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clumsydolly · 18 days ago

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Can you do Obey me x Ace trappola!reader?

Obey me x Ace Trappola!Reader

Warnings: Feelings of insignificance!

I love Ace so I hope everyone enjoys this I was a bit confused on what I should do here! Also send more asks please!

Lucifer

Lucifer would find you maddening. Not in the way Mammon frustrates him loud, obvious, clumsy but in the slow, creeping way your smug little grins and offhand flirtation worm their way under his skin.

At first, you’d seem like little more than a walking provocation. Flippant with authority, shamelessly sarcastic, forever late yet somehow always with a clever excuse.

“Must you treat every interaction like a performance?”

“You wound me, Lucifer. This is the most sincere version of me you’ll ever get."

You’d call him out in front of others with unsettling precision, picking up on details no one else dared to acknowledge not mockingly, but with a certain cool edge that made him wonder just how much you were holding back. You’d spot patterns in the Devildom council that most demons missed and throw out predictions that turned out to be disturbingly accurate always with that maddening air of nonchalance.

The way you leaned in close during arguments, your voice calm and dry while everyone else shouted, would throw him off far more than any explosion of rage.

Lucifer would pretend he didn’t see the way your eyes flicked around a room before speaking, scanning for emotional shifts. He’d pretend your jokes didn’t land, even when they made his lips twitch. But he’d notice.

And he'd notice other things too how you flinched ever so slightly when praise came too suddenly, how you shrugged off real compliments like they were traps, how your cocky smirk would sometimes tremble at the corners after a tough mission.

What grated on him most wasn’t your rule-breaking it was how you seemed so deliberately unreachable.

He understood it. Too well.

He’d find himself in the unfamiliar position of having to ease up on someone. To speak a little gentler. To ask questions he didn’t demand answers to. Lucifer, of all people, giving leeway.

“You have no need to prove yourself to me with constant banter.”

“Oh? So I’ve already dazzled you?”

“No. But I’ve stopped expecting anything less than idiotic brilliance from you.”

You’d grin at him like you’d won something, and maybe, in a way, you had.

But the very next day, you’d rig the House of Lamentation’s chandelier to drop glitter on him during a council speech and Lucifer would chase you halfway through the Devildom with barely concealed fury and the faintest, faintest trace of amusement.

Because whatever this thing between you was, it wasn’t going to settle down quietly. And that suited both of you just fine.

Mammon

Mammon would hate how much he liked you.

From the very beginning, you’d drive him crazy always one step ahead, always calling him out with that smug little smile. You’d flirt with him just to see him blush, mock him for his scams, and casually drop comments like, “I thought you were the smart twin?” right in front of everyone.

“Oi! Who you callin’ dumb?! I’m the Great Mammon, ya know!”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling bankruptcy and glitter-based blackmail now?”

You’d constantly test his patience and his ego. But somehow, you always knew when to dial it back before things got too real. And that? That just made you more infuriating. Because Mammon couldn’t figure you out one minute you were flirting like it was breathing, the next you were shutting down any genuine attempt at closeness like someone flipped a switch.

But the thing is… Mammon knows what it’s like to wear masks. He might be loud, impulsive, constantly trying to be the center of attention, but he’s not stupid. He’d recognize that your charm and chaos were just another kind of armor. And he’d start to see the cracks.

He’d never say it out loud, but he’d start watching your back more carefully during student events. You’d never catch him doing it, of course unless he wanted you to. Which he did. Obviously.

He’d complain every time you dragged him into one of your ridiculous schemes, but he’d still show up. Every. Time.

“Don’t think I’m doin’ this for you, alright?! I just didn’t want you messin’ it up without me.”

“Mhm. You’re totally not smiling right now, either.”

“I’m scowlin’, thank you very much!”

The teasing would never stop not from you, not from him. But somewhere in between all the banter and bad ideas, Mammon would start choosing your company on purpose. Not just when it was convenient, but when it mattered.

Because you might’ve been a handful, and yeah, you were probably going to get him in trouble half the time but at least it was never boring.

And if anyone else tried to push you around?

They’d get the full wrath of Mammon. No hesitation.

He might let you tease him all day, but the second someone else tried?

“Oh no no no. That one’s mine.”

Leviathan

Levi would claim you were the worst.

Too confident. Too smooth. Too good at getting under his skin. Every time you swaggered into a room with that cocky grin, Levi’s tail would twitch not from admiration (definitely not!) but because you had this unholy ability to throw him off his game in seconds.

“Why do you always talk like you’re the main character?”

“Oh, I am. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

You’d flirt with him just enough to short-circuit his brain, then turn around and act like it was nothing — like you hadn’t just called him “cute” during a raid party because “watching him focus is weirdly intense.”

It drove him insane.

And yet… you followed every dungeon rule to the letter. You didn’t cheat, didn’t slack, didn’t grief other players. You had respect for the grind. And Levi noticed.

You were chaotic, yeah, but you knew your stuff. He hated how much that impressed him.

At first, he’d try to avoid you call you normie-adjacent, too loud, too shiny. But that didn’t last. Because you were funny, and sharp, and never made him feel small. You roasted him, sure, but never where it hurt. And when someone else tried to mess with him?

“Touch him again and I’ll make sure your Devildom ranking drops lower than your charisma stat.”

After that, you somehow ended up in all his campaigns. Sitting beside him, mouthing off, tossing in half-serious pickup lines and dumb one-liners during boss fights that made him choke on his energy drink.

He said he hated it.

He didn’t.

Levi never really understood people like you. The kind who walk into a room like they own it but flinch when someone gets too close. The kind who tease because it’s easier than being honest. The kind who act like friendship’s a game and still play like they’ve never once been picked first.

He never tried to fix that. He just invited you to play. Again. And again. No questions asked.

Because maybe you weren’t always real with your words. But in the middle of a boss fight, healing him without being asked? That was honest.

And Levi? He always noticed the honest parts. Even in someone like you.

Satan

Satan would be intrigued by you from the very start not necessarily fond of you, but definitely curious. You’re clever, unpredictable, and irreverent in a way that both aggravates and fascinates him. You don’t bow to hierarchy, you challenge it. You don’t avoid conflict, you play in it. And for someone as deeply emotional as Satan, who often hides it behind control and intellect, that unpredictability of yours scratches at something he can’t quite ignore.

"You’re remarkably composed for someone who never stops causing chaos," he’d observe one day, eyes narrowed, a book resting closed in his lap.

"Composed? Me?" you'd flash a grin. "I’m just good at not caring too loudly."

That’s what would get under his skin the most the mask. You wear sarcasm like armor, charm like a dagger. The more he watched, the more he noticed how you used humor to dodge sincerity, flirtation to avoid vulnerability. You were sharp, sure but Satan was sharper. And your defense mechanisms were starting to look more like puzzle pieces than walls.

He’d test you constantly. Philosophical arguments, pointed questions, offhand remarks that struck a little too close to your emotional core all just to see what made you tick. You, in turn, would prod at his temper, playfully poking the beast to see if it growled. You found the cracks in his perfect scholarly calm, and he found the truths you tried to hide behind your grin.

"Don’t you ever get tired of pretending things don’t affect you?"

"Don’t you ever get tired of pretending they do?"

You clashed spectacularly but it wasn’t all tension. The way you’d challenge him in debates, toss out obscure references, or drop biting observations about Devildom politics mid-lunch? He lived for that. You kept pace with him in ways few others could. He liked the way your mind worked. More than that, he liked that you never let him stay comfortable. Around you, he had to be sharp, honest, alive.

And yet... the more time he spent with you, the more he started seeing the undercurrent of loneliness running beneath the bravado. He recognized it because he’d felt it too. That hollow ache of not being sure if anyone liked you, or just the version of you that’s easiest to handle.

One evening, after you stormed out of a heated argument with Lucifer, Satan would find you alone in the library feet kicked up on a table, pretending to read a book you’d clearly lost interest in ten pages ago.

"You’re not fooling anyone with that look of nonchalance, you know."

"Sure I am," you'd say, not looking up. "It’s my best trait."

He’d sit down next to you, unusually quiet. No jabs. No tests. Just presence.

"You don’t always have to prove you're above it all. It's okay to care. Even about people who don’t deserve it."

You'd go still for a moment, surprised by the gentleness in his voice and how much it cut through you. But just as quickly, you’d smirk again.

"That sounds dangerously close to an emotional breakthrough, Satan. Want me to fetch a tissue?"

He’d roll his eyes. But the next day, you’d find a book waiting in your seat at breakfast an annotated copy of a human-world satire, the margins filled with his snarky commentary. You wouldn’t say anything. But you’d carry it around for days.

You challenged Satan’s mind, irritated his temper, and disrupted his routines and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Because for all your chaos and charm, he knew there was something honest underneath. And he was patient enough to wait for the day you let him see it, even just for a second.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus would be utterly intrigued by you from the start your flirty sarcasm, your effortless charm, and that mischievous glint that promises you’re always up to something just out of reach. You’d frustrate him endlessly, pushing boundaries and refusing to be tamed, yet somehow drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

“Darling, you’re like a tempest in designer heels. Absolutely exhausting but impossible to ignore.”

He’d try to coax you out of your guarded shell, throwing teasing comments your way and proposing extravagant nights out, but you’d always keep him guessing, never fully giving him the satisfaction of knowing what you really think or feel. You’d sashay through his carefully curated world, stirring the calm surface with a sly grin and a perfectly timed quip.

Asmodeus would admire how you wield your sarcasm like a weapon and a shield, watching how you deflect real connection with a shrug and a wink. He’d sense the cracks beneath your confident facade, but instead of rushing in with platitudes, he’d relish the challenge of breaking through your walls on his own terms.

“You don’t have to pretend to be untouchable, you know. Even queens need someone who sees the crown but isn’t afraid to mess up the hair.”

But you wouldn’t let him settle that score so easily. You’d match his glances with your own, sharp and unapologetic, daring him to keep up. The tension between you would hum with unspoken truths and playful battles a dance neither wanted to end, even if it meant never quite reaching the finish line.

When he suggests a night of indulgence or a quiet moment of vulnerability, you’d flash that signature smirk and deflect with a challenge or a teasing remark because control is your game, and you’re not ready to lose.

“So, Asmo, are you charming enough to handle all this chaos, or should I find someone less dazzling?”

He’d lean in, eyes gleaming, ready to take the dare.

This wouldn’t be a story about soft confessions or easy comfort. It would be a relentless, electric push and pull where the thrill of the chase is the prize, and neither of you is quite ready to surrender.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub’s first impression of you would be a mixture of confusion and genuine curiosity. You’re loud, sarcastic, and seemingly always pushing the limits of good manners or patience everything he’s not used to. At first, he might be a little intimidated by your sharp tongue and the way you effortlessly tease everyone around you, yourself included. Your chaotic energy contrasts wildly with his calm, easygoing nature, but that contrast is exactly what draws him in.

He’d notice right away how you never sugarcoat anything. You say exactly what you think, and you don’t care if it ruffles feathers especially when it comes to authority or rules. Beel, who tends to take things at face value, might sometimes misunderstand your sarcasm or think you’re being harsh, but he quickly realizes that your words are more like a challenge a way of testing those around you to see who’s willing to keep up or look beneath the surface.

“Whoa, you really don’t hold back, huh? Not many people around here can match that fire of yours.”

He’d laugh nervously the first time you snap at him, calling him slow or clumsy with that trademark Ace smirk, but instead of getting offended, he’d take it as a compliment your way of letting him into your world, even if it doesn’t seem like it on the surface.

Beelzebub isn’t one to fight back with words, but he’d try to keep pace in his own way. He’d join in your banter with simple but genuine remarks, like a steady undercurrent beneath your more chaotic flow. When you make a sarcastic joke about how nobody understands you, he’d be the one to say softly, “I get it more than you think,” without making a big deal out of it. He wouldn’t push you to open up but would show up reliably because he understands that sometimes the best support isn’t words but presence.

One of the things that surprises him most about you is how, despite all the sarcasm and bravado, there’s a clear loneliness underneath. He’d catch glimpses of it in the quiet moments when your smirk slips, or when your eyes dart away after a particularly sharp comment. Beel has a gentle intuition about these things. He’d see how much you struggle to let your guard down, how much you want connection but don’t quite know how to ask for it.

Instead of trying to force you out of your shell, Beel would respond with his own version of companionship: simple, comforting gestures that don’t require words. Like showing up with food when you’re stressed (and he’d probably bring something ridiculously unhealthy just to make you laugh). Or offering a quiet shoulder to lean on when you’re having one of those days where the chaos feels like too much.

“You don’t have to put on a show all the time. Even the strongest people need a break.”

He’d say this softly, almost as a whisper, but with a firmness that makes it clear he means it. You’d probably scoff, pretending not to care, but he’d know better and he wouldn’t let it go.

Beelzebub would also be fascinated by your resilience and street-smart attitude. He’d admire how you navigate the Devildom with a fearless charm, never letting anyone see the cracks in your armor. When you playfully mock the pompous nobles or call out hypocrisy with that wicked grin, Beel sees a kind of brilliance someone who’s not just surviving but thriving on their own terms.

That would inspire him. Beel might not have your sharp wit or quick comebacks, but he’d want to learn from you. Maybe you’d teach him how to push boundaries without breaking everything, or how to use humor as a weapon and a shield. He’d be clumsy at first, tripping over his words or trying to keep up with your pace, but your easy teasing and his genuine enthusiasm would make for a surprisingly good team.

Of course, the way you treat rules and expectations would baffle him sometimes. You’re constantly testing limits, bending etiquette, and challenging authority figures with that mischievous spark in your eyes. Beel, who generally avoids conflict and prefers harmony, would both admire your courage and worry about the consequences.

Still, he’d never judge you for it. Instead, he’d quietly defend you when others misunderstand your rebellious streak. He’d remind anyone who tries to put you down that there’s more to you than meets the eye, and he’d get a little protective when you’re pushed too far.

Beel’s love for simple pleasures would match well with your surprising soft spots. He’d notice your obsession with strawberry tarts and tea parties those little moments where your tough exterior slips and the real you shines through. He’d probably sneak you homemade tarts now and then, hoping to earn a small smile or an approving nod.

And when you’re at your most chaotic, storming around or letting your temper flare, Beel would be there not to scold or fix, but to steady you. His calm presence would be an anchor, a reminder that you don’t always have to fight every battle alone. He’d let you vent, scream, or even throw a sarcastic jab his way, because he knows that’s how you process things.

“You don’t have to carry all this alone. Sometimes, it’s okay to just... be.”

You’d likely roll your eyes, mutter something about being “too soft,” but deep down, you’d appreciate that he gets it without making a fuss.

The two of you would be this odd pair his quiet patience balancing your chaotic fire, his kindness softening your sharp edges, and your wild spirit awakening something gentle and steady in him. It wouldn’t be neat, and it wouldn’t always be easy, but it would be real. And in a world full of pretense, that might be exactly what you both need.

Belphegor

Belphegor would be endlessly amused by you. You’re sharp-tongued, relentless with your sarcasm, and effortlessly chaotic qualities that both frustrate and intrigue him in equal measure. Where he thrives on laziness and a kind of quiet escape from pressure, you’re a whirlwind of restless energy, always pushing boundaries, challenging authority, and refusing to stay still or silent. You don’t just break rules you dance on their edges and dare anyone to stop you.

At first, he’d watch you with that trademark half-lidded smirk, shaking his head as you mock the world’s expectations like they’re a joke he’s heard a thousand times but you tell it fresher every time. Belphie would roll his eyes at your sharp retorts, but he wouldn’t deny that part of him admires the fire you carry underneath all that sarcasm.

“You’re something else,” he’d say lazily, voice slow but edged with curiosity. “Ever think about just... relaxing for once? Or is that too boring for you?”

You’d laugh maybe a little too loudly and fire back with some cutting remark about how boredom is the real enemy, that stillness kills, and that he should try living a little before lecturing anyone on ‘relaxation.’

Belphegor’s fascination wouldn’t just be about your wit or your rebellious streak. Beneath the surface, he’d sense something he recognizes all too well pressure. The same weight of expectations, the suffocating demand for perfection and control that once crushed him under his own family’s gaze. Your constant chaos isn’t just about rebellion; it’s about survival.

He’d catch those fleeting moments when your smirk falters, when your eyes dart away after a sharp comment, or when you retreat to solitude not because you want to be alone, but because it’s the only place where you can drop the act. Belphegor’s laziness masks a deep well of understanding, and he’d see through the facade you wear like armor.

“You hide a lot behind that sarcasm, don’t you? Makes me wonder what you’re really running from.”

You’d probably snap back because that’s your defense but he wouldn’t push. Instead, he’d let that challenge hang in the air, a silent acknowledgment that sometimes the hardest battles are the ones fought inside.

Unlike the others who might rush in with earnestness or try to fix things, Belphegor would take his time. He’d become a quiet, unexpected presence in your life the one who doesn’t demand your energy but shares space with you in comfortable silence. Maybe you’d find him lounging nearby during your late-night brooding sessions, not saying much but somehow making the loneliness less sharp.

Belphegor wouldn’t be the kind to coax you out of your shell with sweetness or grand gestures. Instead, he’d tease you relentlessly, calling you out when you push too hard, and bluntly reminding you when you’re wearing yourself down.

“Stop trying so hard to be perfect all the time. It’s exhausting to watch.”

His honesty would sting sometimes sharply but underneath that harshness lies a protective streak. He knows what it’s like to drown in impossible expectations and would want to see you find a way to breathe.

Your clashes would be frequent sharp words flying back and forth like a game neither of you really wants to lose. But somehow, in the midst of all that tension, there would be an unspoken understanding. You challenge each other because you see parts of yourselves reflected in the other’s chaos and contradictions.

Belphegor might deliberately break small rules just to get a reaction out of you watching your eyes flare, your temper spike, the way you almost snap at him but don’t. He’d find this game addictive because it’s rare to meet someone who pushes back so fiercely without backing down.

Yet, when the dust settles, he’d be the one to tell you to take a break, to nap, to stop chasing impossible standards. Not because he thinks you’re weak, but because he knows the cost of burning out all too well.

“You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders. Sometimes the smartest thing is to do nothing at all.”

And you’d glare at him like he just committed a sin, but somewhere beneath that frustration, you’d feel the weight of his words settle. It wouldn’t be a neat resolution or a tidy happy ending. With Belphegor, nothing ever is. The tension between you would crackle with sharp edges, fierce independence, and moments of reluctant tenderness.

When you finally find yourself relaxing maybe just a little it would be because you trust him enough to let the walls drop, even if only for a moment. Those rare quiet tea times you share would be charged with more meaning than either of you admit. Your conversation might be sparse, but the silence would be comfortable, a shared refuge from a world that demands too much.

Belphegor’s presence would remind you that it’s okay to be imperfect, to be messy, to not always have control. And in return, your chaotic spirit would challenge his comfort with stillness, pulling him into the unpredictable messiness of life again.

Together, you’d be a storm and a calm uneasy, unpredictable, and real. Neither of you fully tamed, but somehow better for the friction.

