#Anyway. Frustrated at what could have been.

[imreadng]

simon riley with a bilingual reader. grocery shopping is tough because—

“what’s the red thing called again?” you look up at him with furrowed brows. you swear you know what you're talking about, the word is there at the very tip of your tongue.

simon, on the other hand, is wracking his brain trying to guess the thing that you want. apples? meat? what has been missing in the kitchen lately?

“y’know, the thing in pasta...” you mumble with your head now hung low, gesturing with your hands as if you could feel the very thing on your palms.

ah. simon finds himself nodding at the realization.

“y’mean tomatoes, lovie?”

just like that, you’re clapping your hands and pointing at him with a “yeah, tomatoes!” and he couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle.

“wha’s it called in y’r language, anyway?” simon asks, and he would try pronouncing it to the best of his abilities.

there have been times when you have been too frustrated to clarify whatever you had in mind. you would either say it in broken english or abandon the cursed speech all together so you could murmur to yourself in the language you’ve always known.

it wasn’t easy having this barrier between you two, but man will simon give his all if it means being able to understand you. he wants to hear your every thought, need, and desire — to connect with you in a way that’s so personal.

you better believe that he’s working his ass off to get to that point. in the end, he will do anything for you.

even if that means having to utter words that are barely comprehensible.

“hey, you’re doing it!” you beam at him, eyes twinkling with mirth as simon tries muttering tomato in your native language. “you’re doing really good!”

maybe it isn’t so bad if you’re cheering him on like that.

[facultativeactivity]

Okay, reading back Discord from the time this was an issue, what really went down was this:

For a while I was using LibreOffice for my writing. For a while, it was causing an issue when text copypasted from Libre to Ao3's editor would develop weird formatting errors. Specifically, lines with italicized text and quatation marks had spaces in them that weren't supposed to be there. It was annoying but relatively easy to fix.

Then when trying to upload an especially long chapter, I noticed a new problem. After around half of the chapter, all my quotation marks that were at the start of the line, and some others as well, became italicized even they weren't supposed to be. This time the issue only affected the quotation marks themselves.

Again, annoying but easy to fix - or so I thought. After manually de-italicizing the quation marks that werent supposed to be in italics in Ao3's editor and clicked preview I saw that now most of my text got italicized for seemingly no reason.

Checking the affected line back in LibreOffice, I noticed that even though they showed up normally there, if I highlighted them, the toolbar showed them to be italicized, even thoigh they weren't. Like this:

Experimenting, I copied the text into Word as well, where, just like in Ao3, they appeared in italics. After that, I concluded that the issue must be with Libre, as it apparently somehow corrupted my text, normal lines to appear as italics outside of the editor. I was tired of the whole issue and decided to just move to Word since I had it on my coputer at the time anyway.

Later my laptop that had Windows on it broke and I had to switch to Ubuntu. And what's Ubuntu's built-in text editor? Yeah, LibreOffice. Nah, pal, I wasn't going to do that shit again. So for a while, I went to do my writing in GDocs.

Copying text from GDocs into Ao3, while it was less of a hassle, still caused some crap with formatting, mostly with aligning. That's where I became supicious that I might've been too harsh on Libre. After all it's a widely used open source alternative to Word, and nobody seemed to have encountered the same issue. Ao3 on the other hand seemed to had issues with multiple text editors that weren't Word, or its own native editor. I did some experimenting and noticed that copying text from Libre to various online text editors did not cause the issues I encountered, only if Ao3 was involved somewhere in the process.

The only anomlay I could not explain was why that one chapter seemed to got fucked on in Libre itself. It seemed t contradict all my other experiences. It was already a long time ago, and I remembered being pretty frustrated and sleep-deprived while dealing with this, so I decided I probably did something stupid, like copying back the corrupted text from Ao3's editor that caused it. It didin't really make a differenc for me, as I was mostly writing for Ao3, so I needed an editor that was at least mostly compatible with it, so I just silently apologized to Libre for probably being unjust to it, and kept using GDocs, than later went back to Word.

Only now, reading back on The Incident 1.75 years later did I finally manage to Connect The Dots:tm:

You see, I like reusing my OCs in different settings and stories, and also to collaborative stuff with writer friends, where we borrow each other's characters, or write (recursive) fanfiction to each other's works. This monstre chapter I had so much issue with was kinda special because of a segment that took place in its middle, that was meant to be as both a bit of self-indulgance and a gift to my friends.

It had one of my OCs touch and eldritch artifact that caused her to have some weird 'flashbacks' about events that never actually happened to her. At least not in *that* life. Those 'flashbacks' were pieces of dialoge from other stories featuring her different versions, written by both me and my friends.

And all of those lines were copied from Ao3.

So there, after all this time, mystery solved. LibreOffice can, in theory, fuck up your text, but according to my experience, it only happenes if the document has text copied from Ao3. Also if you write your story in Libre, and it have italicized quotes, Ao3 will almost certainly will mess up those lines. Otherwise it should be fine.

Not sure what's going on between the two, but my best bet is Toxic Yuri.

[reidsmanuscript]

Sweet echoes of the past

Summary: When the gentle hand of the past becomes the present, it tightens around the ADA's throat, forcing the hidden faces of darkness into the light. Pairing: Spencer reid x lawyer!reader Genre: HURT/comfort wc: 19k! (i know it's long but its a retribution for the wait time) TW: cm canon violence, FEMALE RAGE, kidnapping, discuss of child trafficking and abuse, discuss of domestic violence, vertigo, discuss of drugs and reader's past (talked in part III) gets disclosure! A/N: i support women's rights and women's wrongs. it's supposed to be jesus reid through the whole chapter but i didn't find a pic that would match. not proofread yet. part I - part II - part III - part IV - masterlist

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As the elevator doors slid open, you stepped into the hallway of your apartment complex, exhaustion settling deep in your bones from the lack of sleep over the past few nights.

It had been months since you helped Morgan in Chicago. The determination you had shown—sometimes unnecessarily—and the disclosure of your past to gain Morgan’s trust had made you the BAU’s preferred unofficial legal advisor. Whenever they needed legal assistance—whether it was a warrant, a last-minute consult, or navigating bureaucratic red tape—you were the first person they called. It was never official, never written down anywhere, but the weight of it still lingered, pressing against your already demanding workload.

You weren’t complaining, though—you loved to help. And you would never admit that maybe, just maybe, Reid’s presence was a factor in your willingness to do so.

Ever since that conversation on the jet—the one that had been abruptly cut short when Hotch interrupted—you hadn’t tried to continue it. You had left the seat in front of him, and going back felt… strange. Too obvious? Too desperate? What if he didn’t want to talk? So you didn’t.

Which was incredibly frustrating, because you would have listened to him for hours. Every thought, every opinion, every ridiculous fact he might throw your way.

Still, in that time, you had learned a few things about him. He was brilliant—almost impossibly so. You had overheard him ramble, though never to you, about the most fascinating things: statistical probabilities, obscure historical events, literary references that seemed to live at the tip of his tongue. His mind was like an endless black hole of knowledge, and the more you listened, the more you wanted to be the one he shared it all with. The more you wanted to crawl inside his head and understand everything about him—the books he read, the things he liked, his favorite foods, his favorite things in general. Everything. Anything.

But the more time you spent with him—with the BAU in the middle—the heavier the guilt sat in your stomach. Someone like him, someone that brilliant, wouldn’t turn to drugs because he thought it would be fun or relaxing. Something must have happened. Something bad. And instead of reaching out, instead of trying to talk to him like a normal person, you had freaked out. You had gotten mad. You had acted on impulse—flushing his drugs, shoving a card with a number into his hands without even checking if he understood what it meant.

You had been a monster.

And you didn’t know if there was any way to fix it. 

Anyway… you tried not to go down that road too often. Your impulsiveness wasn’t entirely your fault—though if Dr. Fitzgerald were here, she'd make sure you took responsibility for your actions.

Still, Reid didn’t seem to hate you or anything. If anything, he was almost… friendly. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he was wary of you—of what you could do, of what you could become.

You definitely needed a bath. A long one.

One that would take your mind off him, off your spiraling self-doubt.

Though, if you were being honest with yourself, you’d probably just end up thinking about the major case that had landed on your desk months ago.

At first, it seemed like a straightforward prostitution case—three men arrested for running a ring. But things took a darker turn when financial records revealed suspicious transactions, and lists of names and ages were hidden under the guise of real estate properties.

On paper, they appeared to be children and teenagers. But no bodies were found. None of the rescued individuals were underage, and every single one of them insisted they hadn’t been forced into anything.

