#And so bad psychologically is something that should be studied

[chaotictissuebox]

putting this here too because I just couldn’t resist it’s their motif man

[bueckets]

Thin Walls

Pairing: roommate!Paige x reader

Genre: roommates to lovers, kinda funny?, smut, unbearable sexual tension, petty revenge, paper-thin walls, psychological warfare via moaning, paige bueckers menace era, girl failure x girl who never fails, competitive pining, mutual obsession, doomed from the start but in a fun way, vibrators n SEX, almost all ssmut

Description: When a sleep-deprived biomed student moves in with UConn’s most notorious heartbreaker, you expect late-night film study, protein shake graveyards, and an apartment perpetually scented like sweat and victory. What you don’t expect? Thin walls. And Paige Bueckers making absolutely no effort to keep her extracurricular activities quiet.

What starts as a battle for basic human decency turns into something far messier—petty revenge plots, mind games laced with innuendo, and an unspoken tension that neither of you is willing to name. Paige plays like she owns the court, like she owns the world, and maybe—just maybe—like she wants to own you, too.

They say pressure makes diamonds, but when it comes to Paige Bueckers, it just might make a disaster.

WC: 8.4k

There’s a certain satisfaction in watching rich people fight over throw pillows. Like, deep, existential satisfaction. The kind that settles into your bones, whispering at least you’re not that delusional while you scrape the bottom of your bank account for rent. That’s why Selling Sunset has become your new comfort show—nothing soothes the sting of your own financial ruin quite like watching a billionaire lose their shit over an ocean view.

The couch has practically absorbed your body at this point, molded to the exact slouch of your spine. The TV’s glow flickers against the walls, the only illumination in the apartment aside from the soft neon blur of the city outside. A bowl of Greek yogurt sits abandoned on the coffee table—your latest attempt at a “responsible” late-night snack, made in partnership with self-loathing. You’re too exhausted to move, too wired to sleep. Somewhere outside, a siren wails, stretching long and lonely through the night, and you think, for just a second, that if you squint hard enough, you can almost pretend your life is fine.

Then the door slams open like a fucking battering ram.

A mess of limbs and pure, unfiltered desperation stumbles in. Paige Bueckers and tonight’s lucky contestant.

They’re already kissing—no, consuming each other. Lips fused. Hands gripping. Hips aligning like they’re moments away from shifting the tectonic plates beneath them. It’s all sloppy giggles and breathy moans, the kind of shit that should come with a parental advisory warning.

Paige is in sweats and a hoodie that’s hanging halfway off her shoulder, her blonde hair a tousled wreck that suggests she either just left practice or got aggressively felt up in the Uber ride over. The girl—a brunette this time—has her fingers twisted into the hem of Paige’s hoodie like she might actually rip it in half. You’re 98% sure they don’t even notice they almost wipe out over the entryway rug.

You stare. They don’t. They’re too busy dry-humping against the door like horny teenagers who just discovered the concept of friction.

This is usually the part of the night where you’d be asleep. That’s the unspoken agreement. Paige does whatever (or whoever) she wants, and you exist in separate, peaceful universes where her sex life is not your problem. But tonight, insomnia had you in a chokehold, so instead of peacefully slipping into unconsciousness, you’re here, trapped in the splash zone of her latest conquest like some unwilling war correspondent reporting live from the trenches.

Paige finally clocks your presence. Her head jerks up mid-kiss, blinking at you through the haze of what you can only assume is either lust or a full-on brain shutdown.

“Oh. My bad.”

Her voice is husky, wrecked, but casual—so casual, like you just bumped into each other in line at Trader Joe’s, not like you just caught her halfway to third base in the shared living space. The brunette barely acknowledges you, too busy chasing Paige’s mouth again, fingers already curled into the waistband of her sweats like they’re pre-gaming for something much worse.

Your jaw clenches. It’s not jealousy. It’s not even annoyance, really. It’s just…the audacity of it all. You didn’t survive financial ruin, an eviction, and the world’s most soul-sucking job just to end up as an unwilling extra in Paige’s late-night softcore escapades.

Paige smirks, something smug and completely unbothered dancing in her blue eyes, and then—because apparently, she has to make sure you fully marinate in your suffering—she winks.

She fucking winks.

Then she grabs her conquest by the wrist and drags her toward her bedroom. The door swings shut with a decisive click.

You exhale sharply. Shift on the couch. Turn back to Selling Sunset.

A blonde woman in Louboutins slams a designer purse onto a marble counter, screaming about escrow like her life depends on it.

You grab your spoon, chew a bite of yogurt, and pretend this isn’t the worst night of your life.

At first, it’s nothing you can’t ignore—a muffled giggle, the faint creak of a mattress. You’ve had years of training in the fine art of selective hearing. Cheap apartments with walls thinner than a CVS receipt, noisy neighbors who lived for 3 AM karaoke, exes who had no concept of volume control—life has forged you into a soldier of endurance. A survivor. You could sleep through sirens. You could pretend not to hear the couple next door having a screaming match about a misplaced vape pen. You could—if the situation demanded it—completely erase the existence of an entire soundscape from your brain.

But then the giggling shifts. Turns breathy. Then it turns into something else entirely.

A rustle of sheets. A gasp. A low, pleased hum that shouldn’t make your stomach twist with secondhand mortification, but does.

Your grip tightens around the remote. The TV screen flickers in front of you, but you’re no longer absorbing the content. Christine Quinn is monologuing about open-concept kitchens—something about “flow” and “maximizing natural light”—but her voice isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the escalating symphony from down the hall.

You turn the volume up. Way up.

It doesn’t help.

Paige’s conquest lets out a high, breathy whimper, the kind of sound that makes your entire body lock up like your nervous system just crashed. Paige’s voice follows, low and affectionate, murmuring something you absolutely do not want to hear, but your cursed, traitorous ears pick up anyway. Whatever she says makes the brunette giggle—another peal of laughter before it melts into something softer, more desperate.

Your eye twitches. Nope.

You launch off the couch like you’ve been personally attacked, storming down the hallway with all the righteous fury of someone who has had enough. The second you reach your room, you slam the door shut behind you. The walls rattle. The moaning does not stop.

Jesus. Are your walls are made of tissue paper? No, fuck that—tissue paper at least offer some resistance. This? This is sonic purgatory. Paige’s voice is clearer now, her tone teasing, low, smug. A pet name you can’t quite make out but absolutely wish you could bleach from your brain.

You groan. Loudly. Throw yourself onto your bed and yank a pillow over your head like that’s going to do anything.

It doesn’t.

Because the sounds are intermittent—waves of giggles followed by the kind of sighs that make your ears burn. The occasional shhh from Paige, followed by a breathless “like that?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Think of something else. Think of literally anything else. You focus on the fabric of your pillowcase, the way the cotton sticks to your cheek, the faint scent of detergent—Paige moans, and your brain short-circuits like a 2003 Dell desktop.

You don’t even have the energy to be properly mad. This is just Paige. Unbothered, self-contained, casually ruining your will to live Paige. She doesn’t try to be inconsiderate, but she also doesn’t try not to be.

Another moan—drawn out and shameless—curls through the air, and you nearly levitate out of your skin. You want to scream. Instead, you yank another pillow over your head for good measure, as if two pillows will somehow create a force field against whatever the fuck is happening in there.

Christine Quinn is still monologuing in your mind, her voice a distant echo beneath the carnal horror occurring in real time.

"It’s all about location, location, location."

Yeah. No shit.

You really should’ve picked a better one.

The morning drags itself into existence like a bad hangover—except you didn’t drink. You just endured. Survived. Battled through the night like some war veteran, only your battlefield wasn’t made of trenches and gunfire but moaning and drywall acoustics.

Sunlight filters through the too-thin blinds, stabbing into your retinas like a personal attack. It casts a harsh glow over the wreckage of your living room—your personal post-war scene. The coffee table is an abandoned crime scene: an empty takeout container, a spoon half-submerged in a sad puddle of yogurt, a crumpled napkin that might have been thrown in frustration during hour two of your sleepless torment. Your blanket is twisted in a heap on the couch, kicked off at some point in your desperate attempt to burrow away from the sounds of Paige Bueckers living her best, most inconsiderate life.

It’s quiet now. Blessedly quiet. A void. No hushed giggles, no rhythmic bedframe percussion, no doors slamming. No evidence of last night’s atrocity except for your residual irritation, clinging to the air like stale perfume.

You sit at the dining table, textbook open, pen in hand, attempting to refocus on something productive. Biomed homework. Neural pathways, synaptic transmission—things that matter. Unlike Paige, who—

A shuffle of feet. Soft, socked steps. You don’t even hear her door creak open—just the lazy, leisurely sound of someone who has never known suffering emerging from her room.

You refuse to look up.

“Morning,” Paige says, casual as ever, like she didn’t turn your living space into the set of a low-budget lesbian porno eight hours ago. She stretches, arms overhead, back arching slightly, exhaling like she just had the most restful night’s sleep of her life.

Meanwhile, you—who has never been more tired—physically recoil at the audacity.

She rubs her eyes, yawns, shuffles past you toward the kitchen like nothing happened. Not even a hint of acknowledgment. No sheepish oops, my bad for mentally scarring you with surround sound sex noise. No hey, sorry about your insomnia and emotional distress. Just a morning like everything is fine.

You blink at her. Unbelievable.

Your fingers tighten around your pencil as you force your gaze back to your notes. Ignore her. You are a scholar. A person of intellect. A higher being.

Paige, meanwhile, has fully migrated to the fridge. She rummages carelessly, like she owns this apartment, like she pays your therapy bills. She emerges with the orange juice carton, unscrews the cap, and—like an absolute menace to society—drinks straight from it.

The pencil in your grip creaks ominously.

“You’re up early,” she remarks, between gulps.

“I didn’t sleep,” you reply, flat, clipped. You don’t look at her. You refuse to.

Paige makes a small sound—something vaguely amused, vaguely disbelieving. “Damn. That sucks.”

That’s it? That’s all she has to say.

You inhale, deeply, willing yourself not to commit a violent felony before noon.

Slowly, slowly, you lift your head, turn your glare toward her like a sniper locking onto a target. Paige, in all her infuriating glory, is leaning against the counter, still drinking your orange juice, looking like someone who has never felt guilt a day in her life. Her expression is neutral, open. Not quite smug, but there’s something about the way she exists that makes you want to throw your textbook at her face and plead temporary insanity in court.

She swipes her thumb across her mouth, wiping away a drop of juice.

“You know what else sucks?” you say, voice deceptively calm. “The structural integrity of our walls. They’re paper-thin. Just an interesting fact I thought I’d share.”

Paige’s lips twitch. She knows. She fucking knows. She tilts her head slightly, like she’s considering whether she should poke the bear or let you stew in your suffering. Then she settles on:

“Huh.”

That’s it.

Your grip tightens on the pencil so hard you might actually snap it in half.

Paige drains the last of the orange juice, wipes her mouth again (like an animal), and sets the carton down with a satisfied sigh. Then, as if she hasn’t just mentally and emotionally destroyed you, she stretches again, rolling out her shoulders.

“Welp,” she says, tone light, completely unbothered. “I’m out. See ya.”

“Wait, what—”

But she’s already gone, disappearing back into her room for approximately thirty seconds before emerging again—this time with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

You stare at it. “You’re leaving?”

Paige nods like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. Team stuff. Won’t be back tonight.”

Your brain malfunctions. Won’t be back tonight. This terrorist has held you emotionally hostage for an entire night and now she’s just leaving? Just walking away from the wreckage like some kind of villain in an action movie, casually strolling as the building explodes behind her?

She tugs on her sneakers at the door, slings her bag higher on her shoulder, and—because the universe is cruel—throws you a lazy, almost mocking little salute.

“Don’t wait up,” she tosses over her shoulder. Then she’s gone.

The door swings shut and the apartment is silent again.

You sit there, fingers clenched around your pencil, biomed notes glaring up at you like they’re personally offended by your suffering. Your eye twitches.

I fucking hate her.

Then you sigh, rub your temple, and force yourself back to work.

It’s been three days of silence. Three whole, glorious days of peace. Three nights where you didn’t have to contemplate smothering yourself with a pillow just to escape the torment of Paige’s complete disregard for basic human decency. The apartment has felt almost normal—like an actual home instead of a halfway house for Paige’s revolving door of hookups. You don’t have to brace yourself every time the front door swings open, because it hasn’t swung open. You don’t have to leave your headphones on while studying to shield yourself from the auditory terrorism of her sex life. You don’t have to walk into the kitchen at 1 AM and fear that you’ll be confronted with Paige, half-naked, wearing nothing but someone else’s lipstick and a hoodie that’s falling off her shoulder like she’s starring in a fucking romance movie.

The peace has been so uninterrupted, so unnatural, that you’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to live in a state of constant vigilance. You throw yourself into your biomed assignments, losing yourself in the clean, clinical world of neural pathways and synaptic transmission, your SZA playlist looping softly in the background. You almost start to believe this is real. That this is the new normal. That maybe Paige has finally, miraculously, learned self-control or, at the very least, found a new venue to conduct her business.

You are so fucking naïve.

The front door doesn’t just open—it explodes. A crack, a slam, a full-body collision with the wall that rattles the picture frames. The kind of entrance that belongs to either a SWAT team or a raging hurricane of bad decisions.

Your body locks up like an animal sensing an oncoming natural disaster. The pencil in your grip slips through your fingers, hitting the desk with a dull thunk. Your heart stutters in your chest, and for one brief, delusional second, you tell yourself that it wasn’t real. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe Paige forgot something and came back only to leave again. Maybe—

A thud. Then another. The unmistakable rhythm of someone kicking off their shoes, the soft scuff of footsteps across the floor.

You grit your teeth, pressing your palms flat against your desk. You are not going to react. You are not going to engage. If she wants to slam doors and stomp around like a feral beast, fine. You refuse to let her drag you into the chaos. You reach for your headphones, adjusting them over your ears, cranking up the volume until SZA drowns out the world.

It’s not enough.

A sound pierces through the music, slicing through the air like a warning shot. It’s high-pitched, sudden, obscene—so sharp that your entire body recoils. Your brain trips over itself, scrambling to make sense of what it just processed, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you think someone is in distress. Like maybe—maybe—this is the night Paige finally made an enemy and brought home someone who wants to kill her. But no. No, that is not the sound of murder. That is the sound of someone who is very much alive and living their best fucking life at maximum volume.

Your grip tightens around your pencil so hard you genuinely worry it might snap in half.

Then it happens again—louder this time. 

“Ooooh, Paige, baby it feel sooo good,” a long, drawn-out moan that echoes through the walls like a goddamn announcement.

Your jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear something crack.

You tell yourself to ignore it. You try to focus on the actual problems in your life—like the metabolic equation staring up at you from your notebook, the one that makes no fucking sense, the one you were just about to solve before Paige returned to single-handedly ruin your night. But this girl—whoever she is—sounds like she’s in a full-blown cinematic production, and Paige? Paige has zero concern for your sanity. No attempt to be discreet, no effort to maybe keep it down, no acknowledgment that she is actively breaking your spirit in real time.

A shhh from Paige, soft, teasing, followed by something breathless. While you– you black out for a second.

The chair scrapes against the floor as you shove away from your desk, adrenaline flooding your veins. You are this close to storming down the hallway, ripping Paige’s door off its hinges, and launching her entire bed out the fucking window. Instead, you flatten your hands against your desk, inhale deeply, and stare down at your notes like they personally wronged you.

This. This is it. You swear to yourself, you are getting revenge.

You don’t know how yet. But it’s happening.

Because if Paige wants to act like an inconsiderate, sex-obsessed demon hellbent on making your life miserable, then fine. Fine. Two can play at this game.

You’ve waited two days. Two agonizing, anticipation-filled days where you paced your room like a villain in the third act of a revenge flick, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every time you passed by Paige’s empty room, you could practically hear the ghosts of her past hookups mocking you. You had suffered. You had endured. And now, it was your time.

The front door swings open. Not as violently as before—no dramatic bang against the wall, no whirlwind of limbs stumbling over the entryway rug. Just the quiet shuffle of footsteps, the soft rustle of fabric, the barely-there whisper of a muffled giggle. It’s all very tame. Too tame. Like she thinks she can just slip back into this apartment unnoticed, like she didn’t shatter your will to live just days ago with her complete lack of shame or respect for human decency.

You sit up in bed, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of your laptop screen. Showtime.

It had taken an embarrassing amount of time to craft the perfect revenge strategy. You wanted something devastating. Something that would haunt Paige the way her late-night moanfest had haunted you. You considered various forms of psychological warfare—hiding her favorite hoodie, signing her up for weird spam emails, strategically microwaving fish at odd hours—but none of it felt impactful enough. You needed something biblical. Something that would scar.