Diavolo

Diavolo would be utterly captivated by you from the moment you first sauntered into the Devildom’s grand halls with that irreverent grin and unapologetic swagger. Your flirty, sarcastic nature would be a dazzling contrast to the polished etiquette of the palace like a wild spark thrown into his perfectly curated world. It’d both irritate and intrigue him in equal measure, because no one quite matched your fearless, chaotic energy.

At first, he’d approach you with the curiosity of a king encountering a rare, exotic creature. You break every rule in the book sometimes just for the thrill of it and your sharp tongue spares no one, not even him. Yet, instead of reprimanding you like most nobles would, he’d find himself laughing at your jokes, even when they’re aimed squarely at his royal authority.

“You truly have no respect for tradition, do you?” he’d ask one day during a formal gathering, arching a perfectly groomed brow.

“Why would I waste my time on something so boring? Rules are more fun when you break them,” you’d reply with a sly grin, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Diavolo would be both exasperated and delighted by your attitude. You challenge the rigid order of the Devildom in a way no one else dares, and while he’s a ruler who values decorum, there’s something refreshing about your refusal to be tamed. You’d remind him that life isn’t just about protocol it’s about passion, unpredictability, and, above all, enjoying the moment.

He’d invite you to the most extravagant events, wanting to show you the finer things palatial ballrooms, royal banquets, glittering gowns and tuxedos places where your flair for chaos would shine brightest against the backdrop of opulence. You’d show up with that effortless cool, throwing back perfectly timed quips that leave the aristocrats gasping in shock and amusement.

At these events, Diavolo would delight in watching you navigate the formalities with a wink and a smirk, bending rules without ever breaking them entirely always just clever enough to keep the nobles on edge. You’d be his favorite kind of entertainment, and he’d find himself craving your company long after the music stops and the guests disperse.

“You have a way of turning every ceremony into a game,” he’d say during a quiet moment, the warmth in his voice betraying his usual royal composure.

“That’s because life’s too short for us humans to take seriously,” you’d reply, leaning casually against a marble pillar, eyes sparkling with challenge.

But Diavolo wouldn’t just be enamored by your wit and charm. Beneath your flirty bravado, he’d sense the guardedness the way you push people away with sarcasm and attitude because connection scares you. He’d catch those rare moments when your mask slips a flash of vulnerability in your eyes before you quickly cover it with a joke or a tease.

Instead of pushing, he’d match your pace, offering comfort in subtle ways. Whether it’s a private conversation in the palace gardens or an unexpected gesture like a gift that shows he’s paying attention to what matters to you, Diavolo would be patient. He’d respect your boundaries while quietly hoping you’d let him in.

“You don’t have to keep everyone at arm’s length, you know,” he’d say one evening, voice low, as the moonlight glinted in his eyes. “Even a king needs someone to trust.”

You’d flash him a grin, playful but unreadable. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like keeping things interesting.”

Diavolo would chuckle, accepting the challenge. Because with you, life is always a thrilling dance part rebellion, part flirtation, part something deeper neither of you wants to admit out loud.

Your chaotic energy would also bring out a lighter side of him, the side that loves fun and spontaneity beneath the weight of royal duties. He’d encourage you to relax, to let go of the walls you’ve built, and you’d find yourself drawn to his warmth even as you resist.

There’d be moments of friendly rivalry who can outwit the other at court, who can push the boundaries further without getting caught, who can keep a straight face the longest during the most absurd situations. But through it all, Diavolo would genuinely enjoy the challenge you bring to his world.

Your strawberry tarts those surprisingly perfect creations would become legendary among the palace staff, and Diavolo would never miss a chance to praise you for them in front of everyone, a secret way of showing his admiration.

In the end, Diavolo would see you not just as a source of chaos or entertainment, but as someone rare a partner who can keep up with his royal games and maybe even teach him a thing or two about living freely.

The tension between your impulsive, boundary-pushing spirit and his regal grace would never fully resolve, but it wouldn’t need to. Instead, it would keep the air charged with energy an ongoing, exhilarating dance where both of you hold the power to surprise, challenge, and maybe even save each other from the loneliness of your roles.

Because in a world of rules and expectations, you and Diavolo would be the perfect contradiction a spark and a flame, always igniting something new.

Barbatos

Barbatos would notice you the moment you entered the House of Lamentation not because you were loud or flashy, but because you carried a sort of effortless disruption beneath your polished exterior. You weren’t like the usual guests or residents, and your flirty, sarcastic remarks always delivered with that smirk that said you were half-teasing, half-guarded stood out against the usual quiet grace of the mansion.

To him, you were both a challenge and a curiosity. Here was someone who clearly knew the rules and yet bent or ignored them with a casual flair that both annoyed and fascinated him. You weren’t reckless, not truly, but your chaotic energy was like a subtle ripple through the calm waters of his world.

“Your timing is impeccable,” Barbatos would say softly when you barged into the kitchen unannounced, flirting with the line between disrespect and playful familiarity.

“Only the best for the Head Butler,” you’d reply with a lazy wink, grabbing a perfectly placed pastry and making yourself at home like you owned the place.

He’d admire your sharp intelligence, the way you could hold your own in any conversation, twisting words just enough to keep people on their toes. You had a wit that was effortless, yet layered with a complexity Barbatos found both refreshing and slightly disarming.

What intrigued him most wasn’t just your cleverness—it was the way you seemed to guard yourself so carefully beneath the sarcasm and flirty banter. There was a vulnerability there, faint but unmistakable, that Barbatos could see behind your ever-present smirk. He understood that kind of armor all too well.

“You carry yourself as though you’re the one in control,” he once remarked quietly, as you sat cross-legged on the floor, teasing him about the meticulous way he arranged the tea set.

“Because I am,” you said, with a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Barbatos would never push you too hard. Instead, he’d offer small moments of calm an expertly brewed cup of tea, a quiet word of advice, a rare compliment slipped into the chaos. He knew when to hold back, when to let you keep your space, and when to gently guide you toward moments of real rest.

He’d become your unlikely confidant, someone you could tease mercilessly but who also saw through the walls you built. In those rare moments when you dropped the act when your sarcasm faltered and your eyes showed exhaustion or doubt Barbatos was there without judgment.

“You need not carry the weight of the world alone,” he’d say once, voice low and sincere, as you stared out over the gardens, shoulders tense.

You’d scoff, but he’d see the flicker of gratitude beneath. “Yeah, well, I don’t plan on letting anyone else in that easily.”

“That is precisely why I shall remain,” he replied with the faintest smile. “A steady presence in the midst of your storms.”

The balance between you was a dance he brought structure and quiet patience, you brought chaos and sharp edges. Neither would completely tame the other, nor would you want that. Instead, your interactions would be charged with an electric tension: a constant push and pull between order and rebellion.

Barbatos would be the one who knew when your witty remarks were shields, when your flirtations were tests, and when your provocations were cries for connection. He’d respond not with grand gestures but with small, thoughtful acts: a favorite book left on your desk, an extra blanket when he noticed you shivering, a carefully chosen moment of quiet companionship.

He’d appreciate your flair for the dramatic even if it meant cleaning up after your messes more often than he’d like. But he wouldn’t mind. Your unpredictable energy was a secret spice in the House of Lamentation, and Barbatos, ever the patient steward, would find himself drawn deeper into your world despite himself.

“You may believe yourself the master of chaos,” he’d say one evening as you recounted some wild tale with a wicked grin, “but even chaos has its rhythm. And I intend to learn it.”

You’d laugh, light and genuine, the kind of laugh that rarely reached anyone else’s ears. “Good luck with that, Butler.”

Because with you, nothing was ever quite straightforward. And Barbatos, in his quiet way, would love every twist and turn.

Simeon

From the moment Simeon noticed you in the House of Lamentation, he was both puzzled and intrigued. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met your flirty, sarcastic remarks like bright sparks in a room otherwise marked by quiet order and decorum. You had a way of pushing boundaries that felt both reckless and strangely refreshing to him, like a fresh breeze in a tightly sealed chamber.

Simeon would often watch from a distance at first, quietly observing how you navigated the household—how you bent rules with a smile, how your eyes gleamed with mischief, and how you seemed to challenge the very idea of restraint.

“Do you really think it’s wise to be so… bold all the time?” he asked gently one afternoon, catching you mid-tease during a council meeting.

You shrugged with an easy grin, unbothered by his earnest tone. “Bold’s just another word for not boring.”

He’d shake his head softly, the faintest smile touching his lips. There was something about your energy that unsettled him like you carried a storm just beneath the surface, even if you masked it with charm and sarcasm.

Simeon, with all his warmth and kindness, wanted nothing more than to protect you from whatever shadows you kept tucked away. But he also knew better than to smother you with too much care.

Instead, he approached you gently, offering support in subtle ways. A carefully brewed cup of tea when he saw your sharp edges soften into exhaustion. A quiet word when your sarcastic barbs got a little too sharp, reminding you that you didn’t always have to wear armor.

“You don’t have to be perfect to be worthy of kindness,” he once told you, voice low, as you stared out the window, lips pressed tight in frustration.

You scoffed, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m just trying not to get hurt.”

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Sometimes the hardest person to be kind to is ourselves.”

Your conversations with Simeon would be a delicate balance of teasing and sincerity. You’d push him with sarcastic quips, testing the limits of his patience, while he offered gentle reminders that he saw the person beneath your defiant facade.

When your temper flared a rare but fierce thing it startled him, but he never recoiled. Instead, Simeon tried to help you channel your frustration, encouraging you to find peace rather than chaos.

“You have such a strong sense of justice,” he once said, “but anger is a fire that can burn everything if left unchecked. Let me help you find a flame that warms, not destroys.”

He was patient, unwavering, always ready to listen without judgment. When the walls you built around yourself cracked those brief moments when your sarcasm faltered and your vulnerability peeked through Simeon was there, a steady anchor in the storm.

“You don’t have to face everything alone,” he’d say softly, his eyes full of genuine care. “We’re here for you. Always.”

And even if you’d flash him a cheeky grin and a playful jab, you’d know that beneath all the teasing, Simeon was one of the few who truly understood. The one who believed in you, even when you struggled to believe in yourself.

Your dynamic was a dance of contrasts your chaotic, boundary-pushing nature weaving around his gentle, steady presence. He challenged you to soften without demanding change, and you challenged him to see the world beyond rules and tradition.

Simeon’s kindness wasn’t about fixing you or changing you; it was about standing beside you, letting you know that even in your messiest, most chaotic moments, you were never alone.

And that, somehow, was more powerful than any sharp wit or clever quip could ever be.

Solomon

Solomon’s first impression of you was one of utter fascination and a bit of exasperation. You were a whirlwind of flirty sarcasm and chaotic energy, a puzzle wrapped in clever smirks and street-smart wit. To someone like Solomon, who prized knowledge, order, and calm reflection, you were a spark that threatened to ignite the quiet halls of the House of Lamentation.

At first, he observed you with an amused detachment. You challenged rules with a grin, skirted around authority like it was a game, and carried yourself with a confidence that seemed both effortless and carefully constructed. You pushed boundaries like a master strategist, always a step ahead in the verbal sparring matches that became your signature.

“Are you deliberately testing my patience, or is this just how you navigate the world?” he asked one day, his tone half amused, half serious.

You tilted your head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Why choose? Life’s more fun when you keep people guessing.”

Solomon admired that spark in you the way you twisted expectations, refusing to be boxed in by rules or roles. But beyond your teasing and flirtation, he saw glimpses of something deeper. A restless energy that wasn’t just about causing chaos, but about craving something more connection, understanding, a place where you could be more than the clever mask you wore.

He was intrigued by your magical abilities, too how your power seemed to flare unpredictably, especially when your emotions surged. Solomon, ever the scholar, wanted to study that link between your inner world and your magic. He found himself intentionally pushing buttons, breaking small rules just to watch your reactions, fascinated by how your magic would spark to life.

“Remarkable,” he mused one afternoon, eyes gleaming with intellectual curiosity. “Your power is clearly tied to your sense of justice and order, yet you wield it with such unpredictable flair. Have you considered that your strength might lie not in rigid control, but in your ability to adapt?”

You laughed, a sharp, quick sound that echoed in the quiet room. “Adapt or break everything? Not much of a difference when you’re as chaotic as me.”

Solomon smiled, appreciating your wit even as he challenged you to think beyond your instincts. He became a kind of intellectual sparring partner—sometimes teasing, sometimes serious, but always pushing you to question the rules you lived by and the expectations you set for yourself.

You pushed back, of course, with the same sharp tongue and sarcastic grin. But beneath that playful tension, something real grew between you. You found his steady, inquisitive mind a strange kind of anchor, and he found your unpredictability a refreshing contrast to the usual order he navigated.

Solomon respected your independence and the walls you built around yourself. He never tried to tear them down but sought instead to understand what lay inside the fears, the hopes, the messy truths you rarely showed. He was patient when your sarcasm sharpened into defense and gentle when your guard slipped and the vulnerability peeked through.

Your conversations ranged from quick quips to deep philosophical debates, often revolving around the nature of power, justice, and freedom. You challenged each other, pushed boundaries, and sometimes clashed, but the friction only fueled the connection.

One evening, after a particularly heated debate about the role of rules in society, Solomon caught you off guard with a rare moment of candor.

“Do you ever wonder if all this—” he gestured around the House of Lamentation, “—is just a way to keep control of what scares us most?”

You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms. “Control? Or maybe it’s just easier than dealing with the chaos inside.”

He nodded slowly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Perhaps the trick is learning to find strength in the chaos without letting it consume you.”

You looked at him, your usual smirk faltering just for a heartbeat. Then, with a sly grin, you shrugged it off. “Sounds like a nice idea for a fairy tale.”

Solomon laughed softly, appreciating your deflection even as he saw through it. You were a challenge a puzzle with no easy solution. And that was what made you endlessly fascinating.

He knew this wouldn’t be a simple story with neat endings or clear answers. The dance between order and chaos, between your sharp edges and his calm wisdom, was ongoing. Sometimes exhilarating, sometimes frustrating, always charged with an electric tension neither of you fully understood.

But Solomon didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed it.

Because with you, every moment was unpredictable. Every conversation was a game. And beneath all the sarcasm and boundary-pushing, there was a connection that neither of you were quite ready to name but both felt deeply.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

Thank you for reading I hope u all enjoyed! 🩷 As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!

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honeygrahambitch · 3 months ago

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"An arrest warrant was issued for Hannibal Lecter." Jack informed Will as soon as he picked up the phone.

It was six a.m. and Will was not sure whether he was still asleep. Many dreams of his started like that.

"What? How?"

He had indeed kept pushing everyone while he had been in jail but Hannibal's gameplay had been too immaculate for them to see. Why make a mistake now?

"I had dinner with him last night. I asked to take the leftovers home. We tested them and it turns out you were right all along, Will. He really is the Ripper."

Will's lips parted in shock and confusion. This was very much unlike Hannibal.

"I'll be there in an hour." He said as he jumped from his bed. "Did you find anything else on him?"

"We are currently analyzing everything in his freezer but so far we found livers and kidneys that do not belong to pigs."

"I'll call you back." He said as he hanged up and immediately dialed Hannibal's number.

He started debating his own actions. Why tell him to run? Hasn't he always dreamt of this? Wasn't this what he had been struggling to convince everyone?

"Will?"

"They know."

"Who knows what?" The answer came after a few slow and silent seconds.

Really?

Can't he put two plus two together?

"What could they know, Hannibal? Just maybe go on a trip." He suggested as vaguely as possible. If their calls were monitored, he needed to be careful.

"I've been thinking of Sicily lately...you know, during this time of the year the wisteria is blooming."

"Hannibal, maybe do something instead of wasting time on the phone." He said and hung up.

The drive to the FBI had possibly been the longest he had ever had. Had Hannibal escaped? This was for sure part of his game. He just needed to figure out the meaning behind this move.

Then besides this, there was the anguish that Will couldn't place anywhere. He and Hannibal had become quite close since he had decided to continue his therapy sessions. The idea of losing him and seeing him confined in a prison cell did not bring him any comfort. Yes, he was the man who was the Ripper. Yes, he was the man who had framed him.

But he was also the only man who has ever understood him.

What are you if you lose the only person who is able to see you?

His heart was racing when he parked his car.

The elevator was taking too long to come. He decided he was not ready to see Hannibal wearing a prison suit as he raced up the stairs to the seventh level. Maybe he had time to escape. Maybe he was already gone.

Maybe...

He entered the lab, trying not to think how the sweat spots appeared through his shirt. He felt drenched.

"W-... What is going on..." Will couldn't even intonate the question properly as he stared at Jack, Jimmy Price, Brian Zeller...and Hannibal.

Hannibal was not handcuffed and not wearing a prison suit.

"Happy fool's day." Jack said. "In my defense, I needed you here for a crime scene and the higher ups have given me hell for making you work during your days off. Brian suggested we could do something creative."

"Don't put this all on me. Dr. Lecter agreed too."

Will was not amused. And he was not angry either. He was relieved.

His gaze locked with Hannibal's. Hannibal was the only person in the room who knew that not Will was the fool that day. The others were for not realizing that their joke was very much the reality. Being part of this, was very much like Hannibal. The others were part of his prank, he was not part of theirs.

Will identified something else in his eyes. Was it appreciation? He had probably not expected Will to call him to run. That was probably the only thing that Hannibal could have not predicted that day.

"Hilarious." Was all that Will said. "Very mature."

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #blue writes #will graham #hannibal nbc #hannibal fanfiction

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vertagedialer · 11 months ago

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How do I set up a predictive dialer?

Setting up a predictive dialer typically involves installing the software, configuring the dialing settings, and integrating it with your CRM or contact management system.

#Predictive dialing #Dialer software #Call center technology #Sales automation

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unsuperingyournatural · 3 months ago

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i've got you

Jensen Ackles x Actress!Female!Reader <platonic>

comfort, loss/grief

“Alright, kickoff in three—two—one, baby!”

The room erupts with cheers as the game flashes across the mounted TV in Jensen’s trailer. Someone tosses a handful of chips at the screen, and someone else—probably Misha—cackles like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Jensen grins, cracking open a beer, already halfway into a playful argument about stats and predictions. He’s been looking forward to this all week—game night, good food, the crew laughing like idiots—and you, snuggled into the corner of his couch, yelling at bad calls like it’s personal.

Only… you’re not here.

He glances at the empty spot where you always sit. Frowns. Pulls his phone from his pocket.

[7:13 PM] Jensen: Kickoff started. You coming?

He puts the phone on the arm of the couch and grabs a handful of pretzels, letting the noise of the trailer fill the space. He knows you can run late—always getting caught up in a phone call, script notes, trying to find a clean hoodie—but you’re never this late without a heads-up.

Ten minutes pass. Still no response.

He picks up his phone again. Sends another.

[7:24 PM] Jensen: You good?

He waits.

Another five minutes.

Now he’s not enjoying the game. Not really. Something’s off. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions—he knows you. Knows you can get easily distracted, especially when you’re overwhelmed. Sometimes you silence your notifications for hours just to breathe. You’ve told him that before.

Still.

He dials.

Rings once. Twice. Voicemail.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

He grabs his hoodie off the back of a chair, tosses a “Be right back” over his shoulder to no one in particular, and heads out into the cool evening air. The set is quieter now, most of the crew winding down for the night. Lights hum faintly against the darkening sky.

