta against the tree, leaning down slightly into his space. That look is still there but it’s different, somehow it’s different. “I’m sure we can figure something out,” Goku murmurs. Or, five times a Z Fighter sees Goku love Vegeta... and the one time a Z Fighter sees Vegeta love Goku back.

Rather Fight Than Just Fake It-theeternalghost (iaintafraidofnoghostbear) (archive locked)

tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Vegeta/Yamcha (Dragon Ball) Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Yamcha (Dragon Ball) Hate Sex, Choking, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Name-Calling, Degradation, Barebacking, Rough Sex, Scratching

Summary:

"You're such a fucking - ah!" Yamcha cries out. He tries to pull away, but Vegeta has an iron grip on his hips, the pressure sure to bruise. "I'm a what now?" Vegeta mocks."I can't hear you, Yamcha."

Standing at the Edge, Alone - Cizzi

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Piccolo/Son Gohan, Videl Satan & Son Gohan, Chi-Chi & Son Gohan & Son Goku, Bulma Briefs & Son Gohan, Dende & Son Gohan, Son Gohan Piccolo (Dragon Ball), Videl Satan, Son Goku (Dragon Ball), Son Goten, Chi-Chi (Dragon Ball), Bulma Briefs,Vegeta (Dragon Ball), Krillin (Dragon Ball) ,Android 18 (Dragon Ball), Z Warriors (Dragon Ball), Katas (Dragon Ball), Dende (Dragon Ball), Son Gohan-centric, Pining, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Alien Biology, Namekian Biology, Introspection, Queerplatonic Relationships, Chronic Illness, Self-Discovery, Past Lives, Depression, Slow Burn, Magic, Piccolo is Bad at Feelings (Dragon Ball), Medical Trauma, Namekian Culture, Telepathic Bond, Seizures, Misunderstandings, Good Parent Son Goku (Dragon Ball), Protective Chi-Chi (Dragon Ball)

Summary:

Gohan was twenty when his headaches and the visions started. They showed him nauseating depictions of an unhappy future where he tried his hardest to be what everyone around him seemed to want - and flashes of an unknown past that threatens to creep up on him with its uncertainty. So he decides to change his life, but things aren't that easy; it's hard being so lonely. Pinpointing his real feelings, his real desires. Years have passed and his friends all have lives of their own, but he doesn't feel like he's made any progress, longing for an older, stronger connection to someone he thinks doesn't feel the same way. And his friends, well, they have no idea he's in pain, and think he still wants a happy ending with a 'normal' family and white picket fence. That's what Piccolo thinks he wants, too. Being pushed away by his oldest friend is the one thing Gohan thinks may be more painful than his illness. By the time Piccolo realizes how he feels, will their bond be irreparably damaged? Everyone thinks they know what Son Gohan wants- but does he even know, himself?

The Favorite Subjects

These particularly scratched my brain with ideas, setups, characterizations, or kinks

every time i look at you, it's like the first time-fairyfication

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply Chi-Chi/Son Goku (Dragon Ball) Son Goku (Dragon Ball) Chi-Chi (Dragon Ball) Attempt at Humor, Porn With Plot, profoundly unsexy porn, son goku loves his wife, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Pregnancy, Love Confessions

Summary:

"Chichi, I think I'm sick." Chichi turns around, already brainstorming a chicken soup recipe to nurse him back to health. "What's wrong?" "When you look at me, my chest feels all warm, and I get sweaty hands, and my heart starts to beat fast... do you think I'm allergic to you?" "That's no allergy," she smiles, wedding band shiny in the midday light. - Goku and Chichi never seem to do things in the right order.

Provocative-cuddlesome

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply Raditz/Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Vegeta & Nappa & Raditz (Dragon Ball)Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Raditz (Dragon Ball) Nappa (Dragon Ball)Canon-Typical Violence Mentions of Xenocide Pre-Dragon Ball Z Team Dynamics Blow Jobs Size Difference Intercrural Sex Thighs Muscles Hair-pulling Slut Shaming Premature Ejaculation Unhealthy Relationships Verbal Humiliation Top Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Bottom Raditz (Dragon Ball) Virgin Vegeta (Dragon Ball) listen Raditz has thicc thighs he can be thicc elsewhere as a treat chunky monkey

Summary: Raditz is a vexing, mouthy weakling, which makes Vegeta's attraction to his body all the more irritating.

