#instant file initialization

[thedbahub]

Boosting SQL Server Performance with Instant File Initialization

In the fast-paced world of database administration, efficiency and speed are paramount. One often overlooked feature that can significantly enhance SQL Server performance is Instant File Initialization (IFI). This powerful capability reduces the time it takes to initialize data files, accelerating database operations such as restoring backups or adding data files to a database. Below, we explore…

[shepcdr]

was thinking about the idea that post-me3 happy ending shepard would benefit from a service dog but i know he'd just end up with smth like this

anyway. jokes aside. more rambling re: the post-me3 ending thoughts below

the scenarios im cooking will work i think whether or not the normandy crew have already returned from being crashed on that random planet in the middle of gods-know-where?? ... though i do have some thoughts on how he struggles with vulnerability going from strong and capable commander shepard to... what he is, after the war. aka an injured and disabled man who needs to heal, but he doesn't immediately see that — but the main difference, if the normandy crew is there, is he goes through... some difficulties with being perceived as vulnerable and weak around them. people who've only ever known him to be commander shepard, relentless and hardened and impossible to knock down.

post-me3 — depending on if they're even there, or if they arrive back on the citad lwhilst he's still in the process of recovering, re-learning basic functionality, even unable to walk again yet — is a really hard struggle. Either he's struggling to function without his crew there (because this is how he feels about ALL the normandy crew btw [excerpt from this thread]:

because he bonds on such a deep. and v codependent level when it comes to the mass effect crew, especially the me1 people. these were the first people he trusted after so many years of self-isolation and loneliness)... Or he's experiencing the horrific struggle of "holy shit i can't let them see me, the man they followed across the galaxy to fight REAPERS, like this"

but all that aside:

i think he'd jump onto helping rebuild as soon as he's physically capable. he doesn't know what else to do, and he's probably best off not using biotics for a while (uncertain what the destroy ending ... EMP sort of thing would have done to his biotics implant but either way. his body probably needs all the help it can get recovering. so no biotics). he certainly can't jump back into active duty whilst still struggling with even day to day functioning, and perhaps even struggling with having undergone some amputation (i'm undecided on that part...). So, volunteer work. Rebuilding both structurally and in terms of of contributing to community, building that all back up in the aftermath of horrific suffering and loss.

And part of that means he ends up on earth for a bit and perhaps.. passing through the area where he grew up. just to see how hard the reapers hit. and then he'd decide to stay a bit and help out!!!

bc i'm always always thinking about the various news you can hear in me2, in particular... about the Shepard Memorial scholarship on earth that's aimed towards disadvantaged kids (well. aka just sends them to the Alliance. but that's certainly a step up from a lot of situations they could be in) and the "Shepards" charity that conrad formed to help orphans/POWs/refugees... and i think after some contemplation, that's where shepard's mind goes first. so he sticks around, puts in some work in the place he came up in + in other low-income and disadvantaged areas/communities similar to it. my heart says he's particular dedicated to charity & work with disadvantaged kids. he bounces between there and anderson's apartment on the citadel, because he's helping there too (and. because. do they ever?? fucking move that thing back to where it was?? or is it permanently hovering above earth now? — i like to think in control ending that shepard as the catalyst + the reapers help rebuild, and drag the citadel back where it used to be because. just easier that way for everyone. but, like, in a post-destroy ending??? it's just stuck there now...)

and he probably has a dingy and modest little apartment he rents on earth around where he grew up, where he's concentrating a lot of these efforts. and in the morning he gets out on the streets for a morning run with this giant fuck-off service dog in tow... it's sitting there with him so well-behaved when he's hanging around with the bunches of rowdy kids he's working with ...

[vigilante-3073]

Can you please write an imagine in which reader is pregnant with her and house’ kid and something happens and she collapses and gets sent home to bed rest. Perhaps house isn’t there initially, like maybe they work in different departments and he’s with a high priority case and Cuddy isn’t releasing him and then Wilson tells him what’s going on

Bedrest & Complicated Cases

Gregory House x Pregnant Female Doctor Reader

Summary: Y/N is six months pregnant and experiences a complication. House is dealing with a delicate case and Cuddy chooses not to inform him.

TW: Mentions of medical terms/conditions, lying, brief mention of politics/dictatorship.

Y/N worked on patient files quietly in her office after a long day of seeing patients. She shifted in her seat as an uncomfortable sensation began to appear in her stomach and lower back. Y/N took a breath, smoothing a hand over her bump as she waited for it to pass.

Braxton hicks contractions were common, especially as the pregnancy progressed but this felt different. The pain was constant, it felt like her muscles were being torn apart. Y/N stood up from her seat with a grimace, she moved around her desk with a hand on her belly.

Y/N paused, crying out in pain as blood began to soak into the material of her pants. Y/N's hand shot out to her desk, it landed on a pile of stacked files that slipped out from under her palm. Y/N fell, her head collided with the edge of the desk as she landed on the floor.

Y/N had lost consciousness and no one had any idea that she was injured. House was working on a complicated case, Cuddy was supervising him and Wilson was with his patients.

No one had any idea how long she had been on the floor when Wilson finally found her. Y/N was admitted right away and her obstetrician was notified.

Y/N had a partial placental abruption, she lost quite a bit of blood and was having contractions. They were able to get her on a drug called magnesium sulfate in an attempt to stop her labor.

The contractions began to slow, but there was still the potential for an early birth. Y/N was given a blood transfusion and corticosteroids to speed up the baby's lung development.

Wilson stayed by her side throughout everything, "Where is House?" Y/N asked softly. She was weak and exhausted with a possible concussion.

"He's on a case," Wilson said. A pit was beginning to form in his stomach as she looked over at him with a terrified expression.

"Does he know?" She asked.

"Not yet, no," Wilson replied.

Y/N looked down at her bump, hand settling on her skin as she took a shaky breath. Wilson watched her eyes begin to fill with tears as she struggled to keep herself from crying.

"I-I'll go get him," Wilson said, standing up from his seat beside her bed.

"Wait, I don't want to be alone," Y/N mumbled.

"Whatever you need," He nodded, sitting back down.

Wilson pulled out his phone and sent a message to Cuddy.

'She needs him.' He typed.

Cuddy's reply was almost instant, 'How bad is it?' She'd asked.

'Partial abruption, stage two. They were able to stop contractions but are monitoring the baby for distress. She's on magnesium sulfate and corticosteroids but she also needed a transfusion,' Wilson typed back.

'Stay with her. We need him on this case.' She replied, leaving no room for argument

Wilson grimaced before tucking his phone into his pocket, "What's wrong? Is he not coming?" Y/N questioned.

"He's held up with something," Wilson said.

Y/N nodded, fingers brushing lightly across her bump as she sniffled softly.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said.

"It's fine," Y/N said shakily, brushing away a tear with trembling hands.

Wilson couldn't stand to see her upset, the idea of keeping this information from House was eating him up inside. The case that House was dealing with was important, but the life of his wife and child should be more important.

The case was proving to be difficult for the team, their patient was President Dibala and he was an African dictator. Hundreds of thousands of people would lose their lives if he was cured and the ethical dilemma complicated things.

House was able to compartmentalize easily, but Cameron's strong opinions and moral compass made her one of the worst people to be treating the president. Chase tried to keep her in check, but she was struggling to maintain her objectivity.

The last thing Wilson heard was that there was an assassination attempt against Dibala. He could understand why Cuddy wanted House to stay on the case and remain focused, but it still made him uncomfortable.

Wilson stayed by Y/N's side until she eventually fell asleep and he was able to step away. Wilson went straight to House's office, he lingered by the door as they went through another differential.

House noticed him and dismissed his team members, they filed out of the conference room and made their way back to the patient's room.

"House, I need to talk to you," Wilson said.

"I'm in the middle of something, it can wait," House stated, staring at the whiteboard.

"No, it can't... It's Y/N," Wilson said.

House looked over at him, "What happened?" He questioned.

...

Y/N opened her eyes, grimacing as her head pounded under the harsh fluorescent lights. She closed her eyes, hoping that the throbbing in her temples would resolve itself.

"Where does it hurt?" Someone asked.

Y/N opened her eyes, looking over to find House sitting at her bedside. His eyes ran over her body before glancing up at the machines that were keeping track of her and the baby's vitals.

"My head," Y/N mumbled.

"You have a concussion. It's gonna hurt," House stated.

He stood up from his seat, grabbing his cane and moving over to the door. He shut off the lights in the room before returning to his chair.

"Where were you?" Y/N asked.

"Doesn't matter, I'm here now," He said.

Y/N settled back against the pillows, her hands rested on bump as she looked down at herself.

"Is she moving?" House asked, Y/N nodded.

"I was scared that I was going to lose her... The pain was terrible and there was so much blood," She said shakily.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here, but she's okay and you're okay," House stated.

"The doctor put me on bedrest for the remainder of the pregnancy," Y/N said.

"I figured," He nodded.

"How are we going to do this, Greg?" Y/N questioned, already sounding defeated.

"We'll figure it out. I'll reduce my hours and we can hire someone to help around the house in the meantime," House said.

Y/N took a breath, "Don't worry," House stated.

"I'm not," Y/N replied.

"Your heart rate says otherwise," House said, glancing up at the vitals machine.

Y/N smiled slightly, "Well, I'm trying not to worry," She said.

House stayed by her side overnight, his case was overly complicated and resulted in the death of President Dibala. Cuddy was right to encourage House to maintain his focus on the case but it was an impossible situation.

The circumstances surrounding Dibala's death were murky, but House couldn't bring himself to care. It was true that the president was a bad person and his ideas would damage an entire population, but it was still a black mark on his record.

House's significant other and their child needed to take priority.

...

Y/N had been on bedrest for three weeks and she was absolutely miserable. She read every book she had intended to and watched all the trash television that she could stomach.

House did as he promised and limited his hours, during difficult cases he asked Wilson to check up on her. Wilson had been a vital part of their support system in the last few weeks.

Wilson helped them to assemble the furniture for the nursery and finish painting the walls. He cooked for Y/N when House wasn't able to and had just been an incredible help during this time.

Y/N was incredibly bored, but Wilson did everything he could to keep her spirits up. He knew that it must have been awful to be trapped in the house for such a long period of time.

He never came to their home empty-handed, he always brought snacks, gifts or flowers for Y/N. House appreciated his friend's kindness and let Wilson know that their door was always open to him.

House made his way into the apartment, tossing his keys into the dish and shrugging off his coat. House laid it over the back of the couch, pushing the door shut with his cane and making his way down the hallway to the bedroom.

Wilson sat in the chair beside the bed as Y/N sat with her back against the headboard. A laundry basket of various baby items sat on the bed beside her.

Y/N folded the items and set them in a stack on the bed next to her. Wilson folded the items in his own basket, gaze focused on the television.

"She did not sleep with his best friend, did she?" Wilson asked, not daring to pull his eyes away from the screen.

"Oh yeah, they've been sleeping together for at least two seasons in secret," Y/N said.

"No way. The cameras follow them everywhere, how could they find the time?" He questioned.

Y/N shrugged, "They stay up until four in the morning and sleep until two. They start every day with a pilates class and spend hours binge drinking while arguing. All they have is time," She said, folding a fluffy pink blanket.

"Sorry to interrupt your little watch party, but I'm home," House said.

"We're one episode away from the tell all, you have to let us finish the season," Wilson stated, folding up a baby onsie.

"My god, what happened to you?" House muttered, kicking off his shoes and laying down in the bed beside his wife.

"This is the best show to ever be invented," Wilson said, gesturing to the television.

"Sure it is. Wake up me up when it's over," House said, crossing his arms and settling back into the pillows as he closed his eyes.

Things had been complicated, but they were figuring it out and taking things one day at a time. The baby was growing and Y/N hadn't had any bleeding since that first incident.

She had a magnificent support system around her and she leaned on them in her time of need.

House may not have been everyone's favorite person, but Y/N was. She had always been kind and everyone who met her loved her.

It was shocking that he was the one she wound up falling in love with but you can't help it sometimes. House loved her and he was grateful that her and the baby were alright.

[kiwriteswords]

begs nicely for bombshell reader

In the Margin

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Bombshell!Female Reader||Word Count: 6k

Tags/Warnings: canon-typical themes, flirting, fluff, finance talk, banter, Hotch is a softie for Penelope.

Sypnosis: Aaron Hotchner’s weekly budget meetings with you, the sharp-tongued BAU financial analyst, become an unexpected mix of humor, wit, and simmering tension as professional boundaries blur. Between team antics, Penelope’s creative expenses, and your playful challenges, Hotch finds himself navigating far more than just numbers.

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t sure if he hated the newly implemented weekly budget meetings because they disrupted his already packed schedule or because of you, the BAU’s Operations Department Budget Analyst.

No--that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t that he hated you. It was that he hated how much he didn’t hate you. You were sharp-tongued, confident, and armed with a wit so quick it could cut him to ribbons before he even knew he was bleeding. It didn’t help that you looked like you belonged on a movie set rather than in a conference room dissecting every penny spent by his team.

He adjusted his tie as he entered the room. You were already seated at the head of the table, a tablet in front of you and a pen in hand, tapping it rhythmically against the desk as you scanned a detailed report. He knew that was meant for him. It was always meant for him.

“Good morning, Agent Hotchner,” you greeted without looking up. “Let’s talk about how your team managed to burn through three months of budget in--oh, a month and a half.” Your eyes finally met his, and the smile you gave him could only be described as predatory.

“Good morning, Miss. Y/L/N.” He placed his briefcase on the table and sat across from you. “I see we’re getting right into it today.”

“Well, Aaron”—and wasn’t that a bold move? Using his first name like that—“I’d love to make small talk, but someone”—you leaned forward conspiratorially, voice dropping as if this was the world’s biggest secret—“decided we needed to order customized iPad cases last month. For everyone. Including” You looked back down to the itemized invoice,"‘Penelope Garcia’s-second-backup-iPad.’”

Hotch rubbed a hand over his face. “That would be Garcia,” he said dryly.

You laughed, and the sound was like a reward he didn’t know he was aiming for. “Oh, Aaron. It’s always Penelope, isn’t it?”

The meetings became a staple of his week, though not by choice. What had started as a quarterly formality became a monthly necessity when you joined the department and discovered Penelope’s propensity for colorful, extravagant expenditures. But the kicker came two months ago, when Penelope had gone rogue with the budget to fund her “absolutely vital” initiative to replace paper case files with digital ones—complete with the max amount of storage, of course. You’d retaliated by instituting weekly budget reviews.

“She knows,” Hotch told Penelope one afternoon in her lair. “She knows it was you.”

Penelope gasped dramatically. “How does she know? Wait—does she have surveillance on me? Did she bug my office? Tell. Me. She didn’t bug my office.”

“She didn’t bug your office, Garcia,” Hotch said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She knows because you send her invoices.”

Penelope frowned. “But those were justified expenses!”

“She’s not convinced.” Hotch sighed. “Neither is the finance department.”

“Well, maybe if she’d loosen up a bit—”

“She’s very loose, Garcia,” Hotch muttered before realizing how that sounded. Penelope’s grin was instant, and Hotch scowled. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” she teased, “you’ve been spending a lot of time with Miss. Y/N Y/L/N. Maybe you like these meetings more than you’re letting on.”

He left her office before she could get another word in.

The meetings evolved into more than budget disputes. You had a way of challenging Hotch that nobody else did. You questioned his decisions—not about cases, but about expenses. You turned a dry meeting into something that felt like a battle of wits, and despite himself, Hotch found he didn’t mind the sparring.

“So, tell me,” you said during one particularly contentious meeting, “why does Penelope need a beanbag chair? Let me guess—‘it fosters creative thinking.’”

Hotch cleared his throat; his years of being quick on his feet as a lawyer somehow always did him good when it came to defending Penelope’s spending. “She has unique requirements for her workspace.”

“Unique, huh?” You leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs, and Hotch caught himself looking before he forced his gaze back up. “And the collection of...neon gel pens? Also, a unique requirement?”

“She…has a system.”

You laughed again, and Hotch felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He’d smiled more in these meetings than in most social situations, not that he’d admit it.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you said casually, pointing your pen at him, and Hotch stiffened. You were already standing, gathering your papers. “Meeting adjourned. See you next week, Aaron.”

It wasn’t until two months into weekly meetings that things finally shifted.

You caught him in the break room late one evening, well after everyone else had gone home. “Aaron,” you greeted, leaning against the counter with a mischievous glint in your eye. “Did you know your coffee expenses are also over budget?”

Hotch turned, mug in hand. “Should I expect an itemized report on my caffeine consumption?”

You smirked. “Already on your desk.”

The air between you crackled, and for the first time, Hotch saw something beyond the wit and the barbs. He set his mug down and stepped closer, his voice low. “You enjoy giving me a hard time.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “And you enjoy taking it.”

“Do I?” he challenged.

“Don’t you?” you shot back, and the look in your eyes was enough to make him question every professional boundary he’d ever adhered to.

He took another step closer, close enough that he could see the faint trace of amusement in your expression. “This feels like it’s about more than the budget.”

“It definitely is,” you said, your voice softer now. “Maybe I think you could use a little…loosening up.”

Hotch let himself smile just a little. “And you think you’re the person to help me with that?”