It’s a short walk to your trailer, but it feels longer with every step.

When he gets there, he knocks gently. “Hey. You in there?”

Nothing.

He knocks again, firmer this time. “Did you fall asleep or what?”

Still no answer.

His fingers hover near the door handle. He hates invading your space without asking, but something in his gut twists—tight and uneasy.

He tries one more time, voice quieter. “I’m coming in, okay?”

The door creaks open.

And there you are.

Folded in on yourself in the corner of the couch, knees drawn to your chest, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands like you’re trying to hide inside them. You don’t look up. Don’t say anything.

But your shoulders shake. Just slightly. Enough.

“Hey,” he breathes. “What happened?”

Your eyes meet his, barely.

And then the words come. Broken. Wrecked.

“He’s gone.”

That’s all you can say. That’s all you need to say.

Jensen’s face changes. The concern deepens into something quiet and devastated. He doesn't ask who. He doesn't have to. He just moves.

He’s beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees next to the couch, voice barely above a whisper.

“Come here.”

You fall into him without hesitation. Your body curls into his like instinct, like memory, like you’ve done this a hundred times before—but never like this. Never with grief clawing at your ribs, never with your chest cracked open like it is now.

Jensen wraps his arms around you, strong and sure. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. The other presses firm and warm to your back, grounding you.

“You’re okay. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

And still—you cry. Harsh, aching sobs that rip through your throat like they’re being pulled from the deepest parts of you. And Jensen just holds you through it. Not flinching. Not saying too much. Just there.

And somewhere in the silence, he remembers.

Remembers standing outside the studio in Vancouver, early 2000s, flipping open his old Nokia and hearing his mom’s voice tremble as she told him his grandfather was gone. The man who taught him how to fish. How to drive stick. How to never show up empty-handed.

He remembers how hollow he felt. How helpless. And how Jessica Alba had found him pacing behind the trailers, eyes red, heart splintered. She hadn’t said anything, just pulled him into a hug and stayed there.

Now, years later, he finds himself doing the same for you.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, chin resting against your temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You stay in his arms for a long time. Long enough for the tears to slow. For your breathing to even out again. For your grip on his flannel to loosen just a little.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” you whisper finally. “So I didn’t.”

“You don’t have to explain,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything right now.”

You nod against him. The ache is still there, pulsing and raw—but Jensen’s presence keeps you tethered.

“The football game…” you start, voice rasped.

“Screw the game,” he cuts in, soft but firm. “This is more important.”

You look up at him then, your face still wet, your expression wrecked but grateful.

He cups your cheek with the gentlest touch, his thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“I’m right here,” he says again, steady and sure.

You nod, just barely, and close your eyes for a moment. The ache hasn’t gone—but it’s not all-consuming now. Not while he’s holding you like this. Not while he’s here.

You breathe in slow. Exhale slower.

When you finally speak again, your voice is quieter, steadier. “Can you just… stay for a while?”

Jensen doesn't hesitate. “As long as you need.”

He shifts to sit more comfortably on the couch, keeping you tucked against him. You rest your head on his shoulder, and the silence that settles isn’t heavy anymore.

It’s safe.

A few minutes pass. Maybe more. Time doesn’t feel like it matters.

Eventually, he reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulls it over you, one arm still around your back.

You don’t cry again. You just sit there, curled into your best friend, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding.

Outside, the world keeps moving. The game keeps playing. Phones keep buzzing.

But in here, it’s just this.

And for now… it’s enough.

#jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #female descriptors used #female reader

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confused-pyramid · 1 year ago

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There Is More When You Let Go | s2

pairing: aaron hotchner x childhood bsf!reader

summary: Hotch and his childhood best friend working together at the BAU: a slow burn across the seasons.

word count: 18.8k

warnings: canon!typical violence, mentions of abuse, death of a spouse, kidnapping, torture, drug use, specific episodes mentioned in this part are 2x01, 2x05, 2x06, 2x13, 2x14, 2x15, 2x16, 2x18, 2x23

a/n: here's season 2 of the anchor series! I had a lot of fun writing this one (hence why it got so long lmao), and I included a lot more direct show content in this part, so I hope you like it. Also more flashbacks:) Title is from Benediction by Luke Sital-Singh

series masterlist

A gunshot. That's the last thing you hear before Elle's front door flies open, almost throwing you back onto the stairs. The shock of seeing the Fisher King standing right in front of you almost makes you miss the puddle of blood that has started seeping across the floor to your feet.

"Elle," you gasp, your moment of distraction enough time for the man to push you behind him and make a break for it. You fall forward with the force of his shove, but he's much slower than you are. If you ran after him now, you could almost certainly catch up to him, but the sight of Elle bleeding out in front of you makes you immobile.

Making the split second decision to abandon the chase, you throw yourself forward and press your hands against her wound to control the blood flow.

"You're gonna be okay," you tell her, even as her blood trickles out from below your palm. "I need to call for help."

Pressing one hand down harder, you try to ignore the sounds of her gasping in pain as you reach behind you for her house phone. After dialing 911, you hold the phone between your ear and shoulder and bring your hand back to apply more pressure.

The paramedics arrive within five minutes, and they pry you off of her as they pull out a defibrillator. You had been so focused on stopping her from bleeding out that you hadn't even noticed she had stopped breathing. How could you have missed that?

"Charging to 200."

You lean back against her couch as tears leak from the corners of your eyes.

"Clear!"

***

"They took her into surgery," you say when Hotch meets you at the hospital. Your eyes keep darting around, like you're looking for something, but you don't know what.

"What happened?" he asks, placing his hands on your shoulders to regain your focus. The pressure calms you down.

"I think he was waiting for her," you whisper, your throat tightening. "He had to have been. It all happened so fast."

His eyes stay on yours, as though trying to predict your next movement. "I'm glad you're okay."

More agents filter into the hospital and he begins to turn away to talk to them, but then you stiffen under his hands. "I had him, Hotch."

"What?" he frowns, looking at you again. "What are you talking about?"

You lift your hands to your face to brush away a strand of hair, barely noticing the stains all over your skin. "He was right there. The unsub. I could've grabbed him...but I didn't."

Anderson walks over with a question, but Hotch doesn't take his eyes off you. "You went to Elle. It's okay, you made the right choice."

"But the girl he took," you protest, shaking his hands off, "this could have lead us to her, but she's still-"

"You did the right thing," he cuts you off, waving Anderson away to speak with someone else. "It's not your fault."

You grit your teeth, your voice still tinged with guilt. "How do you know?"

"Because," he sighs, running a hand through his hair, "it's mine. I sent her home."

You open your mouth to tell him how unfair that is, but he cuts you off with an order to go wash up before he leaves to explain the situation to the other agents.

The only bathroom on that floor of the hospital is at the end of the patient ward, so you trudge down the hallway and into the single family restroom, trying to avoid the worried glances from all around.

You haven't seen your reflection since before leaving with Elle, and you know it can't be a pretty sight, but the face staring back at you in the mirror is still a shock.

The bottom of your shirt is matted to your skin, and your hands are covered in now-dried blood that looks flaky and dark. When you look up, you see a streak of blood smeared over your nose from when you swiped at your face earlier.

Grabbing a fistful of paper towels, you run them under the faucet before scrubbing at your face and peeling your button down off to rid them of any trace of Elle's blood. When you're sure there isn't anything left, you turn the faucet back on and stretch your hands forward, watching the warm water turn a muddy red color as it swirls around the drain.

Eventually, the water runs clear, but you can still see the blood in your mind. You are suddenly ambushed by a memory you thought you had pushed down long ago. Red blood, cold skin.

How was there so much blood in the human body?

Your department-mandated therapist told you at the time that you would be in denial for the first few weeks, but you weren't denying anything. You had seen his body, seen the blood pooling around him as the coroner snapped photographs for the crime scene report. You knew he was dead. You just couldn't get that question out of your mind.

The memory shifts and suddenly you're seventeen again. You're seventeen and you are reaching for your first aid kit for the second time this month as Hotch sits on your bed with what feels like a permanent wince fused to his lips.

"Hold still," you whisper as you pour rubbing alcohol onto a cotton pad and press it into the cut on his hand. There's also blood under his nose and in his teeth, but he doesn't seem to notice.

He hisses as the alcohol makes contact, but he doesn't pull away. He's used to this routine now. You both are.

"I'm sorry I came by so late," he whispers through gritted teeth as he watches your fingers peel open a bandage. You want to berate him for apologizing, for feeling so much guilt all the time, but it's fruitless. It's like he was born with it inside of him, always clawing its way out at the slightest inconvenience.

"Don't be." You shoot him a look that he knows to mean 'be quiet and let me finish this'. He heeds your unspoken order, but after a few minutes, it's you who breaks it. "How did this one happen?"

He looks down and you immediately want to take it back. "You don't have to answer."

He's quiet for a beat. "He was drunk and I cleared his bottle away before he was finished with it."

Your lips thin and you press your hand to his knee, desperately needing to connect yourself to him in some manner.

"I tried to keep him in the kitchen, so Sean wouldn't hear, but I guess the noise woke him up." He takes a deep breath, and you can almost feel the determination entering his body as he sits up straighter. "I couldn't let him get to Sean, so I finally did it. I fought back."

He looks down at his bandaged hand then, and you can see pride accompanying the blood etched into the lines of his face. "I finally fought back."

Your eyes refocus and when you look at yourself in the mirror again, there's no trace of Elle's blood on your body anymore.

***

When Elle is discharged from the hospital, you spend the rest of the break helping her move out of her house and into a new apartment. When you drove her back home, the blood had been cleaned off of her floors, but you could see in her expression that it wasn't enough. This place would always be a reminder of what had happened to her.

The apartment search was quick, only a week between finding a place she liked and signing the new lease, but she saved the actual move out for the last few days of your break, instead hopping between sleeping in your guest room and a motel in town.

That's why you find yourself in Elle's old bedroom on the final Saturday before you're due back at work, packing some of her clothes into a suitcase while she works on clearing her bathroom. She tossed out almost everything she didn't absolutely need, only packing up her basic clothing and a few other sentimental keepsakes from her past.

"What about these?" you ask, holding up a pair of dark wash jeans that you remember her wearing to the bars with you a few months ago. God, has it really only been a few months?

She peeks out of the bathroom for barely a second. "I told you, I don't care. Keep it, toss it, your choice."

You don't know how you feel about being in charge of her future wardrobe, especially since you tend to live in loose jeans and old tee shirts when you're not at work, but you can understand where she's coming from. The instinct to hand off every decision to someone else.

You remember how hard it was for you to even decide what to eat for dinner after Jeff died. You also remember Hotch slipping pre-packed meals into your fridge whenever he came over to keep you company.

It takes you a couple of hours to clear out her house, and another hour to drop her and her stuff off at the new place, with promises to visit whenever you can over the next months of her leave.

You don't realize how exhausted you are until your front door shuts behind you and you collapse onto your couch, still in your dirty clothes. The summer sun is completely below the horizon as you lean back into your throw pillows and grab the tv remote. You haven't used your tv in months, and you figure that a vacation from work is the perfect opportunity to dust it off.

The screen comes to life on a local news channel, where a young reporter with teased-up hair is announcing a recall on a vacuum cleaner brand you've never heard of. She finishes her spiel before handing the mic off to an older woman who starts reporting the details of a car accident that took place in a neighborhood a few miles from yours.

These reports don't usually get under your skin - you have seen enough to know that it happens everyday - but suddenly, you can't stand to look at the crime scene tape flashing on your screen. You don't wait long enough to see what caused the accident. Whether it was a simple mistake, or if it was a drunk dri-

Grabbing the remote, you turn the television off and stand up, shaking your limbs out in an effort to rid yourself of the anxious feeling that's been growing inside of you.

You make yourself a quick microwave dinner and wolf it down in a few minutes, before trudging upstairs and hopping in the shower. You take your time washing the dust off of your body, and only emerge when the hot water runs out.

Even after cleaning yourself off and climbing into a fresh set of sheets, sleep doesn't come easily. The minutes tick by slowly as you stare at the ceiling, and before you can overthink it, you grab your phone off your nightstand and hit the first number on your speed dial.

It rings twice before the line connects. "Is everything okay?"

"What happened to 'hello'?" you ask, huffing out a laugh as you sit up in your bed.

Hotch grunts quietly. "Hello." You can hear the tiredness in his voice, but he sounds alert. You didn't wake him up. "What can I do for you?"

"So I have to need something to call you?"

"Y/N."

"Sorry for wanting to talk to my friend-"

He sighs so loudly, you can practically see his eyes rolling. "Are you going to tell me why you called or not."

"I helped Elle move out today."

That gets his attention. "How is she doing?"

You shrug, even though he can't see you. "As good as can be expected. We threw out almost all of her stuff, you know. She ended up with just a suitcase and three boxes at the end."

"That's just her way of coping, I guess."

"When we got to her house, it was..." You pause for a beat. You don't know the correct way to bring this up. "Well, it was clean. The blood was gone."

He doesn't say anything, and you know you were right. "Hotch, it was you, wasn't it."

He exhales quietly, as though he's trying to control his volume. Shit, maybe Haley's sleeping next to him. This is why you don't call someone after midnight.

"She didn't need to see a crime scene in her own home."

You wonder if he knows how he sounds right now. How caring and compassionate he can be when he doesn't try to tamp down that side of himself.

"You're a good unit chief," you say, leaning your head back against your wooden headboard. "I don't know why you keep things like this hidden."

You do know why, but that isn't what's important right now. There's a small creaking sound over the receiver and you imagine he's getting out of bed and crossing the room. Then the click of a door closing. "All that matters is that it's done."

You can't control the exasperated sigh that leaves your body. "Who are you trying to kid, Hotch? This is me you're talking to. I know how you worry that you aren't setting a good example for the team, but it's things like this that go a long way. It really wouldn't hurt for the team to see you showing some emotion."

"That's what they have you for," he says, his voice tightening the slightest bit. "They don't need that from me. When my emotions get in the way, I can't do my job properly."

You scoff. "And what job is that, exactly?"

"Keeping you safe."

He doesn't need to raise his voice to make you feel his anger. "If I had kept my emotion out of it, I wouldn't have sent her home. I wouldn't have let you accompany her, and I wouldn't have put both of you in danger."

Your hand comes up, rubbing circles into the skin above your chest. "Aaron...that wasn't on you." You can sense his protests coming, so you try a different tactic. "It wasn't on me either. No one but Garner deserves any blame for what happened."

The line is silent for a few moments, and you take the little victory. "I'm sorry I called you so late."

"Oh, it's alright," he chuckles. "You know I was up anyway."

***

She came back too quickly. You can't get the thought out of your head as you watch Elle restlessly tap her foot on the ground as she waits for the final word on whether she will be acting as bait for the serial rapist.

You don't think she's ready, and you've made your opinion known to the team, but Gideon made up his mind quickly.

"You think Elle's ready for it?"

"We'll be there for her."

You watch her vigilantly from Hotch's SUV as she enters the house and drops her keys on the table by the window. She's wired, which is a small relief, but Gideon's instruction not to have her gun on her has you more anxious than you'd like.

"Why isn't she leaving?" Hotch says from next to you, echoing your thoughts.

A car driven by a man fitting the profile pulls up on the opposite side of the street and you hear Morgan dialing Garcia. After a few seconds, he's back on the line. "William Lee. It's him."

"Bingo," Gideon's voice exclaims through your earpiece. "She's on the move."

You turn away from the car and see Elle exiting the front of the house. She glances at the man on her way to her car in the driveway, and it's only then that you notice the gun stuffed in her waistband.

"Her gun's out," you whisper, mostly to yourself. "What's she doing?"

"She's panicking."

"We've got no reason to bring him in."

"Don't blow it, don't blow it."

A chorus of yells echo through your earpiece as Elle stomps down the drive and points her gun at the unsub. "FBI, put your hands where I can see them!"

You throw open the car door and run over to apprehend the man as he fervently denies all of her accusations. "I was just stopping to look at my map."

The police put him into an interrogation room back at the station, where Hotch and Gideon try to get him to confess by showing empathy for this motive. It seems to be going well until his lawyer shows up, putting an end to the conversation.

She's been tense all day, so you're not surprised when Elle blows up. "You're letting him walk?"

Gideon is the first to step in. "Back off, Elle."

"You don't know what he's done," she yells, as though trying to reason with the police. The pain in her voice is palpable, but you can't deny the truth, even if you aren't able to voice it to her.

Hotch doesn't face the same issue. "The only reason he's walking is because you panicked."

"I'm supposed to believe that you've got my back?" she fires back, her anger redirecting to fly in his direction.

"What are you saying to me?"

"The last time you sent me home, Hotch, it got me shot."

All of the air leaves the room. You grab Elle's arm and pull her back, expecting more resistance than you get. "Walk with me."

She follows you across the hall and into a little meeting room that's scattered with evidence bags and files from the case. You let the door click shut behind her before you start speaking. "You need to take a breath. I know you, Elle. I know exactly what you're capable of. You just need to give yourself time to heal."

The fury in her eyes hasn't abated since you apprehended Lee a few hours earlier. You're not sure it will in this environment. "Take a walk. Get some air, and then come back."

She doesn't meet your eye as she pushes past you and storms out of the station.

***

"There's no reason for us to stick around anymore, is there?"

Gideon shakes his head and you purse your lips, glancing at the doors behind you. You haven't been able to shake the feeling that something terrible is going to happen, but you suppose that's a common notion on this team.

"Wheels up at noon tomorrow."

You're walking out to the parking lot with the team when the feeling hits you again. The last time you felt this level of dread was right before you got the call from organized crime just over two years ago.

Your fears are confirmed when Hotch's phone rings with a call from the local PD that they have Elle at Lee's address. The drive over is silent, and even though you're always the first to call Hotch out on his guilt spirals, you can't get the thought out of your head that this is all your fault. You knew she had come back too quickly. Never mind that it wasn't your call. You should've fought it harder.

Lee's bullet-riddled body is like a beacon of your guilt as Elle insists it was cut-and-dry self defense. "I was having a conversation with him and he drew his weapon and I fired."

The police don't let any of you talk to her as they load her into the back of their cruiser, but you know what you have to do if you want to be able to sleep tonight.

"I'm going to the station," you tell Hotch before flagging down another one of the officers on the scene. He moves to stop you, but you sidestep him and level him with a glare that high school you would have been proud of. "I have to do this."

The station doesn't finish processing her until halfway through the night, but you couldn't fall asleep even if you wanted to. When they finally remove her cuffs and bring her out, you stand up from the plastic chair you spent the last four hours in and stretch out your legs.

She doesn't spot you immediately, but when she does, her body almost deflates. "I'm fine, L/N. You didn't have to come here."

She stops in front of you, her jacket hanging over her arm as she stuffs her badge back into her pocket. If you didn't know her so well, you would be surprised by how relaxed she looks. You wouldn't recognize the front she has had up since she stepped off the plane.

"What happened, Elle?"

That catches her attention, and you watch as the mask slips by a hair. "You don't believe me?"

You don't want to accuse her of something you have no evidence of, but you also can't ignore all of the signs in front of you. "Can you really look me in the eye and say you didn't go there hoping Lee would provoke you?"