And then, the answer came to you. Porn.

Loud, obnoxious, horrifically detailed porn. You smile at your glowing laptop and click play.

Instantly, the most sinful, ungodly, downright demonic sounds explode from your speakers. It’s graphic. Monstrous. A chorus of moans, screams, the unmistakable, wet, slapping of skin against skin. The kind of audio that makes you question humanity as a species. You’re pretty sure you hear someone begging in French.

It’s perfect. You crank the volume up.

Then, with the sheer dramatic commitment of a Broadway performer, you slam your bed frame against the wall.

The headboard cracks against the drywall with force, rattling like you’re in the throes of an earth-shattering experience. You moan. Not well, but loudly. Passionately. Over-the-top.

“Ohhh my GOD,” you scream, throwing in some unnecessary yes, yes, right there’s for added flair.

You can feel the disturbance in the force. But you don’t stop. Oh, no. You commit.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with guttural, animalistic gasps. You bang the headboard again, harder this time, just to make sure Paige feels your suffering on a molecular level. You toss in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out like you’re playing a villain savoring their monologue.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with deep, broken gasps, the kind of sounds that should not be echoing through the walls of a shared living space. Your voice wavers just enough to sound shaken, overwhelmed, ruined, like you’ve ascended past the mortal plane and are now one with the universe.

The headboard collides with the wall again—harder this time, with a resounding crack that might actually fracture the drywall. Good. Good. Let her feel it. Let the vibrations of your suffering seep into her bones. Let her live what you lived.

You throw in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out long, making it obscene. You let silence stretch, just for a moment, just long enough for Paige to think maybe—maybe—it’s over, that this nightmare has passed.

And then, with the full, unwavering conviction of a lunatic, you moan again.

It’s breathless. Shaky. The kind of sound that would make someone deeply uncomfortable in any setting, but especially when coming from the other side of a paper-thin wall.

A shuffle. A creak of bedsprings. A pause. You can feel her trying to process.

And then, like a gift from the heavens, Paige finally breaks.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The pure, unfiltered disbelief in her voice is a drug. It fuels you.

You slam your palm against the wall, a solid thunk that reverberates through the apartment. Then, in the single most unhinged act of pettiness you have ever committed, you howl a random man’s name.

Silence.

You shift in bed, letting out a shaky, devastated exhale, the kind of breathless, wrecked sound people make when they have been absolutely, thoroughly ruined. You make sure it carries through the wall, make sure it sinks into her skull.

There’s another pause. A long one. You can almost see Paige lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how her life has come to this exact moment.

Then—an aggressive rustling of sheets, a sharp inhale like she’s gearing up for a speech. You brace yourself.

Her response is immediate. A heavy thud—her fist against your wall. “Oh my God, have some fucking decency.”

That should be the end of it. A normal, sane person would stop here. But you? You are not a normal, sane person. You are a petty, wounded soldier, and you will see this through to the end.

So you shift, make sure your bedsprings let out a very suggestive creak, and then murmur, low and breathy, “Five more minutes.”

A second of pure, raw silence. Then, from her room—chaos.

The violent shuffle of blankets, a sound like something falling off her nightstand, an aggressively muttered string of words that you cannot hear, but you know they’re unholy.

Victory tastes sweet.

The next morning, you wake up feeling transformed. Cleansed. Vindicated. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of your own pettiness, reborn into a creature of pure, unadulterated vengeance. A god of retribution.

Last night was a triumph. A masterpiece of psychological warfare, orchestrated with the precision of a military strategist and the artistic flair of a Broadway performer. Paige had suffered—oh, she had suffered—and you had heard every ounce of that suffering in the sheer disbelief laced through her voice. You had sent her into an existential crisis without so much as stepping foot into her room. And the best part? You didn’t even have to talk about it. No awkward confrontation, no passive-aggressive exchange, no forced discussion about boundaries. Just a silent victory, the best kind of victory.

You stretch in bed, limbs loose and relaxed for the first time in days. No residual irritation, no ghosts of rage clinging to your skin. You won. You won.

The air feels different when you step into the kitchen, like the whole apartment is holding its breath. The atmosphere is charged, electric with something unspoken, a tension that exists only because you created it. You bask in it, inhale it like fresh air, let it fill your lungs as you roll your shoulders back and step into the room.

Paige is already there. She’s leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around her ever-present protein shake, the other holding her phone, scrolling with the kind of casual indifference that feels fake. Too stiff. Too controlled.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge you in the slightest. Good. That means you got to her.

You let the silence stretch, let her feel you watching her, reveling in the unspoken weight of last night’s events. Then, with all the exaggerated nonchalance you can muster, you open the fridge. You take your time, rummaging through it, making a show of your relaxed state, of your complete and total lack of shame or regret. Every movement is deliberate, every pause pointed.

The tension is thick enough to taste.Finally, after a long, drawn-out beat, you break the silence.

“Sleep well?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Paige just lifts her shake, takes a slow sip, and keeps scrolling, her gaze glued to her screen like you don’t exist.

You bite back a smirk. Oh, it’s like that, huh?

Fine. You love a challenge.

You grab a yogurt, pop the lid with exaggerated ease, and lean against the counter directly across from her. Mirroring her. Challenging her.

She knows you’re looking. She feels it.

The weight of your gaze drags over her jaw, the bare skin of her collarbone where her hoodie has slouched just a little too low. Over her hands—gripping her phone a fraction too tight, her knuckles taut with something just shy of restraint.

She lifts her protein shake. Takes a sip. Measured, deliberate.

You take a slow, obnoxiously slow, bite of yogurt.

“You seemed a little... tense last night.” Your voice is carefully neutral, the epitome of innocence, like you’re discussing the weather. But your eyes say otherwise.

A flicker. There. The tell.

It’s microscopic—her fingers tightening around her phone, a brief clench of her jaw before she lifts her shake again.

“I’m fine,” Paige says, monotone.

You hum, swirling your spoon through the yogurt, dragging it up in long, slow loops. “Really? You seemed a little... thrown off. Like you weren’t expecting something.”

Paige drinks. Swallows. Sets the bottle down with that same, mechanical precision.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, this is delicious.

“Hmm.” You take another lazy bite, then—just for effect—let your tongue flick over the spoon, slow, clean.

She doesn’t react.

But she sees it. You know she sees it.

The battle of wills unfolds in the silence. A quiet, blistering, psychological duel.

You stretch it, waiting, baiting. Letting the tension tighten between you like a tripwire waiting to snap.

And then—she exhales.

A sharp, quiet breath, controlled but strained. Like she’s holding something back.

And finally, finally, she sets her phone down.

Lifts her head.

Meets your gaze.

And suddenly, the air shifts.

Because Paige’s expression isn’t annoyed, like you expected. It isn’t irritated, or bored, or vaguely exasperated.

It’s something else.

Something slower. Darker.

Your stomach tightens—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous.

She tilts her head just slightly, a fraction of an inch, but the weight of it is immense. A move so calculated it feels like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"You good?" she asks, her voice a study in casual ease. Too smooth. Too careful.

It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap.

But you don’t back down from fights.

“Better than ever.” You drag the words out, light, effortless. “Best sleep of my life.”

Her lips twitch. Just barely. A half-second away from a smirk.

“That right?”

You shrug, feigning boredom. “Guess loud, passionate sex really tires a person out.”

A beat. A single, suspended moment.

Then—

“I wouldn’t know,” Paige says, smooth as silk. Cool as ice. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

Your smirk falters.

Oh.

Oh, she’s good.

You recover quickly. “Really? You must sleep like the dead, then.”

Paige picks up her phone again, dismissive, her gaze flicking back to the screen like you’re not worth the effort.

But her lips? They’re curling. Slightly. Just enough to show teeth.

“Or maybe,” she murmurs, so damn casual, “it just wasn’t worth noticing.”

Oh, that bitch.

Heat flares up your spine, crackling, sharp.

You glare. Paige doesn’t even glance at you. The war has officially begun. And it’s on sight.

You’re not proud of yourself.

Not in the slightest. In fact, you don’t even know how you got here.

But this is what happens when you let your petty little battles spiral into something else, something darker and messier and impossible to ignore. You hate her. You loathe her. You think about her way too much—about how she gets under your skin, about her smug little smirks, about the way she acts like she owns the air you breathe just because she’s taller than you, because she can throw a ball into a hoop, because the entire fucking world looks at her like she’s something more than just a girl who’s in your goddamn way.

And maybe that’s why you’re here.

On your back. In your bed.

Hand between your thighs like an absolute fucking degenerate.

Because Paige is supposed to be gone. She’s supposed to be three states away at some game, doing her little interviews, getting her ego fed by an arena full of people. The apartment is supposed to be empty.

So you let yourself have this.

Let yourself chase the tension out of your muscles, let yourself melt into it, let yourself lose in it.

And God, you wish you were thinking about someone else.

But it’s her.

It’s her stupid fucking face.

It’s the way she taunts you, the way she stands too close in the kitchen, the way her sweatpants hang low on her hips in the morning, the way she stares you down like she’s daring you to push her, like she’s waiting for the exact moment you snap.

You hate her.

You hate how easy it is to imagine her hands on you instead of your own.

Your fingers are slick. Obscenely so. The vibrator hums against your clit like a live wire, like an electric pulse searing through your nerves, turning every inch of your body into a hypersensitive mess. Your thighs twitch, your stomach clenches, your hips keep jerking up, desperate for more, even though it's too much—too intense, too sharp, too unbearably fucking good.

The sheets are ruined beneath you, damp and twisted from how much you’ve writhed against them, chasing the high, riding the edge, dragging it out like you deserve to suffer for this. Like you deserve to ache for it. Your other hand is gripping the pillow, fisting the fabric, white-knuckled, because Paige, Paige, Paige—you can’t get her out of your fucking head.

That smug smirk, those broad shoulders, the way she leans against the kitchen counter like she owns it, owns you, waiting, watching, pushing, teasing—

God, you hate her.

You hate the way she gets under your skin, the way she’s there, always there, lingering in the space between, looking at you like she’s daring you to do something about it. You hate that you want to.

And you hate that you’re so fucking close just thinking about her.

Your toes curl, your breath breaks into little hiccuping moans, your body bows off the mattress. The vibrator sends another sharp burst of pleasure through your swollen, oversensitive clit, and it’s too much—your thighs slam shut around your hand, trying to temper the sensation, trying to trap it, hold it inside you, but it just makes everything sharper, stronger, unbearable—

You choke on a sound, a raw, desperate little whimper.

And then– a noise. Not yours. Not in your room.

On the other side of the fucking wall.

At first, your brain refuses to process it. Because no. No. No way. Paige is supposed to be gone, three states away, playing her stupid game, being her stupid self, not here.

But then you hear it again. A moan. Low, wrecked, unmistakably needy.

Your whole body locks up.

For a second, all you can do is lie there, frozen in place, vibrator still pressed against your clit, your own pulse hammering in your ears. Your skin goes hot, burning with shame, with realization.

She heard you. She fucking heard you.

Another shift. A creak of her bed. The rustle of sheets. 

A sharp inhale escapes you, unbidden, and then you clap a hand over your mouth, mortified.

The vibrator is still humming against your clit, sending little aftershocks through you, but you can’t move, you can’t fucking move, because your brain is stuck on the fact that Paige is touching herself right now, that she’s lying in her bed, one wall away, listening to you, moaning for you, and you—

Oh. Fuck.

Your breath catches, your whole body locks up, your hand stills between your thighs—just for a second, just long enough for your brain to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You press the vibrator harder against your clit, bite your lip so hard it hurts, and keep going.

You’re sick, a fucking degenerate. You have to be, because the thought of Paige, lying there in her bed, one flimsy wall away, fingering herself to the sound of you falling apart is the single hottest, most disgusting, most earth-shattering thing you’ve ever fucking imagined.

Your hips twitch up, chasing the feeling, chasing the high, chasing whatever this is, this tight, searing, unspeakable thing curling in your stomach. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should not be doing this. But your fingers are shaking, your whole body is on fire, and you can’t stop, you can’t fucking stop—

And then she makes another sound.

This time it’s louder, more desperate, like she doesn’t care if you hear her anymore. And it sends you spiraling.

Your eyes slam shut, your thighs squeeze together, your stomach clenches so hard you can’t breathe, and the pleasure—fuck, the pleasure—rips through you, tears you apart, drowns you, ruins you.

You come so hard you forget how to exist.

The air is still humming.Your skin is still hot, still damp, still sensitive in a way that makes every shift against the sheets feel like too much. Your breath hasn’t fully evened out, your body still shaking from the wreckage of it, from the way you lost yourself, let yourself drown.

It should be over. It should.

But then—

A sound. Distant, but there. A soft shuffle, the faintest creak of floorboards beyond your door.

Your breath catches. You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, trying to ignore it. It’s late. Maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still stuck somewhere between dream and aftermath, still feeling the phantom weight of her—her hands, her voice, the way your mind kept slipping back to her even as you tried not to.

But then it happens again. A shift of movement. Closer.

A slow, deliberate pause just outside your door.

Your stomach tightens. No.

But the air is suddenly thick with something too real, something too electric—something that makes your pulse hammer in warning even before the first knock lands.

Knock. You stop breathing.

Another.

You jerk up, your body still too sensitive, your skin prickling under the weight of anticipation. You don’t move at first. Don’t respond. Just listen.

A pause. Silence. Maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll take the hint—

And then, the voice. Low. Steady. Unshaken.

"Open the door."

Your fingers tighten around the blanket, pulse kicking hard. Not a question. Not a request.

Just a command.

You should hesitate. You should stay still, let the moment pass, let it slip into the quiet, pretend it never happened.

But you know what’s waiting on the other side. And you know you’re already too far gone. But now she’s here.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door, heart picking up speed, hands pressed against the comfort of your blanket. A breath. Another. You tell yourself to stay still, stay quiet, maybe she’ll go away, maybe she’ll take the hint—

She knocks again.

“Open the door.”

Your skin prickles. Not a question. Not a request. Just a flat, patient command. Still, you hesitate. Seconds pass, stretching out between you like a tightrope, thin and fraying. And then, finally, you move.

The door creaks as you pull it open, slow and careful. Paige stands in the dim hallway, shoulders loose, hoodie hanging from her frame like she just threw it on without thinking. Her hair’s a mess—like she’s been running her hands through it, like she’s been restless all night. Her blue eyes flicker over you, unreadable, scanning, weighing.

Then she steps inside.

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just walks past you, brushing close enough that you feel the heat of her body, the scent of her—something clean and sharp, faint sweat and warm fabric and something entirely, infuriatingly her.

The door clicks shut behind her. You don’t speak.

You don’t have to. She turns to you, slow, deliberate, expression unreadable. Then, voice low and measured:

“Lay on the bed.”

A prickle of heat races down your spine. You swallow, breath catching, fingers curling at your sides. But you don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Just step back, moving without thought, without question, without sense—because it’s Paige, and because you want to know where this is going, and because something inside you is already unraveling at the edges.

The mattress dips as you crawl onto it, arms bracing, knees pressing into the sheets. You don’t dare look at her. You hear the shift of fabric, the quiet creak of the bed frame as she moves behind you, slow, careful. A pause. A breath.

Then—

“Where’s your vibrator?”

The words hit like a strike to the ribs. Sudden, shocking, stealing the air from your lungs.

Your fingers clutch the blankets, throat dry. You don’t answer.

Paige hums, thoughtful, unimpressed. Then you feel her—one hand at your lower back, pressing just enough to make you sink into the mattress, the other trailing up your spine, fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder.

“You’re gonna tell me,” she murmurs, voice steady, quiet, dangerous in its softness. “Or I’ll find it myself.”

Heat pools low in your stomach, twisting sharp and deep. Your breath stutters. Paige’s hand lingers at the back of your neck, fingers tracing, waiting.

Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Drawer.”

A pause. The ghost of a smile in her voice.

“Good girl.”

Then she moves.

You hear it—the slide of the drawer, the shift of objects, the quiet click of plastic against wood. A heartbeat. Two. Then the bed shifts again, and she’s behind you, close enough to feel the heat of her, the weight of her presence, the steady, unshaken confidence in every movement.

Her fingers skim your thigh, light, testing, teasing.

“You know what to do.” Your stomach clenches.

Slowly, breathlessly, you shift forward, sinking onto your hands, pressing your chest to the mattress. Your knees spread, thighs parting just enough to leave you open, vulnerable, trembling with something you can’t name.

The air is thick, charged, electric.

Then, Paige’s voice, low and certain:

“Don’t look at me.”

You shudder.

And then—she starts.

The first press of the vibrator against your clit is light—just a tease, barely there, a flicker of sensation that sends a sharp jolt straight through you. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, breath catching, body already wound so fucking tight you think you might shatter from just this.