You grinned, pushing off the counter and brushing past him, close enough that he caught the faintest hint of your perfume. “I know I am.”

The budget meetings continued, but now, the tension between you and Hotch wasn’t just professional. It simmered, unspoken but palpable, until it was only a matter of time before one of you crossed the line.

And Hotch couldn’t wait to see who would make the first move.

Hotch had a long day ahead of him. Between case briefs, team check-ins, and the weekly budget meeting you’d so gleefully instituted, he felt like the universe was conspiring against him. It didn’t help that Penelope Garcia had texted him earlier with an ominous, “Sir! Big news! You’ll thank me later.”

When he stepped into the bullpen, the team was gathered around Penelope, who stood in the center like a magician about to unveil her latest trick.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, waving her hands dramatically, “I give you the latest and greatest tech upgrade to grace the halls of the BAU!”

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose as the team collectively oohed and aahed over the sleek new monitors now adorning every desk.

“Garcia,” he said, his tone low and measured, “please tell me this was approved through the appropriate channels.”

Penelope turned to him with a smile so wide it could only mean trouble. “Of course it was, sir!” Then, after a beat, she added, “I mean, I may have pulled a few strings. But can you really put a price on efficiency and team morale?”

Rossi, seated casually nearby, chimed in. “I’ll admit, it’s a nice touch. Maybe next month, you can swing for some leather chairs in the conference room. The kind that recline.”

Hotch shot him a withering look. “Don’t encourage her.”

Penelope pouted. “Come on, Hotch! You know these upgrades are totally needed. Plus, they match my aesthetic.” She gestured to her own office.

He sighed. “You know who’s going to have to explain this, don’t you?”

Her grin didn’t waver. “That’s why you’re the boss.”

Later, Hotch found himself standing outside your office, mentally preparing for the inevitable. When he knocked, you barely looked up from your screen. “Ah, Aaron,” you said, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. “What brings you to my humble lair? Let me guess—Penelope strikes again?”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You heard?”

“I always hear.” You gestured to the chair across from your desk. “Sit, and tell me why I shouldn’t slash your team's budget to nothing.”

Hotch sat, rubbing his temples. “She upgraded the monitors.”

Your laughter filled the room, light and musical. “Monitors? Really? Did she bedazzle them too?”

“She might have,” he muttered. “Look, I know it’s excessive, but the team…they rely on her. She keeps things running smoothly.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Running smoothly or running through money?”

Hotch gave you a flat look, which only made you grin wider.

“Alright, Aaron,” you said, leaning forward. “Here’s the deal. We can refinance a few line items. Maybe cut back on travel expenses for conferences nobody attends. But I need you to do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” he asked warily.

You tapped your pen against your desk, pretending to consider. “How about you keep coming to these meetings on time? And,” you added with a smirk, “try not to look so grumpy when you do.”

Hotch’s lips twitched, threatening a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The next meeting was no less contentious, but there was a new edge to the banter.

“You really went to bat for Penelope this week,” you said, flipping through your notes. “Is she holding something over you? A dark secret, perhaps? Did she catch you sneaking an extra slice of cake at Rossi’s last party?”

Hotch gave you a pointed look. “She’s an integral part of the team.”

“And I’m sure the sparkly monitor really enhances her skillset,” you quipped. “What’s next? A gold-plated stapler?”

“Don’t give her ideas.”

You laughed, and he found himself staring at the way your eyes lit up when you did. It was distracting. You were distracting.

“So,” you continued, turning serious, “how do you propose we make this work? I’ve crunched the numbers, and unless you want to start holding bake sales, something’s gotta give.”

Hotch straightened in his chair. “Rossi suggested cutting back on the print subscriptions.”

“Oh, no,” you said, feigning horror. “What will he do without his monthly shipment of Fine Living Magazine?”

Hotch sighed. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But only because you make it so easy.”

As the weeks went on, the tension between you and Hotch became undeniable. The banter turned sharper, the lingering glances longer, the air in those meetings thicker with something unspoken.

It all came to a head late one evening, long after everyone else had gone home. Hotch was leaving his office when he saw your light still on. Against his better judgment, he knocked and stepped inside.

“Still working?” he asked.

You glanced up, surprised. “Someone’s gotta keep the lights on.”

He closed the door behind him. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Is that an offer to help?” you asked, leaning back in your chair. “Because I could use a second set of eyes on these reports.”

Hotch stepped closer, the tension crackling between you like static electricity. "You’re good at what you do. The team is lucky to have you.”

For once, your usual smirk faltered. “Thanks, Aaron.”

The silence stretched, heavy with possibility. Then you smiled again, playful and challenging. “Careful, Hotchner. If you keep talking like that, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

He let out a rare laugh, low and genuine. “Maybe I do.”

Your eyes widened slightly before you recovered, your grin turning sly. “Well, that’s a start.”

The next budget meeting arrived with its usual dose of tension—and not just the financial kind. Hotch entered the conference room early, a strategic move to reclaim some semblance of control. You were already there, of course, seated at the head of the table, the tablet glowing in front of you.

“Early today,” you said, glancing at your watch with mock surprise. “Did someone finally read my strongly worded emails about punctuality?”

"I'm always on time, and I always read your emails,” he replied dryly, taking his usual seat across from you.

“Sure you do,” you said, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s why you never respond.”

“I’m busy running a team of federal agents.”

“And yet somehow Penelope has time to order monogrammed pen holders.”

Hotch sighed, his hand already moving to rub at the bridge of his nose. “You’re never going to let that one go, are you?”

“Not a chance, Aaron.”

The meeting was halfway through when Penelope barged in, her presence as colorful as ever.

“Sir!” she chirped, holding a bright pink folder that screamed unnecessary expense. “Quick update—I managed to upgrade the entire team’s software licenses. State of the art, cutting-edge, only the best for my BAU fam.”

Hotch stared at her, his mouth a thin line. “Garcia, we discussed this.”

“I know!” she said, beaming. “That’s why I made sure to get a bulk discount. I saved us 12%.”

You leaned back in your chair, biting your lip to stifle a laugh. “Twelve percent? Wow, Aaron, she’s practically a financial wizard.”

Hotch glared at you. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m just saying,” you continued, “with savings like that, we’ll be out of the red in no time. What’s next, Penelope? A popcorn machine for movie nights in the bullpen?”

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, her eyes lighting up. “That’s genius. The camaraderie…I—”

“No,” Hotch said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Penelope pouted, but she left without further incident. As soon as the door closed, you turned to Hotch, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“She’s incredible,” you said, shaking your head. “Completely unhinged--but incredible.”

“She’s a lot of things,” Hotch muttered. “Mostly expensive.”

“And you,” you added, grinning, “are such a softie for her.”

Hotch scoffed, leaning back in his chair, but the slight upward twitch of his lips betrayed him. “Softie? I’m her supervisor, not her enabler.”

You laughed, a low, melodic sound that Hotch had come to recognize as the precursor to trouble. “Please. You bend over backward for her, and we both know it.”

“She’s part of my team,” he replied evenly. “It’s my job to advocate for them.”

“Advocating for a new monitor system with glitter decals?” you teased, leaning forward slightly, your grin widening. “Aaron, that’s not advocacy—that’s indulgence. She's like your team's equivalent to 'happy wife, happy life.'"

Hotch crossed his arms, his stoicism cracking just enough to let his dry humor slip through. “I’d call it picking my battles.”

“Oh, really?” you shot back. “And what battle are you avoiding by letting Penelope order custom beanbag chairs?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but you caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Do you know what happens if I say no to her?”

“I can only imagine,” you said, leaning your chin on your hand. “Please, enlighten me.”

“She gets creative,” Hotch said gravely. “Very creative. The last time I vetoed one of her purchases, she launched a campaign with color-coded charts and heartfelt video testimonials from the team about how much they needed a slushie machine in the bullpen.”

Your laughter filled the room again, and Hotch let the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. “A slushie machine? You’ve got to give her credit—that’s bold....and random.”

“She called it a ‘hydration initiative,’” he deadpanned.

You leaned back, shaking your head in disbelief. “You are such a softie.”

“I’m pragmatic,” he corrected, his tone firm but not unkind. “It’s easier to approve the monitors than to explain to Strauss why there’s a PowerPoint presentation titled ‘Ice-Cold Justice.’”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter, and Hotch found himself momentarily distracted by the way your eyes sparkled with amusement. It wasn’t often he let himself relax enough to notice those things, but with you, it was becoming harder to keep the line between professional and personal intact.

“And yet,” you finally said, regaining your composure, “you’re here, pleading her case to me instead of just putting your foot down.”

“She has her merits,” he admitted, his voice softening just enough to remind you why people followed him so loyally. “The work she does is critical. Even when it’s…excessive.”

“See? Softie,” you said triumphantly, pointing your pen at him. “You can’t fool me, Hotchner. You’re all gruff on the outside, but deep down, you’re just one big teddy bear.”

“I’m not sure that’s how the rest of the Bureau would describe me,” he replied dryly.

“Well,” you said, leaning forward with a sly smile, “the rest of the Bureau doesn’t get to see you begging for beanbags.”

He gave you a long, measured look, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to shift. “I don’t beg.”

“No?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow. “What would you call this, then?”

“I’d call it negotiation,” he replied, his voice low but steady. “And if you’re not careful, I might actually win.”

Your grin widened. “Now that I’d like to see.”

Hotch allowed himself a small smirk, the kind that was so rare it felt like a reward in itself. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, Aaron,” you said, leaning back in your chair, your tone playful and just a little daring. “I live to tempt you.”

For a brief moment, the tension crackled, sharper than the wit you both wielded like weapons. Then you straightened, tapping your pen against the table as if to signal the end of the moment.

“Alright, Mr. Softie,” you said lightly, “I’ll see what I can do about those monitors. But don’t think this means you’re getting that cappuccino machine Rossi asked for.”

Hotch stood, smoothing his tie as if to regain his composure. “One victory at a time.”

As he turned to leave, you called after him, your voice laced with amusement. “Don’t forget to tell Penelope her beanbags are still on the chopping block.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at you with a look that was almost fond. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

By the time Hotch left the meeting, he felt thoroughly defeated. You had grilled him on every expenditure, from coffee pods to the mysterious disappearance of two office chairs. You’d teased him mercilessly, of course, but you’d also offered solutions, which only made you more infuriatingly attractive.

Later that afternoon, Rossi cornered him in his office.

“Aaron,” Rossi began, settling into the chair across from his desk. “I have a proposition.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Not at all,” Rossi said smoothly. “I’ve been re-thinking about how to improve morale around here. You know what we need? A cappuccino machine. The kind they have in those fancy Italian cafes.”

Hotch blinked. “A cappuccino machine. We talked about this. We have coffee in the break room.”

Rossi looked hurt by Hotch's definition of coffee. “That isn’t coffee. This is an investment in productivity. Caffeine keeps the team sharp.”

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

Hotch exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You do realize I have to explain this to Y/L/N?”

Rossi grinned. “You’re good with words. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

That evening, Hotch found himself in your office again, this time with what he knew was a losing argument.

“A cappuccino machine?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Is that really where we’re at again?”

“Rossi insists it’s for team morale.”

You laughed, leaning forward on your desk. “Aaron, if I approve this, what’s next? A hot tub in the break room? A second private jet for local cases?”

He gave you a long-suffering look. “I wouldn’t put it past Rossi to suggest either of those.”

Your laughter bubbled out again, and a small smile that tugged at Hotch’s lips. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“You mean brilliant,” you corrected, your tone playful. “Come on, admit it—you love these little matches.”

Hotch hesitated, just long enough for the moment to stretch between you. “I do.”

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Well, don’t get too comfortable, Hotchner. You might actually win one of these someday.”

“And if I do?”

Your grin turned sly again. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

The tension between you and Hotch simmered like an unsaid promise, lingering in the spaces between your words and the way your eyes lingered just a beat too long. It wasn’t until another late night when the office was quiet and the shadows stretched long, that Hotch found himself once again at your door.

“You know,” you said as he stepped inside, “if you keep showing up here after hours, people are going to start talking.”

“Let them,” he said, surprising himself with the bluntness of his response.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back in your chair. “That sounded suspiciously like flirting.”

“Did it?”

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “It did. And for the record, Aaron, I don’t mind.”

For once, Aaron Hotchner didn’t have a retort. Instead, he let the silence speak, the weight of it filled with possibilities he hadn’t dared entertain before.

And when you smiled at him again, he thought that maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something worth breaking the rules for.

Hotch stood frozen in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, your words echoing in his mind. “For the record, Aaron, I don’t mind.”

He cleared his throat, stepping fully into your office and closing the door behind him. It wasn’t often that Aaron Hotchner found himself at a loss for words, but there was something about you—your sharp tongue, your disarming wit, the way you looked at him like you knew exactly what you were doing—that threw him off balance.

You leaned back in your chair, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “What brings you here this time? More cappuccino machine negotiations? Or did Rossi decide the bullpen needs a wine fridge?”

“Neither,” he said, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “I wanted to talk.”

“Oh, talk,” you said, your lips curving into a playful smile. “That sounds serious.”

“It is,” he admitted, surprising himself again with his own candor.

You arched an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. “Alright, Aaron. You’ve got my attention. What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated, not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he wasn’t sure how far he was willing to let this go. The boundary between professional and personal was already blurred; one more step and it might vanish entirely. And yet, as you sat there watching him with that sly, confident smile, he found he didn’t care as much as he should have.

“You,” he said finally, the single word weighted with more meaning than he intended.

Your smile faltered for just a second, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. Then it was back, brighter and sharper than ever. “Well, that’s unexpected. Flattered, of course, but unexpected.”

He allowed himself a small smile, stepping closer to your desk. “I doubt anything surprises you.”

“Not often,” you admitted, leaning forward slightly. “But I’ll admit, I didn’t peg you as the type to make the first move.”

“Who says this is a move?”

You laughed, the sound warm and low. “Oh, Aaron. If this isn’t a move, then I’m very curious to see what one looks like.”

He didn’t answer right away, letting the silence hang between you like a challenge. Finally, he leaned forward, placing his hands on your desk, and met your gaze head-on.

“What if I am making a move?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with something that made your breath catch.

For the first time since he’d met you, you seemed genuinely caught off guard. Your confident smirk wavered, replaced by a flicker of something more tentative. It was a rare moment of vulnerability, and it struck him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Well,” you said after a beat, your voice quieter than before. “In that case, I’d say it’s about time.”

His heart thudded once, hard and unexpected, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. Forgot who he was. All he could think about was how close you were, how easy it would be to reach across the desk and close the distance.

But then you leaned back, your smile returning with a hint of mischief. “Of course, if this isn’t a move, I’d hate to embarrass myself.”

“Consider yourself safe,” he said, straightening but not stepping back. “For now.”

Your laughter filled the room again, light and teasing. “Careful, Aaron. I’m thinking you actually enjoy these little games.”

“I do,” he said, surprising himself once more with his honesty.

You tilted your head, studying him with a newfound intensity. “Well, in that case, I’ll make sure to keep things interesting.”

As he left your office that night, the air between you charged with unspoken tension, Aaron Hotchner realized something he hadn’t allowed himself to consider before: he wasn’t just drawn to you because of your sharp wit or your undeniable charm. He was drawn to you because you made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Alive.

The roundtable room was unusually quiet when Hotch gathered the team for an impromptu meeting. That should have been his first clue. They were always at their most dangerous when they were waiting for the hammer to drop.

“All right,” he began, standing at the head of the conference table. “We need to talk about the budget.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, a smirk already forming. “This is about the cappuccino machine, isn’t it?”

“It’s not about the cappuccino machine,” Hotch said firmly. “Though that’s still off the table.”

“Good thing I didn’t submit the requisition for the margarita blender,” Morgan muttered, earning a stifled laugh from JJ.

Hotch gave him a pointed look before continuing. “We’ve been asked to cut back on end-of-year expenses. That means scaling back on travel accommodations for the next few cases.”

“Scaling back how?” Prentiss asked, her tone cautious.

“Fewer hotels,” Hotch said. “We’ll have to bunk up where possible.”

There was a collective groan around the table.

“Bunk up?” Garcia appeared in the doorway, her dramatic gasp signaling she’d overheard. “Do you mean to tell me we, the esteemed agents of the BAU, are being reduced to sharing rooms? What is this, a slumber party?”

“Garcia, you rarely travel with us. Would it kill you to share a room with JJ or Emily for a few nights, if and when you do?” Hotch asked, his tone dry.

“It’s not about me, sir,” Garcia replied, clutching her chest like he’d wounded her. “It’s about the principle. We’re public servants, heroes even. Heroes deserve better than twin beds and bad room service.”

“Twin beds?” Reid asked, looking genuinely horrified.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Come on, Hotch. We all know you’ve got an in with Y/N in finance. Can’t she pull some strings before Garcia does?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. “Y/N is doing her job, just like the rest of us.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now?” Rossi said with a grin, earning a ripple of laughter from the team.

“Funny,” Hotch deadpanned. “But unless any of you have a better solution, this is how it’s going to be.”

“Sure, sure,” Morgan said, his grin widening. “But if anyone could sweet-talk Y/N, it’s you, Hotch. You’ve got that whole brooding, stoic charm thing going for you. She loves that.”