She just looks at you, and you watch in real time as the mask slides back into place. Without another word, she turns around and walks out of the station.

***

The next case doesn't come until a few days later. Elle gets cleared by the bureau's internal investigation, but you can't imagine Hotch won't tack on a psych eval just to be safe.

"Nicholas Faye of Ozona, Texas, was beaten to death roughly 13 hours ago."

JJ clicks her remote and the screen in the conference room changes, displaying the crime scene photos.

"God," you curse, averting your eyes for a moment. "He's just a child."

"Blunt force trauma to the head," she continues with a forlorn sigh. "He's the second young boy in Ozona to die the same death in the last 2 months. Local hunter found his body in the woods."

Morgan looks down at the case file. "First victim's name: Robbie Davis. Are these boys connected somehow?"

JJ shrugs. "Ozona's population's roughly 2, 500. Everyone has some kind of connection."

"Well if they weren't linked before, they most certainly are now."

Hotch and Gideon's absences from the conference room don't escape your notice, so you keep an eye out for them upon leaving the briefing.

You spot them discussing something in hushed whispers by the coffee station, and you wait for them to finish before you approach Hotch.

"You missed the briefing."

His eyes pinch, and you notice that the lines in his forehead are more prominent than usual. "What is it?"

"Elle missed her evaluation."

Your breath releases like a sigh. "I can check her apartment."

"No," he says matter-of-factly, with a shake of his head. "Gideon wants all of you in Texas for this one. I'll go look for her."

You would normally argue, but the horrific images from the briefing are still imprinted on the backs of your eyelids. "Okay. I'll see you soon."

He leaves you with a nod, and you grab your go-bag before following the rest of the team to the jet.

"You guys see Elle's cleared?" Reid pipes up as soon as the plane takes off.

Derek nods, his lips thinning. "Self defense."

"So it was a good shot."

"She hit what she was aiming for."

Reid frowns. "That's not what I meant."

"I know."

"If they cleared her how come she's not here with us?" You glance up and realize Reid is looking at you. "Or Hotch?"

You don't want to reveal more than is necessary, especially when the situation is this precarious and personal, but you're saved from responding when Gideon turns around and yells, "Focus on the case!"

JJ turns the conversation back to the unsub's motivations, and you all discuss a possible profile until a new female victim emerges that strays from the previous victimology.

Gideon doesn't waste any time delegating tasks. "When we land, Morgan and Reid, go to the new crime scene. The little girl."

He turns to you. "We'll look at the scene where Nicholas Faye was found."

The murder site is so far into the woods, that you can't help but imagine what it would've been like to be the little boy who was brought all the way out here with no hope of return. You can't believe that a young child would come this far out of their way unless they trusted the person they were following. "I think the victims knew their killer."

Gideon seems to be on the same train of thought. "They followed him to this spot."

"What makes you think that?" the local officer asks.

Gideon looks at you expectantly, and you take the invitation with a grateful nod. "Well I guess they went this deep into the woods because they trusted him. He probably stashed his weapon here beforehand. This means we're looking for someone intelligent, methodical."

The police officer accompanying you doesn't look sure of your assessment. "He bashed the kid's head in, it looks like a moment of rage to me!"

"I agree," Gideon muses, turning away and looking further into the woods. "It doesn't make any sense."

After informing the town's parents of the five PM curfew, and the children of the new buddy system in place, you excuse yourself to go call Hotch for an update.

"Anything new?" you ask when he answers the phone.

"I went to her appartment to talk to her," he explains, "but she was leaving with an overnight bag."

Your heart collapses in your chest. "She's running."

"I don't know, I hope not." He pauses for a beat. "I'm following her."

"All right," you sigh, wishing there was more you could do from here, "I really hope I'm wrong about this."

He's silent for a second, and you realize your slip up. "I just mean, I don't want to- I mean, fuck."

"I know," Hotch whispers. You can hear his car starting in the background. "But Gideon's right. She's innocent until proven guilty."

He ends the call with a promise to keep you updated, and you head back to the station, where another child has been reported missing. The missing boy's little brother draws your attention to a local legend that leads you to a Mr. Fennigan's so-called "haunted" house up in the hills.

***

"Garcia," you say into your phone before putting it on speaker and setting it down at the table you're sitting at. After establishing that Finnegan's house was empty, you and team have been searching the property for any indications that he's the unsub. "You got anything for me?"

"Only that Fennigan's house on the hill is like the Bates Motel of Ozona, Texas."

You roll your eyes, even though she can't see you. "We heard the legend from that counselor, Charles I think."

"Be careful, though," she says, her voice going lower as though she's telling a campfire story. "People that go into that house supposedly never come out."

"Garcia."

"But then there is that matter of his missing wife."

Deciding to humor her, you clear your throat and whisper, "Do you think she's still on the premises?"

"I got two words for you, my friend: 'rear window'. That guy probably chopped that lady up into delicious bitesize pieces."

You suppress a laugh. "Pen, do you really think that's gonna scare me?"

She huffs and you grin, tugging open one of the drawers next to you and peeking inside.

"You're no fun. Reid was scared shitless."

"He's just afraid of the dark," you smile, before your eyes catch on something bright under the table beside you. "Garcia, I gotta go. And cut Reid some slack."

"No promises, Mama."

You tuck your phone away and reach below the table, where you find a small pink backpack with the last victim's name scrawled on top in Sharpie. "Guys! I found something."

The clues from Finnegan's house lead you back to Charles, the town's guidance counselor, and then to his son, who the police are able to catch in the act of luring away Tracey Belle, another young girl. You don't relax until she's back with her parents, and even then, there's still a tension in your shoulders.

Cases involving children never get easier, but you can't help the kinship you feel to little Tracey Belle, who had the same look in her eyes that you recognized in yourself when you were ten years old. You don't remember your mom's funeral much, mostly because you were so young, but also because the whole day was a blur. The few flashes that come back here and there are your father's eyes, red from crying, and the cold gray of the headstone that you visited with him every year on the anniversary until you graduated.

The plane ride back is morose, and no one looks up from their reading material until it's time to disembark. Hotch isn't at the office when you drop off your case file, so you rub the exhaustion from your eyes and drive home.

There's a figure sitting on your porch when you pull into your driveway, and you're a moment from panicking when her face comes into the light.

"I turned in my badge," Elle says after you lock your car and walk up the steps.

Something twists in your gut, but the one emotion you aren't feeling is surprise. "Do you want to come inside? How long have you been waiting?"

She shakes her head, and you give her some time to formulate her thoughts. After a minute, she meets your eye again. "You were kind to me."

You don't know what to say, but you can see the change in her since just last week. She already looks lighter, and you can't help but think about how heavy the job can be. It's a weight on each of your lives that never seems to let up, and while you're going to be sad to see her go, you understand. It's the right choice.

Elle presses her lips together before curving them into a small smile. "You supported me after...after Garner. I'm gonna miss you."

You smile at her, even as your heart fills with sadness. "i'm going to miss you too."

Her body shifts like she's making to leave but then she turns back one last time. "You're too good for him, you know."

You get the sense that you know what she's referring to, but it's not something you can acknowledge without sending a flare shooting up your spine. She nods once, like that's all she wanted to say, and turns away into the night. You blink your eyes closed, squeezing them tightly as though it will somehow make the last few months a nightmare you can wake up from. But that's not how this works.

You give yourself a minute to pretend, but when you open your eyes again, she's gone.

***

The case that takes you to Golconda, Nevada feels almost unique to Gideon, as he takes each of the unsub's decisions personally in a way you haven't seen before.

Once you give the profile to the local police, the sheriff, Georgia Davis, leads you to a woman with a story to match the previous victimology.

"Jane," she says softly as she walks into the holding area at the back of the station. "These people are from the FBI. I'd like you to tell them your story."

Her story takes you through a tale of alien abductions and young love, but the kernel of truth underneath sounds awfully similar to the unsub's M.O. Her eyes still shine with a childlike tenacity that you don't usually see in other victims of such prolific and disturbing killers.

"Her subconscious mind has created a delusion that she was abducted by an alien," Gideon sighs after Sheriff George sends you all out of the room to let Jane rest. "She didn't show him the fear he wanted, so he let her go."

When it becomes clear that he is still in town, you disperse around the local R.V. park in search of his vehicle.

Hotch pairs you with Emily Prentiss, the new agent who joined the team after Elle left, and you welcome the opportunity to speak with her more than you've gotten the chance to since she arrived.

"How have you been settling in?" you ask her as you both stroll along the edge of the R.V. park.

"The team has been very welcoming," she says as she continues to scan the vehicles around you. "I'm just glad to be joining such an accomplished unit."

"That's kind of you," you smile, noting the extreme focus in her eyes. Her intelligence and intense concentration on each of the cases you've worked made much more sense when you learned about her history. Her background must have sparked more than a few nepotism claims over the years, so you don't mind letting her overcompensate, if it means she will prove to herself that she deserves to be here. "Everyone seems to like having you around. I certainly don't mind."

She shoots you a smile that you return by patting her forearm comfortingly. You were worried it would be hard for another agent to settle into the space Elle left on the team, but Prentiss has made easy work of it. She has the same humor as Derek and Penelope, and you've seen how well she gets along with you and JJ. Even Reid has welcomed her with open arms.

"This team is kind of famous," she says after a moment, piquing your interest.

"Oh?"

She shrugs, turning into another row of vehicles. "You've all been through so much, but it just seems to have made you more of a family."

When you first joined the team, that was all you wanted. You were by yourself, completely alone, and the team had become your family in the blink of an eye. It was exactly what you needed. These days, you're not so sure anymore. More family just means more people to lose.

"Can I ask you a question?"

You look at her with a nod. "Yeah, of course."

"It's about Agent Hotchner."

You should've figured. Every new agent tries to vie for his approval, until they realize it's not something you can force. "Yeah?"

She sighs, and you can tell this isn't something she wants to be talking about. "I don't know if I understand him. You're the only person who seems to have his ear. I guess I'm just wondering how I can do the same."

"I got his attention and respect through decades of friendship," you say, watching her eyes widen as you speak. "But he's not the enigma you may think he is. Showing off won't help your cause, but working hard and doing your job well is all you can really do."

She nods, taking in your words. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

You smile, bumping her shoulder to lighten the mood. "Don't worry about him. He knows your worth, I can tell."

Prentiss leans against you for a moment before shaking out her legs and turning back to the lot. "I don't think the unsub is here. We should meet up with the rest of the team."

Once Gideon puts it together that the unsub is hiding out somewhere in town, Hotch suggests that you all turn in for the night, but the older man doesn't want to listen.

"We could wait till first light, Gideon," he stresses, turning his body to stand between him and the officers. "It's gonna be dark soon."

"Do what you like," Jason grunts, shoving past him. "I'm gonna find him."

Hotch starts to go after him, but you step forward and put your hand on his shoulder. "Let him go. Maybe the walk back to the station will help clear his head."

He sighs heavily, and you know it's all the agreement you're going to get right now. "Let's head over there too. He needs our help if he wants to crack this before morning."

The stress lines on his forehead are almost as noticeable as they were the day Elle left the bureau, and you grab his wrist as he tries to turn away. You raise your eyebrows, knowing he'll be able to read the question written in the ridges of your face. How are you holding up?

Hotch rolls his neck to the side, stretching it out after what has been a very long day. When he looks back at you, you wait for a nod that comes after a moment. Alright. Been better, but alright.

Back at the station, the work is slow going, and you don't feel like anyone is helping with how uptight Gideon is acting. The air inside the small building has started to feel suffocating, and you finally get your chance to escape when Sheriff George grabs her car keys.

"I'm gonna take Jane home," she tells you when you approach her at her desk. "It's been a long night, and she needs to sleep in her own bed."

"You need to rest too," you say, noticing the droop of her eyes from sheer exhaustion. "Go home, Sheriff. I'll take her back. I remember her address from earlier."

She doesn't look convinced, so you lean in with a smile. "It's getting really stuffy in here. I need some air too."

That's all it takes to satisfy her, and she pats your arm with a nod before handing you the keys to the cruiser and walking to the exit.

You only see Morgan as you pick Jane up from the holding area, so you tell him you'll be back in a half hour and head out to the back lot.

"How long have you been living in this town?" you ask Jane as you make the short drive to her house.

"Since I was a teenager," she says dreamily, her eyes gazing out the window.

"You never wanted to live anywhere else?"

She shakes her head profusely. "Why would I? This is where I can be found."

You frown at her words, but it's not the oddest thing she has said today. When you arrive at her house, you park the cruiser out front and lead her up the porch steps, where she slowly unlocks the front door. "Do you want to come inside?"

You figure it wouldn't hurt to scope out the place, so you accept her invitation and follow her inside. "This is a beautiful home, Jane." Trinkets are scattered everywhere, and rudimentary sketches cover the walls.

"Thank you," she responds from another room. "You're very nice." You follow the sound of her voice to her kitchen, where she is struggling to lift a pitcher of juice from her fridge.

"Here, let me help you," you say, taking it from her and setting it down on the little breakfast table in front of her stove. "Do you have any cups?"

She walks over to a cupboard across from you, and you unclip your side-holster and set it on the table until the sound of a footstep behind you makes you spin on your heels.

You're assaulted by the sight of a tall, white man, who you immediately recognize from Gideon's profile earlier that day.

"Jane!" you yell, inching toward the table where your gun is. "I need you to run."

"Come with me, Jane," the man says, ignoring you completely. You use the moment of distraction to reach for your gun, but he's quicker than you. A sharp pinprick of pain shoots down your neck as your hand knocks over the pitcher of juice and your limbs suddenly feel like they weigh a million pounds.

"Jane, he's a murderer," you yell, hoping your voice doesn't sound as quiet as it does in your head. Your vision is already blurry, and you wish Reid was here to distract you by spouting off a list of fast-acting drugs from memory. "Jane, run!"

The last thing you hear before you black out is the sound of hurried footsteps receding into the background.

***

None of this makes sense. As each minute ticks by, he can't shake the feeling that they are missing something that's right under their noses.

"JJ just called," Morgan says, walking back into the station with his phone waving in his hand. "Apparently an anonymous caller called the tip line and claimed they saw an R.V. driven by a man who fits the description we gave to the media."

Hotch frowns. "Claimed?"

"Well, not a single R.V. or trailer has passed through any of the roadblocks."

Morgan's words click in his brain, and he instinctively glances beside him as an idea forms, but you aren't there. Now that he thinks of it, he hasn't seen you in over an hour.

"Who does the number belong to?" he asks, shifting his focus back.

Morgan is about to respond when Deputy Silo runs into the office, shoving past the other cops in his way. "We got a call from outside Jane's house. I think it was from the unsub."

Hotch stands up immediately, grabbing his jacket and gun, but next to him, Morgan stills, his face going slack.

"We need to head over there now," Hotch says, listing off a few instructions to the deputies nearby. Where are you?

"Hotch."

"And have some of your guys check in town," he continues, "in case he took her with him."

"Hotch."

He turns around. "What is it?"

"L/N drove Jane home."

His heart drops.

***

Just stay for a few more minutes, Jeff implores, his fingers dancing over your arm as you try to sit up.

You laugh as he tries to pull you back into the bed. I can't, I have to go into work.

Just five minutes, I promise. He pouts as you slide your legs out from under the covers. Three. One. One minute, please. I miss you.

I miss you too, you sigh, pressing a kiss to his lips. I'll see you tonight.

His hands reach up to caress your face, like he always does in the mornings. Cupping your cheek with his palm and running his fingers through your hair.

You settle into the feeling, wishing you had more time to just lay in bed with him. But you don't. Because Jeff's not here anymore.

Your eyes snap open right as the unsub tapes your mouth closed.

***

His hands grip the steering wheel as his SUV barrels up the small country road leading to Jane's house. He can't seem to press the gas pedal hard enough, and Reid's incessant foot-tapping in the backseat is driving him crazy, even though he understands the anxiety coursing through his body.

He beats Deputy Silo to the house, and flies out of the car without waiting for the other agents to open their doors. He's not sure what he's expecting to see inside as he pulls his gun from his waist holster, but he doesn't give himself a chance to think about it before kicking the door in.

"What the hell are you doing?" Morgan yells from behind him as he checks around the door and makes his way through the small hallway. The house is silent, aside from the footsteps of the agents behind him, but the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears is almost deafening.

"Clear," he shouts after checking each room up to the kitchen. When he steps inside, there's juice all over the floor, and he spots the pitcher on its side beside the fridge. Juice, not blood.

His eyes flash to the table and his breath catches in his throat. He would recognize your holster anywhere, especially since he was with you when you bought it.

What do you think? It's not too bold, is it?

I definitely wouldn't mess with you.

"Why didn't she reach for her gun?" he wonders out loud.

"Because she couldn't." He turns around to see Reid holding up a large, empty syringe he found under the table.

He can't take his eyes off the juice on the floor, splattered everywhere as though someone had knocked it off the counter. The image of Elle's blood spilled all over her living room is still fresh in his mind, and he can't get over how easily the dark red cranberry juice seeping into the floorboards could have been yours.

Growing up, it was a common occurrence for you to patch him up and wash the blood off his skin, but there was only one time when he had to return the favor.

He still remembers the proud glint in your eyes after you had literally head-butted a man who had grabbed you in a college bar by Georgetown. Already a year into law school, he would've thought you'd have more forethought than to injure yourself in the hopes of getting back at the jackass, but once he saw your bloody grin, his annoyance had fizzled away.

"What on earth were you thinking?" he had asked as you stuck a scrap of napkin up your nostrils to control the flow after the head-butt broke a few blood vessels in your nose. He hadn't seen you much throughout undergrad, but he was glad that you hadn't changed too much, even if it meant you were just as wild as before. "I'm getting you ice."

A few minutes of angry haggling later, he returned to your side with a small bag of ice that he held to the bridge of your nose. Nothing he said could have ruined your mood that night, especially since the man had been kicked out of the bar and banned for life.

"Did you see the look on his face?" you had asked, your eyes twinkling behind the quickly melting ice.

"I did," he sighs, before breaking into a grin. "I'm just glad that your future law degree will give you another method of retaliation against scumbags like him."

You had laughed then, causing a few drops of blood to spray out of your nose, but all he could think about as he jerked back to avoid the mess was how happy he was that you were back in his life again.

Hotch flies back to the conversation happening around him, his brain refusing to let him imagine the worst case scenario.

"Those footprints," Morgan is saying as he starts listening again, "they got to be Jane's."

Reid nods, following along. "They go to the back."

"She escapes. The unsub knows the ketamine's gonna wear off, so he's got to act."

"No," one of the deputies says. "He hasn't got what he came here for."

His voice returns to him all at once. "So he took Y/N for leverage."

"He thinks we have Jane. Which means he wants a trade."

"Whatever he wants, we need to find Jane and your agent fast."

His agent. He feels sick at the thought of whatever that man is doing to you. "Garcia can track the phone number from the anonymous caller. You go to town, we'll find Jane."

***

Your eyes are blurry as you try to clear the fogginess in your head from whatever he injected you with. You can see the shape of the unsub moving around the room, and you squint your eyes to get a better look at the anatomical posters and drawings on the walls.