You had call transcripts connecting D.C. to Virginia, Maryland, and even Baltimore, but they weren’t enough to prove people were being trafficked and sold. You didn’t even have a confirmed transportation route. With the evidence you had, the harshest sentence you could secure was 20 years—at best.

That wasn’t good enough.

You and Austin had been working non-stop, digging for anything that could reopen the case. The police had committed a dumb mistake, totally unintentional, and blamed it on a rookie officer. 

You weren’t so sure.

The trial date was still a month and a half away, and if you didn’t find enough evidence to charge them under RICO, you’d be forced to fight for every minor charge you could throw at them.

It was a high-profile case. You knew that. Your boss knew that. Your very proud—but slightly concerned—parents knew that. Soon, the press would probably know that too.

Did the pressure affect you? Maybe. It added weight to your shoulders, sure, but nothing compared to the pressure you put on yourself.

As you reached your door and unlocked it, the usual sense of ease and relaxation never came. Your body knew it wasn’t safe yet.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Coincidence. Paranoia. Your mind playing tricks on you after digging too deep into something dangerous.

But then, the little things started adding up.

The unsettling feeling of being watched, the man you were almost certain had followed you during your morning run. Papers on your desk shifted just enough to make you second-guess yourself. A black car parked across the street, there one day, gone the next—then back again.

You were methodical. Filed the complaints, knowing full well they'd be ignored. But you did it anyway. It was something to fall back on—a formality, a way to say you tried.

But nothing prepared you for this.

The moment you stepped inside, something felt wrong.

The silence, thicker than usual. The stillness in the air as if it were holding its breath.

Something incredible happens to the brain after it experiences trauma. The amygdala heightens the sensibility to danger helping recognize and avoid potentially harmful situations in the future. It can also enhance emotional resilience—some people develop a stronger sense of intuition, quicker reaction times, and a greater ability to read social cues.

Your bag hit the rack. Your coat slipped off your shoulders, but you didn’t move—didn’t breathe—until you saw it.

A piece of candy. Then another. And another.

Everywhere.

Scattered across the floor, the counters, the table—spilling from the cabinets, tumbling from the couch, everywhere.

Your skin prickled. Your stomach twisted. You didn't want to follow the trail, but your feet moved anyway, step by step, against every instinct screaming at you to turn around.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Crinkling wrappers, glinting under the dim light.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Your breath came shallow. The air felt thick. Too sweet. Sickly.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You followed it into the kitchen. More candy.

Piled high, spilling over the edges of the counter, the table, the chairs. The sheer amount of it—obscene, suffocating, grotesque. Like a tide that had rushed in and drowned the room in sugar-coated horror.

Your fingers twitched. Your jaw clenched.

A candy wrapper crinkled. Your body jerked—but you hadn’t moved. Had you?

You looked down. Your hand. Your fingers, clenched so tightly around something that the foil had crushed against your palm.

Your heart lurched. You didn’t pick anything up.

You swallowed, throat dry. Then you saw it. Amidst the mess, perched at the very top of an overflowing heap.

A folded note.

The candy was pressing in, the sweet artificial scent clogging your throat.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You reached out.

A breath shuddered out of you. Your vision blurred. The room felt smaller, pressing in, squeezing, pulling you back—back to the days when candy was more than just candy. When it meant something else. Something worse.

Your knees locked. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You weren’t breathing. You couldn’t breathe.

The paper crinkled between your fingers as you unfolded it.

Miss me, sugarcube?

—Dr. C.

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The night was settling over the city as the bullpen slowly emptied. The BAU had just wrapped up a case in Louisiana, and exhaustion lingered in the air, each agent buried in their own work.

Spencer wasn’t paying much attention until Morgan’s phone rang.

“What's up, Woody?”

That caught his ear. They usually called you. Not the other way around.

A flicker of jealousy sparked—irrational, unwanted, but there. Morgan had the privilege of calling you by your nickname, not just your name, like it was second nature. Like it meant something.

But that flicker died the second Morgan’s posture shifted.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's going on? You have to bre—”

Whoever was on the other end cut him off. Morgan sat up straighter, his brow furrowing.

Spencer felt his pulse tick up.

Morgan nodded sharply, already reaching for his jacket. “I'll be there in ten. Is she okay?”

The words hit like a hammer to the chest. You.

Something was wrong.

Reid was on his feet before he even realized it, trailing Morgan as he grabbed Prentiss’s arm on the way out.

“What happened?” he demanded, voice tighter than he intended.

Morgan didn’t answer right away. He was moving too fast.

That only made the knot in Reid’s stomach tighten.

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Morgan's knocking on your door was frantic, sharp raps against the wood that barely left room for a pause. Behind him, Prentiss and Reid stood tense, their eyes flicking toward the door, waiting.

Inside, Austin peered through the peephole before unlocking it, swinging the door open without hesitation.

“I got her to take a shower,” he said, stepping aside to let them in. His voice was steady, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.

The apartment felt wrong.

Reid stepped inside, his gaze immediately scanning the space. The lights were on, but there was an eerie stillness, a weight hanging in the air. The scent of something sharp—maybe soap, maybe something harsher—lingered.

Morgan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What the hell happened?”

Austin’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked toward the hallway, where the faint sound of running water could be heard. “Someone broke in during the day”. 

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the kitchen. In the middle of the aisle sat a large garbage bag, its top loosely tied. Austin pulled it open, revealing an unsettling sight—piles of candy, an overwhelming amount. He reached inside, pulled out a small card, and handed it to Morgan.

“This was scattered all over the place,” Austin said, nodding toward the bag. “And this was left with it.”

Morgan’s eyes scanned the card, his expression darkening. He turned it over, glancing at Austin, waiting for an explanation.

Austin’s voice was steady but clipped. “Dr. C,” he said, the name alone carrying weight. “It stands for Dr. Calloway.”

Morgan frowned. “Who is that?”

“He was my foster father.”

Spencer turned at the sound of your voice. You stood in the doorway, wrapped in a long, fluffy white robe, your damp hair clinging to your shoulders. The only skin visible was the curve of your neck, the length of your forearms, and a glimpse of your legs beneath the hem. You clutched the robe tightly against your chest, as if trying to shield yourself—not just from the cold, but from the lingering presence of what had invaded your space.

“He used to give those… a lot of them, before and after he—” Your voice stuttered, catching on the words, unable to finish. 

Spencer’s gaze flickered to the kitchen, then back to you, the weight of your words settling heavily. Then, he noticed it—the raw redness of your skin. Even from across the room, he could see the angry patches where you had scrubbed too hard, as if trying to wash away something that wouldn’t come off.

You cleared your throat as best as you could. “What did the cameras show?” Your voice was low, raspy, as if it hurt to speak.

Spencer barely registered the words. All he could focus on was your eyes—wide, searching, and for the first time, so… small. The sharp edges of your presence were still there, but instead of the formidable woman he knew, you looked like a child—a scared one, cornered with no way out.

Austin sighed, his expression unreadable as he chose his words carefully. “The staff said the cameras haven’t been working for about a week.”

Something in you snapped.

“What do you mean they aren’t working?” Your voice rose, trembling with anger. “This place brags about its security system!” You whirled toward the door, fists clenched. “I’m gonna sue them for negligence and breach of contract! They’re going to—”

Austin moved fast, already anticipating your reaction. He caught you before you could storm out, arms locking around your waist as he turned you away from the door.

“You are not going out.” His grip was firm but steady as he spun you to face him, hands settling on your shoulders. His voice softened, but his words struck hard. “You’re losing focus. You’re losing perspective. You’re losing energy.”

It was a mantra he told you every time you were being too impulsive, too reckless, lashing out without thinking. His voice grounded you when you were ready to burn everything down.

You refused to look up—to meet the gazes of Reid, Morgan, or Prentiss. You could already picture their expressions. Judgment at your impulsiveness. Pity at your situation.

You didn’t know which was worse.

“Woody I understand this is a lot for you right now” Aside from Austin, Morgan was the only aware—partially—of what it meant that note. “We can help catch whoever did this okay? We'll take this to the rest of the team.”

You nodded, not being sure if that's what you really wanted. “I-” You couldn't help but stutter while swallowing the knot on your throat you forced yourself to. “He's supposed to be in prison now”

Prentiss began scanning the apartment, checking the corners with a trained eye. She ran a gloved hand over the door frame, inspecting the lock closely before crouching near the handle. “No visible signs of forced entry,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Morgan asked carefully, “Is there any chance he got out?”

The thought of someone like him—a monster—walking free through the streets made you sick. “I’m not sure. His sentence was 20 years, but the charges didn’t exclude parole opportunities.”