“I’m not sweet-talking anyone,” Hotch said, his tone clipped.

“Really?” Prentiss chimed in, raising an eyebrow. “Because rumor has it you’ve been spending a lot of time in her office lately.”

“That’s called managing the budget,” Hotch replied evenly, though his ears felt uncomfortably warm. “The budget we keep going over. Which is what I’m trying to do right now.”

“Right,” JJ said, her voice full of mock seriousness. “Managing the budget.”

The laughter around the table grew louder, and even Garcia joined in with an exaggerated wink.

Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This conversation is over.”

“But the bunking isn’t,” Rossi said, still grinning. “Good to know.”

Later, Hotch sat across from you, his tie slightly loosened after the long day. The hum of your sarcasm was already in the air, a comfort he’d never admit aloud.

“Back so soon?” you asked, glancing up from your tablet. “What’s the crisis this time? Let me guess—the team didn’t take kindly to the budgeting suggestion?”

“They had…questions,” Hotch replied, his tone dry. “And commentary.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you said, smirking as you leaned back in your chair. “Let me guess: Rossi wants to requisition a wine fridge instead of a cappuccino machine? Garcia--who if I remember correctly doesn’t even travel with the team--staged a protest? Or did Morgan suggest you charm me into pulling some strings?”

Hotch blinked, caught momentarily off guard. “Actually, yes. That’s almost word for word what he said.”

You laughed, the sound warm and far too satisfying. “I knew it. The whole team thinks I’m your budgetary fairy godmother, don’t they?”

“They’re not subtle about it,” he admitted, leaning forward slightly. “And if I’m honest, they’re starting to have…suspicions.”

Your eyebrows lifted, your smirk turning into a full-blown grin. “Oh, suspicions, huh? About what exactly?”

“That I might have an ‘in’ with you,” he said, his tone measured but carrying a hint of something wry. “And that I use it to get my way.”

You tilted your head, resting your chin on your hand. “Well, you do have an in with me, Aaron.”

“I do?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Mm-hmm,” you said, your grin widening. “You come in here all brooding and stoic, with that deep voice and those puppy-dog eyes, and I’m supposed to say no to you? Please.”

He let out a rare chuckle, low and brief. “So you’re saying you find me…persuasive?”

“I’m saying I find you irritating,” you replied, though the teasing lilt in your voice betrayed you. “But occasionally charming.”

“Occasionally?” he repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

“Don’t push your luck,” you said, though your smile hadn’t wavered. “Now, what exactly are you hoping I’ll do?”

Hotch straightened, slipping back into his professional demeanor. “The travel budget is tight. We need to cut back on some of the accommodations for the next few cases. If there’s any room to reallocate funds or find efficiencies, I’d like your input.”

You studied him for a moment, your pen tapping against the desk. “You know,” you said finally, “you could’ve just sent an email. But you didn’t, which means you wanted to have this conversation in person.”

“Maybe I thought it would be more effective,” he said, his voice steady.

“And maybe,” you said, leaning forward with a sly smile, “you just like spending time with me.”

Hotch’s gaze held yours, the tension between you thick enough to cut. “Maybe the team isn’t wrong to have their suspicions.”

That caught you off guard, and for the briefest moment, your confident grin faltered. Then you recovered, your smile turning soft around the edges. “Well, if you’re going to keep coming to me, Aaron, I guess I’ll have to live up to their expectations.”

“So you’ll help?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

You rolled your eyes, though your grin didn’t fade. “Of course, I’ll help. But only because I’d hate for Garcia to have to share a room on the rare chance she joined you on a trip. Can you imagine the drama?”

Hotch stood, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you said, your tone playful. “I might make you owe me one.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at you. “I think I already do.”

Your laughter followed him out, and Hotch didn’t mind giving up a little control.

The next few weeks blurred into a whirlwind of cases, budget meetings, and what Hotch could only describe as a game of mutual teasing with you that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to win. The team’s jabs about his “in” with you only got more relentless, but the truth was, they weren’t wrong. He found himself seeking out your company more often than he’d care to admit, and not just because of budgetary crises.

One evening, well after most of the team had gone home, Hotch walked into your office to find you perched on the edge of your desk, heels kicked off, and a pen tucked behind your ear as you typed furiously on your tablet.

“You work too much,” he said by way of greeting, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You glanced up, smirking. “Says the man who just came from his own office. What brings you here, Aaron? More budget drama? Or are you just here for the company?”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Would it be so bad if it were both?”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise, but the smile that followed was slow and dangerous. “Well, well. Are you finally admitting that you like me?”

He hesitated for half a second before replying, his voice low but steady. “I think you already know I do.”

That made you pause. Your usual sharp wit seemed momentarily replaced by something softer, something vulnerable, before you quickly masked it with your trademark confidence. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flirt before, Hotchner. You’re better at it than I expected.”

“I don’t flirt,” he said, stepping closer. “At least, not intentionally.”

“Oh,” you said, your voice dropping slightly. “So this is just you being your naturally charming self?”

“Something like that,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk.

You laughed, shaking your head as you set your tablet aside. “You know, if you keep talking like that, I might start to think you’re actually serious.”

“What if I am?” he asked, taking another step closer.

Your grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. “Aaron…”

He stopped just in front of you, close enough that he could see the faintest flush on your cheeks. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said quietly. “But I don’t regret it.”

You tilted your head, studying him as if trying to determine whether he was being sincere. Then, slowly, your lips curved into a soft, almost shy smile that he hadn’t seen before. “Well, that’s good,” you said, your voice lighter now. “Because I’d hate to think I’ve been wasting my time trying to get under your skin.”

“You’ve been very effective,” he admitted, his voice laced with dry humor.

You laughed again, the tension between you easing slightly. “Good to know.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stood there, the air between you charged with possibilities. Then you leaned forward just enough that your shoulder brushed his, your voice dropping to a near whisper. “So what now, Aaron? You going to keep playing it safe, or are you finally going to make a move and follow through?”

Hotch held your gaze, his pulse quickening in a way that was entirely unfamiliar and yet oddly welcome. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you replied, your grin returning.

Before he could overthink it, he leaned down, his hand resting lightly on the edge of your desk as his lips brushed against yours. The kiss was brief but electric, leaving both of you slightly breathless when he pulled back.

“Well,” you said after a moment, your voice a little unsteady but filled with warmth. “That’s one way to balance the budget.”

Hotch chuckled softly, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I hope that’s not the only thing you take away from this.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, your grin turning wicked again. “I’ll send you the itemized breakdown tomorrow.”

He laughed, a rare, genuine sound, and as the two of you stood there in the quiet of your office, Hotch couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what he’d been missing.

The next morning, Hotch walked into the bullpen, his usual stoic demeanor firmly in place—at least on the outside. Inside, he felt lighter than he had in years. But any illusion of subtlety was shattered the moment he saw Morgan smirking at him from across the room.

“Morning, Hotch,” Morgan said, his tone far too casual. “You look…different today. Get a good night’s sleep?”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, choosing not to dignify the comment with a response. He made his way toward his office, but before he could escape, Garcia intercepted him, practically bouncing on her heels.

“Oh, boss man, you’ve got that look,” she teased, waggling her eyebrows. “The look of a man who’s either won the lottery or—” Her eyes widened in dramatic realization. “—had a life-altering, swoon-worthy moment with a certain someone in finance.”

Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Garcia—”

“Don’t deny it!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I have sources.”

Before he could reply, the elevator dinged, and you stepped out, striding confidently into the bullpen with your signature blend of poise and sass. You caught Hotch’s eye and shot him a subtle, knowing smile that sent a ripple of warmth through him.

Garcia caught the exchange and gasped audibly. “Oh my God! It’s true!”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I knew it. Didn’t I say he had an in with her?”

“You said it,” Prentiss confirmed, her tone amused. “Repeatedly. But he's really getting it in with her.”

JJ just shook her head, smiling. “Well, at least we know why the budget meetings keep getting longer.”

Hotch leveled a calm, measured glare at his team. “I don’t recall calling a team meeting on my personal life.”

“Ah, but your personal life is so much more interesting than budget cuts,” Rossi said with a wink. “You should let us enjoy it.”

“I’m glad you’re all entertained,” Hotch said dryly, turning toward his office. But as he walked away, he caught your voice behind him.

“Don’t be too hard on them, Aaron,” you called amusement lacing your tone.

The laughter that followed was warm and genuine, and for once, Hotch didn’t mind being the subject of it. As he stepped into his office and closed the door, he glanced back at you through the glass, catching your playful smile once more.

Yes, this was definitely worth breaking the rules for.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

[wrinrites]

ass o' clock - jjk

synopsis - jungkook sets off the fire alarm at 2am and you guys sort of, kind of have a relationship now. pairing - uni student! jeongguk x uni student! reader

if there is one thing you treasure the most in this world, it is without a doubt: sleep.

due to the typical college all-nighters you pulled literally a week before seasonal exams, the forthcoming winter break had seemed like a godsend. you were firmly set on not leaving your dorm, or even your bed for the next week minimum.

unfortunately for you, karma of being a huge disappointment to your parents seemed to have caught up to you exactly then. namely in the form your flatmate, jeon jeongguk and his nightly tendencies.

you see, you have no issue with him eating instant ramen at 2am, as long as he did not disturb your slumber. what you do have a problem with, is his idiotic self setting off the smoke alarm at ass o’clock because of his spontaneous cravings.

you tried to ignore the headache-inducing blaring, burying yourself under the warm covers in vain. after a few minutes of incessant ringing, you reach two conclusions. first , that there is a possibility of a fire within the premises. second, and arguably more concerning: sleep had officially escaped you.

so much for not leaving the bed.

with a scowl on your face and a blanket draped across your reluctant form, you trudge out the confines of your room and into the shared kitchen of your corridor.

what grabs your attention immediately is not the sight of jeon jeongguk standing there next to a glaring PC screen, a game you recognise to be Overwatch still baring random quips in language you do not know. your attention is soley focused on the bowl in his hand, the blackened lump in it and the charred remains of what seemed to be the microwave emanating a copious amount of dense smoke.

you gape at him as your braincells try to piece together what has happened. a brightly coloured ramen packet clutched in his other fist catches your eyes, and suddenly you think you understand.

“did you… break the microwave trying to cook ramen?” you ask, with all the tentativeness of consoling a 5-year old.

he gulps before nodding, his fluffy hair bouncing with the miniscule movement.

you think your braincells are starting to die off before their prime. mainly because now what remained of the students on the campus were now required to assemble outside for the smoke alarm to be disabled. which meant that inevitably, you would not be sleeping for the rest of the day.

rubbing your forehead in frustration, you motion to Jeongguk to follow you out of the dorm room.

although jeongguk had been your roommate for the best part of a year, the two of you had never really gotten close. you kept the conversations to a minimum, the two of you not initiating them unless the circumstances demanded it. the awkwardness between you had stayed due to the introverted nature you had in common- so you respected the space between you and never crossed it.

other disgruntled students were already somewhat assembled outside, albeit the obvious reluctance to get up at an ungodly hour. muted whispers and annoyance quickly filed into the hall, further driving any remnants of sleep from your depraved self.

“which idiot set off the alarm?”

“it’s probably taehyung. you know he does stupid shit all the time.”

although the assumption was plausible (taehyung was notorious for following … unorthodox methods at ungodly hours), it sadly was not him who had set off the smoke alarm.

a movement from the corner of your eye breaks you from your chain of thoughts. you turn around to see jeonggukk shivering slightly, his arms wrapped around himself, curling in his body against the cool nightly breeze filling the hall.

in your barely functioning state, you feel a tug of sympathy. while you were smart enough to bring a blanket with you, jeongguk was adorned in thin sweats hardly providing him any warmth.

the guy did set off the smoke alarm by breaking the microwave though.

you sigh, before waddling off to his side and draping the blanket onto the expanse of his shoulders. you hear a squeak of surprise from your actions, and you think you spy a faint pink bleeding into his cheeks.

admittedly, it was quite cute.

the blanket, although dense, is not enough to cover the both of your forms fully, leaving your front quite exposed. you shudder from the cold, cursing your luck for leaving you like this.

should you…?

you shuffle closer to Jeongguk, using his back as protection.

it’s just to keep warm.

it’s just to keep warm.

your heart still skips a beat as you press yourself against him. he’s solid and warm and soft all at the same time and you don’t think you can take it. he even smells good, a faint scent of vanilla and clean laundry.

the both of you stand still, not daring to comment on the new arrangement. you shuffle your feet slightly, and you catch him shyly glancing at you from time to time. as the last of the students trail out from their dorms, you feel a hand tentatively brushing against yours.

surprised, you take a step back instinctively, just to step on the corner of the blanket and-

shit. you forgot that your luck wasn’t the greatest.

right before you greet the ground with your head, jeongguk (with k-drama like timing, might you add), reaches for your form, and with blood rushing to your head, he rights you back on your feet.

“are you okay, y/n?”

he doesn’t even sound the slightest bit fatigued, dammit, even though he had to lug you to your feet. but despite that, a small part of you leads you to think that there’s a tremor in his voice, betraying his concern.

wishful thinking, maybe.

“i’m okay jeongguk. sorry, i didn’t mean to make you the romcom lead today”, you half joke.

he pivots to face you fully, so that he could see you better. his doe eyes are staring into yours, with his eyebrows set in a furrow, and is that a mole on his nose?

you know his lips are forming words, you’re watching the movement, how the plush tissue rounds to form his vowels and presses together to form his m’s. his tongue peeks out at one point to wet his lips, leaving a slight sheen. you unconsciously follow his movement, licking your own lips, and briefly, you wonder how they might taste-

“-you hurt your head pretty bad, i think we should go back inside, y/n”

huh. you don’t remember hurting your head. but at the mention, suddenly you feel a dull ache near the crown of your head. groaning, you reach to massage the spot to try and alleviate it. you must have been so enamoured that you didn't even notice the pain right away.

"i'm so sorry y/n, lets please head inside, and i'll grab us some snacks and get you painkillers- i'm so sorry this is all my-"

you interrupt his apology-ramble, already having your answer in mind. his eyes are shiny and his furrow has grown deeper, and you can tell how guilty he feels. and free snacks while you're at it? you'd be a fool to deny him.

"your room or mine, jeongukk?" you ask, slight lilt in your voice. abruptly, his face changes, the pout on his lips replaced with his lips pressed together and his cheeks puff out from the process. almost as if he was suppressing something,,,?

in a hoarse whisper, so that you could barely hear him,

"that's,, what she said,,?"

the guy who you're festering a fondness for, is a dork. a major one, in fact.

you grab his hand, and tug him through the lines of grumbling students, ignoring his yelp of surprise. despite this, he only holds your hand tighter, and quickens his pace so that he is level with you. after a beat of silence,

"y/n?"

you hum in response, climbing up the stairs to your dorm. the firefighters move past you, and upon your questioning they say that all other unaffected dorms should be fine. with a grin growing on your face, you pull jeongguk forwards even more.

"are we going to yours? i mean, i don't mind all, i was just wondering if you'd like cheetos or pretzels that my mom got me- they taste really good by the way! you should try! especially if you like sweet things but if you dont then-" he cuts himself off, not noticing the fond look in your eye.

jeongguk likes to ramble. you like jeongukk rambling. and maybe, you like jeongukk himself.

earnestly, you ask, "the pretzels seem like a good idea jeongukk. bring them to my room and then, if you'd like, we can watch something?"

he brightens up immediately, the tip of his nose scrunching and crinkles appearing at the corners of his sweet, sweet eyes. with the vigour of a puppy being given a treat, he runs past you to his dorm, and just before disappearing into his room, he raises his hand to his face and-

and blows you a kiss.

a/n - omg guys this is like, an old old fic from when i was 14 that i did work on and im so NERVOUS. this sint my best best work but i really want to get into writing and i think this is a good step forwards. also sorry for the ending hhh i couldnt figure out how to end it properly 😔😔 anyways!! i hope you guys enjoy, and any feedback is helpful!! thank you again hehehe

[swappedandtrapped]

Rent Help - Part 3

As always, character consistency is hard for me. Just go with it.

I wake up again. Every time I wake up, I have about a minute of peace before my brain starts to boot and realizes where it is. That minute of bliss is what has kept me going recently. It's the only part of the day when I don't feel so… Wrong.

Waking up unwillingly, I go to the bathroom to wash my face. When I arrive, I realize it's been about a week after the car crash and I still can't get used to seeing Roy when I look in the mirror.

I study my new reflection. I stare at my skin blemishes on Roy's dark skin. My big Brown eyes underneath my thick eyebrows. My nose in the middle of the face that is now mine… When I open my mouth to brush my teeth, I see a crooked array of yellowish rectangles. I cringe realizing I'm actually tasting Roy's mouth and teeth 24/7. Roy didn't have a spare toothbrush, so I had to use his old one. Disgusting. I hate this so much. Why doesn't he take care of himself?

When I return to his room to get dressed, I sigh in frustration. During the last few days, I finally understood why Roy felt comfortable walking around without his shirt on. I was just too hot. ALL THE TIME. The meat and fat of his stocky body type kept the heat trapped within me. If I had a shirt on for more than 5 minutes I would start sweating and smell Roy's scent even more.