When your vision begins to focus again, the man comes toward you with a smile. "You're awake." He reaches forward to check the tape on your wrists and you try to jerk away from him, but your body is still flowing with the drug. You can't move as he brushes your hair behind your ear and smiles down at you, a sinister lack of emotion in his eyes. You stop trying to move, realizing it's no use. He's been doing this for years. Mutilating women. Cutting them to pieces.

You can feel your heart rate increasing, and you try not to look at the knives and saws littering the tables around you in an effort to keep yourself calm. Your team is looking for you. Derek knows where you went.

When he grabs your arms and starts lifting you off the makeshift operating table you were lying on, you try to scream, but the tape just pulls at your lips, tearing at the thin skin underneath.

Your eyes widen as he drops you into a metal coffin-like box, but he just looks at you with a shake of his head. "No need for that," he tsks before closing the lid over you, enveloping you in eery darkness.

***

Reid and Prentiss help him inspect Jane's house further for clues as to where the unsub could've taken you. The wind chimes of rib bone blowing in the breeze on the front porch catch his attention almost immediately.

His chest feels tight and he clears his throat. "He's obviously been here before and left these gifts for her."

"How romantic," Prentiss grimaces.

"Well, his version of romance."

Prentiss frowns. "What, are you trying to say you think he keeps coming back here because he's in love with her?"

"That's impossible," Reid interjects. "A sexual sadist can't feel love."

"Well," he says, "define love." He doesn't know if he can. He knows he loves Haley and Jack. He likes to think he always wants to be with them, but when a particularly excruciating case arrives on his desk, his desire to catch the bad guy trumps everything else in his mind. He knows he will always try to protect them from anyone or anything that wants to do them harm, but is that love?

It must be, because he feels the same instinct to protect you, but it manifests in him differently.

"Chemically, it involves surging brain elements called monoamines, dopamines, norepinephrine, and serotonin."

Of course that would be Reid's answer.

He continues rattling off a list of foods that contain these chemicals, and Hotch tunes him out, turning back to the house. They're missing something, they have to be. It's not until they spot a small trailer out back that it clicks.

***

You don't know how much time passes until the effects of the drug finally wear off enough for you to rub your wrists together to loosen the tape around them. The noises outside the coffin stopped a while ago, and you assume the man has left, likely to resume his search for Jane.

When the tape finally breaks, you let out a relieved gasp and let your arms rest for a few moments, before you begin slamming your fists into the bottom of the lid. It doesn't budge, no matter how hard you pound at it, so you change tactics, instead clawing your fingers at the seams in search of a hinge or screw you can loosen.

You're still trying to pry open the lid when you hear a muffled voice speaking outside the coffin. Despite your determination to stay calm, your heart squeezes in your chest as you bring your hands up to fight back in case he opens the lid. You feel someone slide your box across the floor, before opening the top and flooding your eyes with light.

When you adjust to the brightness, you see the familiar faces of Hotch, Reid, and Prentiss standing above you, and you almost cry with relief. Hotch reaches down with a small "thank god" and pulls you up and out of the coffin. Prentiss carefully peels the tape off your mouth, wincing as some of the skin of your lips comes away with it.

When you're standing up again, your legs give out as the fear leaves you, and you collapse into Hotch.

He catches you easily, holding you against him tightly as you shake from the sheer relief of being found before something irreversible happened. You're acutely aware of your teammates watching you hang onto your unit chief as though your life depends on it, but you can't bring yourself to let go.

It's only after your hands stop shaking that he finally pulls away.

***

When you return from Texas, most of the team heads straight home, but Gideon hangs back, calling you into his office.

"How are you doing after today?" he asks as you shut the door behind you and take a seat in front of his desk.

"Fine," you say simply, looking him straight in the eye. You're not sure exactly what you're feeling, but it definitely isn't fine. The few times your eyes fell closed on the flight back, you could still feel Frank's fingers pressing the tape onto your face.

Gideon scrutinizes you for a moment, his brow crinkling as he waits for you to elaborate. You can appreciate his intention, but you really don't feel like talking about it right now. Not when the memory of the cold metal on your skin is still fresh.

"Okay," he concedes after a minute of silence. It's not really a concession - you can already hear him recommending you for a psych evaluation - but it's enough for the moment. "You don't have to do it right away, but you need to eventually fill out an incident report. I can get you the paperwork now, but I mean it, take your time."

He reaches into his accordion file folder and pulls out a sheet of paper that's mostly blank, except for a few lines at the top. "Just hand it in to me or Hotch when you're done."

You accept the paper and leave his office, with a promise to head home soon. You heard his suggestion to finish it in your own time, but you can't imagine coming back to this at a later date.

Dropping into your chair, you lay the paper down on your desk and read over the form. The first section is the same as every other form you've had to fill out at the bureau: name, date, badge number.

The second half is just one line of instruction before a vast sea of white space. Describe the incident in detail.

Images from Frank's workshop flash in your mind. A roll of silver duct tape. A bloody washcloth. A rusted scalpel. Nothing you can effectively put onto paper.

The words don't come, even as the lights in the hallway automatically turn off, and the hushed voices from the nearby offices go silent. You eventually stand up to shake out your legs and get another coffee, not because you need it to stay awake, but because it feels like the normal thing to do. The idea of sleeping just takes you back to the darkness of the coffin, and a shudder runs through you as you pour yourself a cup and dump the muddy remains of the pot in the sink.

You're about to head back to your desk to fruitlessly stare at the form for a little while longer, when your eye catches on a small lamplight from Hotch's office at the top of the stairs. Gulping back a mouthful of stale coffee, you toss the rest in the trash and grab your report before hiking up the stairs.

"You're still here?" he asks when you knock on his door and push it open. "I thought you left hours ago."

The same question Gideon asked you earlier is etched into his face, but you know he won't voice it just yet. He was always good about knowing your boundaries (and when to push them).

"I could ask you the same thing," you smile with a shrug, before flopping down into the chair by his desk. "You really need to replace this chair, by the way. It's horribly uncomfortable."

He snorts quietly. "It's a perfectly fine chair."

You laugh, the sound quickly turning into a yawn.

"Go home," he stresses, dropping his pen and fixing you with a pointed stare.

"You first."

"I have work to do."

"So do I."

He looks down at the paper in your hands. "Gideon gave you the form already? I was going to give it you in a few days."

"I'm glad he gave it to me today," you say, before dropping your eyes with a sigh. "I've just been having some trouble finding the words to describe what happened."

"You don't have to do it now..." he starts, but you cut him off.

"I do. I don't want to come back to this later. I need to finish it now, while I still can."

"Okay," he accepts after a moment. "Then take your time. I'll be here."

You fall into a comfortable silence as you bring your pen back down and start writing.

***

He doesn't finish his own paperwork until well after midnight. When he looks up from his reports, you're asleep, your head resting on your crossed arms over his desk.

He would normally wake you and tell you to head home, but you look so peaceful for the first time in too long. Haley and Jack would have gone to bed hours ago, so he figures it won't hurt to stay with you for at least a little while as you get some much needed rest. He can't imagine that sleep has been coming easy - he saw you shaking yourself awake each time you closed your eyes on the plane - so he lets you slumber.

He still hasn't gotten the image of you with your hands and mouth taped out of his head, and he doesn't know if he ever will. When your legs had given out, his arms had instinctively shot forward to grab you before his brain could catch up. He can barely look at the bandages on your wrist now, where the tape rubbed your skin raw.

Standing up from his chair, he slides his suit jacket down his arms and steps around his desk. Being extra careful not to wake you, he drapes it over your shoulders and lets you sleep.

***

Hotch gives you the next week off, but the quiet solitude of your house is too much to bear with all of the memories swirling through your brain. You know he would have called you if there was a case out of town, so a few evenings later, you find yourself in your car, driving over to the Virginia field office.

When you walk into the bullpen, it's empty aside from Reid at his desk and Prentiss at the coffee station. It's late, and you assume Reid is just taking some notes down from the last case, but you aren't sure why Emily is still here.

"Hey," she says when she sees you sit at your desk. "Don't you have the week off?"

She looks exhausted, but you understand where she's coming from. The urge to overcompensate for being new. For not being the agent you're replacing. You felt it with Gideon when you were transferred here. She likely feels it with Elle.

"I needed to get out of the house," you explain, adjusting your seat and settling back.

"I hear that," she says, before putting a lid on her coffee cup and grabbing her bag. "I should actually go home for once, but I'll see you in a few days."

Spencer doesn't look up from his notepad until the sound of the door closing behind Emily jerks him from his stupor.

"You're here," he states, as though he's not sure if he is supposed to be asking a question or not. "What are you doing here?"

You shrug, smiling at him. For a genius, he can be kind of clueless sometimes. "I wanted to see you guys."

"Oh," he says, placing his pen on his desk, "well, it's just me here."

You grin. "Works for me."

That makes him smile slightly, but it falls in an instant. "I'm glad you're okay."

Your heart leaps into your throat. "Thanks, Spence, me too."

You expect him to return to his notes, but he just looks down and back up again. "Are you? Okay?"

You frown, more out of a lack of understanding, but he starts backtracking immediately. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't press-"

"It's fine," you reassure, pressing your lips together. "It's what everyone's thinking anyway."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, so you continue to fill the silence. "You just can't let the stares get to you."

"How, though?" he says after a beat. You're not sure what he's asking, but the confusion you're feeling must be mirrored in your expression, because he elaborates. "Ever since my mom came here for the Garner case, I feel like everyone has been looking at me, with all this...pity."

Your chest squeezes as you think about all of the lingering stares that followed him around in the week after Garner killed himself. Even Morgan couldn't hide his shock when Mrs. Reid showed up at the field office. "Have I?"

He shakes his head, and your chest relaxes with relief. Spencer glances up at you, and he looks so young for a second. "You're one of the few who hasn't."

"I guess I just understand the stares better than anyone," you sigh, feeling the familiar ache as your memories return to you in flashes.

You hear him suck in a breath as the realization dawns on him. "Agent Adler..."

You nod and Reid gives you a second to take a breath before he continues. "He was my instructor once, you know. At the academy."

You smile as your eyes shine with unshed tears. "Yeah, I know."

There's this kid in my hand-to-hand combat seminar.

Kid?

He can't be more than 20, maybe 21 years old. But the kid has guts.

You remember those nights before Jeff joined organized crime so fondly these days. The calm before the storm.

"He never treated me differently."

You look up with a sad smile, the memory receding as Spencer shares his own. "Hotch made me take a few physical training classes at the academy after I joined. All the other instructors acted like I was a joke, or a prank being pulled on them...but he never did."

That doesn't surprise you. Jeff was so nurturing and kind, much better than you ever were before you met him.

"I really miss him sometimes," he whispers softly.

You reach forward and press your hand on top of his. He doesn't pull back. "Me too, kid."

***

You can't remember the last time the team went out together. There was one night, what feels like years ago, when you all got dinner together after an especially cut-and-dry case that ended within the first day you arrived on scene. When the cases are long and hard-fought, it's not the same; everyone bolts the minute the jet hits the tarmac.

Tonight, something feels different. There hasn't been a new case in a couple of weeks, and everyone seems lighter.

"I'm back," Haley smiles, carefully setting two drinks down on the little high top table you are crowded around. "Spicy marg for Emily, and mojito for me."

You're still nursing the old fashioned you ordered a half hour ago, and Hotch is only halfway through his pint of Guinness.

"How are they treating you at the BAU, Emily?" Haley asks, before putting the straw in her mouth and taking a large sip.

"She means is he being nice to you," you grin, cocking your head at Hotch as he shoots you a look of mock-offense. You know I'm right.

He flashes his eyes. And?

"Everyone has been incredibly nice," she says with a smile as a waitress approaches you with a drink in her hand.

She sets it on the table in front of you and glances behind her. "That man over there bought this for you."

Haley starts hooting before the waitress has a chance to leave the vicinity. She's definitely starting to feel her mojito, but you would never judge her on her one night away from the baby.

"That was weird," you say, hoping you don't look as awkward as you feel.

Haley leans forward and grabs your hand, an earnest smile on her face. "You should go talk to him! Only if you want to, of course."

"Yeah, it's your night off," Emily agrees, shooting you a smirk over the rim of her margarita.

"I don't know, guys," you say, sliding the drink to the center of the table.

You can tell Haley isn't done encouraging you to have a wild night, so you brace yourself for the pounce, but thankfully, Hotch stands up just as she's opening her mouth, and takes her hand. "Come on, honey, let's go show them how it's done."

"Oh!" she smiles, her face lighting up as she follows him onto the dance floor. "You ladies don't have too much fun without me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," you grin, before downing the last of your original drink.

Emily watches them shimmy into the crowd, her chin resting on her palm. "They are so sweet."

"They've been that way forever," you agree, glancing back over at them as they dance lazily in the center of the dance floor. Haley's movements are a bit looser as she slides through his arms, but he keeps a firm grasp on her hand, keeping her upright even when it looks like she may fall.

He still looks at her the same way he did in high school, when he saw her at that first rehearsal for Pirates of Penzance. There's so much wonder in his eyes, like he's seeing her for the first time, every time.

***

You should be happier right now. You're done with high school, sitting in a sea of green caps and gowns with all of your friends, but all you can think about is how soon he's going to be gone.

You're going to be at different schools next year. Him at Harvard, you at UCLA, opposite ends of the country, for four years. The gravity of what that means didn't sink in until this very moment, the worst possible timing, because you're supposed to be happy right now.

"High school couldn't end fast enough," the girl next to you grins, her cap decorated with the glittery letters of the school she will be attending next year. "I'm so ready for all of this to be over."

You're not. You force your lips into a smile and let yourself glance a few rows up, just for a moment. When it's just the back of his head, you aren't confronted by the confusing emotions that have been swirling around your brain for the last few months. Of course you would realize you're in love with your best friend a semester before school ends. But that isn't the only reason your timing couldn't be worse.

You wave at your dad in the crowd, you is wearing more school colors than even you are, and he waves back enthusiastically. It distracts you for a moment, but then you face the front again, and your eyes are drawn back to the same place.

He turns back then, with a grin meant just for you, and your heart flutters like it's in a butterfly enclosure. You smile back, more genuine this time, but his attention shifts behind you after a quick nod. You don't have to turn back to know who he's looking at in the stands.

You shouldn't be surprised they got along so well, you practically set them up. After their first date, he seemed lighter than air, giddy with the impatient brush strokes of a first love. The look in his eyes now is the same as it was that day.

How did it go?

I'm gonna marry that girl one day.

You don't know why you had just assumed he was joking around. Hotch never joked about things like this.

Eventually, he turns back around in his seat, and you stare at your hands as you clasp and unclasp them over and over and over again until you no longer feel the cavity in your chest where your best friend used to be.

***

The next case comes in as you're working on your second drink. JJ corrals everyone at the bar into taxis, and sends you all off to the airport where the jet is already fueled and waiting.

"You missed a fun night," you note as Gideon climbs into the plane, a few minutes after the rest of you arrived.

"I had a good time," he says simply, before sitting by himself a few rows over. He hasn't spoken to you since he gave you the incident report, but you know it's not about you. Being forced to let Frank get away was hard on him, but you don't know how to assuage his guilt about your kidnapping if he won't even look at you.

Derek flips open his case file and huffs out a breath. "Well, good time's definitely over."

"The Kyles," JJ says, beginning the briefing as the plane takes off, "Dennis and Lacy were murdered an hour ago in their suburban Atlanta home."

You look up, assuming you heard her wrong. "Only an hour ago?"

"Police were on scene unusually fast," she nods.

Derek frowns. "Why?"

"One of the unsubs called them and told them that the other was about to murder the victims."

Prentiss lets out a humorless laugh from across from you. "You're kidding."

"From inside the house."

JJ scans the file again. "According to the dispatcher, the first male sounded terrified and begged them to get there before the other, who they both identified as Raphael, was about to kill the sinners that lived there."

Gideon enters the conversation with a confused frown. "Sinners?"

"Also, when they arrived, the police found this displayed prominently on the bed." She holds up a photo of a page that looks torn out of a book.

"Revelations, chapter 6, verse 8."

Gideon sighs. "They're on a mission. And mission-based killers will not stop killing."

***

Gideon was right, as he usually is. The killings don't stop, and videos of the murders are posted online, spreading the killers' message for them.

"JJ, why don't you and Reid go out there, see if you can find Mr. Hankel and see if he remembers something."

"On it."

Garcia calls almost immediately after they leave. "There's a new video from our psycho."

Hotch stills. "Get it on the monitor here as soon as you can."

The police officer you met at the first crime scene joins you, Hotch, and Morgan in front of the computer as the video appears on the screen. The first thing you see is the dirty mattress. Then come the dogs.

You avert your eyes as the woman's screams for help fill the room.

"Jezebel's death," Hotch whispers, almost to himself.

"My god," Morgan grimaces. "You can turn it off."

The officer suddenly leans forward. "Oh, wait."

"You haven't seen enough?" Morgan asks, disgust coloring his tone. He has two sisters, both of whom he protects fiercely. You can't imagine what he's thinking about as he watches the screen.

"Those dogs," he says, his voice growing in strength as he speaks. "Those three dogs attacked someone a couple of months ago. I would have had them impounded, but the victim knew the owner."

"You have the owner's name?"

He checks his notepad, flipping through it rapidly. "Hankel."

Your blood runs cold. "Hankel?"

"Tobias Hankel."

You're on your feet before he can finish saying his name.

***

The drive to the Hankel farmhouse is filled with hand wringing and nervous leg bouncing. You keep catching Hotch glancing over at you, but you don't care. You just need him to drive faster.

When he pulls up in front of the house, you and Emily throw your doors open before he can come to a complete stop. Hotch and Gideon head toward the house, so you lead Prentiss and Morgan over to the barn, where you can hear the faint sound of panicked breathing.

Lifting your gun and flashlight, you push open the barn door and are greeted by the sight of JJ pointing her gun at you. "JJ, it's L/N, Prentiss, and Morgan. You're okay."

She looks frenzied, her hair and clothes covered in a layer of sweat and grime. When her flashlight comes down, you notice the dead dogs on the ground.

"Tobias Hankel is the unsub," she gasps, stumbling over to you.

"We know, honey," you whisper, taking her arm and leading her outside, before glancing at Emily behind you. "Call an ambulance."

She nods and rushes over to the clearing in search of better cell signal as Derek steps forward, his face still twisted into a worried frown. "JJ, where's Reid?"

"They just completely tore her apart," she babbles, her eyes still frantic even as you put your hands on her shoulders to steady her. "There's nothing even left-"

"JJ, look at me."

Her eyes snap over to Morgan, and he brings his voice down again. "Where's Reid?"

"We split up," she says, her voice still tight, but slightly calmer. "He said he was going to go in the back."

"House is clear," Hotch calls from behind you, making you spin around, your mouth twisting with dread.

"So where is he?"

JJ's eyes glance back at the cornfield behind the house, and suddenly you're running. You can hear someone calling your name, but all you can think about is Spencer with an unsub who's idea of torture is biblical and cruel.

There are two sets of footprints in the dirt by the edge of the field, but after a few feet, they turn to drag marks. Oh no, oh god no.

***

The whole team - except for Reid, your brain keeps reminding you - sets up in Hankel's house, with even Garcia joining you on the scene to limit communication time.

