❥ pretty girls make graves (pt. 1) - aaron hotchner
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summary // the police precinct you work for is small, serving a town with a population of no more than 2,000 on a busy day. murder cases are sparse, but not impossible. as the lone forensic analyst in your department, you find yourself completely overwhelmed when bodies— and conflicting witness accounts— start piling up on your plate. that is, until the fbi shows up. (f! reader by request, but I could also write a male version!!1!)
warnings and tags // gore!!!, murder/death obviously, a little bit suggestive… (hotch is only a man), hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, 18+ nsfw eventually lmao. assume this is post hailey breakup because im moral
author’s note // god im back from the dead and hotch makes me reconsider the stability of my relationship with my father. take this slow burn
《♡》
“I just don’t understand.”
It’s a phrase you’d never prefer to use. Usually, complicated cases like these would “stump” you for an evening or so before you could really get the ball rolling with them. Being “stumped” was one thing. Being “stumped” constituted a speedbump, a loose end that glared at you from the pinboard, a question that lingered in the air and an answer that wasn’t hasty enough to meet it. Looking down at the series of photographs on your desk, you realized, regretfully, that you were far beyond the region of being “stumped.”
A man in a leather recliner, coffee cup in hand, with his severed head between his ankles. A young, beautiful brunette in her spotless pink nightdress posed in fetal position in her bed. An older gentleman, propped up at the head of his dining room table, his plate and utensils set neatly before him.
You didn’t understand. The first victim was sliced to pieces, the second asphyxiated, and the most recent exhibited signs of a drug overdose. The only connection between them being the fact that they were all posed post-mortem, like dolls in some sick freak’s life-sized dollhouse. The rest of the house was always completely untouched. No sign of struggle, no fingerprints, no forced entry, no witnesses, no patterns or motive, absolutely nothing. It’s as if the murder happened in a millisecond, leaving the entire scene frozen in time, right in the middle of whatever it was the victim was doing in their final moments.
How the hell do you catch someone that leaves no trace at all?
You glanced up from the file to meet the gaze of your field investigator and close friend, Mark Whitney. In his eyes glittered the same question. He doesn’t understand, either.
“I know this isn’t the kind of case we can afford to wait out. There’s no lead up, it’s like a new murder just pops up without any warning— nobody’s seen anything. But…” He let a worried hand card through his perfectly gelled hair. “…But I dunno what else to do.”
“So, we look at our evidence, then,” you offered with some fake certainty. You almost convinced yourself, with the way you sounded, that you both weren’t completely helpless and at the mercy of a serial murderer. You were hoping it had the same effect on Mark.
You laid the photographs on one side of your desk, beside the transcripts of the 911 calls. The rest of the crime scene photos were piled in a manila folder with the crime scene reports, if you could even call them that. Not a whole hell of a lot to report when all tracks are so meticulously covered.
“This guy is only human, Mark. We have to remember that. He’s bound to have slipped up somewhere.” You nudged the folder across the surface to him, and he opened it with a weary sigh.
From the front of the precinct, the bell above the door twinkled, announcing the departure of the receptionist. A beat of silence fell again. "If he did, I can't have missed it. I took these damn photos, detective."
“Perfect! The second looking-over always yields the most information. I’ll pour some coffee.” You didn’t leave him the opportunity to whine, rising from your chair and disappearing into the front office. That didn’t stop the groan that erupted from his throat, but you’re sure he got the message.
You’d typically leave the coffee to Sarah, partially because she makes it perfectly every time and mainly because you knew she appreciated any opportunity to talk to Mark. But to your dismay, Sarah had just flounced out the door to go home to, no doubt, a homemade spaghetti dinner, Grey’s Anatomy, and her dog. So you begrudgingly loaded the coffee machine yourself, flipped the switch, and waited the three grueling minutes it took for the pot to begin filling.
“Detective!”
The voice had you launching a paper cup into the air. “Sarah!” you hollered back. You covered your racing heart with a soothing palm. “What are you still doing here? I thought you were going home.”
“Well, I was about to,” she sighed, her country drawl as sweet and thick as honey. Half obscured by the wooden door, she cocked her hip to the side and propped her hand on her waist. “But then I saw we had some guests! I told ‘em you’d love to meet ‘em, if you got the time?”