Shock to the System-sans_patronymic

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply Bulma Briefs/Vegeta Bulma Briefs Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Trunks Briefs Krillin (Dragon Ball)Emotional Hurt/Comfort Angst with a Happy Ending Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD Past Torture Fluff and Angst Someone buy Bulma Briefs a beer Established Relationship i swear there's fluff Canon-Typical Violence

Summary: When bit of summer fun goes terribly wrong, Bulma is left to pick up the pieces, Trunks struggles to understand and Vegeta confronts old wounds.

migraine-Onyxim

Tags: No Archive Warnings ApplySon Goku & Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Chi-Chi/Son Goku (Dragon Ball) Bulma Briefs/Vegeta Son Goku/Vegeta (Dragon Ball)Son Goku (Dragon Ball) Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Bulma BriefsHurt/Comfort Fluff and Humor Headaches & Migraines Can be read as Goku/Vegeta They outright flirt with each other and it's just universally accepted Goku Makes Dumb Decisions™

Summary:

The heart virus sucked. There was no doubt about that. But he'd go through a thousand heart viruses if it meant he didn't have to deal with this all the time. - aka, Goku has chronic migraines due to his head injury. That's not going to keep him from sparring, though, because he's Goku.

Bleeding Me-Orphan Account

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, Kissing, First Time, Canon Disabled Character, Brain Damage, Traumatic Brain Injury, Blood and Injury, Depression, Protective vegeta, sad Goku, Gift Fic

Summary:

Goku wasn’t himself, at all. He never had ‘off’ days to begin with, but Vegeta saw the changes. But he wasn’t going to ask what was wrong. Never. Then one simple accident changed Vegeta’s stance.

The Child-AveChameleon

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Frieza (Dragon Ball) Kuriza (Dragon Ball)Adoption Emotional Baggage Terminal Illnesses Internal Conflict Parent-Child Relationship Light Angst POV First Person

Summary: A dying enemy has one last request for Vegeta.

Point of No Return-niteryde

Tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Major Character DeathFuture Trunks Briefs & VegetaFuture Trunks Briefs Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Nappa (Dragon Ball) Raditz (Dragon Ball) Frieza (Dragon Ball) Bulma Briefs Son Goku (Dragon Ball) Krillin (Dragon Ball) Son GohanAlternate Universe - Canon Divergence Action/Adventure Dark Gritty Canon-Typical Violence Time Travel Violence Alternate Universe

Summary:

Trunks was going back in time to warn the others about the androids, but instead ended up in a time when Vegeta was Frieza's most ruthless soldier... can he keep his power and identity a secret when he sees the brutality of his father's past? [Original run on FFN: 2010-2011]

Honorable Mentions

K18 NSFW Art-TinyGryphon

Tags: No Archive Warnings ApplyAndroid 18/Krillin (Dragon Ball)Krillin (Dragon Ball) Android 18 (Dragon Ball)NSFW Art Sexual Content Digital Art Vaginal Sex Hand Jobs Double Penetration Foursome - F/M/M/M the foursome is just Krillin using multiform don't worry it's 18 and three Krillins Oral Sex Doggy Style Praise Kink Impregnation Outdoor Sex Beach Sex Height Differences Insecurity Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Summary: A dumping place for any of my K18 art that other sites won't allow but AO3 will because AO3 is a real one

art, not a fic, but cmon. yall know it

Broken-YaminoBossBitch Broken link, deleted :(

Tags: No Archive Warnings ApplyBulma Briefs/Vegeta Son Goku & Vegeta (Dragon Ball)Vegeta (Dragon Ball) Son Goku (Dragon Ball) Bulma BriefsAngst Sad Sad Ending Ableism internalized ableism ableist slurs Self-Loathing disabling illness graphic descriptions of pain Vomiting Memory Loss death mention medical gaslighting Hospitals Medical Tests Denial suicidal ideations sex mention can be read as KakaVege if you squint Vegebul Chronic Illness Hurt with attempted comfort

Summary:

Vegeta develops mysterious symptoms, and they begin to disrupt every aspect of his life. It seems as though the more he tries to overcome them, the worse they get. An illness with no known cause, no treatment, no cure, and that cannot be overcome through sheer force of will. Will Vegeta find the answers he needs? How will he cope with this disruption of his life?

alright, I have to be honest, this one is a little rough. but just captured my mind in a way that it couldnt not be included.

*writing ooc/grammatical error'd/underplotted/any other form of "bad" fanfic is a vital part of fan experience and growth as a writer. Fanfic is donated time, and deserves appreciation at all stages. this is just a list of fics I personally enjoyed

[dizzydennis]

Sonic x Tails - Cover Story

(Translator Note: This was an older translation that seemed to get lost to time, but I found a half finished file I made and decided to punch it up a bit. I am not coming back to tumblr, but wanted to fix this and the Knuckles story just for archiving the Cover Story translations)

“Let’s get moving, Tails!”

Sonic was in a rush, which was nothing new for him.

This time, it was because of a rumor that a bright, rainbow meteor landed in the grassy fields of Green Hill on the other side of the mountain. There didn’t need to waste time thinking about it, so Sonic brought Tails in a hectic dash to see what was going on.