You can't sleep as you alternate between reading Hankel's journals and hovering over Penelope's shoulder as she pores through his downloaded images and videos. Even as exhaustion pulls at your eyes, you periodically splash your face with water from the bathroom to keep yourself up. If anyone can understand how terrifying it is to be taken by a psychotic killer, it's you. Succumbing to sleep feels like a defeat, like you've given up on him.

You don't find anything useful until after Emily and JJ return from meeting with Tobias's N.A. sponsor, but in the sixth hour of scouring his journal, your brain clicks with a realization. "Guys, some parts of this journal match his father's handwriting. But they were written after he died."

"The bedrooms upstairs..." Gideon mutters, his eyes shifting up like they do when he's thinking. "One of Tobias's personalities may be his father."

Your brow furrows and you look down at the journal in front of you even as your eyes burn with fatigue. "Then who is Raphael?"

"My guess," Gideon sighs, "a mediator between the two."

Hotch looks at you, and you can see the concern etched into his face. "We need to start profiling Tobias's father. He may be the one who chose where to take Reid."

Morgan nods. "I'll get Garcia on it."

He leaves the room and Hotch comes over to the table, where you're still staring down at one of the journals. Your hands are covered in pink half-moon indentations where your nails were pressed, and he fights the urge to take you away from here, to save you from this hurt. "You should get some rest."

"I'm fine, Hotch," you whisper through gritted teeth. He can hear the worry in every word that leaves your mouth. The terror at the prospect of losing the team's youngest profiler.

"You didn't sleep at all last night," he points out gently.

"Neither did you."

You're not wrong. He didn't get a chance to shut his eyes either, but he's used to the sleepless nights. He supposes you are, too.

Your focus returns to the journal, and you don't notice as he slips out of the room and finds Gideon by the front of the house.

"Reid's brilliant," the older man sighs when he notices Hotch, almost like he's trying to convince himself. "He'll make it."

"I take advantage of Reid for his brain," he says softly, "but I never teach him how to handle things emotionally."

Jason shrugs. "Lead by example."

"What kind of example is that?"

For a bunch of criminal psychologists, you all still have no idea how to truly deal with losing people. Maybe that's just how life works. He thinks about the weeks after Jeff's death, when he wasn't sure if you would ever be okay again. Even as he held you while you cried, and promised that you would feel okay someday, he's not sure if he ever actually believed it.

But then one day, your eyes stopped shining at the mention of his name, and you no longer fell apart after each time you had to question a victim's widow.

Even after your mother's death, you were stoic. He remembers holding your hand at the funeral, but your grip was almost stronger than his, like you were holding him up with your sheer willpower to stay upright.

Seeing you now, he's not sure what will happen if Reid doesn't come back. He just knows he doesn't plan on finding out.

He and Gideon rush back inside when Garcia's voice frantically calls for everyone to look at Hankel's monitors. His eyes squint inadvertently as the video feed of Reid tied to a chair lights up the screens in front of them, almost like his brain is trying to block out the image.

Your hand flies to your mouth, but not before a small anguished sound escapes. "He's been beaten."

"This is for us," Garcia whispers, tears streaming down her cheeks. "He knows we're here."

"I'm gonna put this guy's head on a stick," Morgan spits out, before turning around and slamming his fist into the room's wooden door.

Gideon leans closer to the screens, clearly trying to take in any detail he can from the scene. "Why can't you locate him?"

"He's rerouting to a different I.P. address every 30 seconds," Garcia explains, her voice thick through the tears. "I can't track him."

***

The screens shut off and the video feed of Spencer is gone. Penelope starts frantically typing away at the keyboard, likely in an effort to regain the signal, but it doesn't seem to be working.

Your body feels heavy, like there are weights on all of your limbs. Realistically, you know it's mostly the stress and exhaustion, but you can't stop thinking about the frightened look on Reid's face and how he must be feeling.

When you walk back through the house, the sound of a hushed argument in the kitchen catches your attention.

"JJ, what do you want from me?"

You recognize Morgan's voice, and you almost turn away to give them some privacy, but something in JJ's voice as she responds keeps you at the door.

"I just...I want someone to tell me the truth."

"The truth is one of you is here, and one of you isn't. You gotta figure the rest out for yourself."

You're walking inside before you can stop yourself. "Morgan, go help Penelope with the video file."

He looks surprised when he sees you, but he doesn't argue before leaving the room.

JJ rakes a hand through her hair as you approach her slowly. She doesn't shy away as you stand next to her, so you reach out and squeeze her forearm once before pulling back. "I was terrified when Frank took me in Texas."

She looks up with a shocked expression, her eyes finally meeting yours for the first time all day.

"I was terrified," you repeat, "but I never lost hope, because I knew you guys would come for me, no matter what."

Her eyes crinkle with sorrow and you pat her arm again, almost as much for you as for her. "I didn't blame anyone for what happened to me, JJ. Reid isn't blaming you either."

Her lip trembles, and you pull her into a hug as the tears finally come.

***

"Your team members...choose one to die."

Spencer gasps on the grainy computer monitor. "Kill me."

"Tell me who dies."

"No."

The back and forth continues as Hankel stalks toward him and lines his revolver up with Reid's forehead. "Choose."

"I-I choose Aaron Hotchner."

The room stills.

"He's a classic narcissist. He thinks he's better than everyone else on the team. Genesis 23:4. 'Let him not deceive himself and trust in emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense. In emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense.'"

Reid's words sink in and you unconsciously reach towards Hotch, but he's already walking out of the room. You follow him into the other room, the rest of the team on your heels.

"I'm not a narcissist," he says, his voice lighter than you're expecting. He grabs a Bible from the table and quickly flips through it, landing on the verse Reid mentioned.

"Come on, look," Gideon urges. "You can't think anything from that. He's not in his right mind, Hotch."

He waves away everyone's concern. "No. Stop. Stop. All right, everybody right now- what's my worst quality?"

No one says anything. You can feel Morgan revving up, so you jump in to start things off. "You're a workaholic."

Your mind flashes back to your hometown's library, all the late nights where you would fall asleep in your chair as he worked away into the early hours of the morning. His home was a trigger after his father died, and you could see the guilt eating away at him as he realized he didn't miss his dad as much as he was supposed to. As much as Sean did. The guilt that wore him down as he struggled to figure out how to be there for his brother, when he couldn't understand his pain.

He nods at you then, and there's nothing but determination behind his eyes.

"You're a bully," JJ chimes in.

Morgan adds, "You can be a drill sergeant sometimes."

Hotch is still nodding. "Right."

"You don't trust women as much as men," Emily says, her voice wavering slightly.

"Ok, good," he says, tapping the page with his finger. "I'm all these things, but none of you said that I ever put myself above the team, because I don't, ever."

"Hotch, what's your point," you whisper, chewing your lip as you anxiously glance back at the screen.

He shushes you with a wave of his hand. "Reid and I argued about the definition of classic narcissism, and he knew that I would remember that, and he also quoted Genesis, chapter 23, verse 4. Read it."

You lean forward, taking the book from him. "'I am a stranger and a sojourner with you. Give me property, forbear a place among you that I may bury my dead out of my sight.'"

"He wouldn't get it wrong unless it was on purpose."

"Bury my dead," Morgan repeats, his eyes widening. "He's in a cemetery."

***

Hotch heads to the nearest cemetery with Morgan and Gideon, while you follow closely behind, with JJ in the seat next to you and Emily in the back. The drive is short, and you all throw yourselves out of the SUV when you park, as everyone spreads out to search the cemetery.

"Come with me," you tell JJ when you see her eyes flit around the darkness, a slightly panicked expression on her face. "We'll find him."

The wet mulch of the graveyard sinks under your quick footsteps, and you keep your eyes peeled as his name choruses around you, from all of the officers milling around.

The search ends with the sound of a gunshot, and when you get to the source, you nearly collapse with the relief of seeing Hankel on the ground as Reid kneels beside him.

"Spencer," you gasp as the other agents examine Hankel's body. He looks up at the sound of your voice and his face contorts for a second as you kneel in front of him.

A small sound leaves his mouth and suddenly your arms are crushing him to you, your panic ebbing away with the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "You're okay. You're okay."

Hotch reaches out when you break apart and helps him up before Reid pulls him into a tight hug that surprises everyone. "I knew you'd understand."

Hotch tightens his arms for a moment, before they both pull back and JJ throws her arms around Reid. "I'm so sorry."

He pats her back, and for a split second, you can almost imagine he's comforting her, instead of the other way around. "It's all right. It wasn't your fault."

She steps away from him and he asks for a moment alone, so you all move back a few paces, allowing him the time to come to terms with the death of the man who somehow both tortured and saved him. You use the second of space to catch your breath as you will yourself not to let the tears of relief fall.

When Spencer finally stands up, you grab onto his shoulder as he wraps his arm around you, and you help him over to the ambulance that is waiting by the edge of the cemetery.

"Thank you," you gasp as he sits on the edge of the vehicle, suddenly unable to help yourself.

He frowns, his hair hanging in sweaty pieces in front of his face. "For what?"

"For staying alive."

***

The next case takes you to New York, where you find yourself hyper-vigilant as you watch Spencer try to acclimate to the job again. You can't help but notice the small changes in his demeanor, including the snappiness in his tone as he responds to everyone's questions, but you attribute it to the shock of his kidnapping.

After returning from the city, you decide to take some time to complete the paperwork you've been letting slide. Hotch managed to head home at a decent hour for once, and JJ and Prentiss are no where to be seen, but you spot Morgan twiddling his thumbs at his desk, his eyes darting over to peer at Reid almost as often as yours do.

An hour into scribbling out a case report, you head over to the coffee station to refill your mug. It has cooled down since you made it a couple of hours ago, but it still tastes just how you like it.

Burnt, Hotch's voice grumbles in your head. Even when he's gone, he won't leave you alone.

Topping off your mug, you turn around to get back to work and end up bumping into Reid, who looks worse for wear than he did on the jet.

"Shit, sorry," you smile, trying to get him to meet your eye. "I didn't see you there."

"Watch where you're going," he snaps, before stepping around you.

You don't let him get away that easily. Grabbing his arm, you hold him in place as he tries to wriggle away. "Spencer, don't do that. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

"I'm fine," he says simply, his expression almost emotionless as he glances back at you over his shoulder.

"I'm serious," you say, putting extra emphasis on your words. "I know what you're feeling. I can help."

His expression shifts into one of animosity and something else you can't place. "You don't know anything about what I'm feeling."

His words are like a slap to the face, and he uses your break in focus to tug himself out of your grip and stalk over to the bathroom around the corner.

You press your lips together, willing yourself not to take it personally. He's just been through a horrifying ordeal. No one can expect him to continue on like normal, at least for a little while.

"Something is up with him," Morgan says from his desk, before spinning in his chair to look at the spot where Reid walked away. "He's acting...hostile."

"He's just adjusting," you say quickly, your protective instinct coming out in full force. You close your eyes for a moment to calm your voice down. "This is a normal reaction for what he went through."

Derek doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't press the issue. You don't even know if you're convincing yourself, because you know why this kind of hostility and irritation manifests: when you're hiding something.

You weren't a particularly crazy teenager, so you didn't have much to hide from your parents, but there was one secret you held until you left for college that manifested in your daily interactions. One secret that changed how you acted around your best friend, how you spoke to him, how you even looked at him.

You push the thought away before turning to stare at the bathroom door as it falls shut behind Reid. You know Morgan's right. You just don't know what to do.

***

"Hey, Reid," Derek says, looking at him with a small smile. "What's going on up there?"

He shrugs. "Just thinking of this old friend of mine from Las Vegas, Ethan. Pretty sure he lives in New Orleans now."

JJ called you at home a few hours ago with the briefing and an instruction to pack for warm weather. Wanting to pack light, you threw on the tank top you planned to wear, and a button-down for the flight. A few cursory glances around the jet tell you that almost everyone else had the same idea. Of course, Hotch is still in his suit, and Reid has on a sweater vest that you're sure he won't take off, even if the temperature skyrockets.

"Really?" Derek asks. "You going to give him a call?"

Reid shrugs again, and you absentmindedly wonder if his shoulders hurt from the number of times he has used that motion over the past week. "We grew up competing against each other in absolutely everything. Spelling bees, science fairs. We also both had our hearts set on joining the Bureau but first day at Quantico he backed out."

Emily, who is sitting next to you, looks up with a grin. "He probably just couldn't take the heat."

"It's not really for us to judge, is it?" Reid states, and her face falls immediately.

"Right. My bad."

He hasn't been as irritable in recent days, but sometimes a random response will rub him the wrong way. You find Emily's hand on the armrest and squeeze it once. She looks down at her hand and then at you, a grateful smile on her face.

JJ directs everyone back to the images that were recovered as you approach Louisiana.

"A slaughter like this takes time," you note as you examine the depth and shape of the wounds on the dead man in the photos before you.

"Andrei Chikatilo fantasized that the men he killed were his captives," Reid adds, chiming in from across the cabin, "and that torturing and mutilating them somehow made him a hero."

Gideon nods, looking up from his file. "This city's barely back to life. Something like this could cripple its psyche."

"So," you say, looking at JJ. "Where do we start?"

She sighs. "All of the records were washed away in Katrina."

"With no case files, there's only one place we can start," Hotch says, drawing your attention. "Square one."

The plane lands soon after, and you disembark into the midday heat, heading to the latest crime scene immediately after dropping your bags off at the station.

Instead of a body, there's a very alive man waiting for you all at the scene.

"You must be BAU," he says, reaching out to shake JJ's hand. "Will Lamontagne."

She smiles at him, accepting the handshake. "Hi, Jennifer Jareau, we spoke on the phone."

The detective is looking at her so intently, you almost feel like you're interrupting something by bring here. "Okay, then. I pictured you different."

You glance over at Emily, who is already looking at you, a smirk on her face.

"These are Agents Gideon, Morgan, Prentiss, and L/N," she introduces. "This is Detective William Lamontagne Jr."

He nods at you. "Appreciate you guys being here."

"Of course," you say, trying to keep the smile off your face as you shake his hand. Beside you, JJ has turned a light shade of mauve that you presently allow her to pretend is just from the heat.

***

"Morgan called," Hotch mentions when you finally meet him back at the station. He hasn't seen you since you got off the plane. "He and Prentiss think the unsub is a woman."

You ponder the idea, your eyes lighting up as the gaps in the profile get filled. "All straight male victims, killed while on a night out at the bars. Always in groups of other men, drinking. A woman would be able to lure them away. That makes sense."

He nods, turning back to the letters from the unsub. He's about to call the rest of the team back in when he notices your forehead crinkle out of the corner of his eye. You look up at him. "Wait, you said Prentiss and Morgan think it's a woman. What about Reid? Didn't he fly out with them?"

He sighs, mentally kicking himself for letting that slip. He doesn't want you worrying about Reid any more than you already have been, but he knows there isn't anything he can do to stop you. "Apparently he missed the flight. They couldn't get ahold of him."

"What?" Your brow furrows with concern, and he quickly interjects to keep you from spiraling. "They will be back from Texas any minute now, and Gideon said he spotted Reid heading over here a few minutes before you arrived. Nothing has happened to him."

"What are you talking about?" you exclaim, before bringing your voice down. "The worst thing happened to him. He's hurting more than any of us can possibly imagine. I just don't know how to help him get through it."

He doesn't correct you. He doesn't say that almost every single member of this team can at least somewhat relate to what Reid may be feeling, including you. Instead, he puts his hand on your arm and says, "You're doing all you can."

You sigh. "And what's that?"

"You're promising to be there when he's ready for your help." He sees the tension visibly leave your shoulders, and he pulls his hand back. "That's all any of us can do."

***

When another body is found in the French Quarter, the plan changes. Everyone disperses in pairs to cover the streets in the hopes of catching the unsub in action.

Even as night falls, the temperature doesn't, and you strip off your over-shirt, leaving you in a pale pink tank top. When you emerge from the bathroom, Hotch is the only one waiting for you outside, with all of the other pairs already patrolling Bourbon Street.

He gives you a funny look when he sees you tying your button-down around your waist, and you bump your shoulder against his with a laugh. "What are you looking at?"

He exhales in a quick burst, before meeting your eye. "You look different."

"That doesn't sound good."

"No," he shakes his head, his eyes blinking shut as he clearly regrets his choice of words, "no, it's good...uh, you look good."

Your stomach flips and you turn your face down to hide the smile that's threatening to appear. "Thanks, Hotch."

He huffs out a laugh before leading you up to the bars, where tourists are bustling around in large groups. The sounds of buskers playing their accordions at the street corners loosens a memory from your brain, and you turn to him with a bright smile. "Remember your first performance of Pirates of Penzance?"

He frowns. "I remember it being my first and last foray into the world of theater."

"No," you giggle, glancing around you periodically even as you continue the story. "I mean, do you remember how that one accordion player tripped and almost fell into the orchestra pit like ten minutes into opening night?"

His eyes light up at the memory and he laughs. "I thought it was hilarious, but Haley was so stressed out the whole performance. To this day, I've never seen that vein in her forehead get so big."

"You were pirate number four," you chastise him with a grin. "She was one of the leads. I hardly think you can compare experiences."

He shrugs, his eyes still scanning the vicinity. He looks like he wants to say something, but then you both notice Morgan and Reid rushing towards one of the side streets and your conversation halts. "Let's go."

***

With help from Detective Lamontagne and his late father, the team is able to catch the unsub right before she kills another man. Once she's in custody, you wait outside by the ambulances, watching from afar as JJ and Will talk by his car.

After a few minutes, she hands him something and walks back over to where you're standing. "I can't believe I just did that."

"What did you do?" you ask, trying not to laugh at how freaked out she looks.

She puts her face in her hands for a second, before looking at you with a sigh. "I gave him my number."

"That's good!" you smile, squeezing her arm. "That's good, right?"

"I don't know," she says softly, her eyes squinting as she looks at you. "He seems really sweet. And he's clearly great at his job. I think the distance just worries me."

"You can take it slow," you tell her earnestly. "This doesn't have to be any more serious than you want it to be."

"What if I want it to be serious? Eventually, I mean."

You can't help but smile at the look on her face. You recognize it on yourself from when you first met Jeff: the excitement of possibility. "Then that's up to you too."

She nods, and you let out a smile. "Let loose, JJ. He seems like a good one, and you definitely deserve something good."

JJ glances over at the police cars, where Will is talking to one of the paramedics. "I hope so."

***

You sit by yourself on the flight home, giving yourself a bit of time to unwind from the case. You don't encounter female unsubs often, but the ones that arise always have a tendency to get under your skin. Maybe it's because their motivations seem so different from the others. Or maybe you just feel bad for them.

You're so zoned out that you don't realize Spencer is sitting next to you until he taps your arm. "Hey."

"Hey, Spence," you smile, trying to keep your tone light so he doesn't think you expect too much. "What's up?"

He looks down for a beat before meeting your eyes. "I'm sorry."

Your heart twists and you press your lips together to keep from speaking too quickly. "You never have to apologize to me."

"I do," he says, shaking his head. "Please just let me."

He looks so strong all of a sudden. You haven't seen him look so steady in months, and it makes your chest feel lighter. "Okay. I forgive you, Spencer."