“Did they break anything else?” Reid asked, his gaze shifting to the shattered glass on the floor.

You shifted your weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other, at the full display of your anger, shaking your head. “No, I—um… that was me.” He didn’t miss the note of shame in your voice as you spoke. 

“Have you noticed someone following you or watching you, maybe?” Prentiss asked carefully from the entry door. 

You nodded, exhaling shakily. “Yeah, um… on my morning runs and outside the courtroom sometimes. There’s a folder in my desk.”

Without waiting, you walked in toward your office. As they entered, they took in the mess from the case you were working—registers in the floor, files and records pinned in a corkboard, a stark contrast to the rest of your apartment. The mess in here felt intentional, like the chaos inside your head had spilled into the space.

You dropped to your knees in front of the desk, pulling open the bottom drawer. Then, instead of rifling through it, you gripped both sides and yanked it out entirely, setting it aside.

Their eyes followed your movements as you reached down, pressing your fingers against the smooth wood floor until you found what you were looking for. A red folder, hidden beneath the drawer, its worn edges marked with a single sticker that read Austin.

You stood slowly, gripping it tightly before handing it over. “I have copies of every complaint I’ve made over the last couple of months… it’s all in here in case—”

The thought of you leaving proof in case something happened to you made Spencer’s chest tighten. His fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before he opened the folder.

Inside, neatly stacked yet slightly worn from being handled, were copies of official complaints, incident reports, and personal notes. Dates, locations, descriptions of suspicious figures—some written hastily, others with meticulous detail. 

Before he could say anything, Morgan spoke up. “Do you know if they took anything from here?”

You shook your head. “It looks normal, and if they did take something, I have copies of everything in my office.” You paused for a moment, thinking. “Did you find anything at the hospital?” you asked, turning to Austin.

He shook his head. “They insisted on a warrant, but a nurse said she could help me if I came back tonight.”

A sigh of exhaustion left your lips as Morgan glanced between the two of you. “Then why don’t you just get a warrant?” he asked, his tone laced with confusion.

The question made you tense up.

You and Austin exchanged a wary look before you answered carefully. “We’re conducting an investigation that has to stay off the record.”

“What do you mean ‘has to stay’?” Reid asked, his brows knitting together.

“It’s a case I’m prosecuting, but we think it’s bigger than what’s on paper, and we can’t prove it yet,” you explained, crossing your arms as you stood. “Weeks ago, some evidence was ‘mislabeled’—sat in storage for weeks before anyone realized. The police chalked it up to a clerical mistake, and now they’re insisting on closing it.”

Morgan exhaled sharply, glancing at Austin. “And you think someone did it on purpose?”

Austin nodded. “There’s too many coincidences. Too many people trying to shut this down.”

Morgan nodded in understanding. “Tomorrow, we’ll tell the rest of the team about this. It’d be best if you didn’t go out much—stay indoors as much as possible.”

You shook your head immediately, running a hand over your forehead. “I can’t. I have to go to work tomorrow. I have a trial.” Your voice was firm, unwavering. You weren’t about to let someone else control your life. Not again.

Reid, who had been silent up until now, felt his mind start running the numbers. He calculated the probabilities of something happening to you if you insisted on going to work—factoring in everything they knew. Your stalker’s escalation pattern, his growing confidence, geographical profiling probabilities based on your work location. The percentage of workplace homicides committed by known aggressors versus strangers. The statistical likelihood of an abduction attempt in broad daylight versus early morning or late evening.

The numbers weren’t in your favor.

The higher the risk, the tighter the knot in his stomach became. Rationally, he knew he couldn’t control your choices, but emotionally, the thought of you walking straight into danger made his pulse quicken.

He swallowed and called your name softly. “It’s too dangerous for you.”

“If he’s watching and I don’t go to work, he’ll think he’s in control.” You met Reid’s gaze, and for a moment, the numbers ceased to matter. The statistics, the probabilities—none of it held weight against the quiet determination in your voice. You weren’t demanding, just asking. Asking to hold onto some semblance of control over your own reality.

Austin, who had promised long ago to stand by your side, spoke up. “The courtroom and the D.A.’s office are always packed with officers. Plus, if we escort her, he’ll see us and maybe back off.”

Or get even angrier, Reid thought. The probability of escalation was high—too high—but when he looked at you, at the way you squared your tense shoulders despite the fear you were barely keeping at bay, he knew you already understood the risk. You were scared, that much was obvious. But you refused to let that fear dictate your actions. And maybe that terrified him more than any statistic ever could.

Prentiss re-entered the room, her gloved hands brushing against the doorframe. “The lock wasn’t forced, but the scratches on the latch suggest someone picked it.” She gestured toward the window. “And there are faint scuff marks on the sill, like someone checked it as a secondary entry point.”

You nodded. "So it's not safe for me to stay here, is it?" Even if it was, you weren’t sure you’d ever feel safe here again.

Morgan, Reid, and Prentiss exchanged hesitant glances. Eventually, Morgan let out a deep breath, looking at you with concern. "We can set up surveillance outside, keep a close watch. But you need to think about what you want, too. If you don’t feel safe here, we’ll figure something out."

You hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of the uncertainty pressing down on you. Spencer could see it in your eyes, and it ached him to realize that you didn’t feel safe in your own home. 

Austin noticed the hesitation too and, without another word, made the decision for you. “Fix a bag with what you need. If you forget something, we can come back together, you are staying at my place.” he said, his voice steady and firm.

You nodded slowly, the practicality of the suggestion grounding you, but the knot in your stomach tightened. The idea of leaving felt like a step further into something you couldn’t control, but at least it was a step toward safety—toward some semblance of normalcy.

As you turned toward your bedroom, you felt a flicker of gratitude for Austin’s unwavering presence. Spencer’s gaze followed you, his concern etched deep into his features, but he remained silent, understanding that you needed space to process it all.

As they were walking out of your office, something caught Reid’s attention—a small yellow post-it note buried among the clutter. The handwriting was nearly indecipherable, but the quote stood out:

"To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's."

He recognized it instantly—Dostoevsky.

Almost reaching your bedroom, you suddenly froze. A realization hit you like a punch to the gut. Someone had been sending you baskets of candy and chocolate for months—always without a card. You had dismissed it every time, taking them to the park to share with the kids. The kids.

“Austin!” you called out, horror tightening your throat.

He was by your side in an instant. “What? What is it?”

“The c-candy… we have to—”

“I’m getting rid of all of it, don’t worry,” he said, grabbing your trembling hands.

“No! You don’t understand.” You shook your head frantically. “You have to test them. See if they were spiked or something.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he nodded, his grip on your hands tightening.

“I’ll call your dad, tell him to get them tested first thing in the morning,” he reassured you.

"Tested how? Why?" Spencer asked, his sharp gaze flicking between you and Austin, picking up on every detail—the stiffness in your posture, the way your fingers twitched like they wanted to curl into fists. The horror in your eyes.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You should have had an answer, a perfectly structured explanation. But your mind wasn’t cooperating. The words tangled, stuck somewhere between logic and memory. If you said it out loud, it would be real. And if it was real, then—

Austin moved, getting you into your bedroom before you could even try to force something out.

"Sit down," he said, his voice softer now but edged with quiet urgency. "Take a breath, and when you feel ready, pack a bag."

He stepped out, finally giving you a moment of silence. Outside, he joined Morgan and Prentiss, their conversation hushed but focused as they mapped out their next move.

Ten minutes later, they had a plan—Austin would relay all necessary information about you to Garcia and JJ. But Spencer wasn’t listening. Not really. His mind was elsewhere, caught on you and how you were holding up. He didn’t want to intrude, not while Morgan and Prentiss were deep in discussion, but his gaze kept drifting to your door.

Slowly, he approached, noticing it was slightly ajar. The dim light from inside spilled into the hallway, offering him a glimpse of your space—neat, controlled, yet somehow fragile. He hesitated, then knocked softly, calling your name.

No answer.

A flicker of unease tightened his chest. He knew you needed space, but silence had never felt so heavy. Pushing past his hesitation, he stepped inside.

You were curled up on the window seat, dressed in loose black sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. The window was half-open, a faint cold breeze stirring the fabric of the curtains, cooling your senses down. Your back was turned to him, your hand moving absently over the soft fur of a gray cat curled against your thigh.

Reid hesitated, watching you for a moment. There was something fragile about the way you sat there, staring out at the night. The weight of the evening still clung to you, but the cat’s quiet presence seemed to ground you—if only just.

He took a careful step forward. “Hey,” he said gently.

He startled you, making you jump clumsily in the seat. The sudden movement spooked the stray cat perched on the windowsill, its fur bristling as it let out a sharp hiss. In its panic, it lashed out, claws swiping against the back of your hand before bolting.