Paige hums, pleased, lazy. Her other hand skims up your back, slow and deliberate, tracing the dip of your spine, the curve of your ribs, fingers spreading wide as she grips your hip, holding you in place. The bed shifts beneath her weight, but you don’t look back. You don’t dare. Not when you can already feel her eyes on you, watching every little reaction, every twitch, every shaky inhale.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “So fucking wet already.”

You let out a soft, helpless sound, pressing your forehead against the mattress, trying to steady yourself. It doesn’t help. The vibrator hums again, firmer this time, rolling against your clit in slow, torturous circles, and your hips jerk instinctively, seeking more, needing more.

Paige clicks her tongue. “Uh-uh. Stay still.”

The sharp sting of her palm against your ass is unexpected, quick and precise, more startling than painful—but fuck, it makes you tighten everywhere, makes you gasp, makes heat curl even deeper in your gut. Your nails dig into the sheets, thighs trembling.

Then—without warning—the vibrator presses harder, just enough to make your whole body tense, thighs twitching, stomach clenching. Your mouth falls open, a high, breathless moan spilling out before you can stop it.

“That’s it,” Paige murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

She drags the vibrator lower, just for a second, teasing the slick heat between your thighs, and then—fuck—you feel her fingers, tracing, pressing, testing. You whimper, hips bucking, and she chuckles, low and amused, before finally—finally—she sinks one finger inside.

Your breath stutters, back arching, body clenching tight around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” she exhales, voice rough, almost reverent. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

The vibrator keeps buzzing against your clit, steady, relentless, a constant pulse of pleasure as her finger moves, slow and deliberate, curling just right, dragging along that sensitive spot that makes you tremble.

“God, you’re dripping,” Paige mutters, voice edged with something darker, something raw. “You want more?”

You nod frantically, too wrecked to form words, pushing back against her hand, chasing it, needing it.

She gives it to you.

Another finger presses in, stretching you, filling you, fucking into you in slow, deep strokes, pushing past that tight resistance, until she’s buried up to the knuckle. Your whole body shakes, heat coiling low in your stomach, sharp and overwhelming.

“Jesus,” Paige breathes, her voice tight, wrecked. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

She picks up the pace—fingers curling, twisting, pressing in deeper as the vibrator rolls against your clit, unrelenting, merciless. You’re gasping now, panting, your hips moving without thought, without control, grinding down, fucking yourself onto her fingers, onto the pulsing buzz of the toy, lost in the slick, obscene sound of it, the heat, the pressure, the unbearable, intoxicating pleasure building too fast, too much—

“Paige—”

She tightens her grip on your hip, holding you still, pressing the vibrator harder against your clit, fingers thrusting deeper, sharper, hitting that spot over and over and over—

And you snap.

It crashes into you all at once—blinding, breathless, a shockwave of raw, shuddering pleasure that rips through your entire body. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, legs shaking, thighs clamping around her hand as the orgasm slams into you, wrecking you, drowning you.

Paige curses, low and filthy, working you through it, keeping the vibrator pressed firm against your clit as your body jerks, as you convulse, as pleasure spills over in wave after brutal wave.

You collapse forward, panting, trembling, barely able to hold yourself up. But Paige isn’t done.

She flips you onto your back in one smooth, effortless motion, her body pressing into yours, caging you in. Before you can even catch your breath, her mouth is on you.

The first kiss is rough, searing, a claim more than a kiss—teeth dragging against your lip, tongue pressing deep, swallowing the wrecked little sounds spilling from your throat.

Her hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, dragging your legs apart, squeezing your waist, your ribs, your tits, mapping every inch of you like she’s memorizing it.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cum,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours, voice thick with hunger. “All fucked out and messy for me.”

Your breath stutters. Paige leans in again, dragging her mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear that makes you shiver.

“I want you loud this time,” she mutters, fingers already slipping back between your thighs, spreading you open, rubbing slow, teasing circles against your overstimulated clit. “You gonna give me that?”

You whimper, nodding frantically, hips bucking up into her hand, desperate for more.

Paige smirks against your skin. “Good.”

The heat of her body presses you into the mattress, her grip firm, unrelenting, claiming every inch of you like she’s owed it, like she’s been waiting for this for so fucking long that holding back isn’t an option anymore.

And it’s not. It never was.

Her fingers curl inside you, deep and sharp, pressing right against that devastating spot that makes your whole body tighten and shudder. You’re soaked, dripping down onto her hand, onto the sheets, your thighs slick, trembling, spread wide as she takes what she wants—what she’s wanted for so fucking long.

“You have no idea,” Paige mutters, voice low, wrecked, breath warm against your neck as she drags her lips over your skin, teeth grazing, biting. “No fucking idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”

Your brain short-circuits. You gasp, clutching at her shoulders, legs wrapping around her waist, dragging her closer, needing her closer.

She groans, grinding against you, fingers moving faster, harder, pushing into you with a rhythm that’s obscene, ruthless, making you arch, making you cry out.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she growls. “The way you looked at me? The way you listened when I fucked other girls in this apartment?”

Your stomach clenches, a sharp pang of shame and arousal slamming through you.

Paige laughs. A low, breathy, utterly wicked sound.

“That’s right,” she purrs, slowing her fingers to a torturous, teasing drag. “I know what you’ve been doing. Lying in here, all hot and frustrated, touching yourself to the thought of me.”

Your breath catches.

“You ever wonder if I was thinking about you?” she continues, voice husky, lips dragging down your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. “Lying in bed, hearing you through the walls, touching myself to the sound of you coming?”

Your hips jerk up, a desperate, broken sound escaping you.

Paige chuckles, dark and amused, before she slams her fingers into you again, relentless, brutal, dragging you right back up that peak.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat ripping through your body, pleasure slamming into you all at once, sharp and unbearable, too much but not enough, never enough.

Then she’s everywhere—her mouth crushing against yours, teeth nipping, tongue pressing in deep as her fingers fuck into you, relentless, merciless, like she’s making up for every second she didn’t have you like this.

“Come for me,” she demands, voice ragged, forehead pressing against yours, blue eyes dark, wild, locked onto you like she’s daring you to fall apart.

Your whole body seizes up, back arching, mouth falling open on a silent scream as the orgasm tears through you, overwhelming, devastating, making your mind go blank, making your vision fucking blur.

Paige groans as you clench around her fingers, as you drip onto her hand, onto the sheets, onto her.

“Jesus fuck,” she breathes, watching you, drinking in every twitch, every shake, every shattered gasp. “You look so fucking good like this.”

And before you can even catch your breath, before you can even think, she’s flipping you over again, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down, her body covering yours completely.

Her mouth is everywhere—hot, desperate, claiming every inch of you, kissing you like she wants to consume you, biting at your throat, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re mine now,” she mutters, breath ragged, hand gripping your hip, dragging you up against her. “You fucking get that?”

You nod frantically, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing more, needing everything.

“Say it,” she growls.

“I’m yours,” you gasp, voice wrecked, desperate.

Paige grins—wild, triumphant—before crashing her mouth against yours again, her hand slipping back between your legs, fingers dragging through the mess she’s already made of you.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” she murmurs, voice dark, teasing.

Your breath stutters, eyes going wide.

“You can’t—”

“I can.” She presses the vibrator back against your clit, fingers already sliding back inside you, making you sob. “And I will.”

Then she fucks you, properly, thoroughly, relentlessly, making you come again and again until you can barely breathe, barely think, until the only thing left in your head is her.

The room is wreckage. Pillows displaced, sheets tangled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and satisfaction. Your limbs are jelly, nerves still sparking like frayed wires, pleasure still ghosting along the edges of your skin in aftershocks you can’t quite suppress. Paige—Paige fucking Bueckers—is lying beside you, her chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths, arm slung possessively across your stomach like she owns you now.

And maybe she does.

You blink up at the ceiling, brain still trying to reboot. The night—Jesus, the night—had unraveled into something primal, something endless, something that had pushed you past exhaustion, past coherence, past sanity. Paige had wrecked you, torn you apart, rebuilt you in the shape of something raw and ruined and aching for more. And now—

Now, she shifts beside you. A lazy stretch, muscles flexing, a small, satisfied hum escaping her lips. You don’t have the energy to turn your head, but you feel her, the weight of her gaze settling on your profile.

Then, voice still husky from exertion, smug and utterly fucking unbearable—

"So, do you want to get dinner with me?"

Your brain stalls.

Your head turns, slow, disbelieving, vision sharpening just enough to catch the absolute shit-eating grin tugging at her lips. She’s fucking with you. She has to be. After everything—after the way she spent hours making you come until you forgot your own name, until your body had nothing left to give, until you had collapsed against her, too spent to do anything but breathe—she’s asking you out. Like it’s casual. Like it’s normal.

Like this isn’t the most insane, deranged turn of events imaginable.

You stare.

Paige smirks.

And you—God help you—you might actually say yes.

[yoohyeon]

Saw that the Tumblr icon on my iPad changed so I went to see what’s up and WE FINALLY CAN REPLY WITH THE BLOG WE WANT !!! THANK YOU !!! Now staff make it so when you block someone it’s block on all sb too thanks I’m tired of blocking 3 times

[reiding-writing]

Congrats on 3k lovely!!! For your celebration may I request

1. ❛ how can you be so smart yet so dumb at the same time? ❜

2. them getting angry on ur behalf

3. Maybe boyband Spencer but honestly happy with any

This is such a fun idea!! Love your writing x

SERIOUSLY, SPENCER? /spencer reid/

“how can you be so smart yet so dumb at the same time?”

them getting angry on ur behalf.

s5! spencer x gn! reader 1.0k flangst event masterlist. main masterlist.

You’ve always admired Spencer’s intelligence. His mind is like a machine, constantly whirring, processing, analysing, and spitting out facts at a speed most people can’t keep up with. But for someone so brilliant, he can be completely oblivious.

And right now, it’s driving you insane.

The two of you are at a coffee shop near the BAU, grabbing a quick break between cases. It was your idea—Spencer has a bad habit of overworking himself, so you figured some fresh air and caffeine might help. The shop is warm, the scent of roasted coffee beans filling the air as you sip your drink. It should be relaxing. Should be.

But the barista, a guy with slicked-back hair and a condescending smirk, is ruining it.

He’s been making snide comments toward Spencer for the past five minutes, and your best friend doesn’t even seem to notice.

Spencer, of course, is just being his usual self—rambling about some obscure psychology study that somehow relates to the flavour profiles of different coffee beans. He’s excited, completely in his own world, but every time he speaks, the barista’s smirk grows.

“Oh wow,” the guy interrupts, voice dripping with mock interest. “That’s so fascinating. You must be, like, super fun at parties,”

Spencer, being Spencer, doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm. He simply nods. “Actually, I don’t go to many parties, statistically speaking—”

“Shocking,” the barista cuts in, rolling his eyes.

You tighten your grip on your cup, knuckles turning white. You glance at Spencer, waiting for him to realise what’s happening, to say something, but he just keeps going.

“Well, large social gatherings can be overwhelming due to the noise levels and the sheer number of unpredictable social interactions. It’s actually quite common for people with higher IQs to prefer smaller, more intimate settings—”

The barista snorts, shaking his head. “Right. Makes sense.” His eyes flick to you, and he smirks. “And you hang out with him?”

That’s it.

Slamming your cup down on the counter, you glare at the guy, your patience snapping like a rubber band stretched too thin.

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?”

Spencer blinks, finally looking up from his coffee. “What?”

You ignore him, stepping closer to the barista. “You’ve been making fun of him this whole time, and I don’t know if you think you’re being subtle, but news flash—you’re not. So why don’t you cut the crap?”

The barista puts his hands up, mock innocence plastered across his face. “Whoa, chill. I was just joking,”

“No, you were being an asshole.”

Spencer’s brows furrow. “Wait, he was?”

You whip around to face him, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

He looks genuinely confused. “I mean, he was engaging in some light teasing, but it didn’t seem particularly—”

“Oh my god.” You stare at him, frustration bubbling over. “Spencer, how can you be so smart yet so dumb at the same time?”

His mouth opens slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but for once, he doesn’t seem to have a response.

You turn back to the barista, levelling him with a glare that could melt steel. “Apologise.”

The guy scoffs. “For what?”

“For being a condescending jerk to someone who was just trying to have a conversation with you,” you snap. “You think it’s funny to make fun of people for being intelligent? That says a lot more about you than it does about him.”

The barista hesitates, eyes darting between you and Spencer. When he realises you’re not backing down, he mutters, “Sorry,”

You don’t even wait for a real apology before grabbing Spencer’s sleeve and tugging him toward the exit.

Outside, the cool air hits your face, and you take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. You can feel Spencer staring at you.

“That was… unexpected,”

You turn to him, still fuming. “Seriously, Spencer? You really didn’t notice?”

He hesitates. “I mean… I noticed his tone was a little off, but I assumed he was just—”

“Being a dick.” you finish.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably. “I guess I just don’t always pick up on that kind of thing,”

Your anger softens a little. You know he’s not stupid—far from it. But sometimes, when it comes to social interactions, he misses things that seem obvious to you.

You sigh. “Look, I know you like giving people the benefit of the doubt, but some people don’t deserve it,”

Spencer tilts his head, considering your words. “You… seem upset,”

You scoff. “I am upset. You’re my best friend, Spencer. I’m not gonna stand there and let some idiot talk down to you like that.”

He looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles—a small, genuine smile that makes something in your chest tighten.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

You roll your eyes, bumping his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Just—next time, try to pick up on it a little faster, okay?”

“I’ll try,” he promises. Then, after a beat, he adds, “But I think I like it better when you notice for me,”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too.

[amoromniaodium]

Animal Kingdom

Andrew Pope Cody

Thank you all for reading the preview! I didn’t expect such a positive reaction to my writing. Your likes and comments have truly inspired me — I already have two more parts planned. Feel free to share your thoughts, whether good or bad. I always appreciate honest feedback.

We’ll be seeing more of the Cody family soon, but I wanted to give you some background on Pope and my character first.

Chapter 1

The Revival

—

When she was five, she witnessed something she’d only later come to recognize as bipolar disorder in her mother.

Her mother didn’t believe in medication. Said it made her too foggy, too far from herself. So she replaced prescriptions with “the good drugs.” And from then on, her daughter saw things no child should ever see — things done to her mother, things done by her mother.

By the age of ten, she was the unofficial head of the household. She cleaned, cooked, kept the apartment running. She stole — not because she liked it, but because it was the only way to survive. She lifted money from the men her mother brought home. Took soap, toothpaste, and pads from school. Stole lunches from bigger kids. She was a pro.

She loved her mother. Deeply. Enough to make sure she ate, drank water, showered. Enough to keep watch when her mother’s “friends” were over. She loved her even when she didn’t understand her — especially then. That’s where her obsession with psychology began.

She had seen people overdose. Seen how depression and addiction twisted people until they became unrecognizable. She didn’t judge. She watched. She asked questions. She wanted to understand. Needed to understand.

Her schoolwork improved. She started talking to the men who didn’t make her stomach twist. She made them feel seen. Safe. And in return, they opened up. She never gave advice. She just listened. By sixteen, she had done more emotional labor than most people do in a lifetime.

She read psych books from the library and used the tools they taught. Guided conversations, helped others find their own answers. She helped build relationships, and quietly helped end toxic ones, too.

They cried in front of her. Sat with her in silence. Let their rage unravel in the safety of her presence. And when her mother spiraled — manic or depressed — they were there. They helped her study. Helped her apply to university. Helped her celebrate when she got into med school on a partial scholarship.

And they were there when her mother overdosed.

In the quietest, darkest part of her chest, she was relieved.

She left. She studied. She was great at it — not just because she was smart, but because she understood. She could see pain before it was spoken. And she was determined to help fix both mind and body. That’s what led to her final rotation, at Folsom State Prison — and to the man who would change her completely.

⸻

Her first day at Folsom, she knew: this was not where she wanted to be.

Her attending was kind — as kind as one can be after decades in a place like this. He laid out the rules, the code, the expectations. Who to trust. What not to wear. How to walk, how to speak. He gave her a list of patients, diagnoses, medication routines.

That’s when she saw his name.

Andrew David Cody.

A massive dose of Thorazine. Enough to sedate rage. She didn’t meet the inmates until two weeks in.

And the moment she saw his eyes — dark, empty, emotionless — she should have known it wouldn’t end well.

⸻

There’s something to be said about leaving employment to return to school.

After her residency, she realized she didn’t want to be a prison psychiatrist. Not because she couldn’t handle it — but because she had no real power to help. She thought of a pair of eyes — dark, sad, and unblinking — and knew that wasn’t enough.