He nods, making a move to get up, but you don't let him get away just yet. "Just promise me something."

He purses his lips, like he's unsure of how to respond, but eventually he dips his chin into another nod.

"Promise me that next time you feel this way, you'll come to me."

He looks at you with an expression you can't decipher, but it quickly falls into contrition. "I promise."

***

"What are you thinking about?" Hotch's shoulder bumps yours as he sits down on the edge of the desk next to you.

"Nothing," you say quickly. He's not sure why you're lying. He can sniff out your dishonesty from a mile away.

"I thought you and Reid got a chance to talk on the plane last week," he frowns, following your line of sight.

You sigh, turning your gaze away from the younger agent. "We did. I just keep thinking about what he said about the unsub at the last scene."

He's like a drug addict.

It would be almost impossible for him to quit without help.

"All of us knew," he says softly, his eyes turning up, searching for something he can't see. "To some extent, we knew. But he's doing a lot better now. We just have to give him time to trust us with the truth."

Your eyes find his. "How did you know you could trust me? When we were kids, I mean?"

Your question takes him aback. He wants to say something profound, to mention a specific moment when he realized that he could share the worst parts of his life with you without the fear that the world would end, but it wasn't that poetic. All he knows is that you were a kid, and he was too, and the first time you saw the splotches of black and blue painting his skin, you didn't turn away. You looked at him, not with pity or sorrow, but with a strength that he still draws from to this day. "I think I just knew you would always be there."

You ponder his words, your eyes traveling back to Reid, who is flipping through a book he brought with him. He knows there are a lot of ways you could take what he said, but he believes you'll take what you need, because he was telling the truth.

You really were always there for him. Even when you weren't - either because of physical distance or because you were in a fight - he never doubted that you would be there if he needed you.

"Come on," he says after a beat. "Let's head back."

You nod, your mind still a million miles away. "Okay."

***

Friday nights used to be your date night. Jeff would promise to be home by seven, usually with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers, and you would cook something special together before watching a movie or falling into bed.

After he died, Friday nights became your least favorite time of the week, serving as a constant reminder of what you should have, and no longer do.

Today, for the first time in over two years, you think you might be ready to remember those nights you used to love. Grabbing a bottle of cabernet from your pantry, you pull out a thin-stemmed glass and pour yourself some wine. Your heart thuds heavily as you swirl the wine around, and you are willing yourself to bring the glass to your lips when your pager goes off. You feel a shameful sense of relief as you set your glass down and reach for your purse.

181 Arthur Street. Why does that look familiar?

You wrack your brain for a second before it clicks. It takes you less than a minute to toss your wine into the sink and grab your coat.

***

"Where's Gideon?" you ask when you spot Hotch and the team standing in his kitchen.

"He's not here," he replied. "It seems he left in a hurry."

Morgan looks at him with an urgency you recognize in yourself. "PD thinks he did this?"

"They have six witnesses who saw him running down the street covered in blood, wielding a gun."

"Okay, he was probably chasing the son of a bitch who did do this."

Hotch shrugs, and you can feel the momentary helplessness in the motion. "Either way, we're under strict orders not to get in the way of the investigation."

"Gideon's a suspect," Emily nods, "we're his colleagues."

"Conflict of interest," JJ agrees. "There's no way they'll ask for our help."

"Which he needs badly right now."

You turn into the bedroom to look at the crime scene for the first time. The mutilation of the victim's body brings a familiar nausea to your stomach that you swallow down. "Do we know who she is?"

Hotch comes in behind you. "An old school friend." He turns back to spout off a list of instructions to JJ, but you can't take your eyes off of the woman.

Evisceration of the torso. Removal of various organs. No defensive wounds.

Something in her hand catches your attention and your eyes flicker down to see what she's clutching. Using one of your gloved hands, you pry open her fist and reveal a broken piece of bone. A rib bone.

"Frank," you whisper, almost to yourself. "It's Frank."

"What did you say?" Morgan asks, stepping up next to you. You unfurl your hand to reveal the bone, and he swears under his breath. He turns around to address the rest of the team. "Frank's back."

After JJ snaps a dozen photos of the crime scene on her phone, you all head out into the night air to regroup and formulate a game plan. You hang behind the team on the walk out, your mind spinning with memories of hands and voices you still see sometimes when you're trying to fall asleep.

"Y/N." Your eyes snap up to Emily's as she strolls alongside you. "You okay?"

She looks sincere, and you find yourself wanting to talk all of a sudden. You nod, heaving out a sigh. "Yeah, it just feels very fresh all over again."

"I can imagine." She takes your hand and gives it a small squeeze. "You can come to me if you need a break from all of it."

She leaves you with an earnest smile, and you realize, not for the first time, how glad you are that she's on the team.

***

You aren't able to save Rebecca Garner this time. Frank kills her, and you once again feel that familiar bitterness of nausea rising in your throat as you see her mutilated body.

When you realize he's going to go after children again, you join Hotch and Morgan as they go to Tracey Belle's house.

"We need a crime scene team," Hotch barks into his comm when the home comes up empty, no trace of anyone inside.

"That's my house!"

You turn around and see Tracey's parents running up to the entrance, panic reflected in their eyes.

Hotch steps forward to block them. "Mr. Belle..."

"You have to let us in. My daughter's in there."

He turns to the mother. "Ma'am, you can't go in right now."

"Where's Tracy? Where is she?"

You can see the interaction pulling him down, like a ship anchored to the sea floor.

"What's important to know right now is Tracy is alive, okay? Your daughter's alive."

S.W.A.T. takes the parents aside to explain the situation to them in more detail, and you go to Hotch's side as a pained expression crosses his face. More than anything, you want to comfort him. To tell him that Tracey isn't Jack, that this won't happen to him...but how can you?

Gideon's girlfriend was murdered tonight. Jeff was killed while undercover. Your mother was killed by a drunk driver. No one is ever really safe.

Your eyes flash back over to Mr. and Mrs. Belle, and your chest tightens almost uncontrollably as you imagine how scared Tracey must be.

When Emily and JJ find Jane in a holding cell at the local precinct, her knowledge of Frank's backstory provides more clues about his whereabouts. You go with JJ and Reid to his mother's apartment in Manhattan, while the rest of the team heads to the train station to find Frank.

The idea of Tracey being all alone, frightened for her life, plagues your every thought as the three of you drive to the city. You try to clear your mind as you push through the front door and check for any sign of life. Instead, what you find is the dusty corpse of Frank's late mother.

"Guys, over here." Reid points to a latched door. Stepping around the bed, you immediately unlock the door and throw it open, revealing the tiny, shivering form of Tracey.

"Oh, sweetie," you gasp as sits up in fright, her posture only relaxing once she sees the FBI vests. "You're okay, honey."

You undo the ties on her wrists and she all but falls forward and into your arms. You pull her into a tight hug, making sure to be careful of any possible injuries she could have sustained. The feeling of her chest rising and falling against yours brings you a familiar comfort, and you squeeze her tighter, before finally letting go.

***

He finds himself in Strauss's office again as he explains what happened with the Frank case. How he killed himself and Jane, but he can't bring himself to take that as a failure, because he knows she never would've found the strength to leave him anyway. "Once again, the team has battled a monster and won."

"The future of the BAU is not in the balance here." Her eyes are brimming with scorn. "The residual impact as a result of the investigations into the crimes and criminals you pursue is. Every cause has its effect."

He almost scoffs. "You think I don't know that?"

"I believe you are no longer effective in your post."

There it is. He knows she never liked the way he handled his team. The next words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "The modern furniture, strategically placed magazines, the framed diplomas, the art on the wall are all in conflict with your family photos."

Her eyes widen but he just continues, undeterred.

"You have three children, but you favor the middle one, your son."

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Of course you love all your children," he shrugs, "but not like your son."

Strauss twists her hand into a fist. "That's enough."

"The bonsai that you obsessively nurture is to compensate for feelings of failure as a mother..."

"Agent Hotchner," she says, her voice bordering on rage. "I said that is enough. My position is not in question here. As your superior I am questioning your ability to lead your team."

"My team?" he scoffs, unable to keep the malice from his tone. "Let me tell you about my team. Agent Morgan fought to protect his identity from the very people who could save him. Why? Because trust has to be earned and there are very few people he truly trusts.

"Reid's intellect is a shield which protects him from his emotions and at the moment his shield is under repair.

"Prentiss overcompensates because she doesn't yet feel she's a part of the team. She needn't worry.

"Every day, Agent Jareau fields dozens of requests for our team. And every night she goes home hoping she's made the right choices.

"Garcia fills her office with figurines and color to remind herself to smile as the horror fills her screens.

"Agent Gideon in many ways is damned by his profound knowledge of others, which is why he shares so little of himself. Yet he pours his heart into every case we handle.

"And Agent L/N," he pauses finally, taking a moment to find himself again, "she has taken the immense loss that life has handed to her and transformed it, not into cynicism, but into empathy, for her team, for the victims, for the world."

Strauss doesn't say anything, and he can't help the vindication that shines through his voice as he says, "I stand by my actions and I stand by my team. And if you think that you can find a better person for the job, good luck."

"Agent Hotchner," she emphasizes, making him look back at her one last time.

"How do I know you favor your son?"

She simply looks at him, a mixture of irritation and shame on her face.

"I'm good at my job."

***

"What's wrong?" Hotch looks up in surprise as you sidle up next to him. He was staring at the portrait of the FBI director, hanging in the hallway outside the bullpen, and he only does that when he's professionally stressed.

He looks like he wants to avoid the question, but you fix him with a glare that makes him sigh. "We're being evaluated."

"Doesn't that happen every year?" you ask, still not understanding.

"It's six months early."

You take a deep breath. This past year has been tough for everybody, but you think the team has come through the other side better people. "So they're assessing our unit. It'll be fine, we did great work this year."

"The only file they didn't request was mine."

That sends a spike of anxiety through your bloodstream, but he doesn't need your fear. "They could never fire you. You stepped up to the plate when Gideon left. You helped make this unit what it is."

You're the reason I joined at all, you want to say. You made this unit my family. I can't imagine being here without you.

But that isn't fair. He doesn't need to carry this with you. This burden of having no one else.

So instead you just smile at him, bump his shoulder with yours, and say, "You're going to be fine. This team wouldn't be the same without you."

TAGLIST: @citrusiove, @distortionbobble, @sanayikes (message me to be added!)

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messylxve · 1 year ago

Text

goddess | elle greenaway x famous!reader

content warning: unlabeled sexuality, SA, douchy men, self-deprecating thoughts, soft elle, google translate spanish, laufey

divider by @enchanthings

It always goes like this

Could have predicted it

I’m so naive to think you loved me for me

It was almost humiliating how many times you’d been in this position. Heels were abandoned at the door, makeup streaked down your face, and your heart felt too heavy to even make it to your own bedroom.

You threw yourself on your couch, dragging a blanket over yourself and taking your phone out apprehensively. Through your tears, you felt the hesitation of dialing that number.

The number you knew through and through.

You knew it by heart.

‘She doesn’t want to hear from you,’ that little devil whispered into your ear. ‘She’s so sick and tired of you and your bullshit.’

A whimper escaped your lips. You wanted to throw your phone and let it shatter on impact. But you never did.

Instead you clutched it tighter and shoved yourself deeper into the cushions of your couch, the memories of that night resurfacing.

Kissed as I ran off stage

Too old to play this game

Guess you’re still growing up at thirty

You met him on a quiet Sunday morning. You were at your favorite cafe and there he was, approaching you. Calling you beautiful, unlike any other girl you’ve met.

But most of all. He didn’t recognize you.

You detested dating fans. You already got your heart broken there before. You swore off of that.

He showered you with so much affection, you completely missed the signs.

Red flags always seemed normal under your rose-tinted view of the world.

Were you surprised by me

When you took me home?

When the glamour wore off

Reduced to skin and bone

You should have known it was all a lie.

You should have known he was just like all the other

You don’t know how long you sat there, wallowing in self-pity, but the sound of your phone ringing took you out of it for just a moment.

You pulled it away from where it was resting under the couch pillow and your eyes widened at the name.

Elle <3

Once again, you hesitated, your thumb hovering over the green button. You finally picked it up on the third ring.

“Ellie, hi!” You cringed at the way your voice nearly immediately cracked as you tried to feign your usual chipper mood.

“Hey lovely.” Her voice sounded so comforting. Even with just two words, you felt a twinge of warmth attempt to spread through your chest. “You okay?”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah, what makes you ask?”

“You sound like you’ve been crying. And it’s nearly midnight in LA, you aren’t usually this chipper this late unless you’re faking it.”

A sigh escaped you. You never could lie to her.

“You’ve always been so observant.” Your voice dropped the octave now that the facade faded.

“I hope so,” she chuckled lightly. “It’s kind of my job. Do you want to talk about it?”

‘She doesn’t mean it. She’s just being nice.’

“I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

She hummed in disapproval. “You know I always want the details from mi estrella.”

A sad smile slid on your face at the nickname given to you in your childhood; coined after you had gotten the solo in the choir concert.

‘Super star by day, best friend by night,’ 10-year-old Elle had quipped.

You huffed out a small laugh before it all fell away as you recounted your date that night.

“You remember Trevor right? Met him at that coffee shop on Melrose Avenue?”

You heard a pause on her end before she spoke again, her voice softer. “I do.”

“Well…I had a date with him tonight. Fourth one.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

His lips pressed harshly into yours and his hands skimmed over your body as you struggled to keep up.

“I invited him to see me at a concert. My final one on my tour.”

I can’t even tell

Who you want to know

“Trev,” you had tried to laugh. “Slow down.”

Your words fell upon deaf ears as he kissed down to your jaw and began attacking at your neck.

“I um…I thought it was a good idea to invite him backstage when it was over…talk to him for a bit before I had to go out again.”

Elle listened as your tone got darker and darker, reliving your own fresh memories. She heard every bout of emotion in your voice. The pain that shone through from a broken heart.

He began lifting your skirt. You grew dizzy with nausea the more he continued.

‘This isn’t right,’ a tiny voice screamed at you.

“Trev—Trevor, please stop.”

Your hands found his chest, steadying yourself on it before pushing him away. “I said stop!”

“y/n…” Elle’s voice was a whisper now.

“I-I told him I didn’t want that. That I didn’t think we were there yet. He didn’t really like that…”

I’m a goddess on stage

Human when we’re alone

“What do you mean we’re not there yet,” he scoffed. “I’ve been waiting for basically two months for you to be ready.”

He moved in close again, placing a hand on your waist. “I’m so tired of waiting. I’ve listened to your stories, your music. Hell I even talked to that she-devil of a friend of yours, Bella.”

You couldn’t decide whether or not to feel disgusted or betrayed. “It’s Elle…You mean you didn’t want any of that?”

“I wanted you, baby…isn’t that enough.”

You cried freely now into the phone and Elle listened quietly, her own heart breaking for you.

“You’d be proud of me Ellie,” you sniffed. “I stood my ground. Told him no.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, regardless if she’d see it or not. “Yeah… He didn’t really like it though. I had to call security to escort him out.”

“Did he put his hands on you,” she asked.

You bit your lip, the line going quiet for just a moment before you spoke again. “Do you think I can visit you? Just for a week or so?”

She frowned at the sudden change in topic.

“Of course you can, lovely.”

That next day moved so painstakingly slow for Elle. It was a paperwork day which meant she got to sit around anxiously as she waited for another call from you.

You had already called twice. Once to tell her you were leaving your apartment, twice to tell her your plane was about to depart from LA.

Hours has passed and now she awaited your call telling her you were at the airport waiting.

“Alright,” Derek quipped, rocking back in his chair. “What’s up with you today?”

Elle looked over at the man, lifting an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been staring at your phone all day,” Spencer claimed, not looking up from his paperwork.

Elle’s attention snapped between the two men before finally settling on Morgan. “So?”

Derek grinned. “So…? You hate the phone Elle, now you look like you’re waiting for it to come to life in front of your eyes.”

The girl scoffed out a laugh, shaking her head.

“You know what I think it it,” Derek continued. “I think you’ve got Mr. Mystery you’re waiting on.”

Her smile halted for just a second at his words. She twirling the pen in between her fingers once then twice. “You’re delusional Morgan.”

Almost right on cue, her phone rang and Derek let out a laugh seeing the usually preserved woman scramble for it.

“Agent Greenaway.”

“So professional,” you mused, a sly grin sliding on your lips.

A smile eased onto her expression as she turned away from Morgan’s prying eyes. “Hola amorcito. ¿Cómo estuvo tu vuelo?”

“It was good, I slept the whole way here.”

“Eso es bueno. Lo necesita.”

“Rude,” you fake gasped. “Are you calling me grouchy?”

“Sabes lo que quise decir y/n.”

Morgan and Reid looked at each other as they listened to Elle’s end of the conversation, completely clueless as to what you were saying.

“Estaré allí en veinte. Estar segura. Te amo.”

Reid furrowed his brows curiously. He might not have been a whiz in Spanish, but he definitely caught those last words.

“Alright boys, you better behave.”

Spencer frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The two of you had spent the rest of the day together.

You didn’t want to go out, so she took you straight to your apartment and there you had the time of your life. You two binged movies, played board games, and now you were cooking together.

It was pure bliss and you couldn’t as for more.

“I missed this,” Elle mused.

You sat perched on the counter, your head laid comfortably on the cabinet behind you and you passed ingredients to the cooking woman.

“Cooking,” you asked with a giggle.

She looked over at you with a laugh. “Pass me the oregano would you. And no I don’t mean cooking. I mean being with you. Phone calls don’t feel like enough anymore.”

You twisted your body around as you shuffled through her spice cabinet. “Yeah,” you mused. “Hearing your voice is definitely what keeps me sane though.”

Elle’s heart stuttered at those words. The cooking spoon in her hand slowed it stirring and she looked up at you.

“I can’t find the oregano,” you mumbled, your attention now fully on the cabinet.

“…it’s on the second shelf,” she cleared her throat, pointing up to where it should be.

“I’m looking on the second shelf,” you whined playfully.

“Here,” she moved away from the hot stove and in front of you, leaving over your head to reach it. “It was right…there.”

She didn’t even realize what position she had put herself in until it was much too late. Either one of your thighs laid beside her hips. You looked down at her and you could feel her breath on you. You could smell her addicting perfume that you found yourself missing every time you two were apart.

It was like an invisible magnet between you two, beckoning the both of you closer and closer. So close that you felt her lips brush against yours.

It was like an epiphany to you. Everything clicked in your head.

The pauses over the phone.

The nicknames.

Hiding your phone calls from her team.

But just as the fireworks began to rise, they sizzled out before ever going off.

She pulled away, clearing her throat awkwardly.

‘You’re so delusional,’ that ugly voice hissed to you. ‘She’s seen the real you. The ugly you. Why would she want that?’

You swallowed hard and blinked away your tears. “Elle.”

She didn’t look over to you. Just focused on finishing the meal. “Yeah?”

You released a dying sigh. “Do you…do you think I’m unlovable?”

She had never looked up so fast. You would have thought the spoon burned her from how quickly she dropped it.

“What?”

You felt like the question was a plot for attention, but it wasn’t. It was probably one of the most genuine questions you asked in a long time.