You flinched, instinctively pulling your hand close to your chest as the cat leapt from the ledge and disappeared into the night. A bright line of red was already forming where its claws had caught you.

“I’m sorry, I—” he started, but you quickly cut him off.

“It’s okay. I didn’t hear you coming.” Your voice was quiet but gentle, like you didn’t want him to feel bad for it.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say—unsure of how to reach you through whatever you were going through. Finally, he settled on the only thing that came to mind. “What’s its name?”

That earned him a small, tired smile, and for a brief moment, he thought he might have done something right. “Um—he sorta came with the place,” you admitted, glancing back at the empty windowsill. “I just call him Stray.”

Spencer’s brows furrowed slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You named a stray cat ‘Stray’?” His voice held a hint of humor, soft but genuine.

You couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread in your chest at the sound of it. “Yeah…” you replied with a lighter tone. “He owns up to his name.” You raised your right hand a little, showing him the long scratch on the back of it, as if to prove it.

He pressed his lips together, rocking back and forth on his feet nervously. “Sorry again,” he muttered, his voice soft.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s fine, he just got scared.” You glanced back toward the window where the cat was tentatively returning. You placed your hand a few inches away from him, watching as the stray slowly approached. It only took a second before he leaned against your hand, purring softly and licking the scratch he had done, as if he felt guilty and was apologizing.

“He’s been coming around since I first moved in years ago,” you said, your voice gentle as you scratched the back of the cat’s ears, causing it to purr louder. “It took me an entire year, some food, and a lot of scratches and patience to get him this comfortable.”

You smiled a little at the softness of the moment, but the warmth faded just as quickly as it came. The reality of it all crashed back down on you—this place you called home had been invaded, your sense of security stolen. Again.

“I have to move out right?” the thought of leaving Stray alone and without food pained you. 

Spencer saw the shift in your expression at his nod, the way your shoulders sagged and your eyes darkened with exhaustion. He hated that look on your face, hated the weight of it. Desperate to pull you away from the spiraling thoughts, he let his gaze sweep across the room, searching for something—anything—to get you out of it. 

“Did you go to Harvard?” Reid asked, his eyes landing on a framed picture sitting on the bookshelf.

In the photo, a younger version of you stood between your parents, your diploma in hand. Your mother held a crimson banner with the university’s name in gold, while your father wore a red sweater emblazoned with a bold yellow ‘H.’

“Yeah. Law school. Though I look awful in those pictures,” you admitted.

You were 18 in them, and in your opinion, it wasn’t your best moment. The smudge eyeliner and dark clothes—an attempt to make yourself look unapproachable—clashed awkwardly with the family-intended picture. Besides, college wasn’t exactly a time you looked back on fondly.

Thankfully, you had outgrown the phase of needing to prove yourself. Sort of.

Reid, however, thought you looked pretty. Despite the heavy makeup that aged you, he could still see the youth in your features—the sharp intelligence in your eyes, the quiet determination. He wanted to ask more. At what age had you graduated high school? How had your teenage years in college been? Were they anything like his—lonely, spent buried in books?

You stood from the window seat, moving to zip up the bag you had packed for the next few days at Austin’s. Your gaze flickered to the closet, pausing briefly on the dress hanging behind the door.

Prentiss knocked lightly before stepping in with a small smile. “Ready to go?” Her eyes landed on the dress. “Oh, that’s fancy.”

It was. The dark purple silk draped elegantly, the halter top flattering yet professional, the long skirt flowing with just the right amount of sophistication. You and your mom had picked it out together for an important dinner—she had insisted you needed something that made you feel beautiful.

You exhaled, brushing a hand over the fabric. “Yeah… It was for a work dinner. But I guess I finally found the perfect excuse not to go.”

You grabbed the bag and walked out of the room, Spencer and Prentiss leading the way. With one last glance over your shoulder, you reached for the light switch, casting the space into darkness before quietly closing the door behind you.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Walking into the bullpen of the BAU felt like stepping into a pressure chamber—every glance, every hushed conversation carrying the weight of unspoken questions. You weren’t just another visitor; you were the case. The reason for the extra tension in the air. 

Morgan led the way, having picked you and Austin up for security reasons—Austin’s bike wasn’t exactly the safest option. The briefing room felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken concern. You tried to ignore the warmth creeping up your back, the telltale sign of exhaustion clawing at you. Sleep had been scarce last night, and the extra-bitter coffee in your hand was doing little to keep you grounded.

Everyone was already there when the three of you arrived. Their eyes flicked toward you, subtle yet piercing, like they could see right through you. You hated this feeling—vulnerability wrapping itself around you like a second skin. Have you ever walked into a room and felt like a lamb walking straight to the slaughter? You swallowed the knot in your throat and forced out the proper good mornings, your voice steadier than you expected.

Some habits never leave you. Like the art of avoiding physical touch—something you’d perfected in your teenage years. Always keeping your hands full, whether with books, files, or a cup of coffee. A strategic shield, paired with an apologetic smile when someone offered their hand, as if to say, Oh, I’d shake, but my hands are full. Sorry. Every movement calculated, arbitrarily staged, yet second nature by now.

And yes you could perfectly just say no to a simple handshake but playing against the rules wouldn't have gotten you anywhere. 

You stayed at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, trying to avoid the pitying looks from the team. JJ began explaining how, over the last few months, you had been stalked—someone had followed your routine, watching your every move.

Images appeared on the screen, displaying your apartment filled with candy. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you quickly averted your eyes, staring out toward the bullpen instead. JJ continued, explaining how the situation was even more concerning given that your personal address wasn’t listed in any public records—precautions you had taken after past incidents.

“There was a note left behind,” she said, pressing a button to reveal a close-up of the paper on the screen. The message was short but chilling.

“‘Dr. C.’” JJ read aloud. “It stands for Doctor Calloway.”

Garcia chimed in, her voice devoid of its usual warmth. “Doctor Dean Calloway is a convicted felon. Over twenty years ago, he and his wife, Michelle Calloway, ran a foster home. He was sentenced to 30 years in prison for child neglect and public assistance fraud in Wallens Ridge State Prison.” 

The picture of him on the TV makes your legs go weak. His cold, piercing eyes—the same ones that had once looked at you with a twisted, possessive kind of love—make you feel like you want to rip your skin off, just to escape the memory of them.

Hotch frowned at the pictures. “And what’s the significance of the candy?”

You cleared your throat, knowing this was an important detail you had to clarify. “Calloway was—is—a child molester.”

The silence that settled over the room was suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a weight.

“He used to call me like that and drug me on the nights he—” Your voice wavered, threatening to crack, but you forced yourself to continue. “I never knew how or with what. All I know is that he made me eat thousands of those, maybe to hide the taste of whatever he was using.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of their eyes pressing against you, seeing through the cracks you tried so hard to keep together.

“His license was revoked after his conviction,” you added, your tone carefully measured, though your hands clenched at your sides, wanting to stop the trembling. “And I never had enough proof to go after him.”

A heavy silence followed, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. The team exchanged glances—understanding, anger, maybe even guilt for not realizing sooner. You weren’t sure which was worse.

Hotch was the first to break the silence. His voice was steady but edged with something close to anger. “If he’s been sending you these messages, then he’s either out or has someone on the outside working for him.”

Reid shifted on his seat, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “Calloway was sentenced to thirty years. Even with good behavior, he shouldn’t be out yet.”

Garcia’s fingers flew over her keyboard, her usual warmth replaced by urgency. “Apparently, Wallens Ridge had a fault in their security system three days ago, making it really easy for a whole lot of very bad people to escape.”

“Three days ago?” Morgan’s voice was incredulous. “The stalking’s been going on for almost two months. Why didn’t we hear about this sooner?”

“They say they’re not sure who specifically got out,” Garcia responded, her fingers pausing over the keys. “The place is huge, so they’re still updating the fugitives list.”

“I never told anyone about the candy,” you said, your voice thick with the weight of the revelation. “He’s the only one who could’ve known about that.” Your mind raced, trying to piece together any possible logical explanation.

“Unless he has someone on the outside, someone who’s been following you,” Rossi suggested, and his words made your skin feel clammy. 

“Or there are two different stalkers,” Austin added, his gaze focused on you. “It wouldn’t be the first time a case backfired, especially if people have been watching you for other reasons.”

“So, we’re talking about two UnSubs?” Prentiss asked, her brow furrowing in thought.

You nodded slowly, the weight of the situation sinking in deeper. “It’s a high-stakes case. A lot of powerful people are expecting it to be closed and moved to trial as soon as possible. If something goes wrong…” You trailed off, feeling the invisible pressure of it all.