Little shit. It was a good thing she’s so impossible to stay angry with, all dimpled smiles and floral skirts. Otherwise, she’d be in one of those photos on your desk, and you’d be the one behind bars.
“I really don’t, sweetheart. Give them my number and have them leave a message.” You turned back to the machine, recollecting the strewn cups from the counter and filling them with steaming black coffee.
“Oh, I’m sure you can make some, then. It’s, uh, the FBI.”
Your double-take was almost comical. You stared at her for a moment, speechless. But she didn’t smile. It wasn’t a joke. “The FBI?”
She nodded her head, her red curls bouncing against her shoulders. “And they look awfully grumpy, I guess it was a long plane ride. You really ought to come out and greet them.”
The FBI. The “big guns,” as your police chief called it. This must have been what he meant when he said he was calling in the “big guns” last week. You felt like a rookie again, fresh out of the academy and wide-eyed over every badge you met. Nerves balled up in your throat at the thought of talking to the FBI.
“I’ll be right out. Let me just take these into Mark—“
“Oh, I can bring it to him! In your office?”
You should have known. “Yes, just in there. Door’s unlocked. Thank you, Sarah.” She took the cups eagerly from your hands and bounced away. The front door lingered open, revealing a small crowd of suits and a few sets of blinding headlights. Steeling yourself, you slid past the counter and stepped into the night air.
Six pairs of eyes descended on you. “Good evening, y’all. How can I help you?” At least your voice wasn’t shaking. A small victory.
“Good evening. You must be the detective our friend Sarah told us about,” one of the men cajoled through a brilliant smile. He brought down his shades— sunglasses in the dead of night, in rural Montana?— and extended his hand for a handshake. “I’m Agent Morgan, it’s a pleasure.”
“A pleasure.” You introduced yourself. You hoped the “detective” that came before your name soothed the skeptical nature of their stares. Despite being young for your position, you were the precinct’s primary investigator both in the field and in the office. You liked to joke that you were the only one because you were just so damn good they didn’t need anybody else. In reality, you really were the only qualified detective. For hundreds of miles. Not a whole hell of a lot of people around those parts, in general, and even less of them willing to do your job.
“Your police chief sent us the details on the recent string of murders in this county. We will be taking over the investigation, come tomorrow morning. Is the chief around?” You squinted against the glare of headlights at the source of the voice, a lean shadow of a man in a square-silhouetted suit. You couldn’t make out much of his face, but by the sound of his voice, you imagined it was lined by a scowl and some five o’ clock shadow.
“No, he’s not. His wife expects him to be home for dinner.” As if in sync, all of them snickered. “I’m sorry, you said you're taking over this investigation?” You didn’t mean to sound so retaliatory. You weren’t one to argue with the FBI, but you’d be lying to yourself if your ego weren’t a little bit bruised, like an ornery child having a toy confiscated by a parent.
“Was I unclear?” he shot back. His tone is what bothered you, you decided.
“Hotch,” chastised a deep, husky voice. The graying man with tired eyes approached you next, shaking your hand and introducing himself as Dave Rossi. The name sounded familiar. You thought you recognized it from a book you had in your office.
“Any suggestions for a hotel in the area?” he asked softly. “The web said the nearest one was about twenty minutes away, but locals tend to know more than the internet does.”
That healed your pride. “There’s one in town, if you keep heading down this highway for a few miles. Lone Tree Inn.” The image of the innkeeper, white-bearded and as resentful of out-of-towner’s as he was of the federal government, shone in your mind like a siren light. “I could escort you there,” you offered, a dire attempt to soothe an inevitable situation, “I know the owner, and I’m sure I could get you a good deal.”
Rossi glanced over his shoulder at the team, who either shrugged or nodded in response. “That would be wonderful, thank you. We’ll follow you, then?”
“Sure. Just follow the blue truck.” Fishing out the keys from your pocket, you headed for the ancient Ford that came with the precinct. Considering the building was built in the 70’s, you figured the truck was just about as old. The office did have police cruisers, but those were for arrests and official business only— seeing those parked in town usually tended to stir up gossip, make people uneasy. So, when it came to just milling around and running errands, the rule was to always use the truck.
“Some cruiser,” murmured Rossi. “Is this an F-100?” While the rest of his team climbed back into the black SUV, Rossi leaned toward the passenger window for a peek into the cab.