“Whoa! Wait a minute, Sonic…!”

Sonic ran faster than anybody could possibly process as he went through the rising and falling landscape of Green Hill. As well as the towering shuttle loops that they saw before them.

Tails flew behind Sonic with his two tails acting as a helicopter. He flew over cliffs and rivers and managed to keep up with Sonic thanks to using shortcuts.

Two colorful trails, one blue and the other yellow, blasted through the mountain. They were neck-and-neck as they raced towards the other side of the colorful hills.

The two heroes had arrived at a forest outing where the metero supposively crash-landed. But there wasn’t any sort of a crater. As they looked around, Tails pulled out a device and started to scan the area.

“This is my energy detector. If my hypothesis is correct, then we should—“

Suddenly, an alarm in his machine starting beeping. It reacted to a gem that was right under Tails’ feet.

“This is—Sonic!! It’s a Chaos Emerald! But it’s gray right now…”

“What? Why is it back here?”

The Chaos Emeralds are seven miraculous gems that contain unlimited power. They can respond to the wishes of whoever use them and bring about miraculous results.

Once all seven are gathered, there would be an unimaginable level of power, but after their powers have been used, the Chaos Emeralds would warp to different parts of the world.

After they landed with no rhyme or reason somewhere, their cores would slowly build up power again.

Sonic and his friends had used the energy of the Chaos Emeralds just a few days ago to stop the dastardly plans of the mad scientist, Dr. Eggman.

“This is one of the Emeralds! It probably looked like a rainbow because it was refracting sunlight as it fell.”

Sonic listened as Tails as he gave his explanation all at once. Though Tails felt a little embarrassed afterwards, Sonic’s gaze held nothing but the utmost trust in him.

Sonic listened to Tails as he explained everything. Realizing this, Tails felt a little embarrassed, but Sonic’s gaze showed he absolutely trusted his friend.

“Great! I’m with ya! I probably would’ve missed it, myself. Glad you’re here with me!”

“Oh, it’s nothing! Hehehe.”

As the two shared a smile, a large beeping sound came from Tails’ device. Sonic noticed almost instantly.

“Hey! Did it find another Chaos Emerald? It must be that way, right? Let’s do it to it, Tails!”

“T-this is just an energy detector. It doesn’t mean it’ll necessarily be a Chaos Em—“

There was no point in wasting time wondering about it, so Sonic took Tails by the hand and started running.

There was no point in just debating what was going on. Sonic grabbed Tails by the hand and started running off.

“Up over and gone, Tails!”

“Wow! Hold on, Sonic…!”

And so, two trails—one blue and one yellow—streaked through the mountains once more, neck-and-neck as they raced towards the other side of the verdant hills…!

Once again, two colorful trails, one blue and one yellow, blasted through the mountainsides again. They raced across the green landscape once again.

[theoutcastrogue]

"On Thursday, music labels sought to add nearly 500 more sound recordings to a lawsuit accusing the Internet Archive (IA) of mass copyright infringement through its Great 78 Project, which seeks to digitize all 3 million three-minute recordings published on 78 revolutions-per-minute (RPM) records from about 1898 to the 1950s.

If the labels' proposed second amended complaint is accepted by the court, damages sought in the case—which some already feared could financially ruin IA and shut it down for good—could increase to almost $700 million. (Initially, the labels sought about $400 million in damages.) ...

The case still has a long way to go before a verdict will be reached and IA's fate potentially decided. IA continues to argue that the Great 78 Project is a fair use under copyright law, and not everyone agrees that the maximum potential damages will be awarded, even if IA loses. In September, Sam Trust, a music-publishing vet currently overseeing the Doris Day estate, told Rolling Stone that the potential damages that labels seek are "absolutely absurd," suggesting that he "would be surprised if it’s $41,000 worth of damages." ...

Some estates for artists whose recordings are included in the lawsuit have likewise criticized IA. However, more than 850 current musicians have defended the Great 78 Project, demanding last December through a campaign organized by Fight for the Future that music labels drop the lawsuit. ...

David Seubert, who manages sound collections at the University of California, Santa Barbara library, told Ars that he frequently used the project as an archive and not just to listen to the recordings. For Seubert, the videos that IA records of the 78 RPM albums capture more than audio of a certain era. Researchers like him want to look at the label, check out the copyright information, and note the catalogue numbers, he said.

Music publishers suing IA argue that all the songs included in their dispute—and likely many more, since the Great 78 Project spans 400,000 recordings—"are already available for streaming or downloading from numerous services."

"These recordings face no danger of being lost, forgotten, or destroyed," their filing claimed.