Hotch looked at you, his gaze intense and almost protective. “What kind of case is it?.”

You placed the file down on the table, your fingers brushing over it as you tried to keep your voice steady, but the weight of everything pressing down on you made it hard. You could feel the room’s tension shift, everyone leaning in, focused on your every word.

“The police investigated what on paper are prostitution houses,” you continued, your tone serious, “leading to the arrest of four men—two of them were real estate agents as a cover-up.” You paused for a moment, glancing at the file again, then at the faces of your team, your voice steadying as you pressed on. “All the victims we managed to rescue are adults who claim they weren’t being exploited. But when I went to check the financial records of these real estate agents, I found a ton of transactions tied to a series of properties they owned. The weird part? It was incredibly difficult to get access to the catalogue of properties, and none of them have a real, tangible address.” 

"At first, I didn’t think much of it, but then I realized—each property is actually a person they’re selling. It’s a human catalogue disguised as real estate listings." You knew you probably sounded crazy, but recognizing patterns and hidden meanings had always been how you survived.

"If a property is listed for rent, it’s prostitution. If it’s for sale only, it’s trafficking. A single-story house means the victim is a minor, while two or more floors likely indicate an adult. A garage means it’s a girl, no garage means it’s a boy. I think a porch signifies plastic surgery. And the descriptions of the walls and floors? They match the victim’s physical characteristics."

You laid out the pictures from the folder across the table, arranging them with a methodical precision. "These are the rescued victims. All of them are adults, former prostitutes, found in houses packed with bedrooms."

Then, you placed photos of houses and their corresponding descriptions beneath each victim’s picture. "Look at this one. Dark skin, dark eyes. And this house? Walnut floors, two stories, only available for rent, and it has a garage." You tapped the listing with growing certainty. "They aren’t selling homes. They’re selling people."

The team exchanged looks, some curious, others frowning with concern. Morgan was the first to speak. "How certain are you about this?"

"About 80%. Finding consistent leads has been really difficult," you explained, trying to keep your voice steady.

Hotch leaned forward, his expression sharp. "What does the DA say about all of this?"

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “She… doesn’t know. She’s planning her retirement and wants me to run for her position so I can ‘follow her legacy.’ She thinks this case could secure my election—and she’ll be telling everyone that at the Annual Winter Gala for the District Attorney’s office tonight,” you explained carefully. “If I find proof that the case has crossed state lines, it would automatically fall under the Department of Justice’s jurisdiction, leaving our office completely out of it.”

“Let us help,” Emily stated firmly.

Hotch nodded in agreement. “Garcia can look into this further to see if she uncovers anything else. Meanwhile, the rest of us will split up. JJ, Rossi, and Prentiss will focus on finding Calloway, profiling where he could be hiding, and the other half will stay with you, just in case.”

You hesitated but didn't decline knowing it was the best shot you had. 

“And it would be better if you stayed home,” Hotch said tentatively.

“Absolutely not,” you snapped, barely holding back the venom in your voice. “I have cases to handle and a trial in two hours—I can’t just sit around doing nothing.”

He nodded as if he already knew your answer, but still insisted that you not go to the Gala. You didn’t complain; you barely wanted to go anyway.

The thought of staying home, of locking yourself inside like some helpless prey, made your stomach churn. You weren’t a child anymore, weren’t that drugged, defenseless girl he could control. If Calloway showed up, you wouldn’t freeze. You wouldn’t run.

No, you’d put him down like the rabid animal he was.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Going through sexual abuse leaves a deep, lingering sense of desperation. Last night, you scrubbed your skin with everything you had, trying to erase the phantom touch of ghost hands. It never worked, though. The sensation stayed, haunting you no matter how hard you tried to wash it away.

Being a survivor also carries a heavy burden of guilt. You knew, logically, it wasn’t your fault—what happened to you wasn’t something you could control. But the aftermath, the side effects of being drugged nearly every night, still clung to you, refusing to let you forget.

The familiar hallways of the DA’s office offered a fleeting sense of normalcy, a place where you could breathe a little deeper without your chest aching so badly. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

Fresh from the courtroom, you felt like you finally had some semblance of control over your life—at least for a little while, without the suffocating presence of a stalker lurking in the shadows. Morgan and Reid had been accompanying you all day, which was both mildly embarrassing and infuriating. The idea of people thinking you needed babysitters made your skin crawl.

On the other hand, Spencer couldn’t have been more eager to stay by your side. He hated the circumstances, hated the way you refused to meet his or Morgan’s gaze, but more than anything, he hated the way your hands trembled—no matter how hard you squeezed them together or tried to hide it. He wanted to reach out, to take your hands in his, to offer you something—anything—to anchor you.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like to have your past dissected and laid bare on a table for everyone to see. If just hearing you say Calloway had drugged you had made his stomach twist with sickness, he couldn’t fathom what it had done to you. So if you couldn’t look at him, he understood. He just wished he could hold you instead.

Watching you in court had been mesmerizing. Then again, everything about you captivated him.

Almost at your office, a sharp voice cut through the hallway. “Counselor!”

Spencer immediately tensed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morgan’s hand instinctively move to his holster.

You turned at the sound, already bracing yourself and recognizing the voice from Defense Attorney Bennet. Just the sight of him made your stomach tighten, and the way your jaw tensed and your nose twitched slightly—a near-wince before you masked it—didn’t go unnoticed by Reid.

Bennet strolled toward you with his usual smugness, and you barely resisted the urge to take a step back.

“No deal.” Your voice was flat, dismissive. His client had been arrested for attempted murder—of his own wife, in front of their children. The woman had come to you, fear in her eyes, begging you to make sure he wouldn’t get out and try to hurt her again.

Bennet didn’t seem fazed. “I'm not looking for one. My client isn't guilty.,” he said smoothly, as if that was enough to make you care. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose, the corners of your lips threatening to curl in distaste. “Your client belongs in a pine box... but I will settle for an 8-by-10 cell where he can rot until he dies.”

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Ms. Woodvale. He was under a lot of stress due to his demanding workload, which caused him anxiety and insomnia," he says smoothly, as if that excuse isn’t absolutely ridiculous.

You catch a glimpse of Morgan and Reid stepping into your office. Exhaling sharply, already fed up, you fix him with a cold stare. "I have anxiety and insomnia. I don’t go around shooting people."

You turned on your heel and got inside your office, you shut the door with more force than necessary. “I’m sorry for th—” A yawn caught you off guard, cutting off your words as you let your forehead rest against the cool surface of the door. 

"Do you want some coffee?" Spencer offered, his voice so gentle that, for a moment, your shoulders eased ever so slightly.

"Uh—yeah, thank you," you said, watching as he moved toward the small table where the machine sat. Then, quickly, before he could pour, you added, "No sugar, please."

The thought of sweetness on your tongue made your stomach twist. On a normal day, you couldn't stand it. But today? Today, when the fact that Calloway was still out there felt like a breath against the back of your neck? You weren’t willing to find out how you’d react.

Across the room, Spencer nodded, his fingers brushing over the sugar packets before he left them untouched. He finally understood. The incident in Chicago, the way you had recoiled, the way you'd run. He clung to every fragment of insight he could gather from you, anything that wasn’t in a file.

Caleb, Molly’s temporary replacement, entered your office without knocking, looking harried—like he’d just remembered something important, or more likely, forgotten something crucial—Caleb nearly tripped over himself as he spotted you.

"Miss Woodvale," he started, already sounding defensive, "I was just about to—"

You didn’t have the patience. With a sigh, you reached into your bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, pressing it into his hands.

"I need two things, and I need them before midnight," you said, your tone clipped. "First, look up any prior convictions for Daniel Rogers—everything, even sealed records if you can access them. Second, type up a subpoena for the evidence request I noted down."

Caleb blinked at the paper, then back at you. "A subpoena? Like… now?"

You leveled him with a stare. "Yes, Caleb. Now. Before I have to argue in court for evidence I should already have."

"Right! Right. On it." He gripped the paper like it might disappear from his hands.

"Caleb," you added before he could rush off. He turned back, looking hopeful.

"Sign it under my name before filing. Properly."

"Of course! Totally on it."

You watched him scurry away and exhaled sharply. You should’ve just done it yourself.

Spencer handed you the cup of coffee, and the brief touch of his fingers against yours sent a small tingle through your skin—just enough to take the edge off, to let you breathe a little easier.

"Where's your usual girl?" Morgan asked, nodding toward the door.

"Molly's on maternity leave. She’s got three weeks left." You sighed. Three weeks with someone incompetent felt like thirty years.