“Yes, sir. It’s the precinct’s.”
“God, I used to have one of these when I was a young man. It’s in great condition…” Someone called his name from the car, but he didn’t acknowledge them.
“Do you want a ride?” you asked, which earned a wide smile. Hopping into the driver's seat, you reached across the bench and opened the passenger door for him. He waved his team off, and soon you were peeling out of the gravel parking lot and down the highway.
After being enamored with the interior— the original dashboard and leather seat covers, no less— Rossi glanced over in a way you could almost describe as bashful. The highway into town was illuminated only by headlights and the night sky itself, which, admittedly, made it a bit difficult to see inside the cabin. In the dark, he pursed his lips and calculated his words.
“I want to, uh,” he cleared his throat, “I want to apologize for the behavior of my unit chief, earlier. Usually he isn’t so… curt.”
“It’s alright, but I appreciate that, sir. I’m sure y’all had a long trip.”
He scoffed in agreement. "The drive here from the airport was worse than the flight. I wish we'd made it before sundown, I bet the views are spectacular."
"It's quite the place." The bitterness you felt, which was momentarily forgotten in the motions of hospitality, crept back over you. You tried to avoid sounding too tense. "Have you been before?"
"To Glacier, one summer. I tried backpacking. Wasn't for me."
"Oh, God," you hummed. "Yeah, we see a lot of those. They get turned around off the trails and turn up here, looking like zombies. Couldn't think of a better place to end up, though. People here are always good for a chat and a hot meal." Translation: don't you dare go scorched-earth interrogating any of these people, or there will be hell to pay. I know your games, Fed.
"That's good to hear." In the quiet that followed, he caught a sideways glance of yours. In return, he pursed his lips knowingly, and sent you a nod. "Small towns are delicate ecosystems. A nice change from DC. I'm looking forward to meeting everyone."
He said it as if it were so certain. Another spike of indignance threatened to burst free. You ran through a number of scenarios in your head in which you could stop this. Crash the car? No. That's bad. Lie and say you have it under control? You really don't. You could tell him the whole town has a highly contaigious, brain-eating disease, and his entire team needs to leave right now. Aren't you under an oath or something?
You pulled into the hotel parking lot, the pink sheen from the neon sign bathing the cab in soft light. The black SUV slid in beside you. "Here we are. Not exactly the ritz, but it's cozy."
“I'll just be grateful for a shower and a bed,” he sighed. “And a glass of wine.”
Chuckling, you nudged the door open and hopped down from the cab. “Let me get you those keys, then. I’ll be right back.”
While Rossi greeted his team, you disappeared into the main office to find Phil, the owner, crouched behind his desk and peering through the blinds. The shotgun, which he proudly referred to as the “security system,” and typically kept in a safe below the counter was leaned up against the wall to his side.
“I know why they’re here, officer. You know you’re not taking me in without a fight,” he mumbled. With a wiry hand, he pointed to you in accusation. “Y’all think I done it.”
You blinked slowly. The things you wanted to say retreated down your throat. “We’re not taking you anywhere, Phil. We know you haven’t done nothing, and I made sure to tell them that. I just need a few rooms for a couple nights; they’re friends of mine and the chief’s and they’re helping us out.”
“No can do,” he rasped. “I don’t like tourists and I don’t rent to feds.”
Swallowing an exhausted groan, you went on, “You’ll be compensated. I’m sure we can afford to give you more than your usual rate. Come on, Phil…”
A cloudy blue eye drifted your way, and hope bubbled in your chest. “How much?”
“You’ll have to work that out with the Chief.” When he began to protest, you spoke louder. “But when I’m sure to tell him how kind and gracious you were, and how you cooperated, I can make certain he’ll be feeling rather generous. That is, unless you’d like to keep arguing with me.”
The stare he gave you was downright malicious, but silently he fished three sets of keys from his desk and let them clatter against the splintering counter. “Can I expect the Chief tomorrow, Officer?”
“Yes, you may. Pleasure doing business with you, Phil.”
With a grunt, he gathered the shotgun and disappeared into the adjacent office. Thank God. You scooped up the keys and turned without looking back to the front door, eager to get out of there before the old coot could change his mind.
“Will he always greet us with a weapon, or is that for first-timers only?”