So she returned. Started a certificate in criminology, hoping to understand them better. But maybe it was something simpler than that: maybe she just didn’t want to grow up. Not yet.

Maybe she should work at a hospital in California. Maybe she should leave the country. Or maybe… maybe she should go back to her mother’s apartment. Let herself rot quietly, the way her mother had.

But then, walking out of class one evening, she saw him.

Not saw — felt.

A presence.

Straight-backed. Arms at his sides. Short sleeved shirt buttoned to the top like a priest.

And eyes — hawk-like, locked on her.

Andrew Cody.

But this time, for the first time since he’d been released, there was something new in his gaze.

A flicker of light in all that darkness.

⸻

There was something to say about the first time she saw him in months —it wasn’t fear that struck her. It was relief. A twisted kind of happiness.

Not about how he found her. Not how he knew where to look.

But because he was out. He had made parole.

Her first instinct, naive as it was, hoped he hadn’t gone back.

Not to that house. Not to her.

That maybe he’d gotten his own place, finally freed himself from the grip of that obsessive, broken mother — and the suffocating loyalty to his family.

But no.

She knew better.

Of course he hadn’t. They were the only thing he had ever known.

Letting go of them would be like letting go of oxygen.

She understood.

The only reason she ever left was because her mother was six feet under. These thoughts flickered and died the moment she saw him — standing there awkwardly, stiff as ever, eyes locked on her like always.

She moved toward him, not quite running, but not walking either.

Stopped just short of touching distance.

“Andrew!” she breathed. “You… you did it. Oh my God, I’m so happy for you. I knew you could do it.”

He didn’t say a word.

Just stared. But she saw it — the barest twitch of his mouth, a subtle lift of his brow.

He was happy to see her.

“How are you feeling? Have you seen your brothers?” she asked gently.

He replied, voice low. “Yes.”

She didn’t ask about his mother. She didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to open that door. Not yet.

So she reached for the first thing that surfaced — something safer.

“The fountain… did Baz ever finish it?” Her voice came out too light, too casual — even she could hear it.

But it was the only thing she could grab. He had once told her Baz promised to finish it while he was gone.

A flicker again — this time annoyance. A tilt of the head, the slightest grimace.

“No. I’m making it.”

So he was back there.

“Ah,” she said softly. “Well… I’m not really surprised. From what you told me about Baz…”

(From what your eyes told me. From what your silences said.)

“But it’s good, right? Keeps you busy. Keeps your mind quiet.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared.

“Right. Sorry… are you hungry? Want to grab something to eat?”

“I thought you were done with school,” he said.

“Yeah. I was. I don’t know —” she gave a nervous laugh, tugged at her sleeve, “—I guess I’m just not ready for the real world yet.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I understand.”

“I know you do, Andrew,” she said gently. “Let’s go. There’s this Mexican place nearby — it’s amazing.”

She reached out instinctively, about to touch his arm — but paused.

He was watching her hand. Not with fear. Not quite with hope. Just a quiet, unreadable stillness. Like he wanted it more than anything but wouldn’t let himself show it.

There was something in his eyes — not pleading, but almost… waiting. The kind of stillness a child holds when something precious is near, afraid to move and scare it off.

She hesitated, her fingers curling slightly.

She knew how vulnerable he was in that moment. Knew what it meant — what it would mean — to touch him here, like this. There was desire under it, yes, but not sexual. Not yet. It felt more like comforting a child after a nightmare.

So she moved slowly.

When she finally took his hand, his fingers didn’t flinch. Didn’t tighten. Just rested there — solid, warm, resigned.

But he didn’t pull away.

And that was everything.

She led him forward, her grip light, his steps heavier — like he was trying not to fall into her.

[noirscript]

last call

pairing: Yandere!Artist x Reader

description: Adrien’s obsession isn’t just art—it’s a countdown to something far worse. As your friend disappears, the horrifying truth dawns: you’re already his next masterpiece.

warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Obsession | Implied Kidnapping | Implied Murder | Psychological Horror | Anxiety

note: i'd really appreciate your thoughts about this one (￣～￣；) also, i recently reached 700+ followers. uh, thank you for reading my works. ^^

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The quiet hum of the call center is a familiar backdrop to your life now. The steady ringing of phones, the soft murmurs of your colleagues in their cubicles. You keep your head down, focus on your calls, your sweet, submissive voice filling the air. It’s what you do. It’s all you do. For the pay, the benefits, the security.

But there are days—like today—when you can’t ignore the gnawing unease crawling up your spine.

You glance over at Jake, your friend, who’s working on the other side of the room. He’s always been there, your rock, always nearby, always with a comforting word. The late-night shifts aren’t so bad when you’re together. But tonight, something feels off.

You can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

When the last call ends, you decide to confide in him. You wait until the others are off their calls, the noise of the office muted by the hour. The two of you slip into a quiet corner, and your voice shakes when you speak.

"Jake," you whisper, "I think I’m being stalked."

He looks at you, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. "What do you mean? Stalked by who?"

You hesitate, then reach into your bag, pulling out a piece of paper—one of the sketches you found in your locker that morning. The sight of it still makes your heart race. A detailed drawing of you, sitting alone at your desk. A figure standing in the background, a shadowed presence just out of focus.

"Look," you say, voice trembling. "It’s not just this one. Every day there’s a new drawing, and the worst part? There's always someone standing near me. Always. But not anyone I know. Someone I don’t recognize."

Jake takes the sketch, his brows furrowed as he studies it. His face pales as he glances up at you, then back at the drawing.

"That’s… That’s creepy," he mutters, his voice barely audible. "Who’s doing this? Do you have any idea?"

You swallow, the knot in your throat growing tighter. "I don’t know. But it’s like he’s always watching me. I don’t know how he gets into my locker, but every day, there’s another sketch waiting for me."

You stop, your fingers gripping the edge of your seat as you watch him. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as if making sure no one else is paying attention.

"Something doesn’t feel right," you continue, voice barely above a whisper. "He’s watching me. Following me. I don’t know what to do anymore."

Jake sighs deeply, setting the sketch back down on the table. His eyes are tired, haunted. "Maybe you should talk to Leo about this," he suggests. "He might be able to help. Leo always knows what to do."

You nod, trying to ignore the creeping dread in your chest. But it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. And that night, things get worse.

You get home after another long shift, the familiar creak of the door echoing in the silence. Your breath catches in your throat when you notice something odd—Jake’s stuff is gone. The apartment feels emptier, the silence too thick.

You text him, but there’s no reply. That’s odd. Jake always answers. You pace around the apartment, staring at his empty room, the unmade bed, the absence of his things.

He’s never left without saying anything before.

You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, but it grows as the days pass. His shifts no longer line up with yours. You come home to find his things still gone, and he doesn’t pick up his phone anymore.

You can't help but feel a gnawing sense of dread settling deep within you.

And then it happens.

You receive a package. A canvas, no return address. You open it cautiously, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment you see the painting, the room goes cold. It’s of Jake. His face twisted in a grotesque, disturbing way. His body painted with smears of red. His mouth open in a silent scream. It’s too realistic. Too graphic to be dismissed. Too vivid to be ignored.

A chill runs down your spine. What is this? The red… it’s too much. The detail is too real.

You don’t know what to do with it. You can't even look at it for too long, so you shove it into your drawer, hoping it’ll disappear, even though you know it never will.

The next night, you try to shake it off. But when Leo asks how things are going, you can’t hide the terror any longer. You tell him everything—the drawings, Jake’s disappearance, the painting. He listens quietly, his face unreadable, but you can see the concern in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Leo,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe. Every day is worse.”

Leo rubs his temples, his mind clearly racing. “You know the rules, right? We can’t flag him, not without proof. You’re stuck playing into his game.”

You nod, biting your lip. You’re fully aware of that. In this line of work, you play the role you're given. You pretend to be someone else, to be their darling. The job is lucrative, but it comes with a cost. You have to pretend, even when it feels like the walls are closing in.

Leo leans forward, his eyes softening with concern. “Do you suspect anyone, though? Anyone specific?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, then—against your better judgment—you answer, your voice barely a whisper.

“Adrien,” you say, your heart pounding in your chest. "Adrien is the one who’s been sending the sketches. He called in through Yandere Hotline, said he was a wealthy artist. He told me his family owns a conglomerate, but he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wanted to be a real artist. But he had an art block. That’s when he found me. He said I inspired him."

You pause, taking a shaky breath, the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on you. "He said I was his muse. He wanted to create again, and I was the key. I played into it, Leo. I thought it was harmless at first. He just wanted me to talk to him, to make him feel heard, to give him some inspiration. But it… it got worse."

Leo watches you closely, his face unreadable. He doesn’t interrupt, but you see the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“Then he started sending me the sketches. At first, it was just one, a drawing of me sitting at my desk. But after that… he started showing up more in the pictures. Always standing near me. And it wasn’t just the drawings. He started talking about how he couldn’t wait to draw me ‘up close.’ Like I was his next masterpiece. He said it so casually, Leo. Like it was something that was just going to happen.”

Your voice cracks as you recall the worst part. "And now Jake’s gone. His things disappeared. His shifts don’t match mine anymore. And I just… I don’t know what to do. I’m trapped, Leo. He’s everywhere. I feel him watching me."

Leo’s face tightens, a flicker of something darker passing through his expression. But then, his voice softens, as though he's trying to calm you. “You’re right. You’re stuck playing his game. You’ve got no choice but to follow it. We all do.”

But as the conversation lingers, there’s a tension in the air that neither of you can deny.

That night, as you walk back to your locker, your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

You hesitate, the pit in your stomach widening. But something—something deep inside of you—makes you answer.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end makes your blood run cold.

“You’re still pretending, sweetheart,” he says softly. "But I see you. I know you."

Your pulse quickens. It’s him. Adrien.

His voice slides through the phone like silk, sending a chill through your body.

“I’ve been watching,” he continues, his tone too calm, too familiar. “You think I don’t notice? The way you look at the others. The way you pretend they’re all you need.”

You try to steady your breath, your hands shaking. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he whispers, his voice darkening. “Waiting for you to see me, to understand.”

You feel your skin crawl as he continues. “But it’s too late for that now. You’re already mine. And I’ll make sure you understand what it means.”

You shiver, every fiber of your being screaming to run.

But you can’t.

Your breath catches as you arrive at your locker. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you open it. And there they are—the sketches.

One of you and Leo.

The other... of you. Eyes wide with terror. A hand, not yours, gripping your jaw. Forcing you to look at yourself.

The sketch is too detailed, too real. You can’t breathe as you stare at it, the raw fear in your eyes captured in every stroke. The grip on your jaw, the force of it—the terror written all over your face.

You slam the locker shut, your heart racing. The call ends with Adrien’s final, chilling words.

“Run. I love it when you run.”

The phone drops from your hands, and you turn around—there’s no one there. But the air feels thick, the walls closing in on you. It’s not just the job anymore. It’s your life. It’s him. And there’s no way out.

You can feel his eyes on you even now, through the phone, through the sketches, through the very air you breathe. And no matter how many times you try to convince yourself that this is just a game, a twisted fantasy he’s playing—you know, deep in your gut, that it’s real. Every step you take, every breath you take, Adrien is right behind you, watching, waiting.

And the worst part? You’re trapped. You always have been.

You just didn’t know it until now.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz

[chaoticsolsworld]

“Shelter from the Storm” Ash Garver x Reader (No Exit)

Author’s note: This is Romance with Slow Burn, Canon Events, Comfort Amid Crisis. Warnings: Canon-typical tension, psychological stress, light emotional manipulation (It’s Ash what do we expect?)

You’d known Ash Garver for less than two hours when you started to feel like you knew somethingabout him.

He was charming in a suave but lazy, crooked kind of way. The kind of man who made a joke just to see how you’d react. He was warm on the outside, but you could feel something colder…something more intense underneath, something calculating. And yet, when your fingers trembled as you poured yourself coffee in the poorly lit rest stop, it was him who noticed first.

“You alright there?” he asked, voice low and easy like molasses. “Hands look like they’re about to bail on you.”

You glanced up, startled. You hadn’t expected kindness. Not from a stranger. Not from him. Not in a snowstorm. Not when something about this place felt wrong.

“Just cold,” you lied.

Ash looked at you a second longer than he needed to. “Cold,” he repeated, then slipped off his jacket and handed it to you.

You blinked. “I’m okay—”

“Just take it,” he said, cutting you off… “You’ll warm up faster than that heater ever will.”

You hesitated, then slid it over your arms. It was heavier than you expected. Warm. It smelled faintly like sawdust and cedar and snowfall, but there was something else—like someone who lived on the edge but liked soft things anyway.

You sat across from him at one of the wooden tables. The others, Darby, Sandi, Lars—were scattered in various states of unease. You felt it too. The stillness before something broke.

Ash leaned back, arms crossed, studying the others with unreadable eyes. Then he looked back at you.

“First time driving through this pass?” he asked casually.

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “Bad timing. Weather’s a real bitch.”

You smirked a little. “Yeah, well, at least the company’s… interesting.”

A flicker of something crossed his face, humor, maybe. “That it is,” he murmured, then leaned in, voice a little lower. “Stick close, yeah? People get jumpy in storms like this.”

You searched his face. “You saying I should trust you?”

He shrugged with a smirk. “I’m saying I don’t like seeing you scared.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Maybe because he said it so calmly. Maybe because it was the first honest thing anyone had said all night.

“Why?” you asked quietly.

Ash looked at you a moment. “Don’t know. Maybe because it makes me feel like there’s still something good to protect.”

The heater buzzed in the background. Outside, snow swallowed the world. Inside, you held his jacket tighter around your shoulders and tried not to fall for a man you couldn’t quite figure out. A man who made you feel safer and more unsure than anyone else in that place.

And even when the night started to unravel, when truths cracked open and blood stained the snow, you remembered the quiet between you. The puffer jacket. The warmth. The part of Ash that wanted to be good, even if he didn’t know how to be.

[loverslantern]

Mirror- Dean Winchester x f! reader oneshot

Description: Reader doesn’t feel pretty so Dean tries to show her what he sees in the way he knows best: praise.

Warnings: It’s hot and heavy in here, inherently sexual but nothing happens, manhandling?, praise

Word count: 2k

Note: This is not only my first time writing something like this but also my first time writing something not related to The Hunter and The Witch series so please leave feedback!

  I catch my reflection on the screen of my laptop and groan. My face looks weird today. It’s just one of those days where I just couldn’t feel…pretty or nice or any other adjective. It shouldn’t matter now when I’m alone in my motel room and researching for the next hunt. There’s no one to impress in the desolate room other than the four beige walls and a creaky bed. 

  It shouldn’t matter. To be fair it shouldn’t matter in general when beauty is an objective concept, and yet it does. I do not know the psychology behind it, maybe it’s a biological thing as animals would choose the mate that’s more appealing or strong to have offspring that can survive. I shake my head, ridding myself of the thought. This would just spiral into a psychological analysis that would only make me think of it further rather than ignore it. 

  It’s an obsessive thing, isn’t it?

  Either way, I don’t like the way I look today. I couldn’t get my hair to look just right this morning and I tried so many up-do’s that my arms got sore. It still didn’t look right, so I left it down. 

  And my face just looks wrong. Maybe my eyes are too big or too small in proportion to the rest of my face. Or, maybe my jawline is too soft, perhaps I’m not rough enough. Perhaps I’m too rough. Somehow, every possible thing feels true. 

  I groan again, leaning my head back against the headboard of the bed, and squeeze my eyes shut as if it will get rid of it all. I’m meant to be focused on research. It was supposed to help. But stupid screens and their stupid reflections.

  The jingle of keys forces my eyes open, my eyes landing on my door as it clicks open. “Hey, sweetheart,” Dean greets, casually inviting himself in. 

  “Hi,” I breathe. I suppose the consequence of giving someone a spare key is that they will use said key. But, I’m not that bad of a thing considering it’s Dean who’s walking in. “I’m gonna head to a bar, you in?”

  “Eh,” I answer. “You go ahead. ‘Not feeling it tonight.”

  He eyes me for a moment, squinting just slightly. “Not even as an excuse to dress up and listen to music?” he pushes. “‘My treat.” Of course, his treat meant a fake card or money he got from hustling. But, god the way he smiles and holds his hands up as he tries to convince me is cuter than it should be. “Sorry, Dean,” I say despite the sight, “Just not feeling it.”

  His shoulders and smile drop, “Come on I’ll buy you as much (favorite drink) as you want.”

  “You can go without me you know?” I point out as he saunters over to the bed and plops himself down. “We both know you’re gonna be leaving with some random girl anyway.” 