Morgan’s phone buzzed, and he stepped out to take the call, leaving you alone with Reid. Ignoring the nerves creeping up your spine at the thought, you turned and made your way to the back of your office. As you pushed the door open, the room beyond was revealed—a chaotic mess, not unlike the study in your apartment.

He followed you inside, and for the first time, the sight of the mess actually embarrassed you. You shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a soft smile, his eyes scanning the board. His brows furrowed. “Why is the map unmarked?”

“I—uh—” You took a sip of your coffee, stalling. Admitting this felt ridiculous. “I’m not very good with directions. Or maps in general… I was going to ask Austin for help, but I always forget.” You hated how left and right sometimes blended together in your head, how frustrating and embarrassing it was.

“Let me do it,” he offered.

Your first instinct was to refuse, but he stepped closer before you could protest. “I do the geographical profiles for the BAU. I’m good at reading maps.”

Something about the way he looked at you—puppy eyes, long hair framing his face—made it hard to say no. Or maybe it was just him. And you couldn’t say no to him.

"Those are the directions," you gesture toward the board just as your phone rings. Seeing Austin’s name on the screen, you pick up.

"Good news, Woody. The candy wasn’t spiked, and I doubt the rest of the baskets were either."

A weight you didn’t realize you were holding in your chest suddenly lifts. The thought of someone twisting something as simple as sharing candy—something that once brought you comfort—into a potential nightmare had been unbearable.

You exhale, murmuring a thank you as Austin reassures you they’ll catch him. When you hang up and relay the news to Spencer, he gives you a small smile, his focus still on the map. Then, as he places a thumbtack, something clicks in his mind. 

"How did you get the lab to run the test that fast?" he asks, glancing over at you. The average turnaround time for something like that would usually be at least a couple of days, even for a small lab.

You shrug. "My dad’s a chemist. He runs a lab, so... it wasn’t hard to get him to push a few tests through."

The irony isn’t lost on you—how your birth parents had also run a lab, except theirs was a meth lab. And now, you’d been raised by someone who ran a legitimate one. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Another piece of you gets stored forever, engraved in Spencer’s mind, and the way you’re being so… casual with him makes his chest warm.

“I’m sorry you can’t go to that party tonight.”

“Oh, it’s fine, really. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to get pampered around by my boss, making promises on my behalf.” You lean against the wall.

“Yeah, social environments aren’t my thing either,” he says, placing the last thumbtack on the map. “So, you don’t want to be the DA?”

You take a second to think. “I know it’s a big position, and it would be great for my career. My boss is always saying the tabloids would go crazy—she can already see the headlines with my name on it. And I know it opens a lot of doors, but…” You trail off. “It comes with things I don’t want to do, like playing politics. I’m not interested in that. I’d barely even step foot in a courtroom, and I want to help people. Bring closure. Maybe even some peace, if I can.”

Spencer watches you as you speak with such passion. For a moment, your eyes don’t look as haunted. Your words seem to carry a weight he’s never seen before, and the strand of hair falling over your face is so tempting for him to tuck behind your ear. It’s as if a magnetic force is pulling him closer. 

He smiles at you, opening his mouth to respond, but his phone rings. “I got something for you about our secret mission,” says Garcia on the other line when he picks up and puts her on speaker.

“So, I tracked the license plate from the arrested man. Stumbled upon something—two of them always went periodically to a location where there are no cameras around. It’s pretty far, almost at the border with Maryland,” Garcia continues.

“Is there anything over there?” you ask, feeling a slight sense of urgency.

“It’s a pretty abandoned area, but from a street view program, apparently, there’s a warehouse over the Cicero street,” she replies. “I sent you the location.”

Spencer thanks her, but before he hangs up, Garcia adds, “Rossi picked up Morgan from there. A street camera caught someone who looks like Calloway near the Capitol.”

Your breath catches in your chest for a moment as the weight of her words sink in. You exhale slowly, Spencer hangs up and you speak urgently. “We have to go check that warehouse.”

You see hesitation in his eyes “Please?

He nods, but the hesitation doesn’t leave his eyes. He doesn’t want to go alone without the team, but something shifts when he notices the tremor in your hand. It was slightly worse than before, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he decided not to mention it, knowing that pushing you away now wouldn't help.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Arriving at the warehouse, you felt anticipation creeping through your bones, an almost electric tension settling in your chest. You were close—so close that whatever detail had been slipping through your fingers had to be right in front of you.

The aged wooden floor groaned beneath your boots, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the space. Dust floated in the slanted beams of light filtering through broken windows, and the air smelled of damp wood and rusted metal.

If Spencer cursed, he would have done it the moment you didn’t wait for him to clear the area first. Instead, he sprinted to your side, his breath sharp as he yanked his gun from his holster, his fingers tightening around the grip.

The place had two floors, surrounded by nothing but dry, brittle trees. Looking back, you wished you could say you had been cautious, but the events of the day had started to numb your judgment. There was no hesitation when the door didn’t budge—you shoved your shoulder against it without a second thought.

Spencer inhaled sharply behind you, his voice cutting through the stagnant air.

He called your name as a warning, his tone edged with unease. And if you had time for waiting you would've picked on the hint of fear in his voice. 

The door gave in, and you stepped inside immediately. The interior was somehow worse than the outside—humidity clung to the rotting wood, the scent of decay thick in the air. The space was lined with tiny bedrooms, each one filled with small beds. The sight made your stomach turn. You didn’t need to imagine what had happened here; the walls practically whispered it.

“You go check upstairs, I’ll check here,” you said, already moving.

“We should wait for backup.” Spencer's voice was firm, his grip on his gun tightening.

"This place is abandoned," you countered, dismissing his concern before he could argue further. He sent Garcia a quick message as you moved through the rooms quickly—most were the same, two beds, a small closet, nothing significant.

Until the last room.

It was different. A desk sat by a small, cracked window, standing out among the neglect. You crossed the room immediately, opening every drawer, rifling through them with practiced efficiency. But there wasn’t much. Loose papers. A few pens. Dust coating the insides.

Then, just as you were about to move on—something.

Tucked in the very back of the bottom drawer. A flash drive.

Your fingers barely brushed against it when— crack.

A footstep. A snap of dry wood behind you.

Your pulse slammed into overdrive. Every muscle tensed, locking you in place for a fraction of a second—just long enough to see a blue shadow move between the trees, fast, deliberate. They had something in their hand. They took something from the desk.

And then your body moved before your mind could catch up. You bolted.

The cold air burned your throat as you tore through the doorway, barely registering Spencer shouting your name behind you. The forest was a blur—branches whipping past, the earth uneven beneath your feet, every instinct screaming at you to keep going, keep your eyes locked on the figure ahead. 

Then it hit.

A wave of vertigo crashed into you like a freight train when you were jumping off a rock.

The world lurched.

Trees stretched and twisted, the ground tilting violently beneath you. Your stomach turned, and suddenly there was no up, no down—just a sickening pull as your balance shattered.

Your foot slipped.

You didn’t fall so much as collapse, legs giving out as the world spun in a dizzying, nauseating spiral. Your shoulder slammed into the dirt first, then your head, the impact ringing through your skull like a gunshot making you groan in frustration and dizziness. 

Distantly, you could still hear Spencer yelling. His voice was closer now, urgent, frantic.

You tried to push yourself up, but the world wouldn’t stop moving. The trees swayed, the ground rolled beneath you, and the sickening weight of disorientation kept you pinned where you fell.

The sirens screamed in the distance, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat, loud and erratic in your ears. The earth tilted beneath you as you tried to push yourself up, twigs and dirt digging into your scraped palms. 

Right now, Spencer could only see himself in you—that reckless, desperate version of himself from two years ago. The one who told JJ they didn’t have time to wait. The one who ended up at the mercy of Tobias Hankel. Right now, those magnets—the ones that should have drawn you together—were mirroring instead. And magnets that mirror don’t attract. They repel.

The nausea surged again, your stomach twisting violently as you heard Spencer’s footsteps closing in.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

His voice, along with some police sirens, cut through the ringing in your ears, sharp and edged with frustration, but you could barely focus on it. The ground felt unsteady beneath you, as if the earth itself was shifting. You blinked hard, trying to ground yourself, but the pressure in your skull only worsened.

Spencer didn’t notice—didn’t see the way your fingers dug into the dirt just to keep yourself upright. All he saw was a reckless choice, the same mistake he had made, playing out all over again. And it terrified him.

"I almost had him!" you shot back, breathless, the words slurring slightly as the world swayed again when you stood up again.

"You ran off alone!" His voice cracked, raw with frustration. “You have no idea of the hundred things that can happen when you go alone in the field! You are not even an agent or a police officer!”