So just like he did, I elected to spend the day shirtless again. It's not like anyone would see me. Well except for… Me.

After trying to explain to Roy in my body what happened, he's gotten cold. I mean, I would too. I was practically begging him to remember, but when I'm in Roy's body, it's pretty hard to convince someone who he really is.

"I'm coming back late." He states in a premeditatedly cold intonation. "Ok," I reply in the same manner. I didn't see the point to initiate another argument. convincing him is impossible. "I might bring someone back with me. Please don't be weird when she's here." "Ok. I reply again. But missing any sense of my old self, I ask: "Someone I know?" "None of your business Roy." I cringe at the sound of that name. "And also, you don't know any of my friends. They're MY friends. Even if you… Think otherwise…" He goes out, leaving me alone in the flat.

Like a punch in the fucking gut.

Which reminded me, I'm hungry. I order an extra-large Pizza so Roy's stomach would leave me alone. Roy had an apatite I couldn't ignore easily. At first, I fought off his habits, unwilling to accept the new situation. But as the days went on, I gave in to most of Roy's habits. Like eating too much of this junk. I look at my body and feel shame as I admit I lost the battle against Roy's needs.

Later, I lay on the sofa, investigating Roy's phone. Thankfully, he locked his phone with Face ID, so I didn't have to guess any passwords and was able to unlock it. Every time I have some time off, I study his phone and learn a bit more about Roy's schedule and connections.

You see, I did swap bodies with him, but I didn't acquire his memories. So, I try to avoid all contact until I get the hang of whatever relationships he had in his life. "Yes, it's me. I'm Roy." I say to myself, trying to fake his tone. Even though I hear his voice, it still feels fake.

But today, after going through all his texts, I began looking through his notes app. I find there grocery lists, names of bands he wanted to check out, some foreign language I still can't read, and also something with the title… "Research"? What's this?

I open the file and my eyes widen. It's a long note, riddled with an assortment of semi-related bullet points regarding… "POWERS"!?

POWERS

possible timed cooldown? variable? Tested times: 5 days (17/05) 8 days (15/09) 6 days (12/11)

only post 24h mark???

ignore. no cooldown. instance of instant swap back. There's another condition.

Note the eye glow at optional swap time. Starts fading. Possible relation to condition?

Ignore. Doesn't fade.

Best swap triggers: visualize face, focus on identity

He was researching his swapping power. I guess Roy didn't receive a handbook with this ability, so he tried to mark the triggers and limitations he confirmed to be true. This was a goldmine. Maybe there's a limit on how long we can stay swapped?

Wait. If I'm Roy… I have his powers! I can swap us back!

I read the whole file, attempting to figure out exactly what conclusions Roy had and what I needed to do to return to my body. It looks like he could just will the swaps to make them happen, but there was some sort of condition that prevented swapping back at some times. Roy named it "The Condition", and going by his note, he didn't figure out what it was.

I immediately try to follow his technique and will the swap to come. I visualize my body, focus on my identity, but 20 minutes later, I'm still stuck in Roy's flesh. When I looked in the mirror, I still see his regular brown eyes. No glow or anything.

Does this 'condition' he mentioned apply to my situation? Am I just a moment away from retrieving my life back? I need to figure out what it is.

Going over Roy's notes I began piecing together a picture of Roy's swapping experiences. Some were willing, some were not. Some were functional, but some were for no reason at all other than to swap. But after a few hours of going over the cases, I started noticing a pattern.

While swaps were able to occur at any time, reverse swaps would never work on days of a full moon or new moon! That's the only explanation! It fits in every swap Roy documented in this file. This must be it!

But then I stop. Wait, today isn't a full or new moon. Why am I not able to swap us back?

A new fear rushes in as I hear the apartment door open. "Yeah, and then we… Oh, hey Roy," says Roy in my body accompanied by a girl I used to know. She waves politely at me with a certain reservation. I guess he warned her about me… "So it's the last door on the left." He points to the bathroom. "Thanks. It'll be just a minute." She says, closing the door after her.

Roy in my body leans silently on the wall, checking his phone for messages while he waits for her to finish. I look at him with envy.

But then I see it. His eyes. That Glow. It was subtle, but it was definitely there.

I don't have Roy's swapping power.

He does.

It swapped along with his body.

Tears start forming in my eyes as I realize the only hope I had of getting back was never an option. Roy looks up from his phone to me. Seeing my pathetic face in ruin. He makes an expression I can't decipher. Maybe empathy, but probably pity.

My friend exits the bathroom. "Hey," Roy turns to her. "Wait for me in the car, ok? I need to close a small thing with Roy. "Sure. Don't be long." She said going out the door. "I won't." He answers.

We look at each other for a few quiet moments. "Listen, are you gay or something?" "What?" I ask confused. Still in tears. "You want to be me. You cry when you see me with girls. I can add 2 plus 2 you know." "Fucking ass." I spit out. He duped me into this mess. He should rot in hell. "Don't be a bitch man. This can't-" "Bitch!??" I cut him off. "This is all your fault! I'm like this because of you!"

I charge towards him. I'm stuck like this because of him! I needed him to know how much I suffer because of his recklessness! But Roy was quick enough to get out of the way.

"Ok Roy. Fine. You started this." "Fuck off!"

I charge again, and Roy slips to the side again. I stumble and crash onto the living room floor and feel great pain in my back. I scream in pain and frustration. This fucking weight. I start sweating again and smell Roy's body stench, but I can't concentrate on it. I feel my body grounded by another body.

"That's IT Roy!" He yells at me from above. He prevents me from getting up. God dammit why didn't Roy ever go to the gym? "Get off of me!" I shout. "Say your name." He commands me as I struggle. "Say your name Roy." "I'm telling you! I'm not Roy!" I cry out. "It's the deal man, it's the swap deal!"

My face explodes with massive pain. Roy punched me in the fucking face.

"SAY YOUR NAME." "You can still have it! You can still swap us back! Please! Remember!"

Bam. Another one. I hear my nose crack and start feeling the blood.

"This is going to keep happening until you say your fucking name Roy." "You're hurting me! Please! Your eyes! I can tell you have your power!"

This time it was a punch from the right. My head is spinning.

"You know what? Even if I did have this power, I would never swap with you!" He shouts at me. "You are PATHETIC." Punch. "You stay to slob at home. You have no friends. You're an ugly motherfucker that can't even accept who he is!" Another punch.

But he's right. This is me now. I can say whatever I want but the fact remains. I'm in his body, and I'm here. Permanently. And even if he could swap us, he will never do it after this."

"For the last time. Say. Your. Name." "Roy." I whimper. "Louder." "Roy." "Now the whole sentence. Shithead" "My name is Roy."

He lifts me and pushes me in front of a full-length mirror.

"Now say it like you mean it. Tell it to yourself"

I look at my pathetic excuse for a body. I see a chubby guy with a bloody face. I see black hair all over covering a dark skin.

"My name is Roy Alamin." "And don't you fucking forget it."

[ckret2]

Hey God Broski, do you have any adhd tips on how to stop oneself from scrolling all day and not working? It would be greatly appreciated! Toodaloo, and please have a truly wonderful day/evening! ^ ^

:D

Yes. Take the choice away from yourself.

Sometimes you've got to physically prevent yourself from what your brain knows you don't want to do but your body won't stop doing.

Get one of those apps that locks down the apps you don't wanna be using between certain hours or after you've used them for a certain amount of time.

Get one of those parent/child phone control apps, set up your phone as the child phone, and find a trusted friend to agree to be the parent phone so you can't just turn off the settings yourself.

Plug your internet router into a mechanical timer that automatically turns the router off at a certain time.

For a while, I'd gone into my computer's programming to add a line of code that forced a full shutdown at a certain time each night—no friendly (and easily canceled) warning with a timer that the shutdown's coming up so you can save your files, just an instant killswitch, unpreventable without spending 10-15 minutes going into the programming to undo the initial change.

If you're lucky, you may find that just an interruption reminding you to think about what you're doing is enough to break the doomscroll hyperfocus. Like, if you set an alarm somewhere across the room, maybe physically getting up to turn off that alarm will be enough to break the spell and you can choose if you wanna do something else. I use Alarmy as my alarm clock, and it makes you do things like scan a specific barcode (stick a barcode to your bathroom mirror!) or solve a bunch of math problems to cancel the alarm. Or maybe you've got a device with a built-in time management function that can block your internet browser at certain times but be easily canceled, but that's enough to break your focus and let you decide if you want to cancel the block. I follow @slowscrollreminder and it's been very helpful.

But sometimes that isn't enough. If you have to ask for help from an internet acquaintance, I'm guessing that mere self-control hasn't worked for you, and self-control with some light reminders might not either. And if that's the case, don't leave it up to your self-control to make that choice.

[whosscruffylooking]

The Purest Things: Nothing Left to Live For (Haunted)

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 2.1k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. a/n: sloooooooooow burn The Purest Things Masterlist

au! june 2009

Bookend: "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles." - Sun Tzu

You return to Aaron’s apartment drained, the exhaustion bone-deep. It’s not just the case that wore you down—it’s him. Chasing after him, reining him in, watching him throw himself into danger like he had nothing left to lose. His first case back, and he was reckless. Impulsive. Stupid.

He exhales sharply as he sets his briefcase on the table next to the ever-growing mountain of evidence files on Foyet. The bastard is everywhere. His face stares at you from every angle—grainy crime scene photos, newspaper clippings, a mugshot with those hollow, mocking eyes. He lingers in the air, the walls, and the unshakable weight pressing on Aaron’s shoulders—a ghost neither of you can exorcize.

You know this is why Aaron was reckless today—he charged in without backup, without a vest, like he was daring fate to take another shot at him. He’s chasing something that keeps slipping through his fingers—justice, revenge, absolution. And if he’s not careful, it’ll be his life, too.

The man you spent the last month with—the one who let you sit with him in the quiet, who let you tend to his wounds, who let you see the fear and the grief in his eyes—is gone. Locked away the moment he stepped back into the field.

All that’s left is Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.

And God, you want Aaron back.

He exhales sharply. “I don’t need a lecture from you.”

“Oh, I know you don’t need one, Aaron,” you snap, your frustration igniting in an instant. “But you sure as hell are gonna get one.”

You won’t let him deflect. Not this time. Not when he’s hell-bent on self-destruction.

“What’s your goal here, huh?” you bite out. “What does charging into a house with an armed killer—without a vest—prove?”

He doesn’t answer. His gaze drops to the floor, to the faint traces of the bloodstain that will never fully fade. A reminder of the night he lost. The night Foyet won.

“I know, Aaron,” you say, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I know what an ego hit this is. I stood right where you are not that long ago. He put me in a hospital, too.”

You lift the hem of your shirt just enough to expose the scars carved into your skin—his initials, a permanent brand of his cruelty. Aaron looks away, jaw tightening, unable to face it. Unable to face you.

“But we’re still here,” you continue. “And not because we got lucky. He kept us alive for a reason—not so we could get ourselves killed pulling reckless stunts like you did today, but because he gets off on it. Because he wants to drag this out, to watch us suffer.” You take a step closer, forcing him to meet your gaze. “But that’s his mistake. Because now we get to hunt him. We get to take the son of a bitch down.”

His hand reaches out, his thumb brushing over the scars marring your skin. The touch is unbearably gentle, starkly contrasting the hurricane raging inside him. Your throat tightens, overwhelmed by the tenderness, by the grief woven into his touch.

“I can’t get him, Aaron," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper, "I can’t get Haley and Jack back if you’re dead."

His eyes lift to meet yours, glassy with unshed tears. “I’m scared,” he confesses, the words raw, human.

You don’t think—don’t waver. You just reach for him. Your arms wrap around him, and the second he feels your warmth, he shatters, collapsing into you. His weight, despair, and fear—he gives all of it to you, and you take it without hesitancy.

“I am too,” you mumble. And you hold him tighter, as if that alone might be enough to keep him together.

For a long time, neither of you move. He grips the back of your shirt like a lifeline, like if he lets go, he might justdisappear. His breath comes in uneven bursts against your neck, but he doesn’t pull away. You don’t think he has the strength to.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his suit jacket. He smells like gunpowder, like sweat, like the ghosts he’s been chasing all day. But beneath it, there’s still something undeniably him. Something grounding, something you’re terrified of losing.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I don’t know how to stop.”

You close your eyes. “I know.”

He exhales, ragged, exhausted. “I keep thinking if I move fast enough, if I push hard enough, it’ll stop hurting. But it never does.”

You don’t tell him it will. You won’t lie to him. You just ease back enough to look at him—his tired eyes, the tear tracks he hasn’t bothered to wipe away, the barely stitched-together man standing in front of you.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“I don’t care.”

His voice is quiet, but the words hit you like a gunshot.

Your stomach twists. You tighten your grip on his arms, shaking your head. “Well, I do.”

You should step away. You should let this moment pass, let him gather himself, put the walls back up, and pretend none of this ever happened.

But you don’t.

Instead, you reach up, cupping his face, your fingers brushing over the stubble he hasn’t had the energy to shave. His breath hitches.

“You don’t get to do this,” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to throw yourself into the fire and expect the rest of us to just watch.”

His hands come up to cover yours, pressing them closer to his face, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. His eyes slip shut, his lashes dark against his skin.

“I don’t know how else to be,” he admits.

You take a breath, steady yourself. “Then let me help you figure it out.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The next day at work, Morgan corners you near the bullpen. His expression is tight, his frustration barely restrained.

“Can we talk?”

You nod, letting him lead you into the conference room. The door barely shuts before he turns to face you.

“You’re closer to him than any of us right now. What the hell was that out there?” His voice is edged with exasperation, his hands braced on his hips. “You can’t seriously believe this is okay.”

You swallow hard. “I know, Morgan.”

He shakes his head, not hearing you over his rising frustration. “He’s gonna hurt himself, and I can’t just stand by and watch that happen.”

You step closer, placing a steadying hand on his arm. “He knows. It’ll be taken care of soon.”

Morgan searches your face, his usual sharp intuition softened by something else—concern, maybe even sadness. “What happened to us, kid? We hardly talk anymore.”

You pull back slightly, embarrassed. The distance between you two hadn’t been intentional, but it had grown all the same.

“I—It’s my fault,” you admit, voice quieter now. “I got distracted. Then Foyet happened, and my focus became protecting him—Hotch and his family.” You hesitate, something inside you unraveling. “A part of me felt…feels guilty for surviving Foyet’s attack. Like maybe if I had died, and he thought the message had gotten across to Hotch, then Jack and Haley wouldn’t be in witness protection. Aaron would still have his family.”

Your voice breaks on the last word.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s trying to shield you from your own thoughts. “Don’t you ever talk like that again,” he murmurs into your hair. “You don’t think like that. Not the girl who took this whole team by storm..”

Your hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt. “I feel so pathetic,” you whisper. You wish you could tell him everything—the guilt, the fear, the way you’ve let yourself get too close to Hotch, how dangerous it feels. How it’s all spiraling into something neither of you can control.

Morgan tightens his hold on you. “You’re a fighter,” he says, voice steady. “One of the smartest profilers I’ve ever met. But it’s okay to step back, to figure things out.”

You look up at him then, not just seeing Derek Morgan, but feeling the strength of the man in front of you—his loyalty, his kindness, the way his soul is just as solid as the body that holds you upright.

“I love you, princess,” he says, pressing a firm kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

It’s the end of the workday, and Rossi is heading over to Aaron’s to make dinner. You know Hotch is covered for the night, which means you can finally go home and take some time for yourself. But the thought of being alone doesn’t sit right. You know better than to be near Aaron right now—too much weight, too many emotions neither of you are ready to face.

So you find yourself wandering over to Spencer instead.

“When was the last time you had a sleepover?” you ask.

“Uh—never, actually,” he admits, almost sheepishly.

“Well,” you lean in conspiratorially, “we’re changing that tonight. Come over, we’ll stay up playing chess.”

Spencer’s face lights up. “Really?”

You nod. “We’ll order takeout, watch movies—”

“Why are you asking me?” he interrupts, brows drawing together in curiosity.

You exhale, glancing down before meeting his gaze again. “I feel like I’ve been neglecting my friendships here. And you’re one of my best friends, so…”

His expression softens. “I’m one of your best friends?”

“I think so,” you say with a small smile.

“I’m glad you said that, because I’ve been feeling the same way,” Spencer says, excitement creeping into his voice. “Actually, a little-known fact is that the strongest friendships often develop with minimal effort—when two people naturally gravitate toward each other without forced interaction, it indicates a deep, subconscious compatibility.”

You shake your head fondly. “That’s a really roundabout way of saying we were meant to be best friends.”

Spencer grins. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

You walk into the bullpen, coffee in hand, still feeling the lingering warmth of an easy night. Spencer had crashed at your place after one too many chess games, and while you woke up to a rambling dissertation on quantum theory over breakfast, it was nice—normal. A rare moment of calm amidst the chaos.

JJ and Emily glance up as you set your things down, exchanging looks that you don’t quite know how to read.

“You’re in a good mood,” Emily notes, eyebrow arched.

You shrug, taking a sip of coffee. “Got a full eight hours and didn’t wake up to a case. Small victories.”