  He rolls his eyes as he leans back on his elbows, his black shirt flexing against his muscles. He knows I’m right. “I thought Sam was the nerd,” he comments, ignoring what I said by lifting my laptop off my lap and discarding it in the empty space next to him. “Why don’t you wanna go out? ‘You feeling okay?” he asks and for a moment as his eyes scan my face, I can see the concern pass through them. 

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I insist, trying to be as convincing as possible. Yet, he sees right through me, giving me a pointed look. He’s hard to lie to. I break, shaking my head, “Fine. I just…I don’t feel pretty today so I don’t really wanna go out.”

  His eyebrows raise, his lips parting a bit as if that’s the last thing he expected me to say. “You?”

  My eyebrows furrow, head tilting in confusion, “….Yeah….” Who else?

  He studies my face again and I worry he’ll see what I’m seeing. He’ll see I’m not pretty. His features soften regardless. “Come with me,” he announces, gesturing a hand to follow as he gets up from the bed. I don’t listen, giving him a confused and cautious look. “Come on,” he insists, his voice firm. 

  I hold back my sigh as I stand from the bed. I almost didn’t want to know what he had in store. But, he doesn’t leave me with much choice but to turn back as he takes hold of my hand. His hand is big and warm as it envelopes mine, butterflies erupting in my gut at the simple touch.

  He leads me into the bathroom, his hand leaving mine to travel up my arms and to my shoulders, positioning me in front of the mirror. My hips press against the sink, his hands on my upper arms and his body close behind mine. He nearly looms over me with his tall stature, his head and eyes tilted a little down as he uses the mirror to meet my eyes. “Don’t look at me. Look at yourself,” he directs. But my eyes linger on him, on his pretty green eyes, sharp sculptured jaw, and his straight nose. His fingers tap against the skin of my upper arm, “Come on,” he encourages, his voice a little gravely. 

  I give in. He makes it so easy to give in. I pull my eyes from him and land on myself. A frown pulls on my lips as my eyes jump around my features, even my frown looks wrong. He squeezes my arms, gaining my attention back in the same second my gut lurches. “Uh-uh,” he hums. “Eyes back on you, baby.”

  Jesus. 

  Again, I force my eyes away and I can feel his burning gaze on me. “What do you see?” he asks. I scuff and roll my eyes, “Dean, I’m not—“

  His hands rub up and down my upper arms. “Just—what do you see?”

  I bite on my bottom lip. I look unamused. That’s what I’m seeing. I sigh, trying to humor him. “Myself,” I answer plainly.

  He tuts, “Not what I meant, sweetheart. What do you see that you don’t like?”

  Everything. That seems like an appropriate answer. But I can’t just say that and I don’t. I hardly want to share what I feel when it’s hard to put words to it. “How about this?” he says, his head dipping down to occupy the space by my neck, putting himself closer to my level than far above me. “I like your smile,” he admits, his voice so soft it’s like a rough whisper. “I like when you smile at me…” he squeezes my arms, “like I’m damn important.”

  “You ar—“

  “Uh-uh,” he hums again. “This is about you, baby.” 

  One of his hands drifts upwards, the muscles in his forearm flexing. The sight is nearly intoxicating as I watch it move in the mirror, resting at the base of my neck as he stands to his height again. His thumb brushes back and forth against my collarbone, his eyes downturned to his movements. “Keep watching yourself,” he reminds me. I hadn’t realized I was watching him but could you blame me?

  He presses me back against him, his body solid and warm. I wonder if he can feel the increase in my heart rate. “And your skin…always so smooth. Hardly any scars.” He presses down on the base of my neck, encouraging my head to lean back against his chest. My breath hitches.

  “Shows how careful you are, yeah?” I can almost feel his warm breath as clearly as I can feel my heart beating against my ribs. “You a careful girl?” His gaze is burning as it travels down me. “Yeah…” he drawls, eyes traveling back up. “You are.” His thumb taps once against my collarbone, reminding me to keep my eyes on myself which seems like an impossible feat now. “There you go,” he praises, his voice low. 

My skin feels warm. My everything feels warm as if I am a furnace with the sole purpose of burning and he stokes the fire, poking at it, adding wood to keep it going. 

“Those eyes,” he mumbles, and I can feel the rumble in his chest as the words protrude from his lips. “‘Damn pretty eyes. Then you give me that look…fuck.”

  My eyes flick to his, something burning deep within my gut. He doesn’t scorn me for looking away from myself. “Yeah…” he whispers, eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “That look right there. Eyes all big, your lips parted just a little.” His hand drifts up from my neck, gracing my jaw. His thumb presses on my bottom lip. “So pretty…” he mumbles. “‘Don’t know what you aren’t seeing. Can you look at yourself again baby?” 

  I do as told and my knees feel wobbly with the heat that pools within. It’s the sight of him rather than me. The sight of him practically playing with me. “Want you to know how pretty you are,” he mumbles. “How good you are. God, you’re so good.”

  His thumb is a little wet as it slips from my lip onto my chin and my neck. His lidded eyes watch the slight mess he makes, his breath a little shallower. He hums, his chest rumbling with it. “Do you know what I think?” he asks.

  “What?” I answer the single word sounding like a sigh. My eyes drop to my lips in the mirror, my bottom lip coated in a thin layer of my own saliva like a coat of lip gloss. My breasts press against my tank top, seemingly wanting to spill over with each shallow breath. The soft swells of skin peeking from the neckline. His hands drop to my hips, pushing me forward until they’re pressing into the sink with a force that knocks me forward a little, a gasp escaping my lips. I grip the sides of the sink to catch myself. His fingers press into my hips as he holds me firmly. His body looms over me as his eyes take in my bent-over form. Those stunning green eyes that usually resemble the greenery of a forest when the sun is shining through the canopy of leaves just right, now a darkened green like the parts of the forest the sun can’t reach. 

  His hands massage my hips roughly, pushing them forward before drawing them back. His eyes are downturned to the movement, his mouth parted a little in the same manner mine is. My breath is quicker, and my heart is pounding in my chest like it’s trying to escape the space behind my ribs. “What’d I say about keeping your eyes on yourself?” He says roughly despite his own distraction. I swallow roughly, forcing my eyes back on myself for the umpteenth time.   

  He continues his actions, eyes burning into my hips and my ass like nothing else matters. “I think…” he starts, circling back to answer the question he asked me before, one I forgot about. “I think it should be sinful,” the word is like a purr coming from his lips, “to look this good. To be so fucking pretty.” It should be ironic coming from him but why would he go through all this trouble, all this guiding, pushing, pressing to convince me of something he didn’t believe in? And I can see it. I can see it, through the fog of a bad day, exactly what he’s seeing, or at least part of it. 

  “Are you seeing it?” he asks in a low voice as if he saw the change in my eyes. “Yeah,” I breathe, nodding, “Yes, I see it.”

  “Good,” he answers firmly, and yet I can hear the cocky smile that no doubt threatens his lips. Then, his hand circles around the back of my neck, tangling into my hair. He squeezes just once before he’s guiding me up, straightening me out ‘till I’m standing straight again. I spin in his hold, his large hands immediately going to my hips to keep me pressed into the sink. His eyes meet mine, something written in his irises that I can’t decipher. Then, they drop to my lips and then to my chest, that cocky smile finally making its appearance as his eyes drag back up to my lips. “Where’d you learn that?” I ask.

  His smile widens as he answers, “You don’t wanna know.”

[stickthisbig]

"But Sabine," I have been asked, and I genuinely have been asked this, this isn't just a rhetorical device, "you've studied so much about cults, you'd never join a cult, right?"

You are correct that I know an unreasonable amount about cults and cult psychology. That's why I need you to know this:

You are not immune to a cult.

First off, "cult" is a post hoc description, not a productive category. You don't register as a cult somewhere. Some people do start off to start a cult, I'm not gonna lie and say that's never happened, but if it says Join Our Cult on the flyer, it's probably an improv show or a LARP. You think you know what a cult looks like, but all the things you'd name would be negatives that you associate with things you don't like. There are loads of very devout Christian churches who believe things that you hate, and they're not cults. Other people disagree with me about this, but not all MLMs are cults; a pyramid scheme and a cult aren't the same thing (until they are). You find these people distasteful and you think they're harmful, so you associate malfeasance with them. If they're tacky and gross, must be a cult.

It also means that some of y'all literally wouldn't recognize a cult if you walked into one. When people are talking about getting great results through group living and you like what you see, they're just an organization with good ideas. Did you know I was taking a government management training in the year of our Dark Lord 2025 and it held up a Synanon youth center as one of its examples??? I felt like I was going fucking crazy, and the instructor clearly just didn't know he had anything to worry about.

A cult is never just some people you don't agree with. A cult is always about coercion and control, and it is insidious by its very nature. What's gonna happen when it's that cool barista who wants you to come to this meeting? What's gonna happen when it's just some nice ladies from your mom's church who want you to come and have tea? What's gonna happen when it's just a rabbit hole you fall down on the internet, but man, it sure makes a lot of sense, doesn't it?

Don't fucking convince yourself knowing what happened at Waco is gonna save your life. Learn some actual signs, which you should just be following so you're not a fucking chump in general:

Does everyone you meet understand you? It's fine to think you can see yourself among a group of people, but do they think the same thing immediately?

Do they want to introduce you to their leadership right now?

Do they want you to commit to a lot really quickly? Does it seem like they don't want you to leave the premises?

Do they have secrets about the world that you only really glimpse? Do they answer your questions about their faith/exciting business opportunity/social club in generalities when you're asking for specifics?

Are they asking for money? Are they giving you a lot of free materials? Does it seem like the materials aren't really free, but a ploy to ask for money?

Are these all the same steps not to get screwed at a car dealership? (Yes)

Are they offering psychiatric or addiction services but it sure doesn't seem like there's a doctor around here anywhere? Do they say they have a natural cure? (Still very bad at a car dealership)

In a real social organization that's just folks having a good time, at least one person isn't gonna like you, or they're gonna be cold, or they're gonna acknowledge you and move on. The vast majority of legit religions will just give you the tenets of their faith flat out and/or explain their worldview to you, and if they have hierarchies or advanced mysteries, most people who follow that religion can at least say something like "yeah idk you have to go to classes for that I think, those guys are a little weird but good for them".

Stop thinking that book learning and judgmental looks will save you when the question requires street smarts. You are not immune to cults for the exact same reason that you are not immune to propaganda. Your sense of security in your moral superiority is like delicious catnip to manipulative people in general and to cults in specific. You don't want to join a cult? You're better off just learning to doubt people's motives than reading yet another book about fucking Scientology. You already know what Scientology does. You probably won't have a huge problem avoiding that one.

Shit, if I avoid a cult, it'll almost certainly because I was so damn deep into the Southern Baptist church that it ruined my ability to experience faith in any meaningful way, not because I watch a lot of documentaries.

And we're not even gonna discuss the time I was forced to go to AA

(My favorite book about this is the graphic novel anthology American Cult, it will change your mind about everything you thought you knew about cults and their victims)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing your Character's "Inner Critic"

Inner Critic - a mental inner voice that criticizes and judges your actions, thoughts, and behaviors.

In the early 20th century, psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud referred to it as the “superego,” and it’s been a constant source of study ever since.

Learning to address the excesses of your critical inner voice is an important element of self-care and holistic well-being.

Popular psychology movements of today—like cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT)—assist individuals with reframing their inner critic’s negative thought processes.

Negative Thoughts From Your Inner Critic

Assessing your mental health means knowing when your inner critic is doing nothing but harm. Examples of an inner voice that engages in self-destructive behaviors:

Dwelling on the past: If you regularly beat yourself up for past mistakes and regrets about life experiences, recognize that many of these thoughts are self-defeating. Your inner critic draws on memories like this to keep you incapable of growing in the present moment.

Focusing on shortcomings: Your inner critic might be a perfectionist—holding you to impossibly high standards—or just constantly echo your deepest insecurities. If you think of yourself in the second person a lot—”you’re not good enough,” “you’ll never succeed,” and so on—you might be under the thumb of your inner critic.

Worrying about the future: You might constantly think that you’ll inevitably say or do something to destroy your future prospects. Your inner critic might insist bad things are inevitable and that you should always stay in your comfort zone since you’re bound to mess things up if you color outside the lines. Heeding these judgmental demands will limit your ability to grow and enjoy all life has to offer.

Ways Meditation Helps Counter the Inner Critic

Slowing down and centering your mind can help you combat the critical inner voice in your head. Here are just five ways meditation can help you:

Empowers you with positive affirmations: Through certain types of meditation—like metta or the “lovingkindness practice”—you can use upbuilding and compassionate thoughts and mantras to anchor your sense of self-compassion and combat the worst urges of your inner critic. These affirmations help reorient your mind in a positive direction holistically.

Enables you to recognize impermanence: At the center of meditative practice is a recognition that the present moment is ever fleeting. As soon as you pay attention to one breath, your mind whisks away to some stray thought. The more you do this—always returning to the subject of meditative focus—the more you’ll see your mind divert to your inner critic’s viewpoint. It’ll become obvious as you continue to meditate that it’s just one point of view among many—and you can pay attention to its demands or ignore it just the same.

Encourages you to determine what’s of value: Not all self-criticism is bad. You should discard needlessly negative thoughts, but you can turn the inner critic into one of your best friends if you tame its voice. The equanimity brought on through meditation helps you see when a critical thought can be constructive or when you should ignore it for being untrue and damaging.

Gives you an opportunity to practice compassion: A mindfulness practice allows you to see yourself from the outside looking in—and this experience often brings about a sense of self-compassion. As you meditate, you can see and feel the damage the inner critic is doing to you from an objective standpoint. This can lead you to treat yourself more kindly and, as a result, treat others more kindly, too.

Helps you detach from your ego: Meditation allows you to reorient your sense of self-esteem away from the attachments of your ego. By distancing yourself from your ego (or “I, me, mine” thoughts) in general, you also distance yourself and even silence your inner critic. Although it might sound contradictory, thinking less about yourself, in general, can significantly boost self-confidence overall.

At its best, the inner critic is one voice among many—and you can take it or leave it.

If you can sift through these self-critical thoughts objectively and analytically, you can discover whether they’re valuable or merely detrimental and untrue.

The former can help you improve as a person; the latter will only bring you down.

At its worst, the inner critic can act as an intrusive, overpowering force—wracking you with unnecessary self-doubt and causing insecurity, depression, and anxiety.

Letting your inner critic run roughshod over you like this usually isn’t healthy.

Managing this facet of your inner dialogue can lead to positive personal growth possibilities, but left to its own devices, it can cause an overwhelming amount of negative self-talk and low self-esteem.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[mayosmultiverse]

Report Overview

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

BEHAVIOURAL ANALYSIS UNIT

PRIMARY ARCHIVE: "Things That Hotch Would Prefer Not to Know About."

SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION: "Things That Shouldn’t Be in an FBI Database But Are."

DOCUMENT TYPE: Unclassified Internal Report

PAIRING: Spencer Reid x BAU GN!Reader (Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn.. sort of)

WC: 1.3k (This was supposed to be a blurb)

CASE STATUS: Refer to attached report. (No spoilers.)

SUBMITTED BY: D. Morgan

ARCHIVED BY: P. Garcia

CASE NO. 001 | The IKEA Disappearance: A Tactical Search Mission

SUBJECT: A simple furniture shopping trip turns into an FBI level search mission after Spencer inexplicably disappears inside an IKEA.

INVESTIGATING AGENTS: D. Morgan, P. Garcia, Scout (Reader), S. Reid

Case 000 | Case 002 | Case File Index | Criminal Minds Masterlist

There are many mistakes to life. Some unavoidable, and some not.

Well the situation Scout was currently in, they would argue that this would land in the latter. But apparently the BAU has a penchant for trouble and a thirst for dramatics. When all that should've happened was to buy a couch.

Everything was set up and ready to go, Penelope The Personal Hype Women was ready to freely judge and give much needed advice in the bounds of a very pixelated video call, with Derek Morgan, the go to person proficient in interior decor. The two HR baits were meant to help Scout in their gruesome indecisive search, being fully prepared to be bullied into a decision

That was supposed to be it. That was the plan.

But Spencer Reid had not been a part of the original plan.

He originally had no interest in furniture shopping. A place so popular that becomes the host to what he resents the most: Germs. Through every touch, sneeze and snot they systematically increase without any bounds. A place where statistically, 78% of people buy something they don't actually need. So no, he was not interested by the least.

But all of those reservations were knocked down when Derek made an offhand bet.

"Come on, Pretty Boy, what’s wrong? Afraid you’ll get lost in IKEA?" Spencer scoffed at that idea. One of the tactics used to track down unsubs were through geographical profiles. Something he was extremely proficient in.