The words hit like a whip, laced with something deeper than anger—fear. But your head was spinning too much to fire back. The ringing in your ears pulsed in and out like waves crashing over you, swallowing his words before you could fully process them.

You thought you saw another figure moving toward you—just a flicker of motion in your blurred vision, a shadow against the trees. The ringing in your ears drowned out everything else, making Spencer’s voice feel distant, like he was speaking through water.

“Woody!”

Morgan’s voice cut through the static, sharp and urgent. You barely registered the moment he reached you—his presence was solid, grounding—but the nausea clawed at your stomach, threatening to pull you under again.

“Someone—a blue jacket was—” you tried, but the words barely scraped past your throat, your breathing uneven, shallow. You forced yourself to stay upright, to push through the dizziness, but Morgan’s hands were already on you, steadying, his gaze scanning your face with concern.

“They… they took something from the house. I don’t kn—” Your voice broke off as another wave of vertigo surged through you.

Morgan’s grip tightened, firm but not harsh. “You don’t look good, Woody. Sit down before you fall down.” He guided you down against a tree with your knees to your chest. 

“I’m fine, it’s just—this vertigo shit, I—” The lie barely made it past your lips before the ground tilted violently beneath you. You staggered, your vision swam, and this time—there was nothing you could do to stop it. You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to stop the nausea clawing up your throat. “I—I just need a second.”

As if he snapped off his frustration. Spencer crouched down in front of you, eyes scanning your face, his own panic shifting into something else. “Just take a deep breathe,” he said, and now it wasn’t frustration in his voice—it was realization. 

You blinked at him, but the edges of your vision were still blurry. You hated this. Hated feeling weak in front of him, hated that your body had betrayed you at the worst possible moment.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, even as another wave of vertigo made you squeeze your eyes shut.

Spencer wasn’t buying it. And suddenly, he felt so much shame over how he hadn't even helped you out because he’d been so caught up in his own fear, his own anger, that he hadn’t even seen you struggling.

And that scared him just as much as watching you run into danger alone.

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Once again in the BAU bullpen, you had finally recovered from the vertigo, knowing it was brought on by stress and anxiety.

While you had been struggling, the rest of the team had sprinted through the woods, searching for the person you saw. JJ was the one who found a crumpled, half-burned document about 50 meters away from the house. As for the figure in the blue jacket—there was still no trace.

The files contained lists of properties, and they were marked with prices. For the looks of it, you sensed they could indicate age or maybe height but you didn't get much opportunity to look into it. As for the flash drive, Garcia had taken it to analyze. 

They had told you that the one man they caught on a street camera thinking it was Calloway was just a false alarm, meaning he was still free, you hated feeling like a prey again.

Austin was crouched in front of your chair, watching you carefully.

"I'm fine. And we both know it’s just because my body doesn’t handle stress well," you muttered, taking a sip of the gatorade he handed you. You were no stranger to vertigo and dizziness—episodes that had come and gone over the years—but this one felt different. More intense, more unsettling. A doctor had once told you, years ago, that it could be a lingering side effect from drug abuse.

"Just eat," he said, opening a paper bag and setting it beside you.

You sighed, grabbing the sandwich but leaving the small cardboard box inside. Breaking the sandwich in half, you offered him a piece, but he shook his head. Rolling your eyes, you spun your desk chair to face JJ instead.

"Want half my sandwich? I’m not going to finish it."

She frowned slightly but quickly answered, "Oh, thank you." Taking a bite, her eyes widened. "Oh my god, this is really good," she said, covering her mouth as she chewed.

Smiling, you took a bite yourself. "My mom’s a chef. She likes to send me food sometimes, and since she knows I like sharing, she always sends extra."

JJ hummed in approval before handing a piece to Prentiss, who had the same reaction. 

Just then, Hotch entered the room with Garcia and Spencer behind him. Garcia grabbed the remote and turned on the TV showing the FBI logo.

“My lovely ducks this flash drive was cripting nightmare. But! as your dear tech colorful genius I got it.” She pressed a button, and a series of documents filled the screen—spreadsheets, names, locations, and timestamps. She took a deep breath before speaking.

"Okay, so this flash drive? A goldmine of incriminating evidence," she said, her tone more serious than usual. "We’re talking organized trafficking orders—detailed lists of victims, complete with coded identifiers, transaction dates, and destinations. But that’s not all."

She clicked to another file, and a map appeared. "These are transport routes—highways, backroads, even rest stops marked as exchange points. Whoever put this together is meticulous. And then, there are these."

Another document popped up. It was a list of addresses.

"Safe houses," Garcia continued. "Not just in DC—there’s here in Virginia, Maryland, Baltimore and a few in Pennsylvania. Meaning, this isn’t some local operation. It’s an entire network."

The room fell silent as everyone processed the weight of what she had just revealed.

The breath you had been holding escaped in a slow exhale as you sank back into the chair. You and Austin exchanged a glance, both of you silently acknowledging the weight of what was in front of you—the information you had been chasing for weeks was finally right there.

In retrospect, it seemed almost absurd—how just three men were possibly going to be convicted for minor felonies, while they and so many others were responsible for running and ruining God knows how many lives.

Hotch’s voice was firm. “We’ll give this to the Head of the Domestic Trafficking Task Force, Andi Swan, to continue with the investigation. They will be communicating with the Department of Justice.”

You nodded slightly, processing the weight of the situation you had been unknowingly tangled in. Austin’s voice cut through your thoughts. “You have to go to the gala for an alibi.”

He was right, and you knew it. Not attending such an important event, coupled with the fact that the office was losing an important case while FBI agents had been seen talking to you, could easily make you a target—marked as a 'snitch.' The irony stung, especially when all you’d been trying to do was uncover the truth.

You turned to face the team. “What about Calloway and the other threats?”

Garcia’s expression softened as she responded. “Wallens Ridge has cleared 75% of the area. They haven’t ruled him out as a fugitive yet.” Her voice took on a pitying tone, one you didn’t want to acknowledge but knew was meant to protect you.

“We’ll protect you,” Morgan added, his voice steady. “The gala will be crowded with security. We’ll drive you there and back, and by tomorrow, we’ll continue to look for him. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded, knowing the smart decision was to attend the gala and put on a convincing smile. Austin had told you it was 6 p.m., giving you two hours to get home and be ready by 8.

Hotch assigned Rossi, JJ, and Garcia to keep tracking Calloway, while Morgan and Prentiss would drive you to the event.

Once the team had their tasks, you stood, picking up the brown paper bag before heading toward Spencer’s desk. You placed it on top, glancing toward Garcia’s office, where you’d just seen him disappear. It was a terrible excuse for an apology—‘Sorry for being impulsive and reckless. Here’s a sweet treat.’ But words had never been your strong suit, especially when it came to your feelings.

Time had a cruel way of shifting things. Over two years ago, you had stood in front of another desk, clutching an identical paper bag—only back then, it hadn’t been an apology. It had been his drugs. And you had thrown them away.

Austin was waiting for you. You caught a glimpse of Prentiss flipping through files and swallowed your nerves. You never knew if your difficulty making friends came from feeling like a freak or simply not knowing how to connect.

You hesitated before calling her name. “Uh—could you help me? Maybe? I know you probably have more important things to do, so—”

Prentiss looked up, offering a friendly smile. “No, it’s okay. What do you need help with?”

You shifted awkwardly. “Getting ready? I—I don’t really know how. I mean, I can dress myself, obviously, but—”You exhaled, frustrated at your own fumbling. “I barely know how to do any of that ‘pampering’ stuff.”

Prentiss smirked, grabbing her coat. “Oh, you came to the right person. I’m a diplomat’s daughter—I was practically trained in this.”

You blinked at her, surprised by how quickly she jumped in to help.

She gestured toward the elevator. “Come on. Let’s make you look like you belong at this gala.”

Trying not to seem too eager, you followed her. Before stepping in, she quickly told Morgan she’d be driving you and Austin.

A few minutes later Spencer finally emerged from Garcia’s office, barely escaping yet another lecture about overthinking things. His eyes landed on his desk—and the familiar brown paper bag sitting atop it.

Inside was a small cardboard box. And in it—a piece of chocolate cake. 

A flicker of guilt settled in his chest as he stared at the cake. Had he really made you feel like you needed to apologize?

Maybe he felt it even more acutely after taking a bite—sweet, rich, and undeniably good. The kind of thing that made him wonder if he even deserved it. 

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

You glance at the reflection in the mirror, taking in the clean, elegant look. The dress falls delicately, the long strips cascading down your back—so stunning, so unlike what you’d usually wear.