But Nathan Georgitis, the executive director of the Association for Recorded Sound Collections (ARSC), told Ars that you just don't see 78 RPM records out in the world anymore. Even in record stores selling used vinyl, these recordings will be hidden "in a few boxes under the table behind the tablecloth," Georgitis suggested. And in "many" cases, "the problem for libraries and archives is that those recordings aren't necessarily commercially available for re-release."

That "means that those recordings, those artists, the repertoire, the recorded sound history in itself—meaning the labels, the producers, the printings—all of that history kind of gets obscured from view," Georgitis said. ...

[wingedshadowfan]

⚠️arcane s2 act iii spoilers // caitvi ending commentary ⚠️

the difference between the last individual scenes of vi and caitlyn, and the one they shared actually made me sob, so here's my analysis of what it all meant

caitlyn is at home, in her family mansion in piltover. her monologue seems to be a messege or an archive for the kirammans or historians after her; she's also looking at the kiramman house files, a family heirloom, a symbol of her legacy and her station, a connection to her mother. she's perhaps searching for something needed in order to start rebuilding the city, perhaps checking if jinx could still be somewhere out there, maybe even seeing what ekko saw about the undercity's vents and water ducts. she still seems to have purpose, or to be in search of one for herself.

vi is also in caitlyn's house in piltover, but she's not with caitlyn. in a city not her own, in a house not her own, it seems she's chosen to sit in a room alone with her thoughts, staring at the fireplace. we hear her humming the tune to a song her mother used to sing, the same one jinx was humming when we first saw her this season - vi's small comfort, the faintest memory from those before her, and nothing to leave to those after her. no roots and no legacy. she's grieving everyone and everything she's lost. stripped of will and void of purpose.

caitlyn is excited to hear vi humming a song. we don't know how long it's been since the war ended, but this implies she hasn't been doing much other than sitting by herself in silence in quite some time. she's become a shell of herself, and caitlyn is worried - she's there for her but doesn't want to push her either. she asks her if she's "still in the fight", and this is a loaded question that i can see two main meanings in - one notably sadder.

1) are you still in there?

what part of you is left, and is it strong enough to keep fighting this state you're in? do you have it in you to keep going? do you have the will to live in spite of it all? is there any fight left in you? are you still with me, or are you just in the room?

and i feel like caitlyn knows the answer but wants to hear it from vi, check in on her and encourage her to open up if she's feeling ready to. because she heard her humming to herself.

and when vi says she's the dirt under caitlyn's nails, she doesn't mean it in a cute, flirty or romantic way. she means it in a self-deprecating "i know i'm not being easy right now" kind of way.

i'm not fun to be around, to have to take care of and wait around for. i'm making things harder for you and i'm holding you back by not cooperating and just getting better. i can't help it.

and she adds onto this, "nothing's ever gonna clean me out"

you're stuck with me. i'm a nuisance to you but i can't leave you because you're all i have left. i think i'm lost and broken beyond repair. i'm crooked. i think i'll never be okay again.

2) have you given up on zaun?

are you still in on fighting the system? have you given up on trying to make others see your people for who you are? do you still have hope in the dream for unity and freedom for zaun?

it sounds like caitlyn does, and she's still up for it, just like she was in the latter half of the first season, before jinx kidnapped her, tried to get vi to kill her, and blew up the counsil building just as its members were about to vote for zaun's sovereignty, killing caitlyn's mother. but caitlyn can't do it on her own - it's vi's home, vi's people, vi's identity - and she needs to know if vi still believes they can change something.

and when vi says she's the dirt under caitlyn's nails, she doesn't literally mean caitlyn, or herself. she means the opposing poles they represent - piltover and zaun, oppressor and oppressed, a pristine policewoman and a crooked criminal. until piltover's view of the undercity and its people changes, zaun will always be a torn in its side, fighting it, defying it, trying to free itself from its clutches. small, perhaps insignificant, an inconvenience, but a part of it that it can't get rid of or erase. it'll always be there, it'll always fight back.

and when she says nothing's ever gonna clean her out, she means she'll never be bent out of shape and lose that part of herself - the ugly, dirty, raggedy part that grew up on the streets of zaun and was raised among all the tragedy, misery and poverty of the undercity. a product of the system. she'll never let that be "washed out" of her, she won't forget her origin or her goals. this is who she is, her identity - not just in the eyes of piltover, but in her own heart - a zaunite.

EDIT: i also saw this interpretation on tiktok if you're interested. to summarize: there's a spanish saying "like nails and dirt" which is used to refer to two people who are inseparable, so this is a testimony of vi's love for caitlyn having given her reason to keep going and stay by her.