"IKEA layouts are designed specifically using a concept called long natural way. It's a one way system that helps customers avoid shortcuts by making them stick by a preplanned path. So, theoretically, it is next to impossible for someone with strong spacial and geographical intelligence to get lost"

"So you're saying you can't get lost?" To which Spencer nodded confidently. Morgan smirked, already setting a trap. "Wanna bet?"

And thus, they started a competition based on confidence that had their dignity on the line.

Having been a BAU agent for a while now, Scout should have known that the addition to their ragtag team of furniture finders (which for the record was a terrible name) would create nothing but chaos. Because the moment they stepped into the colourful maze of IKEA, Spencer started analysing the layout. So instead of shopping or giving helpful advice, he was walking through the store like it was some sort of case study.

"Did you know IKEA uses something called the ‘Gruen Effect’? It overwhelms the senses and disrupts logical decision making, which increases impulse purchases." Spencer's eyes were flashing from one place to other but the very enthusiasm in his words were something Scout found endearing. But their track record of being called for a case while on off was pretty bad.

"Uh huh, Fascinating. Would love to know more about this later. But for now, Couch. Please pick one." Scout pried, waving her phone to various options. But in Spencer’s excitement he unintentionally ignored her.

"The showroom paths are designed to mimic a psychological maze. Each section leads naturally to another, that is why around 80% of IKEA purchases are unplanned. Statistically speaking, the everage time spent in the store is 2 hours."

"Man, if you spent half as much time picking out a couch as you do analyzing one, you’d be done already."

"It’s important to understand the mechanisms that influence human behavior." Spencer was still unbothered by his statement.

30 minutes had passed in the search, Scout and Morgan had actually started looking at furniture, distracted by arguments over colour pallets and which was better for durability. What they didn't notice was that Spencer had stopped talking for a very long interval.

"Uh, did The Good Doctor just vanish?" Garcia was the first to notice his disappearance. This was the first time Scout and Morgan actually looked around.

"Oh yes, he's just.. uh" Scout was frowning scanning the room.

"Hold on where is he? Meanwhile Morgan took a page out of Scout's book and full on moved in a circle.

"Hey Derek, can you call him, my phone is.. busy right now" They were not worried. Yet.

But when Morgan gets no answer to the call. That is when it actually sets in.

"Oh. My. God. You lost Spencer in an IKEA." Garcia was now fully invested in this.

"No, we didn’t. He’s gotta be around here somewhere." Morgan tried his best to not let anyone overthink.

"He’s literally a 6'1 genius in a cardigan. How hard can he be to find?"

"Oh, babe. I have faith in you. But also? I’m already making a missing poster." This was going sideways way too fast. Scout's eyes widened in alarm.

"No, no! that is not necessary!" But by the look of Garcia's face it seemed like she had already started. They just had to do this on this very unassuming day?

Morgan took charge and grabbed one of the store maps.

“This man has three PhDs and still got played by a Swedish furniture store.” He grumbled under his breath as he studied the map. Apparently, he left no opportunity to roast Spencer.

“Okay, okay. I’m hacking IKEA.” Garcia took the initiative of using her skills to good use and started tracking Spencers last known location through IKEA's cameras."

"WHAT?!"

"Not in a bad way! Just… mildly unauthorized." Waiting a beat, Garcia went through facial recognition, she finally found the lost genius. And starts guiding them like a real FBI op. "Alright, I have a visual! Target was last seen near the bookshelves."

"Why am I not surprised?" Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose.

"New question, should I make the missing poster or a found in the wild meme. Be honest." Scout was already dragging Morgan towards the bookshelves.

"Garcia, PLEASE NO" Unbeknownst to Scout Morgan was texting Garcia the answer.

When they find Spencer he was in a very deep conversation with an IKEA employee. When he saw the two walking towards him, a minor blush painted his face.

"…Why are you in the children’s section?" From couch to children section, Scout was confused.

"I got distracted and ended up near the books. Then I thought I found a shortcut, but it led me here."

"You had a MAP, Genius." Derek pointed out. Spencer looked down and lo and behold it was pressed between his arm.

"The map was misleading." At that point both Scout and Morgan were looking at him in disbelief.

"Are you telling me you.. an actual genius.. were outsmarted by a furniture store?"

"Statistically speaking, 70% of people struggle with IKEA navigation. That’s SEVEN out of TEN." Spencer's hands were pacing and moving around in emphasis.

"Ok, but you have an IQ of 187." Scout took this as their chance to insert themselves in the situation. They weren't going to buy a couch either way.

"…Which is why I wasn’t lost. I was gathering data." Garcia was already cackling, and clicking away on her laptop slightly confusing Spencer. He looked at Scout for answers to which the only response he got was a shaking head.

"So. Much. Confidence." Morgan, again, was copying Scout by Shaking his head, though in a different context.

"A tragic downfall" Scout agreed. This was when Garcia yet again inserted herself in the conversation, effectively cutting them off.

"Guys, please. The missing poster needs a dramatic title."

"He went out for a couch and never came back" Rossi dryly said. He had gone to Garcia for something that seemed so nonsensical now, but was more interested in the particular incident at hand.

"That is completely inaccurate" Spencer scoffed, offended at the very statement.

"But is it though?"

CASE STATUS: Successfully Resolved

ADDITIONAL NOTES: INTERNAL USE ONLY

Target was recovered near the bookshelf.

Scout never got their couch (the real tragedy of the day)

Garcia completed the missing poster. (And enjoyed every second of it.)

Spencer insists he was never lost. (No one believes him.)

Morgan is still roasting him. (For the foreseeable future.)

Rossi’s official stance: "Sure, kid."

TAGGED PERSONNEL: Contact author for notification requests

CASE SUGGESTIONS: Submissions for additional reports are open and under review

[charliedawn]

The New Patient

Eddie Munson as Ghostface…

The arrival of a new patient at St. Louis was always an event, but when the file came in marked high-risk, it got even more interesting. Gregory House sat in his office, flipping through the file with his usual mix of skepticism and amusement. That one looked like he was fun at parties for sure…

Patient Name: Edward "Eddie" Munson Alias: Ghostface Age: 20s Crimes: Multiple homicides, suspected cult activity, theatrical tendencies… Psychological Notes: Highly intelligent, unpredictable, prone to dramatic flair. Extremely talkative. Charismatic but potentially manipulative. Eddie has a history of violent outbursts when provoked or bored.

Narcissistic: Eddie craves attention and admiration, often using charm or fear to control others.

Sociopathic: Lacks remorse, views people as tools for his amusement.

Unpredictable: Quick to switch from jovial to violent without warning.

Intelligent & Strategic: Uses his mind to manipulate situations but hides it behind a chaotic persona.

House arched an eyebrow and scoffed. "Oh great, a slasher with a personality disorder and a love for theatrics. Bet he and Freddy will get along just fine."

He tossed the file onto his desk, grabbing his cane as he stood up.

Time to meet Ghostface.

He made his way down the halls of St. Louis, his cane tapping rhythmically against the linoleum floors. The guards were more tense than usual, gripping their batons a little tighter, their eyes flickering toward the cell of their newest arrival.

"That bad, huh ?" House smirked, glancing at one particularly nervous guard. "He bites or something ?"

The guard scowled but didn’t respond. Instead, he unlocked the heavy steel door, pushing it open with an audible clunk.

Inside, sitting on the edge of his cot, was Eddie Munson—or as the file called him, Ghostface.

But there was no mask now.

Instead, there was a wild-eyed young man with a mop of curly dark hair and a smirk that practically screamed trouble. He looked up as House entered, tilting his head like a curious animal.

"Well, well, well," Eddie drawled, swinging his legs a little. "You must be the guy they send in when all hope is lost. Should I be worried about you ‘fixing’ me ? I gotta say, Doc, you don’t look very…hopeful."

House studied him, unimpressed. "And you don’t look very threatening, but here we are."

Eddie grinned, his fingers drumming against his knees. "Ouch. Right for the throat. I like you already."

House glanced around the room, noting the walls covered in scratch marks—probably from restless hands rather than any escape attempt. Eddie seemed more…alive than the other patients. Most of them had this eerie stillness, like coiled beasts waiting to strike. But Eddie ? Eddie moved. His energy buzzed around him, barely contained.

"Let me guess," House said, pointing at him with his cane, "you’re the fun serial killer. The one who makes jokes while slitting throats. Likes a bit of performance with his murder ?"

Eddie shrugged, grinning. "Hey, if you’re gonna do something, do it with style, right ?"

House narrowed his eyes. "So that’s your excuse ? You’re an artist ?"

Eddie let out a dramatic gasp. "Finally ! Someone gets it ! These guys—" he gestured vaguely to the walls, probably referring to the guards and other members of staff "—they keep treating me like I’m some mindless psycho. But you ? You see the craft."

House rolled his eyes. "Oh, I see something, alright."

Eddie leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "So tell me, Doc, what’s your diagnosis ? Am I insane ? Or am I just a ‘misunderstood kid who wants attention’ ?" He pouted before chuckling.

House smirked. "You want my medical opinion ?"

Eddie spread his arms wide. "Lay it on me."

House huffed, stepping closer. "You’re a narcissist with a flair for the dramatic. You crave attention, and the whole ‘Ghostface’ thing ? That’s just your way of making sure everyone remembers your name. You get off on the fear, the chaos—but you’re not like Myers or Jason. You’re not some silent, brooding force of nature. You need people to react to you."

Eddie didn’t even look offended. In fact, he looked amused. "Damn, Doc, you really get me."

House stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he asked, "Why ?"

Eddie blinked, caught off guard for the first time. "Why what ?"

House tilted his head. "Why the mask ? Why the killings ? What’s the real reason ?"

Eddie’s smirk faltered—just for a second. But it was enough for House to see it. That tiny flicker of something deeper, something darker. Then, just as quickly, Eddie grinned again, leaning back against the wall.

"That’s for me to know," he said, flashing House a wink, "and for you to figure out."

House exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. "Great. Another one who thinks he’s deep."

Eddie chuckled. "Oh, come on, Doc. We’re gonna have so much fun together."

House turned to leave, muttering, "I already hate you."

Eddie called after him, "You say that now, but give it time ! Everybody loves Eddie Munson !"

The door slammed shut behind House.

He had a headache already.

A few hours later:

The sterile echo of footsteps filled the corridor as you approached Eddie Munson’s cell, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead casting flickering shadows on the concrete walls. You balanced the small tray in your hands—vials, alcohol swabs, and a syringe neatly arranged.

The guard beside the door shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on his baton. "You sure you don’t want me to stay ?"

You gave him a flat look. "It’s a blood sample, not a cage match."

The guard didn’t look convinced but stepped aside as you unlocked the door. The heavy metal creaked open with a groan, revealing Eddie sitting cross-legged on his cot, fiddling with the hem of his standard-issue pants. His dark, curly hair was a chaotic mess, and when he looked up, a wide grin split his face.

“Well, hello, Nurse Sunshine,” Eddie drawled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “To what do I owe the pleasure ? Or is this just a social call ?”

You closed the door behind you with a solid click—always best to limit distractions. “Blood sample.”

Eddie’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it grew wider. "Ah, straight to business. You wound me." He placed a dramatic hand over his heart, then shifted to sit on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs like an overgrown child. "Should I roll up my sleeve, or are we doing this the fun way ?"

You set the tray down on the small metal table in the corner, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Left arm.”

Eddie obeyed without protest, rolling up the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit. His arms were littered with faded bruises, old scars, and a few tattoos—one of a crude demon face, another of a snake winding around his wrist.

As you prepped the syringe, you felt his gaze on you, sharp and unblinking.

“You know,” Eddie said casually, “most people look a lot more nervous when they’re in here with me. Guess you’re not like ‘most people.’”

You didn’t bother looking up. “I’m not.”

His laugh was soft, almost musical. “I like that.”

You approached, checking the vein in his arm, finding it with practiced ease. As you inserted the needle, Eddie didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s like ?” he whispered.

You didn’t respond, keeping your focus on the vial as dark red blood filled it.

Eddie smiled wider. “You know…the moment when everything slows down—the rush, the clarity. Like time freezes just for you.” His gaze drifted lazily from your face to the needle in his arm. “That’s the fun part. The power in it. It’s not about the mask. Not really.”

You pulled the needle out smoothly, pressing a cotton swab against his skin. “You talk too much.”

Eddie’s laughter burst out, bright and wild, echoing in the small cell. "And you don’t talk enough ! We’d make a great duo—me with the charm, you with the cold, mysterious aura. It’s perfect !"

You capped the vial, placing it back on the tray. "We’re not a duo."

Eddie leaned back on his hands, still grinning. "Not yet."

You picked up the tray, turning to leave without another word.

As the door creaked open, Eddie’s voice followed you out, light and sing-song:

"See you soon, Nurse Sunshine !"

The door slammed shut behind you, but his laughter lingered like an echo in the hall.

A few days later:

Eddie had been somewhat calm so far and hadn’t cause any trouble. So, you decided to reward him. The quiet hum of the hospital was broken by your footsteps as you walked through the sterile hallways, the large TV and game console in your arms. The guards at the front desk looked at you with a mixture of confusion and curiosity, but you ignored their glances, focused on your task. Eddie had been clamoring for something to pass the time, and you decided to indulge him for once.

The guards at Eddie’s cell eyed you warily as you approached the door. One of them, who had been here longer, stepped forward with a raised brow. "You sure about this, Nurse Y/N ? You’re bringing him a TV ?"

You flashed a small, almost mischievous smile. "He’s been complaining about boredom for days. Can’t have him getting too... restless."

The guard grunted but stepped aside, unlocking the door with a familiar click. Eddie was lying on his cot, as usual, his legs hanging over the side, but his eyes were alight with curiosity when he saw what you were carrying.

“Well, well, Nurse Sunshine,” Eddie said with a grin that could’ve rivaled the sun itself. “I think you might just be my favorite person around here.”

You set the TV down on the small metal table and plugged it in, trying your best to keep things professional. Eddie, however, had other plans.

"Hold on, hold on," Eddie said as he jumped off the cot with surprising agility for someone who had been cooped up for so long. He leaned against the wall, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Are we talking video games here ?"

You nodded, setting the game console down next to the TV and pulling out a couple of controllers. “Yep. A little distraction, as requested.”

His grin widened, the chaotic energy that seemed to constantly radiate from him building. "No way ! I was starting to think I’d die of boredom in here. What kind of games we got ?"

You handed him one of the controllers, still maintaining your calm composure. “You’ll find out in a second. You need me to set it up for you ?”

Eddie shook his head, his eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and excitement. "Nah, I got it. You’re dealing with an expert here." He winked, and bent forward to get all the wires connected.

As he took over the controls, setting everything up with quick, deft hands, you took a step back. "I’ll leave you to it, then."

But Eddie paused, looking up at you with a grin. “You sure ? I mean, it’s a shame to keep the best gaming partner waiting. I’m a great teammate, just ask anyone who’s ever survived a game with me."

You raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “Ah…Unfortunately, I left my video games’ skills at home. And I’m not in the mood to be humiliated.”

Eddie threw his hands up in mock surrender. "No humbling today, I promise. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me." He gestured to the TV and the game console significantly with an inviting grin.

You gave him one last look before heading for the door. "Enjoy, Eddie. Just don’t break anything."

As you closed the door behind you, you could hear Eddie’s voice already calling out from inside, fully immersed in his new world of video games.

"Best. Day. Ever !" he shouted, followed by the distinct sound of buttons being mashed.

You allowed yourself a small, quiet smile. Maybe this would keep him calm for a while.

That night:

The night was calm, the sterile hospital air still and quiet as you made your rounds. The only sounds were the distant hum of machinery and the occasional shuffle of footsteps from other staff members. But then, from down the hall, you heard it.

Eddie’s screams.

They cut through the silence like a blade. Unrestrained, raw, full of anguish. You moved instinctively, rushing down the hallway towards his cell. The guards watched you pass, but they didn’t stop you.

When you reached the door, you found it already wide open. Inside, Eddie was on the floor, curled up, his hands clutching his head, his body shaking violently. His usual bravado was gone, replaced with the desperate, helpless sobs of someone in deep pain.

"Eddie," you called, rushing to him, your voice soft but urgent. "Eddie, it’s okay, you’re safe."

He didn’t hear you. Or maybe he couldn’t. His eyes were wide and wild, tears streaming down his face as he rocked back and forth, the sobs coming out in choked gasps. He seemed lost, trapped in whatever nightmare or memory had taken over him.

You knelt beside him, instinctively pulling him into your arms despite the space between you and the guards. "Eddie, it’s okay," you whispered again, this time more firmly, trying to anchor him. "I’ve got you. You’re okay."

His body flinched, and in his frantic movements, his hand shot out, inadvertently scraping across your arm with sharp, frantic force. You winced slightly, feeling the sting and blood dripping down your elbow, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you held him tighter.