“I- never mind. I’m sorry.”

Elle looked at you as if you grew a second head right in front of her. “y/n,” she moved back to that same position she had just run from. Except this time, her hands fell to your cheeks, caressing them oh-so gently. “How could you ask that question?”

You frowned. “How could I not?” It came out as a whisper. A moment of pure vulnerability. The first of its kind since that phone call last night.

“I’m not that impossibly perfect, beautiful super star they all expect me to be. I’m just…me. No one wants that.”

Elle shook her head, eyes scanning all over your face before finally settling on your eyes once more. “I want that.”

She felt you freeze under her grasp, but she continued on. “Every single failed date and false expectation was never your fault. You are…so incredibly talented, beautiful, and utterly amazing. In more ways than people give you credit for. If all these other people can’t love you the way I do, for you, then they don’t deserve you.”

Your breath stopped in your chest. Stuck. Unable to move in or out. “You love me? Or do you love me?”

You put that emphasis on your final words. There was no other way it could have been interpreted other than

“y/n, I am so utterly in love with you. I have been for a long time.”

Your hands found her wrists where you stabled yourself onto her. A smile broke free from your shocked expression. With a broken laugh, you surged forward, pressing your lips onto her’s in a kiss.

“I love you too.”

Translations:

“hi lovely how was your flight.”

“That’s good, you needed it”

“You know what I mean y/n”

“I’ll be there in twenty. Stay safe. I love you.”

@mackannkees

AN: I can’t believe I wrote that all in one night. It’s officially 3am as of posting, I’m not expecting this to get much attention, this was more self-indulgence if anything. I hope u guys like it tho

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underratedbreadcrust · 2 months ago

Text

Chance Equals Fortune — Chapter Two

Squid Game | The Salesman x F!Reader

Summary: the salesman meets face to face with the outcome of his betrayal, the punishment worse than what he could've imagined. as the time for the games approaches, you say goodbye to both your present and your past in hopes of a better future.

Warnings: mentions of torture and sex slavery (very brief), most likely some out-of-character actions from the salesman.

a/n: guess who's not dead. i really have no excuse for such a long absence other than life being a pain in the ass. if anyone is still here, thank you so much for your patience, i appreciate every single person who has stayed.

Words: 3.8k

<<previous part

Time had passed relatively quickly. The days blurred into one another as the salesman’s memory folded them like a worn-out book. The monotony of his schedule was as dependable and predictable as the ticking of a clock. Rise, recruit, return. Yet, over the past few weeks, no major events had taken place that should’ve caused the man any feelings of distress. Everything had been quiet…too quiet.

In the days following the salesman’s meeting with Gi-hun, there had been no notice or visit from the higher-ups concerning the outcome of their little game. Something that he had expected to happen almost immediately. In fact, that same night, as he lay atop the twin-size bed of his newly acquired hideout, he imagined that the darkness he saw when he closed his eyes would be the last thing he would ever perceive. So, it was much to his surprise when the next morning, daylight flickered in and illuminated the space of his room and not the rainfall of gunfire.

Could this be a tactic? Some way to lull me into a false sense of security?

When it came to recruiting, the rules were very strict. Call in after each shift to report on the occurrences of the preceding hours. It would be foolish of him to assume that they had taken no notice of the fact that he hadn’t dialed in as he had every other night without fail. As days turned into weeks, and the silence became ever so deafening, he decided the best thing to do was to continue his job as usual. There was no reason for him to seek out calamity when it was bound to find him in the end. Who knows? Perhaps they were waiting for him to finish serving his intended function before disposing of him for good.

Regardless of their reasoning, I cannot let my guard down.

After the recruiter spoke with Gi-hun, he made sure to take all the preventative measures necessary. First, he was sure to find some refuge that would make it much more difficult to be spotted. Next, although he resumed his job of rounding up players for the games, he made certain that each individual could not be traced back to him. Finally, he strayed as far as possible from places where he knew employees of the games would frequent. Having had a hand in hiring a significant portion of the workers, he knew the details of all their non-criminal pass times. Such as where they lived, worked, and socialized. Of course, this limited the number of places where he could gather food and other necessities, but nothing that he hadn’t handled before.

Despite the constant vigilance he has implemented into his daily life, it never stemmed any feelings of fear. Every day was unpredictable. After having lived so long controlling the fates of others by waving their flaws, unmasking their misfortune, and then offering them a treat, the tables were now suddenly turned on him. Instead of being the hunter, he was now the exposed creature on the other end of a blade, facing the razor edge of the decision which is now costing him the life he had worked so hard to build. He knew too well that the games weren’t just about the players. There was always collateral damage—those who walked the fine line between participant and observer, those who facilitated it all in the shadows. And now, it seemed, he was no longer immune to the consequences. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he felt lost.

However, it didn’t matter what emotions or inner turmoil he could be experiencing. Very soon, someone would find him and haul him away, hiding him from the rest of the world where he would never be seen again by the eyes of the public.

I wonder…what method they will use?

His mind swirled with the endless possibilities of punishments they might inflict on him. He could practically feel the cold metallic of the instruments cutting through his skin, pulling away at his tissue, tearing at his muscles, until finally cracking bone.

Of course, I cannot eliminate the possibility of being turned into new shiny entertainment for the V.I.Ps. In that case, should I prepare myself in some way? Who knows what sort of fantasies they would have me perform and whether—

*POP!*

“The total is 26,000 won please.”

The sharp sound jolted the man back to the present. He blinked, disoriented. He has to shake his head to physically tear his focus away from his thoughts and back to the cashier standing in front. A young lady who was currently staring at him with an expression of feigned concern that poorly masked her irritation.

“Are you alright?” She tried again. This time, the tone of her voice turned sour as her brow furrowed, clearly puzzled about what was causing the delay from the other man to pay.

He cleared his throat as he forced out a chuckle, his instincts kicking in. “Pardon me,” he said, his voice light and polished, “I have no idea where my mind is today.” His hand reaches around to fish out his wallet as he feels her eyes on him, judging and impatient. He doesn’t wait for her to hand him his change before taking hold of the bags of food and heading for the exit, the bells of the doorway jingling aggressively on his way out.

From the moment he steps out, he inhales greedily, the crisp winter breeze a stark contrast to the fried oil aroma from the inside of the fast food joint. The salesman’s breath forms small clouds in the cold air as he begins his trek in direction of shelter. As he walked, he took the time to appreciate the scenery he had neglected for far too long. The leaves around him fell in cascades of gold and red whilst the air carried the faint scent of decay. Autumn was announcing its retreat as the beginnings of winter were taking its place. Tonight was a chilly November night, the first, to be exact. The night before the start of the games.

The salesman pulled up his sleeve to see the time. 11:45. By now, the vans should be arriving at their designated spots.

With that thought, his mind seemed to unconsciously drift to you, the girl whose volatile nature had managed to completely render useless all of his skills and tactics as a recruiter. You, who had unraveled his carefully constructed facade with nothing but your words and your presence. You, the only one who had managed to beat him. He would be lying if he said he was uninterested, wondering if your decision to join the games was a positive one. Your words echoed in his brain like a mantra, “I never lose.” Was that a threat or a promise? Perhaps that is the one thing he will regret the most from his sudden “betrayal,” he won’t be around to witness you in your full glory as a player. The storm of emotions you managed to make him feel in the span of one game, was more excitement than he had felt in years since the start of his career as a recruiter.

Before he could dwell any further on you or the effects you had on him, he was taken off guard by the low purr of an engine. His head whipped up, his body tensing at being caught in such a vulnerable state. His gaze immediately fell on the sleek black limousine that was pulling up beside him on the now-empty street.

I guess this would make it the second time you’ve managed to distract me.

The back window rolled down, revealing a man shrouded in shadow. The voice that emerged was calm, measured, and utterly devoid of warmth. “Get in.”

He hesitated. Momentarily debating on taking his chances before realizing there was only one possible outcome of this interaction. With his usual bravado, he squared his shoulders and strolled to the car door with as much elegance and poise as he could muster. His fingers twitching slightly as he drew his arm and reached for the door.

As he slid into his seat, the door closed behind him with a soft thud. Once inside the expensive vehicle, he slipped on his usual mask of ease and uninterest. The interior was dimly lit, the faint glow of the dashboard casting long shadows across the plush of the leather seats. The air was thick with the fragrance of expensive cologne. The figure in front of him was a mostly dark silhouette, the only visible feature being his geometric-shaped mask.

As the car pulled away from the curb, gliding smoothly through the dark night, the tension in the space between the two men thickened, the heavy atmosphere becoming suffocating.

“You have been…elusive,” the frontman’s voice rumbled, his stern tone being the first sound to break through the silence. “I suppose you are aware of the reason for why I am here.”

The recruiter let out a heavy sigh and clicked his tongue. “I assume it is not for pleasant conversation? After all, you have never been the sociable type, sir.”

A humorless chuckle emanated from the man. “I can see your sense of humor hasn’t disappeared, though I can’t say the same for your sense of loyalty.” The frontman leans forward, his voice lowering to a hiss, the fury evident in every word. “What the hell were you thinking?”

The recruiter’s head turned up, his gaze turning contemplative as he thought over the question. In all honesty, he himself did not know the full reason why he did what he did. The choice to turn his back on the organization he had served for so long is as bewildering and unexpected for him as it must be for the other man. He decided the best way to answer was with the closest thing he considered the truth. “I was curious.”

The salesman’s response hung in the air. “...Curious? You were willing to betray us? The people who saved you from your life of aimlessly wandering and handed you power. The ones whose goals aligned with your beliefs and granted you the ability to act on them. Just because you were curious?"

The recruiter leaned back against the seat, his facade of calm unwavering despite the storm brewing around him. He crossed his legs casually, as if this were nothing more than a routine talk. “I suppose I wanted to see what would happen,” he said, his tone light and airy, almost conversational. “You of all people should understand the allure of curiosity. After all, isn’t that what drives the games? The thrill of seeing how far people will go, what they are willing to do when pushed to their limits? Gi-hun…Gi-hun is an anomaly. Someone who despite all odds managed to win without becoming consumed by greed.”

The frontman’s gloved hands tightened into fists, his leather gloves creaked softly as anger seeped through. His posture stiffened as his image of self-control slowly began to crack.

Ignoring the increasing rage from the man in front of him, the salesman continued. “Gi-hun managed to go through the entirety of the games without once shedding a drop of blood, even if it went against his chances for survival. I believe it is fair to be intrigued by his actions considering how far he has already gotten. I…I wish to see how much farther he can go” He tilted his head, the volume of his words increasing as he grew in confidence. “If I recall correctly, sir, you yourself vowed to never become a “monster” like you oh so confidently stated during your games. In the end, you managed to rise through the ranks even quicker than I have…Are you not also intrigued by Gi-hun, sir?”

The frontman scoffed, “If you were as capable as you are insolent, you wouldn’t be in your current predicament. I can only assume you have lost the last bit of your sanity, or else you wouldn’t be this much of an idiot to–”

“Do you want some fried chicken?”

The question stunned the man, momentarily causing him to falter in his speech. “I’m sorry?”

“No need, I have original and spicy.” The salesman’s voice carried a playful note, his hands already taking the containers of food from the bag and placing them on his lap. “Though, I think the original would pair best with your whiskey.” If tonight is truly the night he is meant to die, he might as well go out with a full stomach.

The frontman lets out a huff, shaking his head in disbelief. “You do realize you’re in no position to be making jokes, correct?”

“With all due respect, sir, you were the one that intercepted me on my way home. If you were that impatient and could not wait for me to finish my dinner before speaking to me, then the very least you could do is allow me to eat here.” The recruiter spares a single glance at the man in front of him before taking a bite from a chicken leg.

The masked man sighed. “How much information did you give to Gi-hun?”

The salesman stopped chewing, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow as the realization hit him.

He doesn’t know of Gi-hun’s plans.

The recruiter swallowed his bite of chicken, his mind racing. The frontman didn’t know the extent of what Gi-hun had planned–which meant the organization had no idea how to prevent the attack that was to come. They were completely in the dark regarding the next steps of Gi-hun and had no notion that Gi-hun intended to use the frontman’s own soldiers against him. He felt a slow smirk tug at the corner of his lips.

Interesting.

“Did you lose Gi-hun, sir?”

The silence that came afterward was enough of an indication that the frontman was, for once, no longer in complete control.

“I have…some ideas, as to where he will be…” The masked man leaned forward, his presence taking up the small space. “Currently, however, nobody has managed to catch a single sight of him.”

“And you believe that I know where he is?”

The frontman reaches into his pocket, retrieving a remote control. When he pushes a button, a small monitor appears from the ceiling and plays security camera footage. The video displays the outside of the motel which Gi-hun was using as a hideout, the night the salesman went to visit him. The camera captures the recruiter leaving, hair disheveled and clearly startled, looking frantically around him before eventually heading somewhere unknown. Moments later, Gi-hun himself comes out, the salesman’s phone in hand, and walking in the opposite direction. The camera cuts to another angle, this time displaying Gi-hun shooting a text on the phone, the words being too blurry to make out. Gi-hun then looks up at the street camera, the anger visible in his eyes even through a screen, before walking into an alleyway and the screen turns to static.

“I assume that was your phone in his hand, was it not?” The conviction in his tone made it clear that it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, an accusation.

“Yes…But I have no idea where he is.” At least that part was the truth. He had had no reason to keep contact with Gi-hun after that night. He had played the game, failed, and paid the price, there was no further connection tying them to each other. In the end, Gi-hun, despite having won the games, was still nothing more than a pest. No amount of sacrifice on his part would change that. “Despite what you may believe, I have no intention of dismantling a system that has benefited society thus far.”

“Then why? Being intrigued is not enough of a reason for you, not after having served us for so long. You, who has been our most loyal and efficient recruiter. What could have possibly happened in that room for you to make such an abnormal decision? What possible reason would you have to ally yourself with a person whose ideas you don’t agree with?

The recruiter’s features became strained, the memory of his defeat playing in his mind all over again. “...I lost. I lost and he won…There’s no more to the reason for what I did than that.”

“I should've known…your love for the game, your greatest strength, would also become our biggest liability.” The frontman releases a small chuckle, in amusement or incredulity, the other isn’t quite sure. “You have left me no choice…”

At this, the recruiter raised his head, his jaw setting, his facade of indifference unwavering despite the storm brewing before him. “So…What is my sentence, sir?” he asks, the playful ring in his voice doing little to distract him from the thundering of his racing heart.

Nothing. The vacancy of noise and stillness that followed afterward could be mistaken for tranquility to any naive outsider who managed to look inside the closed space. Yet, when one peered further, deep into the minds of the two gentlemen sitting on either side of each other, they would catch heavy electricity infiltrating the atmosphere.

After what felt like hours to the salesman, the frontman cocked his head, seemingly regarding him. His mask made it hard for the other to distinguish the exact thought process the figurehead was currently debating.

“I am well aware of the reason you started working for us in the first place…and your opinion of the players.” Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small tan business card. “You, are not a person that fears death or pain. No, no. You deserve something a little more special.”

The recruiter froze, his eyes widening and breath hitching as dread shot through his system as forceful and sudden as a gunshot. The implication of his words lying heavy on his chest. “No…There is no way you would risk the games. Not with the support of the V.I.Ps on the line and everything I know…” His voice trailed off, knowing deep down that all those elements mattered little when it came to situations like this.

“On the contrary, I think this would cause much excitement for them. Especially now that I have to provide them with a new guest star for this year’s tournament.” He lets out a huff, his voice lowering to a murmur, “This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go…”

The car abruptly stops, causing the recruiter to lurch forward in his seat.

“This is who you are now. This is now your new position and identity in the world. You weren’t content with disposing of scum? Congratulations, you have turned into one.” The frontman leans forward, his voice remaining monotone despite the modulator distorting his words. “Let’s see how long you last on the other side.”

With that, an unseen person on the outside opens the car door as the masked man swiftly rises from his spot. Before the salesman can gather his thoughts or even attempt to make a move, the door is quickly shut again. When he tries the handle from inside, the door is jammed.

As he looks around, the faint lighting of the car becomes darker and darker before he realizes that smoke is emerging from the air-conditioning vents. As he feels his strength weakening, he sighs as he closes his eyes, leaning his head on the rich headrest.

God, I hope this shit doesn’t give me a headache.

It’s today.

You paced back and forth through the small space of your home, anxiety and exhilaration manifesting themselves in your shaky hands. Your breath irregular as the thought made your pulse quicken.

You are supposed to go to the address they provided in 15 minutes. There, you would meet the van meant to drive you to the supposed “games.” The games where you would hopefully win a shit ton of money that would save your ass from financial ruin. The bit of cash you had won playing against that salesman had already run out, leaving you in a tight situation with the loan sharks. The bright red colors spelling out “eviction notice” on the otherwise plain piece of cardstock stuck out like a sore thumb in the poorly illuminated space of your apartment.

As if you could call this shithole an apartment.

The wallpaper peeled at the edges, revealing the black mold that had begun to gradually crawl its way to the surface. The musty odor infesting the air and attacking your senses each time you entered the threshold of your home. Your “home,” being a measly 20 square meter room.

You had quickly learned to survive on the bare minimum: food, plumbing, electricity, the works. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing that could slow you down in your quest for survival. You were constantly jumping from one shabby apartment to another, each time eliminating another variable from your life that you deemed inessential.

Every element that could possibly link you to your past was eliminated. Each discarded with the same level of care as you would have towards a beggar. Abandoned and forgotten.

As you shrugged on your jacket, you took one last glance around, observing the skeletal remains of what you were forced to call a life.

The single chair with its broken leg propped against the wall. The mattress on the floor, stained with memories you’d rather forget. The empty ramen cups, forged in the corner as a monument to set in stone your desperation. The debris of your despair present all around.

How the hell did I get here?

You giggled bitterly to yourself as you recalled the events that led to your current predicament.

You can’t see. Your vision too blurred from the stream of tears cascading onto the floorboards of your home. Each individual tear seemingly mocking you as they touch the tiles, taunting in its ability to run free and escape at will. Something you have yet to master.

“Pull yourself together! You don’t deserve the right to cry in front of the █████ you dared to ruin!”

Bile rose in your throat, the flashback opening up an acidic and familiar wound.

You didn’t care how you got here. You need to focus on the one thing that mattered above all, triumphing. By any means necessary. You whirled around, yanking the door wide open and stepping through, your steps filled with newfound determination. Any previous doubt about the games completely thrown out the window. You had no idea what was waiting for you—and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care in the slightest. Nothing could be worse than this.

You slammed the door behind you.

You didn’t look back.

@scuzmunkie @onyxmango @riellarielle25 @laurenbenoit70 @azmosposts @moxxxane @milfsarefineashell @okayiamkassandra @giaeunnxz @mullty @outofst1le @recordofragnarokfan2 @onecojg

once again, i thank anybody who was willing to wait for this. i kinda hate this chapter and am sorry reader and gong yoo have yet to interact. the games will start in the next chapter, hopefully it won't take me another three months to upload it.

#squid game #squid game 2 #gong yoo #gong yoo x reader #the salesman #the salesman x reader #squid game x reader #salesman x reader #the recruiter #the recruiter x reader #recruiter x reader #the salesman x you

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