JJ smirks. “Reid still there when you left?”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Yes, why?”

“No reason,” she sings, already turning back to her paperwork.

You shake your head but don’t press it, instead catching a glimpse of Hotch in the conference room. He’s standing at the board, flipping through files, but when he glances up and sees you, he gives a slight tilt of his head—Come here.

You step inside, shutting the door behind you. Before you can speak, his voice drops into something quieter, something just between you.

“Reid spent the night?”

You blink, then let out a small, involuntary giggle. You don’t miss the way his brows pinch together at the sound.

“What’s funny?” he asks, suspicious.

“You,” you murmur, leaning against the table. “Just… the fact that you of all people are asking me that question.”

His eyes darken with something unreadable, but there’s the barest flicker of amusement beneath it. “Is there something I should know?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think about it. “Only that Spencer is terrible at ordering takeout and will, without fail, fall asleep with his glasses on.”

Hotch exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m sure it was a thrilling night.”

“Oh, wild,” you tease. “Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”

His lips press together, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. “I’m just surprised. You never invite me for a sleepover.”

Your stomach flips, but you keep your expression even. If only he knew.

“Well,” you hum, leaning in slightly, “I just figured you’d be sick of my company after all the nights I’ve spent patching you up.”

His gaze locks onto yours, something mischievous flickering there before he schools it back into his usual restraint.

“Never,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches. You force a smirk to cover it. “Careful, Hotchner. Someone might think you actually like me.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just holds your gaze for a fraction too long before finally looking back at the file in his hands.

“Get to work,” he says, but there’s something more delicate in his voice.

You grin, stepping back toward the door. “Sure thing, boss.”

And as you slip out, you don’t miss the small, hidden smile he’s trying to fight.

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 4

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, soapghost // CW: angst, hurt AND COMFORT, MWIII spoilers

---

The man with Johnny's face has spent the past six hours fighting for his life in a locked down medical ward at the temporary base of operations for Ghost's solo op.

The complications began during the helo ride when the medics attempted to treat his injuries. The gas hissing through the helmet apparently contains a powerful cocktail of drugs, and the withdrawal kicked in the instant they cut off his vest and removed the helmet. He was almost dead before before they found the compressed vial of liquid in the vest, figured out what was happening, and reintroduced just enough of the drugs via IV to keep him stable. The doctors are currently trying to find something to counter the severe withdrawal symptoms.

Ghost knows all of this because he refuses to leave the man's room. 

He needs sleep, but he can't bare to close his eyes. His world has sped right past fantastical into the outright surreal. He's terrified of getting too attached and having to deal with the devastating loss all over again.

And yet there's no doubt the man in the other bed looks just like Johnny. The curve of his nose, the jut of his scarred chin... Ghost can't seem to rip his gaze away. He would think he's crazy if not for Laswell, who was waiting for them at the air field and immediately took charge. She's the reason they dragged a hospital bed into the room for Ghost instead of arresting and detaining him when he refused to leave. She's the reason the man with Johnny's face isn't hand-cuffed to the bed.

She pats Ghost's arm and sighs, though her gaze remains on the man in the bed. "You know... the chance that it's actually him—"

"Is almost nil," Ghost rasps. "I know. How much longer for the DNA test results?"

"Another few hours. But we don't know if that proves anything."

"What do you mean?"

Laswell shrugs. "We can compare his DNA with what we have on file for John MacTavish, but we cremated any other comparable evidence."

Ghost stills. "You mean from the... the other Johnny?"

"We'd need a blood sample. And even then... we have no idea what Makarov's done. If he's playing with genetic manipulation, even a DNA test might not be conclusive."

Ghost stares at the man who has tried to kill him hundreds of times. And who might also be the love of his life.

He wants to believe so badly, he's willing to do anything. He finally turns to meet Laswell's gaze.

"This is some sci-fi bollocks, but... Johnny's journal was in his tac vest when he was shot. It's covered in his dried blood. Or... the blood of whoever that was in the tunnel with us."

She covers her surprise well, but he catches the flicker of shock all the same. "If you can part with it, I'll see what the techs can do. It might be too late to get anything usable, though."

Ghost turns away to memorize what he can see of the new scars on the man's arms and what's visible of his face around the oxygen mask. Whatever can be said for him — enemy or not — he's not had an easy time under Makarov's thumb. 

The heartbeat line flickers in time with the steady beep. Ghosts hands are shaking. He crosses his arms to hide the evidence.

"I"ll call Price."

---

In the end, the lab techs, supported by Laswell, come back with both the initial DNA results and a drug to help with the withdrawal around the same time. Ghost is on his own drip now, the nurses tsking his dehydration and lack of sleep, and he watches through drooping lids as the nurses slowly introduce the new medication to the man with Johnny's face. A subtle uptick in the man's heart rate is the only result, and based on what Ghost saw when they sedated the man in the helo, he doesn't think it means what the nurses think it means.

As they watch, Laswell's phone buzzes. She reads the message, shakes her head, and blows out a long breath before looking Ghost dead in the eye.

"The DNA for this man is a perfect match with our records for John MacTavish."

Ghost's heart rate kicks up several notches to match with the elevated beeping across the room. He can only stare at her before turning his gaze to—

"Johnny?" he whispers.

Laswell doesn't say anything, but her hand comes to rest on his shoulder. It feels like the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Nothing seems real anymore.

There's still a chance it's not him. Still a chance it's a trick, but...

"This is so fucking twisted," Ghost growls.

"I know," she murmurs. "But we'll get him."

Makarov.

Ghost's mind reels as the news truly settles. All this time, all these years, has his Johnny been right there in front of him? Trying to kill him and the others because of Makarov's sick game? Was Makarov laughing every time he sent Johnny to fight them?

It feels too cruel to be real. And yet when has his life ever been anything but cruel? Johnny was the one bright spot until that, too, was taken away.

But maybe... maybe this is his chance.

The nurses file out of the room, satisfied with the man's... with Johnny's progress. Ghost rolls himself out of his bed, biting back a curse at the strain to his stitches.

"Ghost!" Laswell knows better than to try to hold him back, but she does step in his way. "We don't know—"

"I need this," is Ghost's only answer.

His cracking voice conveys far more than the words themselves. He needs this moment. Needs to say what he never got to say to his Johnny, whether that turns out to be the man who died in a tunnel under the English Channel or the man lying in a hospital bed beside him.

Laswell stares him down, but he returns her gaze with equal determination. Finally, her shoulders slump.

"Just... try to keep in mind we don't know if this is real."

He gives her a curt nod. She sighs... and then helps him shuffle across the room, IV drip in tow, and gingerly settle on the edge of Johnny's bed. Much like Ghost, they've stripped Johnny down to nothing but a hospital gown, exposing a myriad of scars covering his arms and hands.

He's beautiful.

And alive.

For the first time since he thought Johnny died, Ghost's eyes burn with something other than impotent rage.

"I'm sorry, Johnny."

As if waiting to hear Ghost's voice, blue eyes flick wide open. A hiss from the other side of the room tells him Laswell has seen it, too, but the man he wants to believe is Johnny doesn't move to attack or even speak. He just stares. Ghost blows out a breath and pulls off his mask.

"I'm so sorry," he says again. "I shoulda done a better job protecting you. I... I failed you."

Johnny blinks and then narrows his eyes. "I'm the one who failed. I let Makarov take me. Let him turn me into a monster."

His voice rasps through the room, guttural and angry. But Ghost understands. If this is truly his Johnny, the anger could only be directed at himself.

"Don't be stupid. It's not your fault. This is all Makarov."

"Ghost," Laswell warns.

"It's true, isn't it?" he asks over his shoulder. "Even if this man isn't really Johnny, he wouldn't be here without Makarov pulling the strings."

Johnny's gaze doesn't waver, but there's a horrific kind of self-loathing swimming in his eyes. Ghost reaches out, hesitating for just a moment before brushing his shaking fingers over the back of Johnny's hand.

"I..." Ghost swallows around the lump in his throat. The words that finally escape are no more than a whisper. "I want to believe it's you. Promise me... promise me you're really you."

The twist of agony in Johnny's expression cuts through Ghost like a knife. "I don't know, Ghost. I think I am, but... There's so much I don't remember. The man in the tunnels... he thought he was me by the end, too, I think."

Ghost tries to pull himself back together. Tries to keep himself aloof. 

But it's no use. Now that the idea has taken root, he can't dig far or fast enough to uproot it.

"S'alright," he says in a soft voice. "Laswell's on it. We'll get it sorted."

Johnny stares at him and then slowly looks over at where Laswell is standing off to the side. She glances at Ghost, her face a study in stoicism. She shakes her head, and finally her expression melts into a wry smile.

"We're glad to have you back, Soap."

Soap blinks. The agony in his expression transforms into surprise before slowly morphing into the heartbreaking dawning of hope.

The moment stretches. 

And then Johnny surges upward and shoves himself into Ghost's chest. Ghost thinks he should probably fear the sudden movement, but other than a faint uptick in his heart rate, his body barely reacts. Hearing Laswell's admission about the DNA flipped some kind of switch in his brain, and whether he likes it or not, this man is now Johnny in his eyes. 

If that belief turns out to be misplaced, if this man is a... a clone or a trick meant to destroy him, so be it.

"Please," Johnny whispers. "Please, Ghost."

Ghost knows what it's like to come back from torture. He could barely stand anyone touching him after it was all said and done. He was like that for years.

But this is the man who always sought out touch in some way or another. Who probably hasn't experienced physical kindness in literal years. Ghost gives in to his weakest impulses, gently wraps his arms around the broad shoulders he remembers so well, and lets himself sink into the moment. Johnny's arms are trapped between them, his head buried in Ghost's chest and body shaking with increasingly violent tremors, though Ghost feels no tears seeping through his thin hospital gown.

Probably too much in shock to cry.

So Ghost just holds him, his embrace strong but gentle. He holds him through the first round of nurses, who check Johnny's vitals and exclaim over how well he's doing for a man who almost died a few hours ago. He holds him when those same nurses chastise Ghost for getting out of his own bed. He holds him until his eyes droop and his head bobs, exhaustion and the promise of sleep too potent to deny.

He even holds him through the arduous process of lying down in Johnny's bed, careful not rip stitches or get limbs or bodies in the way of either of their various tubes and wires.

If it were up to Ghost he'd never let go of Johnny again.

But Makarov is still out there, and if anything, the revelation of what that monster did to his Johnny makes him all the more eager to put a bullet in the man's brain.

For now, though, he'll stay by Johnny's side... in spite of Laswell's concerned glances.

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 >>

[itsuki-minamy]

RED CASE FILES: HOMRA IN LAS VEGAS

CHAPTER 6.5: FUSHIMI GOURMET IN LAS VEGAS

* List of Chapters

Translation: Naru-kun

 Twenty-four hours had passed since the paranormal weapon attack and the arrival at the "Pyramid Hotel".

Leading the "Tokijikuin" agents who had appeared out of nowhere, the first thing Tanaka did was to build a "fortress". The "Pyramid Hotel" has yet to be discovered by the "enemy", but it is only a matter of time. Sooner or later, they will take some kind of action. Tanaka's plan was to establish surveillance, control, and defense postures until then.

Of course, Fushimi Saruhiko's work was also included in the plan.

Fushimi got out of bed and stretched his body.

He looked at the clock. Apparently he slept for about two hours. He thought he had a dream in which he was being chased by an ostrich, but he didn't remember exactly. He staggered to the bathroom. After washing his face, brushing his teeth, and drinking a glass of water...

He felt hungry.

Returning to his room, Fushimi opened the refrigerator and frowned.

Inside was a half-eaten sandwich. He bought some from the hotel convenience store, took a bite, and it was so disgusting that he never ate it again. It was barely food, consisting of limp lettuce and thin ham sandwiched between dry bread. If there was one good thing about coming to Vegas, it was that it made him realize how delicious Japanese convenience store food is.

Fushimi closed the refrigerator.

The hunger didn't go away. Just seeing the food, even indirectly, had only increased his curiosity. What should he do? Given the level of the convenience store, he shouldn't expect much from the restaurant either. If he had known, he would have brought some instant noodles from Japan.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door.

Fushimi cautiously leaned over and looked through the peephole.

It was Tanaka.

"Good morning, Fushimi-san."

When he opened the door, Tanaka greeted him politely. The usual side-parted hair and suit, in the style of the old Japanese office worker. Fushimi had yet to see his bright smile waver. It's surprising that it continues to do so even when they're attacked by the military.

"Thanks to your support, we've been able to establish the first phase of our defense line. We're currently planning the initial work for the second phase. We appreciate your continued cooperation."

Fushimi nodded briefly, and immediately afterward, his stomach growled.

Tanaka tilted his head slightly.

"Oh, you haven't had breakfast yet?"

"...The food at the convenience store tastes so bad that I don't feel like eating it."

Tanaka smiled at Fushimi's calm response. No, he had been smiling up until now, but this smile seemed genuine.

"It's a perfect time. I'm going to eat now, would you like to join me? It's a bit far, so we'll have to go by car."

"By car...? Are you sure you want to leave work and go?"

"I've already given my subordinates the direction to follow, so there will be time to eat. How about it?"

Fushimi thought.

He doesn't particularly like eating with other people. But, he was hungry anyway, and he didn't want to bother looking for a restaurant in Las Vegas, where he didn't know the place. If Tanaka knows a good restaurant, it might be a good idea to take his advice.

"Alright then, let's go."

Fushimi would regret his answer for the rest of the day.

++++++++++

The name of the restaurant was "Heart Attack Grill".

"Heart Attack (myocardial infarction)?"

At that moment he had a bad feeling. It's a fairly well-known restaurant in Las Vegas, and he's long dreamed of going there. While Tanaka happily (and probably sincerely) talked about it, Fushimi silently investigated the restaurant next to him.

According to the reviews, it has a 4.2 stars rating. Hashtags include "hospitalization", "blood pressure", and "coronary artery bypass surgery". Not a good tag for a restaurant review.

He wondered if he could go home now.

Fushimi was already thinking that while riding in the car. Meanwhile, Tanaka parked, took his ticket, and closed one eye, saying, "I'll hide this from "Tokijikuin"." He was so frank with him that he couldn't help but say something.

A replica ambulance was parked in front of the "Heart Attack Grill". Through the glass, waitresses in nurse uniforms could be seen walking back and forth inside the store. Apparently this store is based on a hospital motif.

Next to the entrance was a scale, and a white man who looked to be about three times Fushimi's volume was standing on it and looked dejected. Fushimi thought it was too late to be depressed about his weight, but according to Tanaka, the man was depressed because he was "light". That means any customer who weighs more than 350 pounds (about 160 kg) can get a free item.

By this time, Fushimi had also begun to understand the concept of this burger joint. This is a restaurant whose purpose is to stuff one's stomach with an inordinate amount of food, known as a binge-eating establishment.

"Shall we measure ourselves too?"

"No, that doesn't make sense."

Unlike the happy Tanaka, Fushimi's goal had changed to "get back to the hotel as soon as possible". There's no way he can enjoy himself here. Fushimi had that confidence.

The two of them entered the shop.

At the reception counter, a female clerk in a nurse's uniform was listlessly playing with her blonde hair. Looking at her completely open chest, Fushimi suddenly thought of his Lieutenant.

Her darkly shadowed eyes looked at the two of them.

Tanaka spoke to her in fluent English with a bright smile on his face.

"I'm Tanaka, I made a reservation."

The receptionist looked at Fushimi and Tanaka with an appraising gaze. Looking at the two of them, who are particularly thin even among Japanese, she gave a half-smile.

"Are you okay? Do you know the rules of this shop?"

"Yes, right."

The receptionist shrugged exaggeratedly and muttered "Okay, okay." in a mocking tone, then…

"Guide for two people."

"Clap, clap!", she clapped her hands.

Two more nurses appeared from the back of the shop. For some reason, they were pushing a wheelchair. He was shocked and looked at Tanaka, who explained it to him while laughing.

"That's also a rule of this restaurant. When customers come in, they are taken to their seats in a wheelchair."

Fushimi stared at Tanaka.

However, Tanaka just tilted his head and gave a confused smile. This guy is no good. Fushimi turned to the receptionist and announced.

"I don't need it. My feet move."

The receptionist pursed her red lips and cried out in a pitiful voice.

"Oh... what a selfish boy. No, the patient has to follow instructions. If you hit your head, there's no turning back."

"It's you who need to have your brain examined...!"

Although he said that in a hoarse voice, the receptionist simply laughed and didn't take it seriously. As she poked Fushimi in the stomach with her index finger,

"Okay, can we leave the store now? Your stomach probably can't hold our burger. Oh, maybe you can finish the kids' menu?"

He was almost about to pull out his hidden weapon.

However, at the last moment, Fushimi managed to endure it. If you resort to violence, you will lose. And the one thing he absolutely did not want was to lose to them.

Fushimi sat in his wheelchair with the determination of Christ carrying his cross. Tanaka followed suit.

Then the nurses gently placed aprons on both of them. Imitating a surgical gown for a patient.

"Then have fun!"

With a signal from the receptionist, the wheelchair began to move forward. Fushimi thought that this must be how a criminal must feel after being paraded around the city and then executed.

The inside of the shop was a world of madness.