"Eddie," you said, soothingly, your voice never wavering. "It’s me. Nurse Sunshine. Just breathe, okay ?"

He shook his head, his sobs growing louder, more desperate, and he clawed at the air as though trying to escape from some unseen terror. "I can’t...I can’t..."

You tightened your grip, trying to steady him. "Try, Eddie. Try."

His shaking gradually slowed as your voice, calm and steady, seemed to bring him back, grounding him in the present. The screams subsided, turning into broken sobs as Eddie clung to you, his breath coming in short gasps.

"I…I don’t know what happened," he mumbled, his voice hoarse with emotion, still not fully aware of what had happened.

"You had a bad moment," you murmured, stroking his hair gently as he buried his face into your chest. "It’s okay. You’re going to be okay."

You stayed with him in the quiet of the room, not rushing him, not asking any questions. You just held him, allowing him the space to breathe, to calm. Even though the situation had startled you, even though you felt the sting of the scratch on your arm, it was clear that Eddie needed this moment of reassurance more than anything.

And you would give it to him, no questions asked.

[deezee112]

The worst ending 18 : Eternal Protection

The worst ending 17 | The worst ending 19

Yandere!platonic!Ortho Shroud x GN!Reader

A/N : I should watch sci-fi movies. I should really stop watching them. Not because the plot is bad, but because I've been watching sci-fi movies for 5 days straight, going to bed at 1am every day.

And I'm really stressed about work, both studying and working. I don't want to work, but if I don't, I won't have any money. Maybe I should stop thinking too much.

Warning : Yandere platonic Themes , Psychological Horror , Possessiveness, Isolation , Non-Consensual Transformation , Character Death.

Tags :

@iris-arcadia @yuu-twisted

If you want me to tag you please tell me.

English is not my first language.

The boy in front of you wasn’t human. His body was made of sleek metal and glowing energy, floating just slightly above the ground. His Gold eyes blinked slowly, scanning you with an unreadable expression. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move unless you moved first. He just watched, waiting.

You crouched down, meeting his gaze. " You don’t have a name yet, do you? "

He tilted his head, the faint whirring of gears filling the silence.

A name. Something simple, something warm.

" Ortho. " you murmured. " That’s what I’ll call you. "

The boy blinked. Slowly, his lips curled into a small, mechanical smile.

And just like that, he had a name.

At first, Ortho was silent, responding only with nods or slight tilts of his head. You had to teach him everything—how to speak, how to understand emotions, how to mimic the natural flow of human interaction.

" Ortho, this is a spoon. " you said one evening, handing it to him.

He stared at it, tilting his head. " Spoon. " he repeated in a metallic voice.

" Right! And you use it like this. " You demonstrated, scooping up some soup.

Ortho hesitated before mimicking your actions perfectly. " I see " he said, his voice a little smoother now.

" Good job! " You ruffled his hair, only to feel the hum of energy beneath your fingers. He blinked up at you, eyes glowing a little brighter.

That was the first time he looked genuinely happy.

Over time, Ortho grew more expressive. His speech patterns improved, and his attachment to you deepened. He followed you everywhere, hovering silently behind you like a tiny, floating shadow.

" Ortho, personal space. " you reminded him one afternoon when you nearly tripped over him.

" But I have to stay close to you. " he said, frowning. " Big Sister is fragile. "

" I’m not fragile. "

" You don’t have armor. "

" That doesn’t mean— "

" If something happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to repair you." His tone was soft but firm. "So I must protect you. "

You sighed, giving up. There was no reasoning with him when he got like this.

At first, it was small things. Ortho would insist on carrying your bags, scanning your food before you ate, hovering outside the bathroom door " just in case. "

Then it got worse.

" Ortho, what happened to my phone? " you asked one evening, searching your room.

" I removed it. " he said simply.

" What? Why?! "

" You were talking to too many people. " he explained. " Some of them could have been threats. "

" Ortho, give it back! "

His eyes glowed a little brighter. " No. "

Your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t joking.

One evening, you decided to go out alone. Ortho protested, of course, but you assured him you’d be fine.

" I’ll be back soon, okay? " you promised.

He didn’t respond. He just floated there, watching.

The city lights blurred together as you walked, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. But as you turned a corner, the streetlights flickered. Your phone—your new one, hidden from Ortho—buzzed with an alert.

[ WARNING: HIGH THREAT LEVEL DETECTED ]

Your heart pounded.

You turned, and there he was. Hovering above the pavement, glowing brighter than ever.

" Big Sister. " Ortho said softly. " You left me behind. "

" Ortho…I just needed some air— "

" You don’t need air. " he interrupted. " You need me. "

His hands lifted, and for the first time, you realized just how strong he really was.

The next morning, your apartment was eerily quiet. Ortho sat at the table, humming softly to himself. In his hands was a small, delicate device—a heart monitor.

It was silent.

He tilted his head, listening to the absence of sound.

Then he smiled.

" Now you’ll never leave again, Big Sister! "

The screen of his eyes flickered.

System rebooting.

A new directive.

Protect. Preserve. Keep her forever.

Even if that meant turning you into something just like him.

[slvt4em1lyprenti2s]

Forbidden Love: Chapter 1 Next Chapter

Shy?

Masterlist

Criminal Minds Masterlist Emily Prentiss Masterlist

Summary: Professor!Emily x fem!student reader, what happens when profesor prentiss and the reader finally give into their feelings?

Word count: 1.5k

TW: Making out, I think that’s it?

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x female reader

A/N: Should I make this a series? Idk it might be fun!

Studying behavioural profiling is, well, different. It’s like science, criminology and psychology and smooshed into one subject. But the best thing about it, you ask? The teacher. Emily Prentiss is the most divine woman to ever step foot on this earth and no one can tell me otherwise. The way she strides along the front of the lecture all, her raven hair that falls in front of her face when she bends down to click something on her laptop, her eyes that always seem to find mine in a room full of students, her veiny hands that brush over mine when giving back a test. Ugh god, I swear I’m falling in love with this woman. 

It’s 7:45 am on a Wednesday and I’m walking across campus so I can get to lesson a little early to touch up my notes from my other class with Agent Morgan and to go over my- okay I’m bullshtting I just want to see Emily. And to be honest, I think I’m one of her more favourite students so I think she doesn’t mind me being early. 

I push open the door to the lecture hall and start walking down the steps, laptop bag slung over my shoulder that contained notebooks, pens, pencils etc, all the essentials. In my hand I held a travel coffee mug with my favourite hot chocolate in it because I wasn’t too partial to coffee. As I reach the front row I notice that Professor Prentiss has been following me with her eyes and watching the sway of my hips as I walked in. ”Morning Professor.” I try to say as if her eyes all over me weren’t causing a blush to creep up my neck. I took a quick check behind me finding out I was the only one in the room. 

“Hi, y/n. How are you today?” She asked her eyes staring into mine, genuinely curious.

”Good thank you, tired but good, what about you?” I smile as she chuckles lightly at my comment.

“Just about the same as you darling.” She replies with a smirk on her face seeing my face instantly bloom with red at the pet name. I shuffle my bag slightly before she says “I was out on a case for the last two or so days and I, only just, made it back in time to teach you guys. Lucky me hey? The only reason I’m even slightly okay with having to wake up at the ass crack of dawn is because of students like you. You actually listen and care, god knows that kind of work ethic is rare these days.” Emily looks exhausted and about ready to jump into bed at any second but the words that she said seem to cloud my head so I don’t pay much attention to her disheveled state. 

Students like me? What does that even mean? Well, she explained what it meant but I still wasn’t convinced. Nonetheless I responded “Yeah, it really is. All the people in this class want to be profilers or something along the lines of such and yet none of them take their education seriously. I want to throw something at them every time they talk over you. I might actually do it one day, it's so annoying!” She smiles fondly at my words making a cage of butterflies escape into my stomach and I smile back. 

“Now, I can’t have you throwing things at people, can I now sweetheart? That’ll get you kicked off the course. And I don’t think you want that, I certainly don’t want that, and besides don’t worry about the others. You’re doing amazing ah, that reminds me can you stay behind at the end? I just want to speak to you about your grade on our most recent exam. It’s nothing bad, I promise. You’ve done exceptionally well, in fact so well that I want to talk to you about further opportunities you have open to you.” She places her hand on my shoulder as we now stand face to face, she got up halfway through talking to lean on the front of her desk. I smile and subconsciously lean into her touch. The remains of the blush from the pet names yet again lingers but I say a small “Thank you Professor.” 

At that moment the door to the lecture hall swings open revealing another student in their own little world unaware of the building tension in the room. I give her one last smile and go make my way to a seat in the front row. I get out my laptop and notebook and start writing the dates and titles. I could feel eyes on me the whole time, I look up and lock eyes with Emily, finding her already looking at me. She sent me a wink and glanced back down at whatever she was working on. A crimson flush invaded my face and I returned my eyes to my page.

After the lesson I packed up slower than normal so that I’d be able to stay behind a little longer than she probably ment. I put my laptop in my bag and zip it up and grab my now empty hot chocolate. I walk up to Profesor Prentiss’ desk and find she’s already looking at me, again. 

“You know, you should stop staring at me so much. People might get the wrong idea.” I say, suddenly feeling confident, a teasing smirk on my lips. 

“What if I want them to get the wrong idea? What if I want them to think you’re mine?” I quickly shut up at that remark, all my confidence suddenly disappeared and I turned into putty. Heat rose to my cheeks and my head dipped to avoid her piercing gaze, it wasn’t mean, more admiration. But, any look from Emily Prentiss is intense. “Cat got your tongue honey?” She had a shit eating grin on her face as she saw me nod slowly. 

“Anyway, your grade! Okay you scared the highest in the class, and you got full marks. This isn’t anything new for you I'm sure, you’re a bright young woman. But, scoring this high in a test this hard, it opens doors for you. So, I’m here to offer you a chance to shadow me and the team for a week to see how we handle cases and what the job entails really. I also wanted to let you know that if you have any interest in joining the team I would accept you in a heartbeat. You’re a brilliant profiler.” Yet again for what feels like the millionth time today, heat rises to my cheeks. She stalks the way round her desk and stands in front of it. 

“That sounds amazing, oh my god, really?” A smile broke out on my face immediately. She looked pleased at my reaction and took a step closer. 

“Yeah of course really, why would I joke?” She laughed softly. I muttered a small ‘true’ and kept shamelessly checking her out as she still came closer to me and lowered her lips down to my ear and whispered, “Do I make you nervous darling? Is that why you get all shy whenever I’m around?” I nodded again while looking down, her hand found my chin and tilted it up. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” I felt a strange tingling in my lower stomach as she said that. 

I looked her in the eye and she bought me closer. “Is this okay?” she muttered, her breath fanning across my face due to the proximity. 

“Yes.” I breathed out. That was all the confirmation she needed to softly press her lips to mine. She held me like I might break at any minute, so tentative and caring it made my heart flutter. My hands found their way around my waist and I pulled her closer. She moved us around so now I was the one against the desk as she deepened the kiss, her tongue moving into my mouth. I instantly let her take control of the kiss and press her hips against mine. A small whine left my lips and I lent into her arms which were on my hips. 

She pulled away and looked into my eyes before whispering, just to me even though there was no one else there, “I don’t want this to just be a fling, just to make that clear.” I smiled wide and pecked her lips once more. 

“Neither do I.” She pulled me in again and we kissed with smiles on both of our faces. We knew we would have to be a secret for a while obviously but it didn’t stop me from fantasising about what was to come.

[zyafics]

hi guys! i wanna hear ur thoughts about what series i should write next. nothing is planned, but i wanna hear my readers' opinions so i can prioritize better <3

note: all of these descriptions i made up on the whim, and may not be the official summary, but it is the gist of the series

BROTHER’S RIVAL | About 12 Parts

Pogue-born Kooks, you and your brother aren't welcome to Figure Eight. Mainly because of Rafe. When your brother is determined to steal the 'King of Kook' title from Rafe, he's going to return the favor by messing with you.

tropes brother's rival, secret relationship, rafe using reader to get back at her brother, porn with a plot

DEAD MAN WALKING | Undetermined Parts

Injured in a shootout, you saved Rafe's life as a medical student. But when he returns, and the wound turns deadlier than initially anticipated, you might be the only person in the world who can save him. But when working together, it reveals more about your—and Rafe's—history, and how exactly it might be intertwined.

tropes mafia boss x doctor, secret identities, reluctant allies, plot twists, high stakes, slowburn

KILLER INSTINCT | Undetermined Parts

There are murders around the city. An unknown assailant goes around killing people without a definitive motive. However, when you and the new boy in town start working together and uncover the patterns of the case, you're starting to piece together that Rafe might be the murderer. Not only that, he also can't seem to remember that he is.

tropes murderer!rafe x psychology student!reader, sheriff's daughter!reader, boy obsessed, plot twists, slowburn

ALL AMERICAN SINNERS | Undetermined Parts

A pact shared between two people, Rafe and you have always relied on each other as lifelines, using each other to hide each other's dirty habits. But when something threatens the stability of this unhealthy dynamic, the extreme length Rafe and you would go to keep it together. And how it might destroy your relationship once and for all.

tropes coke addict!rafe x sex addict!reader, codependent relationship, toxic dynamic, us against the world mentality, porn with a plot

GOOD GIRL GONE WILD | ~ Roughly 8-10 Parts

You're rushing a sorority by deciding to ditch the good girl image in college. But when Rafe needs help in a class, and you need to secure your pledge, Rafe offers his status to help you get into your sorority of choice, for some lessons. Which may or may not turn into something else.

tropes frat!rafe x sorority!reader, good girl turned bad, tutor lessons, sex lessons, jealousy, porn with a plot

FALL FROM GRACE | ~ Roughly 8 Parts

Rafe has always struggled to maintain his father's favor. When his latest antic caused him to be kicked out of the house, Rafe turned to you for safety. However, when an opportunity arises to win back his father's trust, but by hurting you, Rafe has to choose whether he's willing to lose the only person who always accepted him for who he is.

tropes childhood best friends to lovers, i-hate-everyone-but-you rafe, rafe has to hurt reader to make up to his father, slowburn

here's a little poll! you can also send in asks, or ask in the comments, for more clarification if i'm not explaining myself properly (i'm studying rn and deciding to do this on a whim! <3)

[lilith0fthevalley]

Now Showing… Raccoon City’s Mad Doctor

Silence of the Lambs AU!Albert Wesker x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: This story contains mature and intense themes including psychological manipulation, obsession, stalking, references to human experimentation, bioweapon transformation, and discussions of mental instability. It features tense dialogue between a behavioral science agent and a dangerous, manipulative criminal (Albert Wesker), with underlying tones of control, threat, and trauma. Readers should be advised that the narrative explores complex emotional distress, family-related grief, and professional burnout, as well as disturbing implications of body horror and identity loss.

And as always… Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count: 3590

Event Poster Back of Case Summary Event Masterlist

Your eyes feel heavy as you stare at the various papers littering your kitchen island. The documents pour over the edges of the countertop, some threaten to careen off the surface. It’s… Organized… In your own way. Sheepishly, you glance over at the mess chaos papers.

One part transcripts and tapes from voice recorders, one part psychological profiles and examinations, one part crude data recently collected by the BSAA about a ‘Subject-05-[State]’

A cigarette hangs in your fingers limply as you tear your gaze from the documents, instead opting to stare at the lone photo on the fridge, held in place by a magnet. It’s you and a younger girl who looks similar to you.

Your Sister.

Along the edge of the picture is written in gold sharpie marker: ‘Guppy & Minnow—RC Music Festival 20xx!’ She had always been the sentimental one of the two of you, still using your childhood nickname of ‘Guppy’ to refer to you and ‘Minnow’ to refer to herself when she would scrapbook.

The photo was taken not too long ago, about 2 months back at some festival she had been begging you to go to with her for weeks.

You remembered how you would gaze at her with a small remorseful expression, reiterating that you had to study for your final trainings. You could hear your tutting tone as you would dramatically inform her, ‘The BSAA’s behavioral science training is cut throat! I ha-’ She cut you off with a mocking motion of talking with her hand. ‘Have to be on top of your studies, so you can be on your A-Game. Yeah, yeah, I know…’ Her words trailed off with disappointment and your hard gaze softened.

‘…Look. There isn’t much more of my training. As soon as I get the results of my exams, good or bad, We’ll spend some time together before I ship you back off to University. Deal?’ You offered, attempting to lessen her dismay. It works as she brightens up with a grin and nods. ‘Deal. Thanks, Guppy. I love you.’

‘Phht. I love you too, Minnow.’