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Petri Dishes and Plastic Wrap

ACT TWO: STITCH PATTERNS

Previous—Next

Brian Moser/Reader

Summary: Y/N was brought in for a psychological profile contract after the Ice Truck Killer case starts gaining momentum and the department begins to feel the pressure. She reviews old case files, offers insight, and quietly builds profiles. What no one knows? Y/N used to work at a private sanitarium in Georgia—one that got shut down after multiple patient abuse reports. She even kept a journal on a particular patient who had dissociative tendencies, surgical skill, and a fixation on reconstructing human bodies like art. The file? It got buried. Now in Miami, Y/N starts receiving odd notes—sketches of bodies in glass boxes, neatly preserved. No threats. Just… acknowledgments. And when she meets Rudy Cooper, the charming prosthetics specialist brought in to consult on a limb pattern, she gets the feeling she’s being studied.

TW: Stalking and obsessive behavior (escalating), Gaslighting / psychological manipulation, Romantic horror / coercive intimacy, Graphic body preservation imagery, Complicity in violence / moral decay, Mentions of trauma-induced dissociation, Sexual tension tied to power / pathology (implied), Unsettling past medical experimentation (referenced), Canon is a sandbox.

It started small. Purposeful, but deniable. The kind of intrusions that, if she dared to mention them, would make her sound paranoid. Unstable. Delicate.

And Dr. Y/N Morrissey was none of those things.

At first, it was a coincidence.

She’d run into Rudy at the courthouse parking structure two mornings in a row, him smiling like he just happened to be leaving as she arrived, iced coffee in hand. Then again at the waterfront—she walked that route every other Thursday after reviewing blood pattern reports at precinct storage. It cleared her mind. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.

He’d waved from a park bench.

“Funny how often we cross paths,” he’d said, as if the universe liked to play matchmaker.

But the familiarity began to sink its teeth in deeper. He started showing up with a second coffee, already ordered to her taste. He knew she didn’t like sugar. He knew she took it with almond milk. That she drank half and then let the rest go cold.

“I’m observant,” he’d said once with that soft, sunny charm. “Occupational hazard.”

She hadn’t told him her favorite brand of soap. But one night, walking into her apartment, she smelled it—lavender and vetiver, subtle and sharp—and paused by the door.

No one had broken in.

Nothing was taken.

But the scent lingered.

The next morning, she found the ribbon.

She’d unlocked her car, slid into the driver’s seat, and paused at the faint flicker of red against the gray of her glove box interior. A silk ribbon, looped and folded into the shape of a heart. Clean. Tidy. Measured. The kind of knot you only learn through repetition.

No note.

No explanation.

She didn’t mention it. She didn’t throw it away.

She placed it in her top desk drawer at work, beneath a file labeled Closed: 2001 – Georgia Facility Report.

Then came the pen—a sleek, black ink fountain pen, identical to the one she’d lost years ago, down to the scratch on the cap. It was left on her desk one afternoon, uncapped, perfectly aligned with her notes. She hadn’t brought it in. Neither had the intern.

Rudy stopped by that day, grinning over his shoulder as he left the room. “Sharp pen. Looks good on you.”

He never asked her out. Never said anything that crossed a line.

But Y/N had the creeping sense that he was already inside the perimeter.

Not pursuing her.

Claiming her.

And she hadn’t told him to stop.

The journals had been boxed, sealed, and labeled “Archived – G. Sanitarium / Not for Review.” She’d moved them three times. They always made the cut.

Now, under the dim lamplight of her apartment, Y/N pulled the top one free—leatherbound, corners softened from years of handling. It still smelled faintly like disinfectant and ink. She opened it with the kind of care you reserve for incisions, not pages.

Inside: her old handwriting, smaller then, precise and curling at the ends. She’d documented every session, every vocal tic, every word that felt like it meant something even when no one else seemed to listen.

Patient #79.

She hadn’t written his real name. She wasn’t even sure she’d ever known it. But the voice echoed so clearly through the pages it felt like he was still sitting across from her, wrists rested on his knees, looking at her like she was both subject and observer.

He doesn’t blink when he describes anatomical separation. He says he “feels most whole when things are in pieces.” That control is honesty, and skin lies.

Says hands reveal more about a person than their eyes. “The eyes perform. The hands confess.”

Y/N’s eyes skimmed down another entry, dated two weeks before the facility closed.

New fixation on preservation. Formalin, dry ice, encasement. The patient wants to “hold beauty in place.”

When I asked him what beauty looked like, he said, “You, when you’re thinking about what I just said.”

She snapped the journal shut. Her fingers didn’t shake. But her breath caught somewhere behind her sternum.

Because two nights ago, Rudy had said something.

They’d been standing outside her apartment after an unplanned encounter at the 24-hour drugstore. They didn’t touch. They never did. But before walking away, he turned and said—offhand, casual, too specific:

“You have a face that sharpens when you’re focused. It’s almost surgical.”

She hadn’t remembered the journal entry until now.

She opened another volume.

More notes. Sketches. A preserved smile rendered in pencil. Bones catalogued in affectionate, academic strokes.