Customers wearing surgical gowns roam around the place. Each and every one of them is so large that it makes Kamamoto look small. He was surprised to see a customer receiving an IV drip, but it looked like there was a drink in the IV bag. Some people even drink milkshake-type drinks directly from syringes designed to look like real syringes. He thought that he would look better in a straitjacket than in a surgical gown.

However, Fushimi is now one of the patients in the ward.

The two of them took a seat and sat across from each other. Tanaka looked at the menu in amusement. Fushimi stared at him and muttered,

"Do you like places like this?"

"Very much."

A side-parted hairstyle, a suit, and a smile that seemed pasted on. That was the "Tanaka Hitoshi" that Fushimi knew. It's like he doesn't know anything. Everything surrounding Tanaka is a lie; he's nothing more than an icon, an agent of "Tokijikuin".

But Tanaka is different now. Now he looked like he was really enjoying it.

"Perhaps this will surprise you, but I really love these kinds of shops."

His eyes behind his glasses narrowed as if he were looking into the distance.

"As you know, our organization has a heavy responsibility. To govern the nation, ensure the safety of the people, and keep paranormal abilities a secret. If we make a single wrong move, order will be lost in an instant. Of course, that heavy responsibility also falls on us, the "rabbits". It's a tremendous amount of stress."

Tanaka lovingly strokes the menu that appears with an assortment of blasphemous burgers.

"And this is how I release it. Ramen with extra garlic oil, a five-tiered pork chop tower bowl, a super-greasy buttermilk shake... only when I eat things like this can I forget about the heavy responsibilities of everyday life."

Fushimi said with a serious face.

"You will die eventually."

"We will all die one day. What is important is how we live."

Tanaka spoke as if he had realized something and Fushimi looked at him with the gaze of a monster. It was a moment where the dark side of "Tokijikuin", the largest and most powerful clan in Japan, was glimpsed. Well, it's hard to call it a proper clan if they make its members dress up like "rabbits".

"Which one would you like, Fushimi-san?"

Tanaka turned the menu over in his hand and handed it to Fushimi. Fushimi looked with gloomy eyes at the dishes on the menu, each loaded with a nuclear warhead of calories.

"...This one."

He then pointed at a double bypass burger (in this restaurant, all burgers have the word bypass on them), the second smallest burger. Although it is ranked second from the bottom, it is several times larger than a Japanese burger. The reason he didn't choose the smallest one was because he remembered the receptionist's mockery.

"Is that so? Well then."

Tanaka raised his hand and called the waitress over. He placed Fushimi's order first, then said his own.

"I'll have this Octuple Bypass burger with the Flatliner set."

The order form slipped from the waitress's hands.

"I'm sorry, did I hear you wrong? What did you say?"

Tanaka repeated his order, a little louder than before.

The waitress nodded slightly with her eyes wide open and wrote the letters on the order form. Then she quickly walked to the center pillar of the store, grabbed a hand bell that was hanging there, and rang it to her heart's content.

"One Octuple Bypass, on its way!"

At that sound, the store fell silent for a moment... and the next moment it erupted with excitement.

"Hey, hey, hey, are you serious? What kind of crazy person is this?"

"That Asian guy?! That's ridiculous! There's no way he could eat it!"

"Hahaha, that's a bad joke. He didn't order it because he wanted to be punished, right?"

Shock, admiration, mockery. Theirs emotions were tinged with such colors. This is how people react when they see someone attempting the impossible.

Fushimi looked blandly at the menu.

The "Octuple Bypass Burger" looked less like a burger and more like a layered city built from meat and cheese.

Octuple (eight times). Four times double.

The total calories are over 20,000.

Fushimi looked at Tanaka.

"Are you crazy?"

Tanaka smiled and steepled the fingers of both hands.

"I’m looking forward to it."

There was no pretense in that voice. Tanaka was in such a good mood that it seemed like he was about to start humming. His expression says that he can't wait for the delicious food that's about to arrive.

Meanwhile, Fushimi and Tanaka were the center of attention in the shop. If anything, they were in a bad situation. No matter how you looked at it, Tanaka doesn't look like someone who could finish an Octuple Bypass burger. There's malice in their gazes, as if they were going to watch some stupid Asian choke to death on some meat.

The awkward moment didn't last long.

Their orders were carried out.

The way the waitress brought it to him looked like something out of a comedy. The meat and cheese, piled like a mille-feuille, gently swayed as it approached. When it was placed in front of Tanaka, his figure was completely hidden from view.

"......"

Fushimi stared at his double bypass burger. It's a huge thing that could feed him for three days, but compared to Tanaka's thing it's like a giant or a dwarf.

"Fushimi-san, please come over here."

Tanaka said as he handed him a pair of latex gloves. He was already adapted. Fushimi did the same. If you wipe your hands after every meal, you'll need a box of napkins.

"Well then, let's eat."

He cupped his latex-gloved hands together and made that statement with dignity.

Tanaka started eating.

First, he removed the symbolic bun from the top. Then he took the burger on top. He opened his mouth and took a bite. After repeating that a few times, the burger disappeared. He took the next burger, opened his mouth, took a bite...

He's not at all someone who eats quickly. Rather, Tanaka takes his time to savor each burger. He lovingly takes a palm-sized sheet of meat with both hands and bites into it. Every time he does that, his face lights up as if he just tasted something heavenly.

Meanwhile, the Octuple (eight times) became a sextaple (six times).

Tanaka's face didn't change color. The speed at which he ate and the things he did. Take, open, bite. He went about his routine monotonously, like an office worker completing paperwork.

The mocking laughter on the faces of the audience slowly began to fade away.

Fushimi also imitated Tanaka, removing the bun, grabbing a burger and stuffing it into his mouth.

His eyes widened.

Delicious. He thought it would be cooked dry, but contrary to his expectations, every time he put the burger into his mouth, juicy meat juices gushed out. Cheese has a slightly unusual taste, but when combined with the hot fat, it rises to an exquisite taste.

At that moment, Fushimi finally remembered that he was hungry.

Eat with pleasure. Patty. Cheese. When the fat gets too much, put the bread in your mouth and add ketchup to change the taste. Apparently, the store doesn't stock any plant-based foods, like pickles or lettuce. Apparently the French fries that Tanaka eats to cleanse his palate (although they're not that good) are all fried in lard. Hence the cardiac arrest. It's crazy.

Tanaka's burger had already quadrupled.

Tanaka's speed didn't change. Calmly and solemnly, he grabs it, opens it, and takes a bite.

The customers began to murmur. The sneer of malice slowly turned into astonishment.

Fushimi was also starting to get a new view of Tanaka. He didn't see any value in gluttony, but he still ate with pleasure. Besides, even though this place was crazy, it was definitely a hit. It was the first time he had tried something so delicious since he came to the States.

Double and then single.

When he finished the last burger, Tanaka placed it between the remaining buns. Then he started chewing it like it was a normal burger (although it was much bigger than that). There was no slowing down in that speed. As Fushimi, the other customers, and the waitresses looked on, Tanaka finished eating without slowing down at all, right down to the last bite.

Tanaka wiped his mouth with a napkin, took off his dirty gloves, and clasped his hands together again.

"Thanks for the food."

And so he finished eating.

The inside of the shop erupted with excitement.

"Hey, hey! Is that guy really Japanese? He really ate it!"

"A ninja? Hey, hey, is that guy a ninja?"

"Idiot!" He's a samurai! The last samurai of Japan!"

Despite receiving thunderous applause, Tanaka merely smiled coldly and bowed slightly. The customers became even more excited by this refined gesture and the waitress blushed and muttered, "Wow..."

Fushimi felt awkward.

Although he respected Tanaka, he was still full. Fushimi's Double Bypass Burger wasn't even a simple burger yet. It was still delicious, but since it was so greasy, he quickly got tired of it. After swallowing it and giving a small sigh, Tanaka called out to him in concern.

"Are you okay, Fushimi-san?"

"...Yes, well."

His low groan seemed like nothing more than an attempt to cope with the situation. He thought so too. He politely took a bite of the burger, but his speed noticeably slowed down.

Well, even if he can't eat it all, he can just leave it as it is. Tanaka's ability to eat a lot is admirable, but he sees no reason to join in. Unlike Kamamoto, Fushimi wasn't interested enough in food to eat until his stomach burst.

The one who blew that naive thought away was the receptionist.

"Hey, Japanese boy. How are you?"

Before he knew it, she was standing by the table. While playing with her blonde hair, she looked at Fushimi with a mocking look.

"This glasses-wearing gentleman seems like a really tough guy. But you seem to be having a hard time."

"Shut your mouth. Don't talk to me while I'm eating."

"Aha, what a strong-willed boy. But do you know what happens if you can't finish it?"

"What?"

Fushimi gave her a suspicious look. A sadistic smile appeared on the receptionist's red lips. She pointed her thumb at a large pillar. The bell that rang earlier is hanging.

Fushimi noticed that there were several whips lined up beside him.

"Apparently you didn't know? In this restaurant we have a policy of disciplining any naughty child who leaves their food lying around. Oh, speaking of rumors..."

A white man who was sitting far away from Fushimi and the others stood up at the waitress' insistence. For some reason he was slumped over. He then grabbed the pillar's ​​railing with both hands and slightly spread his legs. The waitress took the whip from the pillar.

The waitress lifted him up and brought it down with all her might on the white man's buttocks.

"You naughty child for leaving your food behind! Reflect on your actions! Repent!"

Twice, three times. Each time the whip hit his buttocks, the white man writhed in joy and screamed. The surrounding customers laughed loudly at this.

Fushimi had a cold, expressionless face.

"What is this?"

Tanaka explained apologetically.

"Well, it's the rule of this restaurant. Like she said, if you leave your burger here, you'll be punished with a beating like that."

"Hey, I haven't heard anything about that!"

Fushimi forgot to use honorific language and lashed out. Tanaka scratched his cheek apologetically.

"Sorry, I didn't say anything. I didn't think you'd be punished so..."

That's probably true for him. Fushimi gritted his teeth and barely managed to swallow his complaint. There was no point in complaining to Tanaka now. Fushimi was already on the verge of death.

The receptionist said jokingly.

"Don't worry, there's no time limit. But in my experience, it gets harder as time goes on."

Fushimi looked at his burger.

There's still more than half left. He was fooled by Tanaka's eating style, but Fushimi's Double Bypass burger would be considered gluttony in Japan. Even halfway is quite hard.

The receptionist leaned close to Fushimi's ear and whispered.

"Give up quickly, okay? I'll train you personally. My hobby is tormenting unruly boys like you."

That voice ignited Fushimi's fighting spirit.

He reached out with his latex-covered hands, tore off a burger, and stuffed it into his mouth. He swallowed without chewing properly. His esophagus was screaming, but it didn't matter. Like the woman said, this is a race against time. He must figure it out before his satiety center sends a signal.

"......"

The receptionist frowned cautiously.

Fushimi's pace continued to get faster and faster. Grabbing, pulling, swallowing. He finished the entire burger in no time. He thought he heard a crunching sound as his stomach tightened, but he thought it was just his imagination. Fushimi continued to eat, the temples of his glasses getting wet with sweat.

"Fushimi-san, you shouldn't do anything reckless..."

"Shut up, you bother me. We're desperate right now."

Fushimi yelled at him with his eyes. At this point he didn't want to use his mouth for anything other than eating.

At this point, he was swallowing the burger without chewing much.

Before long, his consciousness began to fade. He was starting to lose track of why he was there. He didn't leave Japan and come to Las Vegas just to choke on a burger.

Several memories began to spin in his mind. The richest man in the world. Otsuchi. "Homura". Death Valley. Shit. Ostrich.

The rapidly spinning memories soon began to emerge. Sparks burned forming a flame.

That is the flame called anger.

(Why did this happen to me?)

(I wish I hadn't run away from "Tokijikuin".)

(I wish I hadn't brought that story home.)

(I wish those idiots hadn't been so stubborn and gone home.)

The man in a blue uniform with a cold smile behind his glasses said that as if it were nothing.

"Then, Fushimi-kun, this is an order. Go save the world."

(Damn it!)

The mind sometimes overtakes the body. The flames of rage engulfed Fushimi's stomach, which was about to burst, and burned the hamburger to ashes. There was no feeling anymore. Fushimi had become a machine that simply tore, spewed, swallowed, and repeated the cycle.

Clang.

Finally, that sound reached his ears.

In his blurry vision, the plate containing the hamburger wobbled and vibrated. With his outstretched fingertips there was no food to touch. The buns, the burgers, the cheese. Nothing was left

It was over.

Fushimi thought vaguely in his hazy consciousness. He felt as if his entire body had turned into a burger.

At that moment, a faint sound hit Fushimi's ears.

Clap, clap, clap.

He shifted his gaze and saw the receptionist and Tanaka in front of him, both clapping.

The receptionist smiled brightly.

"You won, Japanese. No, kamikaze boy. I was shown the Yamato Soul."

Tanaka smiled brightly as well.

"Thank you for your hard work, Fushimi-san. Ah, what would you like for dessert?"

He couldn't open his mouth. If he did, bad things would happen.

Then...

Fushimi took off his latex gloves, which were covered in ketchup, grease, and cheese, and carefully threw each of them at the receptionist and Tanaka's faces.

[gnomie-nyx]

So, there's this theory that Jax is an AI, mostly based on his fourth wall-breaking jokes and inexplicable access to room keys. I think that's more to do with his personality of “asshole bugs bunny” than him being a rogue computer program. However, what if all the player characters are AI?

To be clear, I'm not saying that circus residents are lying or that all their memories are fake. There would have been real humans that sat down to log into The Amazing Digital Circus, and Pomni even mentions wearing a headset in the first episode. But unlike current VR gaming, this game can simulate touch and possibly taste. Therefore, it is safe to assume that this game is also using some sort of brain scanning technology, which is typically for the “VR horror” sub-genre. This scan would make it so the player character can physically/emotionally react in real time to the game/other players without the delay of button inputs, thus improving the gameplay’s immersion. I’d imagine that this scan would initially occur when the player starts a new game and begins to design their avatar. Their memories and personality are just data points that this future tech can access and dismiss every time a player loads and saves their game. But what if something goes wrong before the player can save their game?

Here's my main theory: all the characters trapped in Caine’s digital circus are AI copies of real people left unattended by their players. Let's say that the game autosaves when a player spends significant time in character creation but there’s a rare chance that the game crashes before they can finalize their avatar. The aborted avatar’s data could still be saved to the cloud, but inaccessible to the human player as the game didn't technically start yet. This unpaired avatar then heys shoved into some background program with a beta verison of Caine, who gets increasingly frustrated that the “players” won’t log off when they stop having fun. Pomni and the rest are trapped simply because they don't have a physical body that can hit the escape button, let alone a headset to remove. The rarity of this scenario means that unattended avatars only generate sporadically, which is why the circus only has a handful of members instead of being flooded with the game's player base.

This would explain why none of circus residents knew their name; because choosing a name is usually the last step in character creation, and these copies were shunted to the cloud before their avatars were finalized. Not only that, but Caine has trouble differentiating the pcs from the npcs, as they all look like code to him. Now, that could just be a sign of the game master's wear and tear, but let’s not forget that Pomni had the exact same reaction that Gummigoo had when they launched back into the game in episode two, implying that they are on the same level of “realness.” With that said, abstraction may happen the instant a circus resident realizes that their a copy or just a result of their code becoming too muddled to function. I doubt that abstraction is connected to the death of their physical body, because if that was the case Kinger should have abstracted long before Pomni joined the circus. It won't take long for a human to die of thirst, and I don't think medical personnel would care to keep a patient's game system connected on their way to the hospital.

Speaking of which, this theory also explains the lack of response from the outside world. There are no signs of any investigation of some killer video game sending people into vegetative states, because in reality the human players were able to log off with only minor inconvenience. These people carried on with their lives, and maybe even started another game file successfully, unaware that their likeness is being tormented by a demented game master. No one has pulled the plug on Caine’s server because no humans have been harmed, and this glitch might be so infrequent that the programmers failed to notice anything amiss.

Now, what would this mean for the show going forward? Well, we're due for Gummigoo to validate Pomni’s existence like she did for him in episode 2. His appearance in episode 4 confirms that he's a recurring character, so it won't be a stretch for him to slowly regain awareness on his own and maybe figure some things out behind the scenes. If the truth doesn’t break Pomni, then maybe her next step to freedom is to find a way to contact the outside world. Maybe she'll ask the technicians to move them to a different program or just to shut down the server permanently, depending on how dark the story wants to go. There must be some type of internet access if players keep popping in randomly, so maybe if she screams loud enough into the void someone will hear her pleas. That, or the circus keep running unbeknownst to the outside world, its residents stuck in limbo for as long as C&A is still in business.

[curio-queries]

Mona Lisa : An Unconcluded Journey

So...Hobi's song Mona Lisa has taken me on an unexpected journey. But I want to be clear, I have not yet arrived at a destination and I'm not sure that there will actually ever be one. My thoughts are purely about my own reaction and I'm not trying to persuade anyone else that they should feel any sort of way about this. I'm also not making any statements regarding the value of this music or those that enjoy it. So for any of you that decide to read through this post, just keep that in mind.