Your soul jumped a mile out of your skin at the sound of his voice, and you swore he looked amused by it. Despite his towering height and stiff grey suit, the man before you was, apparently, as stealthy as a cat. You couldn’t recall him entering after you, and not knowing how long he’d been there bothered you.
Whoever this unit chief guy was, you hoped he fell off a curb and scuffed those perfect black leather shoes.
“I don’t know, are you always so pleasant?” Oh, shit. That slipped out.
He cocked his head insolently. Watching the cogs turn in his head was almost as intimidating as the pitiless stare which accompanied them. “In my position, being ‘pleasant’ doesn’t get anyone very far. Although I wouldn’t expect you to understand that, Officer.”
You didn’t realize how close he was until now, holding his ground. The subtle scents of cologne and rich coffee rolled off of him in waves, and it suddenly seemed… invasive, almost, to be so near to this complete stranger. In lieu of anything else smart to send back at him, you resorted to staring up at him as hatefully as you could. He didn’t budge. Neither did you.
“It’s ‘Detective,’” you scorned him. The corners of his mouth picked up, but you wouldn’t quite have called it a smile.
The bell above the door jingled to announce Rossi’s entrance, and finally Hank— or whatever the hell his name was— backed down. In that spiteful corner of your brain where you liked to keep score, you felt like you’d won. Unfortunately, so it seemed did he, with the way he was staring at you. Christ, you’d like to wipe that look right off his—
“Everything… okay in here?” Rossi’s eyes danced between the two of you. You shot him a grin that beamed with sterile professionality, and extended the keys his way.
“Phil can be a tough nut to crack sometimes, but it’s only because he’s an old-timer. You folks are welcome to stay as long as you need.” Rossi smiled affectionately and took your hand in a firm shake.
“Thank you very much, Detective.” Rossi tossed a glance at his second in command. “Hotch, let’s start getting everyone settled in for the night, yeah?” With a hand on his shoulder, he all but herded the man out of the office.
With that, you were finally released from the weight of his gaze. You waited to exit until the group had ascended the outdoor stairwell to the second story, out of the way of your path to the truck. As quickly as possible without seeming in a hurry to get out of there, you clambered into the driver’s side and started the engine. You didn’t look back.
The truck peeled out onto the highway like it was being chased, leaving behind a dark cloud of gravel in the lot. Out of politeness, you worried that the dust might get that nice shiny SUV all dirty. The concern dissolved once you remembered that it belonged to Hotch.
Taking over the investigation. These people didn't even know the long or the short of it. You came to understand, in towns like Salt Gap, that bad things happen when people have to involve the cops, sure-- but worse things happen when people are too scared to involve the cops. Before your time at the precinct, the area was rampant with 'citizen justice,' fables of men shooting each other over a misplaced fence. The journey back to trust was long, tedious, and hard-earned, and it had only been a handful of years since you first went to Betty's Cafe and sat at the counter without the entire place going quiet.
The murders, the lack of suspects, the timeline dragging on... Salt Gap noticed. The town looked at you differently as you went about your day, the same question ripe in everyone's minds; "Why haven't you caught him yet?" And now, the "Man," the insidious enemy of the rural lifestyle, tries to step in, and you have no choice but to concede? Consider that ten years' worth of trust-building reset like dialing back an oven timer.
God, and the unit chief. When you tried to picture the proverbial "Man" in your mind, his type was exactly what blinked into existence. The freshly-pressed collars, the clean-cropped hair. The lingering menthol of expensive aftershave. It was a wonder someone like him would even accept a job out here; he might get dirty. There aren't a lot of men out here with hands like his, soft from years of paper-pushing and nice pens. Those long, dextrous fingers, typing up reports all day... he wasn't wearing a ring.
Hold on. You caught yourself. You'd only noticed that he wasn't wearing a ring because it made so much sense to you that he hadn't found a woman who could deal with him. And all the other details, that's just information seeking. Certainly.
You were so lost in your own head on the ride home that you almost missed the turn into the precinct’s parking lot. The tires squealed as you cranked the wheel to the right, feeling the behemoth metal frame almost give in to the laws of physics and spin out. The glare of the headlights bleached the circle lenses of Mark’s glasses, who while mid-entering his car, was transfixed by the spectacle. The driver’s side door didn’t deserve the slam you gave it. Mark shut his own car door with considerably more respect, and trailed you into the building as you headed for your office.