More phrases that matched the ones Rudy had whispered in passing.

The timeline made sense. He would’ve been the right age. The right intelligence. The quiet calm that made the orderlies relax. The way he never raised alarms, but stayed close to the staff. Close to her.

She started flagging pages with red paperclips. Circling terms. Names. Observations that had felt harmless at the time, but now glowed like signs left in plain sight.

She knew what she should do.

Report it. Alert Deb. Confide in someone. Bring the journals in as evidence.

But Y/N didn’t move.

She sat at her desk, surrounded by ink and paper and silence, and kept reading.

Not because she was afraid.

But because the patterns were beautiful.

And she wanted to see how far they would go.

It was always under the surface—Rudy’s questions.

Never direct. Never so pointed that anyone else would notice. But Y/N did. She noticed everything.

Especially when it came to Rudy Cooper. 

It started with a lunch break in the forensics lab. He wandered in under the pretense of delivering a model for limb articulation, but lingered with a sandwich and a grin that never quite touched his eyes.

“You ever wonder,” he asked, biting into the crust, “what it takes for someone to stay conscious through dismemberment?”

Y/N didn’t look up from the photos she was reviewing.

“I assume dosage. Skill. A high tolerance to pain. Why?”

He shrugged, licking a smudge of mustard off his thumb. “Just thinking about nerve endings. Where awareness really ends. I read somewhere that the brain can stay ‘awake’ for as long as thirteen seconds after decapitation. Imagine that.”

“I don’t have to,” she murmured, making a note beside the photo. “I’ve seen the footage.”

He chuckled—low and genuine. “Of course you have.”

Later, it was during one of their quieter moments. She was reading at a café. He appeared without warning and slid into the chair across from her.

“If you were going to preserve something,” he said, as if picking up mid-thought, “would you go with plastination or vitrification?”

Y/N blinked slowly, then marked her place in the book with a receipt.

“Depends on the purpose. Plastination for anatomical display. Vitrification if I cared about cellular integrity.” A beat. “But I’m guessing this is rhetorical.”

He smiled. Tapped a finger against his temple. “Just building a hypothetical. You know how it is.”

Every time they spoke, it was like dancing on the edge of a scalpel. She couldn’t help but meet him where he stood—never backing away, always holding eye contact, answering each insinuation with clinical poise.

“If you were going to rearrange someone… where would you start?” His dark eyes stared into hers, waiting, watching…perhaps even wanting. 

She nodded. “The hands. Most expressive. Most honest.”

Rudy hummed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down and Y/N’s eyes caught onto the slight movement with intensity. “What’s the most misunderstood muscle group?”

 “The psoas,” she answered. It was immediate and certain. “Deep, buried. Crucial. People ignore it because it’s not visible.”

“Do you think people know when they’re being chosen?” This was said more carefully, more pushy. Like this question was more important than any of the others he asked her beforehand. 

 “Only if they’re paying attention,” she replies, her voice still sure but quieter. 

She should’ve walked away. Should’ve stopped replying. But something in her—something rooted deep in her ribs—wanted to hear what he’d say next.

And he knew it.

Each time she answered, he leaned a little closer. Smiled a little deeper. Touched the air between them like it was silk.

And Y/N, steady and composed, answered every test like it was an exam she had trained her whole life to pass. 

At first, Dexter had passed her off as background noise—another specialist with credentials and a cold stare, the type who filled folders with jargon but never got their hands dirty.

But Dr. Y/N Morrissey didn’t just observe.

She dissected.

She sat in on briefings without taking over, slipped reports across his desk with post-its marked "See page 3—organ arrangement inconsistency," and walked away before he could ask why she was paying attention to the same things he was trying not to draw attention to.

She didn’t speculate out loud. She didn’t insert herself into fieldwork. But her profiles? They began to read like blueprints of his shadow self.

One morning, Dexter opened a report she’d written. The subject line read: Behavioral Analysis: Serial Pathology and The Art of Surgical Cleanliness And there it was:

“This subject is methodical. Highly intelligent. Dispassionate, but not indifferent. They believe in order. In beauty, even. They are not killing for power or revenge. They are preserving something.”

He reread that last line three times, his grip tightening on the page.

Preserving.

She was circling him, even if she didn’t know it.

Or maybe she did.

He started avoiding her—not obviously. Just enough to sidestep conversation. He left the lab earlier, chose different hallways, rerouted his routines so their orbits wouldn’t collide.

But she still found ways to cross paths. Quietly. With purpose. Always looking at him just a second too long.

Once, in the lab, she’d picked up a blood spatter photo he’d been analyzing and said, almost idly:

“There’s no hesitation in this cut. No instability. Just muscle memory.”

He’d forced a laugh. “A professional job?”

Y/N turned toward him, her expression unreadable.