If there's any reason you haven't listened to the song yet, please do so and have your own impressions with the song without my viewpoints skewing your experience.

BACKGROUND

To set the scene, I just want to share a few thoughts on where Hobi's music sits in my life. Generally, I don't love it or hate it. I absolutely love when he focuses a little more on musicality but his rap usually doesn't speak to me. I love the concept and execution of JitB but none of the actual songs made it into my regular playlists after pushing streams. HotS was a little better but still nothing stuck with me long term. There are a few exceptions but overall I didn't have many expectations going into the post-ms music releases for Hobi. I didn't love or hate Sweet Dreams. I was starting to build a QuickCombo for it (maybe I'll finish it one of these days) but I didn't like the mv at all. I specifically avoided all opportunities where I could have heard either song before their mvs released.

INITIAL REACTION

As I've mentioned a few times, it' very rare that I know right at first listen whether I will end up liking a song long-term. I usually have a bit of an adjustment period unless there's something truly astonishing (RM's Wildflower is still probably the most instantaneous reaction I've ever had to a first listen). But I have to tell you, I did not even make it to the first chorus before I knew that I was going to have problems with Mona Lisa. I was immediately filled with such a sour feeling. Just an instant dawning that something was wrong.

I had a thought continually circling my head: this is objectification on display. (From some minimal research I've done since this songs release the exact term I'm associating is Instrumentality). I don't want to go too in depth here on why/how this song conveys this meaning to me. This will always be subjective and like i said above, I'm not interested in convincing anyone to my viewpoint. And that's not the reason why this is continuing to sit so heavy with me.

Anyway, I immediately had an internal conflict. The BTS and specifically the Jung Hoseok that I know, would not be putting out a message celebrating objectification. So I had to shake myself out of that thought process and try to come at this song from what I expect to be the intended viewpoint: a catchy song celebrating how attractive a romantic/sexual interest can be whilst incorporating a fine art spin.

I tried...I really did.

I tried just listening to it without the mv. I tried focusing on other people's reactions and hype posts.

I actually really enjoy the actual composition of the song itself. It speaks very well musically to the viewpoint of celebrating beauty in a more modern way while also carrying a hint of reverence expected in a museum setting.

But listening to the lyrics make me feel like my insides are shriveling up. That I'm screaming in a quiet room about something being wrong but no one will look up. Am i the only one seeing this? Is it just my specific flavour as an aro-ace that's causing this reaction? I'll be sharing this post with @aspec-kpop . Any of you have a similar reaction?

JUST MOVE ON, RIGHT?

I tried mentally shelving the song as one that's just not intended for me. There are PLENTY of those. I don't like every song released by BTS or the members and I'm typically fine just filing them away and moving on.

It was whilst trying to switch to this viewpoint, that I happened to get 3D recommended in my Youtube feed again. So I watched that mv for the first time since we were streaming it. Do y'all remember 3D? In my mind, this is definitely one of the most vile songs I've had the displeasure of listening to since my BTS journey began. As I watched the mv again, I knew the instant disgust I would feel once JH's verse started...But that actually made me reflect for a moment. I have no lingering dislike for Jungkook with this song. Even watching the mv right then and hearing the lyrics he was singing. They were also not particularly to my taste, but they didn't BOTHER me.

I genuinely don't mind the guys wanting to release songs more clearly about sex. I unironically really like SEVEN (except Lotto's verse but that has more to do with how I don't really enjoy listening to women's music very much and how I value clever sexual innuendo over blunt vulgarity). I want the members to feel the freedom to talk about the important things in their lives and it seems that this is a topic many of them are wanting to include right now. Go for it.

Anyway, 3D is an easy pass for me. It's not to my taste musically or lyrically. I shoved it out of my mind and moved on. But I think the interesting part here is that my perception of Jungkook was not called into question AT ALL whereas with Mona Lisa, i was instantly conflicted. Is it because the worst part of 3D came from the mouth of someone else? An artist that I have no investment or interest in? While Hobi's song doesn't have a collaborator for me to mentally shove the burden toward? I don't have an answer.

WAR OF HORMONE

We can't talk about this subject without bringing up the biggest kerfuffle in BTS's history with questionable lyrics from this perspective. I was not part of the fandom when this happened live and it was pretty far into my journey before I found out about it. Musically, I don't mind the song, I definitely don't hate it but I don't think I've ever had the thought 'I really want to listen to WoH right now.' When considering WoH against Mona Lisa, there are two possibilities I want to explore:

Am I more okay with WoH because it all happened in the past? Not being in the fandom at the time means I didn't have a period of confusion where I was trying to dissect my thoughts along with the discussion. There has already been a conclusion to that story. The members have seen how ARMY was impacted and we've seen the proof of them growing from that experience. They were all also much younger when this happened. Still learning who they were and what they wanted to become.

Or does WoH get a 'pass' because of the language barrier. Everytime I listen to it, I don't actively read the lyrics. It's completely on my 《failing》 memory to remember how problematic some of the lines can be. Mona Lisa does not get that advantage. It's completely in English so every line that doesn't sit well with me is reinforced with every listen.

There's also a small point that I can't help but think about regarding WoH. I don't see this discussed anywhere but I can't help but remember anytime I do watch the WoH content, the members are absolutely in the middle of an industry designed to sexualize and objectify them as Idols. It's honestly something I end up thinking about anytime I encounter WoH.

SO WHAT?

This is exactly the reason why I've labeled this post as an unconcluded journey. I don't know where I really sit or where to go with this song. I'm not comfortable with where I am right now with it but I don't know where I'm going. I just wanted to share my thoughts with y'all.

I really do hope Hobi achieves whatever success he's looking for with this. I'd be lying though if I said i didn't wish the lyrics didn't cause such conflict for me though.

[homosekularnost]

ok first some facts:

> in artificial condition, tlaceys comfortunit initiates a conversation with mb

>it opens by sending mb a copy of a newsburst about how its rogue, but claims tlacey doesnt know about any of that

>when asked directly, it tells mb tlacey sent it. art thinks its probably telling the truth

>it claims tlacey thinks mb stayed behind to steal the files + that she wanted comfortunit to follow it

>quote 1

"What do you propose we do?

There was a pause. A long one, five seconds. We could kill them."

>quote 2

"I said to the sexbot, Is that how Tlacey thinks constructs talk to each other?

There was another pause, only two seconds this time. Yes."

>all its other replies are instant so these pauses Are significant

[autisticshadowthehedgehog]

A Cluster of Burning Stars - Chapter Seven

in which flowers fade

{ao3} {tumblr}

When they landed back at Tails’s station, Sonic wasted no time. He leapt off the wings, tapping his foot impatiently as the others got out of the plane, and then raced inside, running for the computer. To Tails’s surprise, Sonic seemed to know his way around that system much more than he’d expected, as he began flipping windows, pulling up maps and charts.

“Whoa, whoa! I’ve got that stuff organized, you know!” Tails cried. 

Sonic turned, slamming his hand on the keyboard. “We need to stop Shadow. Now.” 

“What? You ran into Shadow?” Knuckles asked, holding up his hands. 

Sonic bristled. “He’s going to blow up the planet.” 

Tails and Knuckles stared at him for a beat. And then Tails screeched, “He’s what?” at the same time Knuckles shouted, “The hell are you talking about?” 

“Tails. Have you got anything on the ARK on this computer?” 

“Not much.” Tails admitted. “Why–”

Sonic swiped through windows until he found an old, black-and-white photo of the ARK, pulled from GUN’s files. He maximized it, and then gestured behind him. 

“This,” he said, “Was supposed to be a weapons research facility. GUN wanted the most deadly weapons ever created developed right here.” He jammed his finger so hard at the screen, he almost cracked it. “The Professor didn’t want to, but he did. For our protection, he made it almost impossible to use. But it was called the Eclipse Cannon.” 

The memory darted across his mind. The little hedgehogs, peering over the railing that was taller than them. Amy held tight to Maria’s hand, as the Professor told them, very carefully, that they were to never ever come here without permission. But, if something big was going to come near the Earth, like a meteor or something…

“It’s powered by chaos energy. You’d need all seven chaos emeralds to charge it to a full-enough power, but even just five could blow a comet to molecules.” Sonic said, his face darkening. “The Professor thought of it as a joke. That GUN wanted him to make the ultimate weapon, but if they actually turned it on, they’d find out it wouldn’t be able to do anything less than decimate the entire planet.” 

“When you say ‘decimate,’” Tails began, “Do you mean–”

“I don’t mean ‘big explosion,’ ‘toxic air,’ or even ‘we all die and evolution starts from scratch.’” Sonic hissed. “I mean, ‘the planet goes bye-bye.’ Like it never existed. The debris might blow anything nearby as well, if the initial blast even leaves debris. It might just disintegrate everything it touches in an instant.” 

“That’s what Robotnik’s plan is?”

“It’s what Shadow’s going to do, whether your Doctor lets him or not.” Sonic shuddered, and then hugged himself. “We only have two ways to stop him. We keep the emeralds away from him, and we keep me away from him.” 

“You?” 

“He won’t kill me. But if he gets his hands on me, he can teleport me to the ARK.” Sonic hugged himself. “In the same vein, we need to find Amy as soon as possible. First to protect her from the same problem, second because if he gets her to listen to his insanity, we’re completely and utterly fucked.” 

“We have a chaos emerald,” Tails said, pulling the purple gem from his tail fluff. “I can use this to track the last remaining one, and maybe it can help with finding the other pod.” 

“Then we’re going to have to work fast. Luckily,” Sonic finally let a smile slip onto his face, “Fast is what I do best.” 

Tails considered a few moments, before turning to the echidna beside him. “Okay, Knuckles, I’m going to need to run about three or four projects at once. It’s gonna take a lot of power.” 

“So use the chaos emerald? I don’t see why you’re telling me.”

“That’s not the problem, the problem is I’m going to need you to grab some supplies from town. I’ll make you a list, just give it to the hardware store guy and he’ll get you the right stuff. There’s a ring pouch by the door, use as much as you need.” 

“Okay.”

“And I’m gonna need you to take Sonic.” 

Knuckles blinked, and then glanced back at the hedgehog. He had stopped paying attention, instead furiously scouring over one of the maps on the monitor. “Uh, really?”

“With so many systems running at once, I don’t want to risk him running into anything he shouldn’t. You know how explosive my stuff can be. Also, I’m pretty sure he needs to eat something.” 

“So do you.” 

“I have food here!”

“Other than mints.” Knuckles sighed, and crossed his arms. “He might be able to help, you know, with tracking the–”

Before he could finish, Sonic kicked his leg up, accidentally knocking it into the rolling chair. He hissed, stepping back, and slammed a hand onto the desk behind him. The hand, which suddenly lit with chaos energy, burned a deep dent into the metal. 

“Shit.” Sonic hissed, stepping back. “That wasn’t important, was it?” 

Knuckles stared at him, and then said, “I see your point.”

---

Sonic slid down the hall, giggling at the squeak his shoes made against the hard metal. He looked up just as he turned the bend, seeing two of the doctors standing outside the door, talking with a disgruntled little boy. 

“Abe!” Sonic raced forwards, grabbing onto the kid’s hand, ignoring how he immediately stiffened. “What’s buzzin’, cousin?”

He yanked his arm out of Sonic’s grip. “Not now, blue.”

Abe was the only other kid on the ARK, at least currently; his parents liked for him to spend summers on Earth with his grandparents so that he “knew what life was supposed to be like” or some corny shit like that. Both of his parents were scientists who worked in bio-engineering, so Sonic saw both of them a whole lot, and as a consequence, started hanging out with Abe once he was let upstairs. Okay, well, he hung out with Abe mainly when Maria was there; Abe didn’t seem to like him or Shadow very much. Amy, though… it was hard to not get along with her, so that didn’t really count. 

“Hi, Sonic!” Dr Jezek beamed down at him. “Abraham, be nice.”

Abe huffed, while Sonic started hopping between his feet. “How’s Mari-ri doing?” 

“She’s alright. Shadow’s in there with her.” Nurse Sherazi informed him. “It was a long surgery, so if she’s asleep, don’t wake her up.” 

“But she’s okay now?” 

“Well…” the doctors shared an awkward glance, before Dr Jezek said, “She’s stable for now.” 

Sonic recognized that look. So in a flash, he ran between the doctors, grabbing both their hands. “We should have a party! We got some new records from Earth, and Maria’s been teaching me some stuff on the guitar, I can really shred it!” He paused, and then emphasized, “I can literally shred it. I broke her strings once.”

“Oh!” Dr Jezek smiled at the thought. “Then you’d better be careful with it.” 

“Yeah. I tried to make my own, but I just got myself tangled up in the strings. And when Shads and Amy had to yank me out, the strings just kept playing! Super out-of-tune, though.” 

The doctors laughed, while Abe scowled. “That’s so not how guitars work. The sound doesn’t come from the strings themselves, it comes from–”

“And we’ll make a cake!” Sonic jumped up, suddenly atop Nurse Sherazi’s shoulders, waving his palms wildly. The Nurse reached up his own hands quickly to grab his feet and stabilize him. “We can shove all of our food packs into one big bowl and dump a whole lotta sugar in there, and BOOM! We’ll have some kinda cake! It might even be edible, too!” 

“Now, Sonic,” Dr Jezek reached up, pulling him off of the Nurse’s shoulders and matching his grinning face. “Do you think that would be a good use of resources?” 

“I think it’d be an experiment! Aren’t you all supposed to be scientists? Come on, let’s see what happens!” 

Dr Jezek laughed, before placing Sonic carefully on the ground. “We’ll think about it, Sonic.” But her and Nurse Sherazi both looked happier, so Sonic considered his work done. 

“Well, I should check on Mari-ri. See ya later, alligators!” 

The adults waved cheerily at him as he dashed through the door, while Abe just rolled his eyes. 

Once inside, Sonic slowed his feet, quieting down for a second just in case. But Maria was sitting up in her hospital bed, a notebook splayed on her lap, and Shadow passed out under her left arm. She smiled brightly and waved to Sonic, who dashed over and stood on the bedside chair. 

“What’s the story, morning glory?” 

Maria shrugged, then put a finger to her mouth. “Shadow’s still sleeping.” 

“Probably not for long. I share a room with him, that guy hears everything.”

“Yes, but I think he’s reached the N3 stage, so he should be deep asleep; so long as we’re not too loud, he should get his rest.”

“And he needs it. I swear, he’s up all night punching bags and reading boring books.” 

“I thought you liked reading,” Maria sounded mock-offended. 

“When it’s interesting.” Sonic took the chance to look over Maria; her skin was a bit paler than normal, and her hair a little greasy, but she didn’t look about to keel over and die, so he considered that a win. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing much.” Maria glared down at the empty notebook. “I thought I might sketch, but I already drew everything in the room.” 

Sonic glanced at the nightstand, his eyes landing on something he hadn’t seen there before. He reached for the small vase of yellow flowers, waving it in the air. “Even this?” 

Maria laughed a little. “Yes. The doctors said that Amy brought those last night, while I was still passed out.” 

“She always knows how to brighten up the place.” Sonic smiled. When he lowered the flowers, though, his face fell. “Oh, they’re already wilting!” 

“It’s alright. I’ll be out of here by the end of the week.” 

“I’m sure she worked hard to pick the best ones for you out of the greenhouse, though.” Sonic said sadly, poking at the petals. “And they’re already dying.” 

“Technically,” Maria said, “The flowers are dead once you’ve plucked them from the–” he turned to her with his large, sad eyes, and she redirected. “Hey, come here a sec.” 

She held out her free hand, and he scrambled to her side, pressing against her chest and finding comfort in the steady beat beneath his ears. She wrapped her arm around him, her hand landing on the vase still in his hands. 

“Flowers don’t last very long,” she said carefully. “Even on Earth, a lot of them only bloom for a week or two, before sending off their seeds and wilting.” 

“That’s sad.” 

“Kinda.” she shrugged. “But I don’t think the flowers think that way. It’s a normal lifespan to them.”

“We’re sad when people die, though.” Sonic said. “Do you think the flowers’ friends miss them?” 

Shadow would probably tell him to stop being so stupid and remember that plants couldn’t think. Maria, though, she considered for a long moment, before saying, “I mean. Everything ends eventually. Every story comes to a close. And everything alive has to die sometime.” She reached up a finger, poking at the petals. “That’s why we gotta live life to the fullest in the time we have. At least, that’s what I figure.” 

She lowered her hand, grabbing onto Sonic’s lower arm. He cuddled closer to her, humming a little. 

“Do you know which flower this is?” 

Sonic glanced at it. He and Amy were both good at remembering Earth flora. “That’s a marigold, right?” 

She nodded. “They’re specifically Lemon Drop blossoms. Tagetes patula. Now, they’re not the right kind of marigolds– those would be tagetes erecta– but marigolds always remind me of my Tía Therese. Did you ever see pictures of her?” he shook his head. “She’s my mom’s sister. When I was still on Earth, we would visit her every Día de los Muertos. She had a beautiful garden, but she’d have me help her pick bright orange-and-yellow marigolds. She told me that the smell and the color help the spirits of those who’ve passed on to find their way home. So that they might be able to visit us while we were remembering them. I’d throw flowers everywhere, and my parents would help her in the kitchen making so much food, and when it was time for music, her roommate would play so fast on the violin I thought it might catch on fire.” 