Engrossed in the hunt for your car keys amidst the mess of files and cups on your desk, you didn’t hear him enter. For the second time that night, you turned on a dime and almost ran face first into a wall of man.
“Jesus Christ, Mark!”
“I’m sorry!” he held his hands out in front of him defensively. “I knocked but you didn’t hear me!”
“No, no… it’s okay,” you sighed, “I’m sorry, I’m just… tense, right now, I guess.”
He chuckled humorlessly. “Yeah, I could have gathered that from how you were just doing donuts on the highway. Let me just show you what I found in the photos, super quick, and then I’ll let you get out of here. You were right, the second looking-over really does—”
“It doesn’t matter, Mark.”
His hand paused above the case file, halted completely in its tracks. Blinking dumbly, he rambled, “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? Was there another murder? Did something…” It fell into place behind his eyes. “Did those agents say something?”
“Yeah,” you sneered. “They said they’re taking over the investigation.”
Mark shook his head in disbelief. “What?” he boomed with anger, “Like they’re just going to, just waltz in here and fix everything and then leave us to clean up the mess?”
You shrugged, starting to speak, but he cut you off. “No, this is exactly what they do. They don’t even know how to go about this in a place like this. When people start seeing suits crawling around town, they’re going to lose their everloving minds. They’re sure as hell not going to trust us anymore.”
“I know. It’s all I can think about.” You stared at nothing, unable to will your eyes into focus. You were deteriorating with exhaustion and the let-down of disappointment. “I never thought I’d agree with Phil Wickman, of all people, but the feds are out of touch. This is going to get ugly.” The image of Hotch reappeared in your mind. Just as quickly, you willed it away.
Men like him liked to flex their vocabulary as much as their muscles. It would be a losing battle at first, but you didn’t intend to go over easily for him. You owed it to your community and yourself. Especially, yourself.
You lifted your gaze to Mark, who was watching you intently. Waiting for you to make the next move. With a comforting hand on his sleeve, you tried your best to assure him although you had nothing else to offer. “We’ll go over your findings first thing in the morning. We both could use some sleep, and that way, we’ll have all day to go over them.” You fixed him with a wink, and he smiled. “Just because they’re in charge, that doesn’t mean we’re completely out of commission. We might not call the shots, but we can still do our part.”
Mark nodded, and said nothing more. Whatever was on his mind gleamed in his eyes and shone through the half-grin he wore, but you didn’t press. So he smiled all the way to the door as you both drifted back to your cars and shuffled into your coats. Finally, after a good while of giggling to himself, he shot out, “You’d be a god-awful FBI agent, did you know that?”
“What?” Your brows furrowed, but you couldn’t help the warmth which spread across your cheeks. “That’s harsh.”
“I mean it. Those guys are so… rigid, and lifeless. It’s like talking to a computer. But with you, it’s like you’re always playing Clue. It actually seems like you enjoy this, and it makes me enjoy it, even when it really sucks.”
You huffed a laugh and shook your head. “What a nice way to crush my dreams. You’ll have to start being more unreasonable to work with so I can get all jaded and cold. Maybe I’ll have a chance, then.”
“I don’t think you could rock the suit, either.”
“Hey!” It was relieving to hear him laugh again, the stupid boyish hooting and hollering, after so many days of stress and tension with no end in sight. God, it was relieving to laugh again. It almost felt normal, like back before it all started, when you were just playing mediator for fences built too close to property lines, or old blind dogs which had wandered into the wrong yard.
“Was that unreasonable enough for you, agent?”
“Fuck yourself, Marcus.”
“Government name? God damn, woman! Now that’s harsh!”
“Go away. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You sank into your car, and the engine sputtered to life in no time. With a wave and another more crude gesture of the fingers, you both were headed home.
《♡》
The inn, if you could call it that, appeared to be just as well-kept as the rest of that podunk dump of a town, complete with lopsided doorframes and peeling avocado-green paint which only went out of style about forty years ago. The doorknob rattled as Dave fiddled with the lock. Cynically, Hotch wondered if you’d given them a dummy key as some kind of prank, and he was contemplating ways to sleep comfortably in the van before the door finally swung open.