“No. Not professional. Intentional.”

That night, Dexter sat in his kill room—not hunting, not prepping—just sitting, staring at the knives like they might offer reassurance. They didn’t.

Because Y/N Morrissey wasn’t chasing blood or fame.

She was chasing understanding.

And Dexter could feel it in his bones—she wasn’t far behind.

He didn’t call it a date.

Rudy called it “something interesting I thought you’d appreciate.” He said it with that easy smile, the one he wore like a mask made of warm skin and practiced dimples. No pressure. Just intrigue.

They met in a neutral place—a gas station parking lot off I-95. The sun was setting behind a line of wilted palm trees. He handed her a helmet and didn’t explain why until she saw the motorbike. She didn’t ask questions. Just climbed on.

He drove them to the edge of the city, where buildings sat hollowed out like old bones, condemned but not quite forgotten. The one he stopped at had been a private medical clinic once—burnt around the edges, windows gone, paint peeling in long yellow strips like shedding skin.

Inside, it was too quiet. Not abandoned-quiet. Curated.

He led her through the ruined halls, past the remnants of gurneys and shattered file cabinets. Then he stopped at a heavy door, half-rusted shut, and pried it open with practiced hands.

The room beyond was cold. Not physically—there was no power. But something about the air felt preserved. As if time had been sealed in here like a specimen.

The tableau sat centered beneath a makeshift skylight.

A body—not fresh, not rotted. Preserved. Arranged. Arms outstretched, palms open, bones visible beneath carefully stripped layers of tissue. The face was untouched, eyes closed as if in gentle surrender. The body was posed, fingers curled like a statue, back arched in a silent offering.

Around it: glass jars. Some filled with fluids. Others with nothing but labels and residue. Everything was organized. Catalogued. Cherished.

Rudy didn’t speak. He just stood beside her, watching the way she looked at it. Not with horror. Not even shock.

With recognition.

Y/N said nothing. Not at that moment. Her lips were pressed shut, blood drawn to the surface like bruised fruit.

She walked the perimeter once. Just once. And then she nodded.

Only once.

Later, back at her apartment, she wrote about it.

Her journal’s spine cracked when she opened it—an old one, the one marked #79. Her handwriting was messier this time. Her palm smudged the ink as she wrote. Her hand shook just enough to make the loops crooked.

The body was not mutilated. It was displayed. There was no panic. No rage. It was reverent. Surgical. Sculptural.

I don’t think this was meant for Miami Metro. It wasn’t a challenge.

It was meant for me.

She capped the pen. Sat in silence.

And finally allowed herself to whisper:

“He remembers everything.”

The body was on the table—cool, pale, already processed through the first round of evidence collection. The crime scene team had cleared out. Deb was yelling in another room. Masuka was gone. It was just them now.

Rudy stood beside her, sleeves rolled up, gloves already on. He leaned in slightly, eyes tracing the incision that ran from sternum to pelvis—clean, practiced, gliding perfectly along the midline. Not jagged. Not messy. A statement, not a kill.

Alina was cataloguing ligature bruising on the wrists when he spoke.

“Come here,” he said, softly, without looking up.

She didn’t hesitate.

He moved aside, just enough to let her stand where he had been, and then—without warning—his hand covered hers.

Not forcefully. Not possessively. Just enough to correct the angle of her fingers, tilting them toward the edge of the incision.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “Right along the fascia. Whoever did this, they didn’t cut straight through. They glided. Used the tension. Let the skin open itself.”

His hand didn’t leave hers. His palm was warm through the gloves, anchoring hers like a tutor with a scalpel and a student just slightly off course. His thumb pressed lightly against her knuckle as he guided her along the edge of the cut.

Not erotic.

Surgical. 

Intimate.

The kind of touch that said: We’re the same, you and I. You know what this means.

Her breath caught—not from nerves, not from fear. From focus. From memory. From the sensation of finally being understood on a frequency she’d spent years pretending didn’t exist.

The skin beneath her hand was cold and inert.

But the heat between their gloves was unmistakable. Not from friction.

From alignment.

He released her a moment later. Didn’t step back. Just let his hand fall away like it had never been there at all.

“You’ve got good instincts,” Rudy said. “Just needed a little redirection.”

She didn’t reply.

Her hand remained where he left it—poised over the open flesh, gloved fingertips hovering just above the line.

She knew what the cut meant now.

So did he.

The first tableau had been composed. Beautiful, in its own way. The kind of display meant to impress—not law enforcement, but someone specific. Someone who would understand it.

But the next one was different.

The second body was still art, but it was sharper now. Angrier. The arrangement was more aggressive, the wounds stitched not with elegance but with urgency. Still clean. Still cold. But no longer performative.

The third was personal.