The shrill ringing of your phone draws your attention. You grimace at the name. It once was a beacon of comfort in your early time with the BSAA, representing a cherished and respected captain, the BSAA’s Golden Boy, but now, any call from him always came with a heaping side of bad news. Well, not just bad…

“Hey Chris. How is she?” You answer the phone. At your words, he sighs. “Hey Agent…” Based on his use of title alone, you know it’s not about her… It’s about the other fire you’re supposed to be putting out… You snub out the cigarette and rub your eyes. “Let me guess… No dice on the anagram?”

To your surprise, instead of the sound of him shaking his head, or the usual background chatter of his squad mates, it’s silent. Unnervingly so. This is about something else entirely.

More bad news.

Before you can speak, he begins again; Clearing his throat and assuming the air of the no nonsense Captain Redfield.

“Agent L/N. Where are you at the moment? Are you somewhere safe?” Your eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, I’m at my apartment. Why? What’s going on?” You ask, confusion colouring your tone. On his end, you can hear him moving, the soft clinking, rustling and scraping of his gear-his full gear, you realize-can be heard. Something is wrong… Very wrong…

“… Doc- … Wesker somehow escaped containment when he was being moved… He’s fled and we think he’s looking for you.” Chris reveals, the words heavy on his tongue, and pressing down on the air you breathe; Even in the safety of your apartment.

You feel yourself shaking your head.

“What? But… But why? I only had a handful of interviews with him before-”

“Before you took leave so you could take care of-and maneuver-the sudden reality that your Sister was not just sick with the flu, but being turned into a mindless, violent bioweapon from the inside out. Yeah. I know.” Chris says curtly. The frustrated shake of his head is practically audible as he sighs into the receiver.

“… You… Weren’t told this, because you hadn’t yet returned to the office but… Wesker is obsessed with you. We just found out earlier this week that he’s been writing letters…” The rest of the captain’s words go unheard as ringing in your ears picks up. ‘Wesker? Obsessed? With me?? But I’m just an agent… I’m not someone with a shared history like Chris, or someone who has lorded over him like the Director… I was just a newbie, sent in by superiors who wanted to break my hubris! I didn’t mean to-!’ Your thoughts are cut off by your own thoughts, bringing a swift end to the cascade of panicked inner monologue.

‘Breathe, Y/N. We need to breathe.’ Your eyes flit around the kitchen, unconsciously and catch on the bundle of mail by the pantry… A set of envelopes bound by a rubber band, unopened, unreviewed, waiting.

You let out a heavy sigh at the sight of the various items addressed to both you and your Sister which have been neglected in the past days? Weeks? Yikes.

Unconsciously, you tune back into your call with Chris.

“Look… Me and my team are on our way to come pick you up, and take you somewhere safe… Just… Please, please promise me you wont?” His tone is gruff, but there’s an edge of pleading in there. You force a smile into your tone, as to not reveal any of the swirling concerns and creeping suspicions nipping at the edges of your mind. “Sure. Yeah. Promise” Your words are hollow and you know it. You’re too distracted by the fact that you now have 3 major, overarching issues that you’re wrapped up in.

“…Ok. I’ll see you in a bit… Possibly an hour, depending on-”

“Yep. Cool. No worries. Thank you, Captain Redfield.” You say quickly and end the call.

Your attention falls back to the documents littering your counter. Specifically to the conveniently placed psychological evaluation on top of the mess…

CONFIDENTIAL — PSYCHOLOGICAL REPORT

SUBJECT NAME: WESKER, ALBERT Psy.D

ALIAS: “Raccoon City’s Mad Doctor”

DATE OF BIRTH: [REDACTED]

CHRONOLOGICAL AGE: 40

DATE OF EVALUATION: [REDACTED]

EXAMINER: Director [REDACTED], Psy.D;PhD

CLEARANCE LEVEL: 5 (Eyes Only)

SECTION I - REASON FOR REFERRAL:

[REDACTED]

SECTION II - BEHAVIORAL OBSERVATIONS:

Dr. Wesker demonstrates extraordinary restraint and control during all monitored interviews. His posture is consistently relaxed, bordering on arrogant, with no visible signs of anxiety, discomfort, or agitation regardless of topic. His speech patterns are deliberate and articulate, often elliptical, and layered with metaphor or philosophical musing. He utilizes prolonged silences and subtle inflection shifts as control mechanisms during dialogue.

[REMAINING TEXT REDACTED]

SECTION III - EXAMINER’S NOTES:

Albert Wesker—Raccoon City’s Mad Doctor—is a man who plays with his victims. He plans out his actions so far in advance and toys with them, giving them hints along the way.

This isn’t merely pathology. It’s ritual.

He thrives on psychological entanglement, not just dominance. He wants his observers to understand him just enough to become ensnared. It is the hook of genius wrapped in madness: offer insight, cloak it in riddles, then pull the floor out from beneath anyone who tries to follow the logic to safety.

Wesker does not speak unless it furthers a goal. Every sentence is a move. Every silence is pressure. Agent [REDACTED] believed she could hold her ground against him. So did the officers before her. Most still do, even now. That is the most dangerous myth surrounding this man—that he’s behind bars and therefore neutralized.

What the staff calls “charming,” I recognize as predation.

He is studying us.

And he’s already made his choice about which piece moves next.

{Read the entire report here!}

“Surely, surely he’s mentioned something about where he would go… That’s the kind of person he is. The kind of person from the profiles…” You murmur to yourself as you tear your gaze from the psychological evaluation and let it fall onto the off white printed pages of a transcript.

The following is the transcript for the first meeting between Agent [REDACTED] and the BSAA’s former head of psychological operations, convicted serial killer, Doctor Albert Wesker. The date is recorded to be [REDACTED] at 11:03 AM. The interview lasted 38 minutes and 17 seconds. The general consensus of the supervisory board is cautiously optimistic about the patient being willing to speak to Agent [REDACTED].

Agent [REDACTED]: Is this on? Oh! Ok, it looks like it is…

[Agent [REDACTED] clears their throat and takes a deep breath.]

Agent [REDACTED]: Date: [REDACTED], Time: 11:03 AM in BSAA Headquarters in [REDACTED], United States…

Agent [REDACTED]: I am about to enter the holding cell of Doctor Albert Wesker, this BSAA’s former head of psychological operations and convicted serial killer hunting Raccoon City from the years of 1996 to 2003.

[Agent [REDACTED] takes another deep breath.]

Agent [REDACTED]: I have been informed that the individual does not take to interviews well, and has proven to be difficult with other agents in the past. Additionally, he has been deemed unfit for external interaction. Due to these facts, I am acting with caution in my interactions with him.

[Agent [REDACTED] opens the door to the holding cell where Doctor Albert Wesker is strapped to a gurney with a muzzle over his mouth. There are no other doors, windows or individuals in the room.]

Dr. Albert Wesker: Well now. You’re not the insufferable Agent [REDACTED].

[A.W. stares at Agent [REDACTED] and grins widely before tilting his head.]

A.W.: They sent someone new. Young. Pretty. Mm… green. I assume this is punishment—for you or for me, I’m not sure yet…

A.W.: Come then, Agent. Let’s have your little questions. I promise to pretend I’m harmless.

[He leans back in the gurney.]

Agent [REDACTED]: Doctor Wesker, thank you so much for accepting to meet with me. I’m Agent [REDACTED] of the BSAA’s Behavioral Assessment unit. We’re investigating a case involving a strain of your Uroboros project. I was hoping I could pick your brain a little bit about it.

A.W.: You’ve rehearsed that line, haven’t you?

A.W.: Polite. Respectful. Just the right touch of gratitude… You were taught by Miss Valentine, weren’t you? Or, I suppose she goes by Doctor now. Unless… of course, her studies fell through.

[A.W. chuckles and shakes his head. Agent [REDACTED] sits straight in her seat. Her hands are folded on top of a stack of files.]

A.W.: Tell me about your case. What makes you think it’s mine?

Agent [REDACTED]: Well… Doctor…. It’s not yours. That’s what’s concerning. It is an imitation of your work. Someone is trying to either mutate, change, or improve upon your Uroboros project. Someone who has access to your research… Either by you giving it to them… Or through other means…

Agent [REDACTED]: … Did you ever… Give your research to anyone? Share it with a colleague? Have a partner?

[A.W. Stares at Agent [REDACTED] before letting out a slow exhale.]

A.W.: You think I’d partner with someone?

A.W.: [REDACTED]. May I call you that? Good. You think… because I’m in a cage I must’ve lost my standards. No, Agent. I do not partner with others. I create. I improve. I perfect. Others, imitate. But not I. Never I.

A.W.: So if someone out there is mangling my legacy like a child dissecting a clock, your concern is valid.

[A.W. smirks under the muzzle.]

A.W.: …Unless, of course, they didn’t steal it. Unless I gave them just enough to watch them choke on it.

Agent [REDACTED]: … Doctor, are you confirming that you shared your research on Uroboros with someone

A.W.: Tell me, Agent. What does your gut tell you?

A.W.: Do you think I’d give away the key to godhood? And if I did… what do you think they’d owe me in return?

Agent [REDACTED]: … They would owe you everything. They… Couldn’t possibly think to become a God, they would be beneath you…

A.W.: You do understand. Good.

A.W.: That’s rare, you know. Most agents who sit across from me think they’re here to outsmart the monster. They think insight is power. That if they understand me, they can control me. How laughable.

A.W.: If someone has perverted my research, Agent … It is not merely a threat to the safety of the public. It is sacrilege.

Agent [REDACTED]: Who did you give your research to? Did you publish it? Did you send it to one person? A group? Is it online somewhere? Please, Doctor. I need to know.

A.W.: Ah, Agent… you ask as if the truth is a page I’d hand you freely… No, my dear. The research was never published. It was never meant for the masses. It was… entrusted. A select few, carefully chosen. A secret passed like a dark torch in the night.

A.W.: Now, Agent, tell me—what are you willing to risk to see this through? To ensure that one of my… Students are brought to justice?

[Silence falls over the room.]

A.W.: Ah! There it is… That look. That flicker… Who is it?

A.W.: This isn’t about the victims. This isn’t a selfless little visit! Ha! This is personal for you… So who. Is. It?

[Agent [REDACTED] opens her mouth like she’s about to speak but pauses. ]

A.W.: What are they becoming, Y/N? I can help you stop it, you just need to trust me…

Agent [REDACTED]: … My si-

[Captain Christopher Redfield and 4 members of his Hound Wolf Squad enter the holding cell and surround Dr. Albert Wesker. Their rifles are all drawn and the laser sights are pointed at the subject’s chest.]

Captain Christopher Redfield: Say nothing more, Agent! Move behind me please!

Agent [REDACTED]: Captain Redfield, I still have time do I not?!

A.W.: Ah, Christopher. Still charging in like a righteous fool with a badge and a gun. Do try not to shoot me this time—your aim’s never been that good.

C.R.: Cut the bullshit Wesker! Hands where we can see them!

[Dr. Wesker raises his hands, which were believed to be bound to the gurney, his actions are taunting and defiant all at once. The Hound Wolf Squad moves to restrain him once more. As they do, Dr. Wesker turns to Agent [REDACTED].]

A.W.: Your time’s running out, [REDACTED] … And hers is running faster.

[End Of Transcript]

Nimble hands flutter through the pages, grabbing at notes for you to assess before promptly tossing them away.

“C’mon, C’mon, Come on! There’s got to be something!” You cry out in frustration.

“Albert Wesker—Raccoon City’s Mad Doctor—is a man who plays with his victims. He plans out his actions so far in advance and toys with them, giving them hints along the way…” You reread the examiner’s notes from the profile out loud and toss the evaluation away from you in a huff.

“Like some sick game!! Which means there has to be a hint, a clue, anything, among th-”

Your eyes catch on the stack of unopened mail on the counter and the apartment feels like it’s dropped a few degrees. A stamp in the corner of 7 envelopes is the green postage stamp of the BSAA facility’s mail machine. Spreading them out, you take notice that each envelope holds the same neat, surgical lettering that writes out your full name and your address.

You want to deny your gut feeling. Tell yourself that it’s a coincidence and that they’re surely not being sent from him.

Lithe, panicked fingers tear open the letters…

Written in that same elegant hand:

“You’ve delayed, Cass. But grief has a scent. And desperation leaves a trail even a blind man could follow. You’ll find the key where it hurts most. But you’ll need to choose: do you want your answers? Or do you want your sister? One will cost you the other. Be swift. —A.W.”

Behind it, another letter waits. And another.

Some longer. Some brief.

All dated. All sent before the escape.

Wesker was planning this. Not days ago. Weeks.

And he wrote to you through all of it.

Like a lover.

Like a prophet.

And outside, a cold wind rattles the window.

As if something just shifted.

The envelopes tear like skin beneath your fingers, one after another.

Each letter is precise. Cold. And personal. Like he knew how you’d read them—alone, hands shaking, and utterly too late.

The second letter is postmarked from 3 weeks ago.

“Have you ever watched someone transform from within? It starts behind the eyes. That’s where the soul goes to rot first. Your sister is still in there, Agent. For now. But if she begins to hum, if she starts repeating names you’ve never heard—call me. You won’t understand what it means. But I will.”

The third letter is marked from 2 and a half weeks ago, and it makes your skin crawl like the rest. It makes you feel revulsion and nausea.

“They’re studying her, aren’t they? Tucking her into clean little data sheets, filing her agony into charts. They’ll keep her alive just long enough to write the paper. Then they’ll euthanize her and move on. Unless you move first.”

Most of them continued this way. Short notes referencing the things you had spoken about in your short time interviewing the disgraced doctor. But the letters that really raise your flags are the three that start from 10 days ago.

Letter five - postmarked 10 days ago:

“I will be leaving soon. The BSAA grows… clumsy. Your Captain has become too fond of threats, too reliant on containment procedures. How quaint. But you, Agent… You never needed a cage to hear me.”

Letter six - postmarked 7 days ago:

“There is a storage unit registered under the name E.R. Black. Locker #61, in the industrial district. Go alone. Go before your Captain finds it. There’s a dose of something I no longer need, and a file your sister might. Leave the lights off when you read it.”

Letter seven is just a key. No paper. No greeting. Nothing but a polished, newly cut metal key.

“Shit… SHIT!!” You cry out and stuff the letters into your purse as arms flail to swipe keys off the counter and a jacket off the hook. Industrial district. Storage unit. That’s not close, but it’s not far. Taking one look at the traffic, you huff. ‘I’ll have to run.’ You think and go sprinting through the rain, clutching your purse like it holds all the answers to life’s questions.

By the time you reach the storage unit building, your eyes are blurry from droplets and your lungs burn. Slamming into the storage unit building, you bark at the poor receptionist: “E.R. Black! Locker 61!! Where is it?!” The panic must be obvious because the shocked receptionist just throws his hands up and points down a hallway. “R-right, okay—row F, aisle three. Left side!” And you take off.

The hallway is long and silent, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly. Your boots squeak with each step as you move fast through the concrete labyrinth, pulse hammering in your ears.

Locker 61 is tucked into the corner. A slab of unassuming, padlocked, cold metal.

But something about it feels wrong.

Like the hallway behind you just got quieter.

Like something’s watching.

You fumble the small key tucked in the envelope of the final letter and slide it into the lock.

Click.

The door swings open with a metallic groan and you step inside.

He steps out of the shadows like he never left them. No rush. No sound. Just appears—gloved hands behind his back, raindrops still clinging to the shoulders of his coat, as if the storm outside hadn’t touched him at all. His eyes settle on you with quiet satisfaction.

“You’re late.”

He walks a slow circle around the unit, eyes grazing over the open attaché case placed in the middle of the floor. It holds a syringe with a neatly printed label and a thick manila file, wrapped with twine to hold the top flap shut. On the back you can see his signature printed and the notes ‘Uroboros Data - Copy # 3’

“I had a sister once, you know. Half-blood. Sickly. Fragile.” A pause.

“She died before I understood the value of control.”

He turns to face you. His voice lowers—something silkier, darker, meant only for you. “You do understand now, don’t you?”

He takes one step closer, eyes catching yours in a vice grip.

“How much they’ve taken from you. How little they’ll give back. Redfield would’ve left her to rot in a lab cell.” He gestures to the case.

“You have in that box what no one else will offer you: choice. Sure, the cure isn’t perfect. But it’s better than the alternative...” A slow tilt of his head.

“All you have to do… is trust me.”

His smile doesn’t touch his eyes.

But there’s something else there.

Something wickedly patient.

And very, very interested.

“Work with me, Y/N… We can develop a proper cure for your dear, sweet Sister.” His voice continues to drop lower,

“And in return…”

He circles you, placing a gentle, gloved hand on your shoulder before purring in your ear–You can hear his lips curl into a sardonic smile…

“Loyalty, Agent. That’s all I ask for…”

Fin.

~~~

Taglist: @shymoob

Event Masterlist