Thankfully, the interior of the room was much cozier than the exterior implied. A plush (if a little aesthetically outdated) armchair sat by the window and two inviting single beds spilled over with fluffy quilted duvets. Aaron beelined for the one closest to the door and plopped his go-bag onto the foot. His eyes drifted to a framed portrait of a cat hanging between the beds, dressed in a frilly Edwardian gown and an equally extravagant matching hat, which was distracting enough to prevent him from registering Rossi’s calls of his name.
“Hotch!”
He peered over his shoulder, raising a brow when Rossi sighed in exasperation. “Yes, Dave?”
“Care to tell me what all that was about?” The older gentleman shrugged out of his coat and dragged his suitcase toward the adjacent bed, but all the while his eyes stayed trained on Aaron.
“Would you care to specify?”
“Well, I don’t know, Aaron. You didn’t exactly pave the way for ‘amicable communication,’” he remarked, with a flippant waving of his hands, “with the local police department.”
Aaron removed his nightclothes from the case and tossed them to the bed with a bit more force than necessary. Yet again, frustration bubbled within him like boiling water teasing the rim of a pot. He took a deep breath before he responded. “The county gave us full jurisdiction over the case. You know as well as I do that the last thing we need is an ego battle with small town cops. They’ll get over it.”
“The detective is a bright girl. Quick, personable, connected. Whether you want to admit it or not, we will need her collaboration. You can’t go burning that bridge just because she gave you a little sass.” Rossi turned his back on Aaron to remove his watch and get undressed. He could feel two holes being seared into his shoulderblades from the other man’s glare.
“We have the police chief. Wouldn’t he have more leverage?”
“I looked him up already. He’s old enough to be my father. We’ll be lucky if he’s even aware that something’s happening.”
With a groan, Aaron slumped onto the bed and let his head drop into his hands. No one would ever hear him say it, but he knew Rossi was right.
A twinge of regret, like a little tugging in his chest, arose when he thought about his interactions with you from tonight. He knew he’d been harsh, and especially given his unique set of skills as a profiler, it wasn’t difficult for him to understand why you reacted how you did. He couldn’t blame you for it. He remembered being like you are: ambitious and eager, chasing the validation of a closed case. You lacked the methodical stoicity of most agents, who hide behind jargon and itemize away the horrors they witness. He saw it in the way you still wore your emotions on your face. The disappointment stifling the glimmer in your eyes. The fire that resentment had reignited in them. Resentment at him, no less. He chalked it up to you not having been in the field for very long yet, but in reality, it was because you both operated in two different fields entirely. Two different worlds.
Regardless, he found it… refreshing, in a way. You still seemed so invested— the passion was still alive within you, which was something he’d forgotten somewhere along the way. Maybe he’d itemized that away, too.
What his mind dwelled on most was the lingering memory of staring down at you, from a mere several inches away. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from you. Maybe it had been too long since he had been so close to someone— not to mention, one who was easy on the eyes— but he had to admit to himself (albeit regretfully) that his ego wasn’t the only thing keeping him from stepping back. It was a shame you had to be so damn obnoxious, otherwise you really could be attractive.
Rossi flicked off the lights, shrouding them in darkness and still silence. Aaron’s mind was moving too quickly for him to even flirt with the idea of sleeping.
Typically, he’d have no issues swallowing his pride for the purpose of mitigation. However, one glimpse at that self-satisfied grin of yours was almost enough to set him off. Maybe he was pent up from the long jet ride, or worn thin by a lack of sleep— maybe tomorrow, it would be easier to reach an ultimatum with you. It was very possible that his short temper was all just an unfortunate consequence of little rest and sparse communication with the opposite sex in the recent months. There was no other logical reason for his unshakable desire to put you in your place.
We’ll save that for tomorrow, then, he thought, closing his tired eyes. No matter the approach he decided upon, he couldn’t afford to become distracted. His objective was to tie up this case and leave as soon as possible.
The less time in this shithole, the better.
《♡》
GUYSSSS how i missed writing a silyl little fanfic. can't believe i started writing riddler fics in high school and now i'm almost a grad... sigh. one knee surgery, two moves, and several more crazy life altering plot events later, i want to return as your favorite fic author (writing a novel is too hard... </3)
if u read this to completion i LOVE you and i will finish this mark my words
peace and love,
cliffy