“I wanna do that.” Sonic said, eyes wide.

Maria giggled. “I’m sure you could.” Then her face fell slightly, as she ran her hand over the marigold’s browning petals. “I don’t remember any of the songs, though. I remember how happy I felt while dancing. But not what I danced to. I can’t remember her roommate’s name, or the street where they lived.” She shut her eyes tight. “And I’ve tried to keep up with learning español, cause she tried to teach me, but I only remember a few words. And when I try to learn from books, I’m never sure if I’m pronouncing anything right.” 

“Maybe I could help.” Sonic looked up at her, nuzzling his head into her shoulder. “I can do it with you. Then we can say it together.”

She snorted. “I don’t think you could pronounce it any better.” 

“Well, there’s gotta be some scientists up here who speak it. And if not, we’ll just be wrong together.” 

She smiled. “I’ll give you a beginner’s book. And then we’ll see how you do.” 

She picked up the vase, lifting it to put back on the nightstand. One of the flowers dropped, brushing against Shadow’s nose. Both of the other children paused, watching to see if he’d wake. His nose twitched once. Twice. And then he let out a tiny, cute sneeze, before falling back to sleep.

Maria and Sonic had to bury their faces in pillows to keep from waking him with laughter.

---

Deep breaths, Sonic. One, two. 

Knuckles had told him that he’d need to wash up before they went to get supplies. Sonic didn’t see what the issue was; they were in a hurry, nobody could blame them if they looked a little rough. But the echidna had simply said, “You haven’t had a bath in fifty years. Get that done first.” 

Sonic had liked baths decently on the ARK, but when he first looked at the tub in Tails’s bathroom, it was like he couldn’t even see it. He just saw the water test crate, and so he rushed for the enclosed shower stall instead. He had to stand there for several minutes, preparing, before turning it on, and then realizing that all the bath care supplies were much different than what he was used to. The basket inside the stall held shampoo and conditioner meant for long fur, brushes that were definitely not intended for quills, and soap he wasn’t sure how to use. But, well, the ARK had entirely human-centric supplies, with the exception of the brushes Maria had requested for them, so he could probably make it work. 

After struggling for a while, he shut off the shower and shook the water off his fur, rather than bother Tails for one of his towels. He wasn’t sure he’d improved, but maybe at least Knuckles would get off his back and they could do something useful. 

He stumbled out into the bathroom, avoiding looking at the tub and instead staring at himself in the mirror. God, his muzzle was redder than normal. Was it because he’d been crying? He probably shouldn’t have been doing that. He was supposed to be stronger than that. Be a little soldier, Sonic, he remembered one of the doctors saying to him once. You can do that. 

Okay. I can do that.

After drying his hands a bit more, he slid his gloves back on, before running a finger over his wrist. He had a distant memory of the first year the array had been together, when he’d made paper rings to match his friends’ thick golden ones. They’d broken a few hours after he started wearing them. 

He spun on his heel and marched to the bathroom door, opening it to grab the shoes he’d left on the floor outside. Strangely, though, there was only a new pair of socks in their place. He stared for a second, before slipping them on and zooming down the stairs as quickly as he could. 

Wooden stairs were weird. They made noises the metal ones on the ARK hadn’t. 

When he reached the lower level, he opened the door and immediately said, “Where are my shoes?” 

Knuckles was sitting in front of the door, arms crossed and eyes closed. Meditating, maybe? But he didn’t even react to Sonic’s arrival, or the slightly panicked rise in his voice. Tails, meanwhile, had one tail wrapped around some kind of metallic tool, which he was using to poke at a bench, as he kept his eyes on rushing lines of code on the computers before him. 

“Oh, they’re under the bench.” Tails gestured to the left. 

“Why?” Sonic asked, dashing to said bench, ducking under the automatic tools that were whirring with some kind of project, and swiping his brown boots as soon as his fingers could reach them. 

“Didn’t want you to trip over ‘em.” Tails said carefully, as if he was only half-paying attention. “Don’t go anywhere without Knuckles. Listen to what he says.”

“I’m not a baby.” Sonic bristled, sitting on the ground and shoving his feet into the old shoes.

“Yeah, but you’ve never been on-planet, and people here can be… antsy.” Tails said, still not looking over. “Gaia knows Knuckles took forever to pick up on a single social cue.”

“Still not sure I’m the best mentor for this, Tails.”

“Well, I’ve gotta stay here, so you’ll have to do. Sonic–”

“Okay, okay. Whatever.” Sonic didn’t meant to be rude, but the brief panic he’d felt at the disappearance of his shoes had turned to irritation. His shoes weren’t even that good, but… they enabled him to run decently. That was all he could ask for. 

“Go get my stuff.” Tails waved, typing furiously on the keyboard. “Don’t kill anyone.”

“Says you.” Knuckles snorted.

“It’s not my fault you can’t hide a body.” 

Sonic glanced between them. “That’s a joke, right?” 

“Have fun.”

---

Shadow stared out the window. 

They’d spent so much time here, looking at the stupid planet. Wondering what it would be like to finally go there. And now he had to get Sonic off that planet as fast as possible. 

God, why couldn’t anything be easy? 

Over and over, Sonic’s words were echoing in his head. How dare he? How dare he say those things to him? How dare he imply he knew Maria better than Shadow? That he knew what her last wish was, despite not being there? How could he even imply that what Shadow was doing was wrong?

It was justice. Plain and simple. She didn’t get to go home, so nobody else could, either. How was it so hard to understand? 

Sonic hadn’t been there. He’d frozen before Maria could turn to him, trembling, grabbing onto the console, her legs threatening to give way at any moment. Her hands grasping for the lever, desperate to put whatever weight she had left into pulling it down, into saving him. Despite the fact he was supposed to protect her. He was supposed to take care of her, he was born to take care of her, and she died for him instead. It wasn’t fair. It was wrong. The only thing he could do now would be to make sure her sacrifice wasn’t in vain. To make sure that her death meant something. Whatever happened to him in the meantime didn’t matter. 

Another image came to his mind; Sonic, pinned under his hands against a tree. Grimacing from the sudden hit to his back, but giving him an angry, purposeful glare. “Including me?” 

He shivered, and pulled his arms tighter around himself. 

He heard Rouge’s flapping wings before he saw her, his ear swiveling slightly in the direction of the hall she entered from. He didn’t bother to turn around, instead staring down at the planet and pretending he didn’t care. 

“Hey.” she said. 

He didn’t respond.

“The Doctor thinks he’s almost got a tracker on the last chaos emerald. Then we just need to get that other one from the fox, and we’re all set.”

He still kept quiet. He hoped she didn’t notice his eyes glancing towards her reflection in the glass. 

“I, uh. Just…” she took a second, before saying, “The fox said the emeralds are indestructible. Is that true?” 

Shadow paused for a moment. “Aren’t you supposed to be a treasure hunter?” he asked cautiously. He saw her flinch, and realized that may have come across as offensive, or accusatory. Well, he wasn’t going to apologize. “Do you not know… anything about them?”

“I know they’re shiny.” she smiled slightly. Shadow bit his lip to avoid cracking one of his own. “But, uh, that means that if I blew up, you could just find the one I’d grabbed, yeah?” 

“What’s the point of this?” 

“I mean, like. You didn’t have to save me. But you did.” 

And for the love of God, he couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t like anyone on that planet was going to last very long, after all. But even before he’d seen Sonic, he’d turned around to get to her. Why had he done that? 

“Look, I know you’ve got the whole ‘brooding loner’ vibe going on right here,” Rouge gestured to him, rolling her eyes. “And I respect that. So we don’t have to have any conversations about our feelings or anything. Chaos knows I would rather jump into the sun than start one of those. But… I can tell something happened before you came to get me. And if that’s going to affect our mission, I’d like to know about it now before it causes any unnecessary issues.” 

Unnecessary issues. Now, staring at the blue ocean of the planet, he was thinking of Sonic’s messy blue fur, the first time they’d met. Unwashed, cut strange, and a little bit dirty. Sonic was gripping his hand, looking up at him with confusion, as Shadow said, “They stay.”

“Things just got a little complicated,” Shadow said carefully. “It shouldn’t matter to you.” 

“Is it just ‘complicated’ for you, or is it going to be ‘complicated’ for the entire scheme?”

Shadow shut his eyes tight.

“Wonderful. Both. Okay, I’m going to need you to at least let out what I’m gonna need to know.” 

Shadow gripped tight onto his arms. “I wasn’t the only prototype made up here.”

“Yeah, I figured. Your room has a bunk bed.” Shadow shot her a glare, and she threw up her hands. “What? Do you expect me to not poke around here? I’ve got nothing else to do!”

He bristled. “I thought they were dead. They’re not.” Her eyes widened, and Shadow simply sighed and turned back to the window. “There’s two. They were sent out in cryo with me. When I woke up without them, I assumed GUN had eliminated them.” 

“Why would they have done that?” 

He nearly dug his claws into his arms. “Because I wasn’t there to stop them.” He forced himself to loosen his grip on himself, but he still wouldn’t turn to face her. “But Sonic showed up on the island. The fox and echidna got him on their side. He won’t listen to reason.” 

“He won’t listen to reason,” she repeated, for some reason. 

“He’s always been stubborn, but he’s also always listened to me. He’s always known that I know what I’m doing. Especially in regards to…” Her. “I know he’s volatile right now. He’s confused. But usually when that happens, he listens to me. I don’t know what’s different now.” 

“So… is he going to be a problem?”

“I don’t want him taken out.” Shadow said quickly. “He’s… useful.” 

He hated phrasing it like that, but he wasn’t about to spill that he cared. That he cared about this stupid, annoying, snarky blue blur. That the Ultimate Lifeform had a weakness. So he would just use the words that the scientists had, long ago. It seemed to have been enough for them.

“But,” he slowly continued, “We need to get him to the ARK. To make him see reason. And he won’t let me. I can’t get near him.” 

“So what do you want us to do? Kidnap him while he sleeps?” 

He smirked slightly. “He’s too smart for that. No, I’ll get to him. I know I will. What’s important is finding the other chaos emeralds. And… and finding the other prototype.” 

And there was another image, reflected in the glass. The pink hedgehog, seven years old, squealing and spinning around where he stood now. In her first dress, old clothes Maria had dug up from the back of her drawers. She’d wanted to look “pretty like Maria.” Once the dress was fitted, she’d spun so fast she’d toppled over and crashed face-first onto the floor. And then just got up, still laughing.

“If we can get to her,” he said, “Sonic will follow.”

{ao3} {tumblr}

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee *BONUS Scene* part 2

Warnings: forced living weapon/fighter, aftermath of being a weapon/semi-retired weapon, lost family, fractured memories

Whumpee didn't hesitate to start aggressively ripping open filing cabinets, tearing out manilla folders by the handfuls to quickly scan the labels before throwing them on the floor.

"Whumpee! What on earth are you doing?!" Max asked as he stepped into the room.

"Looking for anything on me," Whumpee tossed over his shoulder. "They had to have kept some sort of record on the projects and experiments they performed to make me Weapon."

Jake appeared behind Max, confused and angry. "What is going in he--"

"--He's looking for information about Weapon," Max filled in before Whumpee could answer.

Jake's eyes widened, his face instantly losing its sharp edge and becoming sympathetic. "Oh." He shared a knowing glance with Max. "Flint ordered me to have this place burnt down and destroy all files once we captured the last of Leader's men, but... I can give you some time. Just do me a favor, and let me know next time before you run off like that, all right?"

Whumpee didn't reply, too focused on rifling through papers. The team he was on was brand new, and didn't know much of his history. But Max and Jake knew. They knew it was personal for Whumpee to find closure. So what if they broke a few rules to make it happen? Flint had said to make their mission quick, but he hadn't specifically specified his definition of 'quick'. So technically they weren't disobeying orders.

"I'll help him look -- you keep the rest of the team busy," Max suggested to Jake, who nodded and left.

Max sighed heavily and started attacking filing cabinets at the other side of the room, adding to the growing pile of discarded folders on the floor. "What titles am I looking for?" Max asked, throwing another over his shoulder. It was full of drawn-out military strategies.

"Anything with the word 'Weapon' in it, I'd assume, since that's what they decided to call me," Whumpee growled. "Or 'project'? 'Experiments', maybe?"

"Mmhmm." Max spent over half an hour searching, and together he and Whumpee went through almost the entire room until they were ankle-deep in manilla folders and random papers. It was hopeless.

Until...

"Wait--I think I might have something," Max announced, flipping through some pages. "'Supercharging and enhancing genetics'?"

Whumpee was at his side in an instant, peering over his shoulder.

"Don't be a helicopter hovering over me. It's all yours, man," Max laughed, and handed the folder to Whumpee, who was careful not to rip it as he took a look for himself.

This. This was what he'd been searching for. A complete analysis of who he was and what changes Leader had made, from giving him supernatural strength and endurance to enhanced bone density and slightly accelerated healing abilities.

"Wow... they really changed a lot of you, didn't they?" Max breathed, leaning in to read what he was holding.

Whumpee was speechless, he had no words to describe what he was seeing.

Because these articles were describing him like he wasn't a person, but a military project.

Adult Male.

Taken at 20 years of age.

Chosen for exhibiting naturally mature body features pre-enhancement, indicating an increased likelihood of surviving harsh environments and enduring experiments where many others have perished.

Initially showed extreme resistance to treatment due to familial ties, but treatment more effective over time, reducing overall stress levels by end of trials.

At start of procedures, subject started showing signs of dehydration and malnutrition and entered beginning stages of emaciation and physical shock, before rapid muscle growth ensued and bone density increased over the course of two weeks. Physical body tone improvement clearly visible.

Surgically enhancing genetics proves successful in achieving more durable subject to be battlefield-ready.

Heavy conditioning and training exercises have refined mental condition to lethal obedience. Subject suffers memory loss and struggles with emotional regulation, but is otherwise healthy.

Results show improved speed, stamina and overall physical strength. Three times the average for typical humans.

Recalls no family or emotional ties, but family has been detained in case the need arises for additional motivation or control over subject named Weapon in event of memory return.

Whumpee stared numbly down at the papers in his hand, breathing shakily. This is who he really was. A messed-up experiment. Torn apart and stitched back together so many times he forgot his original identity -- a weapon made of muscle and scar tissue held together by bitter rage.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @cepheusgalaxy

@theforeverdyingperson @dragongodryss

[trashgremlendoesart]

So my dad is somewhat of a computer wiz and I asked him about some of the tech stuff in the magnus protocol

my dads says..

"I was involved in a rollout of about 1,000 NT4 workstations over four campuses back in the day (mid to late 90s)

Our machines started at Pentium 120 with 32Meg of RAM and 1.2G hard drive in a mini tower case. Apart from the drive bays in the case front for 3 1/2 floppy disk drives and CD ROM drives they don't look all that different to a small gaming pc today.

The mice still have balls though, the keyboard have big 5 pin DIN plugs but otherwise are just as dishwasher safe as modern ones.

If connected to a network you are very likely to find its Novel Netware 4.1. The networking will look like a thin black cable strung from machine to machine with a little silver T shaped connector on the back of each one, apart from the first and the last they have 'terminators'.

You probably won't be connected to the internet yet, there is probably no TCP/IP on your LAN at all, only Novel IPX. The ZenWorks NT4 workstation management tools from Novel are sublime, it take Microsoft quite a while to copy them.

If you are in our publishing class we will be teaching you Photoshop, Illustrator and Quark Express. If you are in our business course we will be teaching you Office 97 with that bloody paperclip. We will also be teaching you Groupwise, Microsoft haven't copied that off Novel yet so there isn't any Exchange.

If you have email its probably Pegasus, maybe early Eudora. Its unlikely you can email out of the organisation you are in. Internet connected mail is still to come, mind you so is any interoperability between mail systems. You expect attachments to work?

We still taught some things on Windows 3.1 so our machines all boot from the Lan initially to fetch the boot menu. You can choose Windows 3.1, NT4, in some classrooms Win98, or you can re-image you machine if its broken. Thats all done in assembler in the boot sector on the network boot disk image, theres no PXE yet.

Internet arrives one day in the form of a product called "Instant internet", it will share its single built in 36Kb dial up modem with a whole classroom of only IPX connected NT4 workstations if you install the Winsock32.dll file that it comes with.

You are probably looking for Mosaic or early Netscape if you want a web browser, Altavista is likely your search engine.

Better things are coming though soon we have a whole 128K ISDN service to share with about 10 classrooms, we have TCP/IP on the LAN now. Your classroom is still going to have to book when it wants internet access though, as that's still woefully inadequate.

I think the Macs are System 8 or 9 they have not made the jump to the unix kernel of OS X yet, they keep my colleague busy, she seems to be reinstalling the System folders on them on a daily basis.

One day you find I have changed the default home page for all the machines to Google Beta.

My job is done, the world as we know it has been ushered in."

Dad worked In TAFE (only Australians will get that lol) for a few years as well as other tertiary education providers.

This is probably not going to be very relevant for anyone but I figured having some sort of info available could be helpful for other people's writing, fanfic or whatever.

Feel free to send asks for any clarification or further info