A woman, roughly Y/N’s height and build, positioned on a mattress in a condemned motel. Her skin had been flayed in a deliberate pattern—a replication of musculature diagrams found in obscure banned medical anatomy texts. Her face was untouched. Her hands folded. Her hair braided back in a way Alina used to wear during her Briarcliff days.

The room smelled like bleach and sawdust. There was a mirror, propped carefully beside the body, angled to reflect it entirely. As if the killer wanted the viewer to see not just the body— but their own reaction.

Y/N stood there, surrounded by uniforms and evidence markers, and felt the electric prickling beneath her skin. Not fear. Not nausea.

Recognition.

Dexter stood beside her, arms crossed, gaze narrowed—not at the body, but at her. He’d noticed. She was too calm. Her notes are too accurate. Her expression was unreadable, like someone watching the final act of a play she’d seen before.

That night, she found a gift on her doorstep. Not a bouquet. Not a card.

A scalpel.

Sterilized. Wrapped in gauze. Tucked in a case lined with red velvet.

She didn’t report it.

Instead, she locked the door, turned off the lights, and sat in the dark with the case on her lap. Her fingers hovered over it like prayer.

Because it wasn’t a threat. It was a message.

You’re getting closer. You were always meant to.

From that moment on, she was pulled tighter into the inner circle—briefings, crime scenes, high-level analysis. LaGuerta wanted her insight. Deb didn’t trust her. And Dexter—Dexter was watching.

But it wasn’t just them watching anymore.

Rudy was circling.

He started showing up more frequently. Catching her outside the precinct with a look that hovered between affection and hunger.

 He didn’t flirt.

He didn’t tease.

He just lingered.

“You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” he said one night outside her apartment building, voice low enough to make her throat tighten.

 “See what?” she asked, fisting her keys to the point one of the rough edges sunk into the fat of her palm. 

“The design. The throughline. The truth under the red.”

She didn’t answer.

Because the intimacy between them had turned. It wasn’t fascination anymore.

It was selection.

And she wasn’t sure if she was the chosen…

Or the next exhibit.

It was supposed to be harmless.

A visit under the pretense of shared wine and late-night theory—two professionals comparing notes, deconstructing pathology. That’s what she told herself. That’s what she let him believe.

Rudy arrived precisely at 9:00, holding a bottle of dry red in one hand and a takeout bag in the other. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his smile disarming, his posture loose and practiced.

“Dinner with a forensic psychiatrist,” he said as she opened the door. “Every man’s dream.”

Y/N didn’t smile. She stepped aside and let him in.

Her apartment was sterile in a lived-in way. Clean, but cold. Books stacked with surgical precision. A single orchid on the windowsill. The scent of bleach faintly clung to the air, masked beneath lavender oil. Her couch hadn’t been used in days. The table had been cleared.

Except for the file.

A thin folder, closed but not hidden, sitting on the desk near her armchair.

Rudy set the wine down. Took in the space. Eyes roaming casually until they landed—right there. The file. And beneath it, the corner of a notebook. Leatherbound. Faint red threading visible in the spine.

She didn’t move to cover it.

He didn’t ask permission. Just wandered closer, knelt as if admiring a curiosity, and brushed a finger across the folder’s edge.

“Is this one of yours?”

Y/N stayed silent.

He opened it. Slowly. Carefully.

Inside: photos. Scans of her old journals. Annotated profiles. A page torn from Briarcliff’s patient logs. Notes written in her precise script, each line spiraling deeper into obsession—not about a killer, but a subject.

Patient #79.

Volunteer assistant.

Reconstruction fixation.

Rudy.

She’d coded his name into the early entries. Used letters instead of numbers. Drawn diagrams of the way he sat. The way he smiled without showing teeth. Quotes she’d once called “unsettling” now circled in red.

And then—just beneath it all—her handwriting, more recent:

He remembers me. He kept everything. So did I.

Rudy didn’t flinch.

He closed the folder with quiet reverence, like someone folding a flag. Turned to look at her—slowly, the smile never quite fading, but shifting.

Not the mask now. The man underneath.

“You knew before Miami,” he said. Not a question.

 “Not until the sketches,” she replied.

 “But you kept it. You studied me.”

 “You wanted me to.”

The silence afterward wasn’t tense. It was electric. A waiting space. A breath held between them.

He took a step toward her. Not threatening. Not tender. Something beyond both.

“Were you ever going to tell anyone?”

 “Not yet.”

He reached out, not for her hand, but for her wrist—lightly brushing his thumb over the pulse there.

“You always understood me,” he said, voice low. “Even when you didn’t want to.” “You always talked like someone who wanted to be caught,” she whispered back.

A beat. His hand dropped.

“Not caught,” he murmured. “Chosen.”

And for the first time in her life, Y/N Morrissey didn’t know if she was the hunter or the prize.