“You look good. Don’t overthink it,” Austin’s voice comes from behind you.

“Thanks,” you reply, offering him a faint smile, but it comes out more like a thin line.

Emily had done a great job polishing you up. She even revived the black nail polish you thought was long gone since your college days, using some remover drops. Your hair was styled in an updo, the final touch to a look that felt like someone else entirely.

“Here you go” she says, handing you the long black coat, giving your makeup a final check. It felt strangely nice to feel this... pretty. You knew without her help, you wouldn’t have pulled it off. To be honest, you liked pretty things. You liked makeup, but you just didn’t know how to do it right. And you wanted to have girlfriends, though you weren’t sure what you’d talk about with them. But that didn’t matter, and Emily seemed nice enough to not mind.

“The car’s downstairs. Morgan and Reid will be taking you” she adds. Right. Reid. You nod as you slip the coat on, trying to ignore the unease creeping up on you.

The thought of Reid seeing you like this, this version of yourself that was so different from the usual, made you squirm.

Would he think you looked good? Pretty, even? Why did you care about his opinion? Maybe because you cared about what he thought in general. Maybe because having his attention, even for just five seconds, felt like something sacred. Why would someone with such an incredible mind waste more than five seconds on someone like you?

You didn’t know which thought haunted you the most: the sense of insecurity that came with the fact someone had broken into your place, erasing the feeling of home and comfort you’d hoped for while getting ready, or the look in Spencer’s eyes—the one that made you feel like you’d been stupid.

The elevator doors opened, revealing the lobby, and in front of the glass entrance doors of your apartment complex stood the familiar black SUV. Your stomach churned with nerves.

Spencer’s breath hitched when he saw you, the way the dress fit you so perfectly, so timelessly elegant. If someone had told him you were a duchess or from some aristocratic family, he would have believed them. The way you carried yourself—controlled yet poised, with your head held high and your back straight—was enhanced by the silk of the dress, giving you an almost regal presence.

He got out of the car to help you in, and the rush of warmth that flooded your face instantly banished the winter’s cold. You smiled awkwardly at him, unsure of what to say.

The low whistle from Morgan saved you.

“Lookin’ good, mama,” he said, flashing that charming smile of his.

You smiled back at him, relieved, before turning to say goodbye to Prentiss. Spencer gently helped you into the car, making sure the dress didn’t get caught or ruined in the process. You felt the tingle of his hand lingering where it had touched yours, and you couldn’t shake the electric pulse it left behind. 

Slipping into the back seat, you settled in with Austin in the front, relaying the venue’s address to Morgan. Spencer sat beside you, trying to keep his composure. He had to be extra careful not to stumble as the scent of your perfume hit him, wrapping around him like an intoxicating mist. It was all he could do to focus on anything else, the smell of it swirling in his senses and pulling him into a dizzy state he could easily get lost in. 

Throughout the ride, you stared out the window, mentally preparing yourself for the event ahead. You knew you had to play the part—professional, charming, decisive, almost regal if you wanted to make an impression. The problem was, you didn’t want to win that way. You didn’t want to play the political game that came with it.

Looking at Morgan was a reminder that Calloway was out there, and you could let him throw you off. But then your gaze shifted to Reid, and the tightness in your chest made you stutter for a second. His presence had that effect on you, unsettling yet magnetic in the most infuriating yet addicting way.

Your phone rang, pulling you out of your thoughts. You rummaged through your purse and saw it was your office number, making you frown as you picked it up.

“Hello?” you answered doubtfully, everyone was supposed to be at the venue or on their way there by now.

“Miss Woodvale!” Caleb’s voice came through, making you fight the impulse to roll your eyes. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid there’s been a problem.”

You sighed, bracing yourself. Caleb was pretty useless as an assistant, and you could already feel the frustration bubbling up. “What’s happened now?”

“It’s the subpoena for the evidence in the Rogers case, the one about the gun,” he said, his voice tinged with panic. “The judge declined it, and I... I’m not sure what to do about it. The paperwork was filed wrong, and—”

You cut him off before he could ramble further. “Is it the one I gave you a draft on how to do it exactly?”

Yes! I typed but—I don't know something must have gone wrong and I’m at the office right now and I-” You sigh knowing you had made a mistake in asking him to handle such an important thing like a physical evidence paperwork. 

Knowing it was pretty urgent and could jeopardize the case, you decided to take care of it in the moment “I’ll handle it.” You ended the call, already plotting the quickest way to fix this.

You glanced at the others in the car, a sudden sense of urgency creeping over you. The event felt like it had slipped from your mind for a moment, but the reality of your job brought you back into focus.

“Is everything okay?” asked Spencer, with a concerned look on his face.

You nod slowly “Yeah just…” you said, turning to Austin and Morgan. “Can we please make a stop in the office for a second? There was a problem and I’ve got to go fix it.”

Morgan glanced at you, eyebrows raised. “You sure? We’re almost there”

“It’s on the way, just some paperwork issue that I don't want to escalate” you said, your tone firm. “I’ll be quick. I promise”

Morgan nods and turns towards your office. A couple minutes later you are in front of the office, stepping out of the car. Spencer, followed quietly behind you. His voice was low, but there was concern in it. “I’ll come with you”

You just nodded, knowing that convincing him you’ll be fine was a waste of time. As you walked toward the courthouse, your mind raced through possible solutions to fix Caleb’s mistake, not wanting to think of the effect Spencer’s presence by your side had on you, and how the silence between you two was almost suffocating over the unsaid feelings.

Spencer cleared his throat. “You look beautiful,” he said, offering a sincere smile. He wanted to say more—wanted to apologize—but the words tangled inside him, unsure of how to make it right.

The compliment caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily defenseless. You felt the warmth of a genuine smile tug at your lips, and Spencer’s chest tightened at the sight of it.

“Thank you,” you said softly, meaning it.

Spencer exhaled, deciding to take the chance. “About what happened in the warehouse, I—”

A sharp gasp from Caleb cut him off.

“Counselor! I’m so sorry—I completely forgot the gala was tonight!” Caleb’s voice was frantic as he adjusted his glasses, guilt written all over his face. “I wanted to apologize. I know you trusted me with this, and I—”

“Just give me the files and let’s fix this,” you interrupted, already feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

Before anything else could be said, Spencer’s phone rang with Garcia’s name in it.

He picked up immediately, but something was off. The call crackled, her voice cutting in and out, fragmented in a way that sent a prickle of unease down his spine.

“Garcia? You’re breaking up—what’s going on?”

As you, Caleb, and Spencer stepped into your office, the static grew worse. He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, but Penelope’s words were barely making it through.

“Ca—way… Welle—ridge…” The interference distorted Garcia’s words, making it impossible to understand what she was saying.

“What? Garcia, I can’t hear you,” Spencer said, pressing his hand over the other ear to block out the noise.

Your assistant glanced up. “There’s better reception downstairs at night.”

Spencer gave a quick nod and stepped out of your office, heading toward the lower level. By the time he got there, the call had already dropped. With a sigh, he immediately tried calling Garcia back as he got further and further from you. 

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Upstairs, Caleb handed you more files, his usual carefree expression in place. As you took them, your eyes flicked to the dirt under his nails, and you fought the instinctive wince of disgust.

“I gave you notes on how to do this. Did you check them?”

You really didn’t want to lecture a man who was two years older than you and a bit taller, but at this point, it felt unavoidable.

What felt even more ridiculous, though, was how he managed to mess up every task you gave him.

Caleb scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “I mean… sort of? I figured it was just a formality thing, so I—”

“This isn’t even from the Rogers case, Caleb,” you interrupted, exasperation seeping into your voice as you handed the file back to him. You didn’t even try to mask your frustration.

“Oh! Right—sorry!” He fumbled through his stack of papers before hastily picking up another document and handing it over.

You sighed, taking it from him, already dreading what mistake you’d find next.

He disappeared down the hall, leaving you staring at the stack of files, irritation simmering under your skin. With a sigh, you scanned it carefully, your frustration shifting into confusion. There was nothing wrong with it. No technical error, no missing information—just a perfectly valid request.

Frowning, with your back towards the door, the file still in hand, rereading it just to be sure.

“Caleb, I don’t think thi—”

You never got to finish the sentence.

A sharp, jarring thud struck the back of your head, and the world lurched sideways. A burst of pain shot through your skull, white-hot and disorienting. The file slipped from your fingers, papers scattering across the floor as your vision blurred.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Morgan’s phone buzzes sharply against the desk, the name Garcia flashing across the screen. He barely has time to press accept before her voice spills through the line, fast, frantic.

“Morgan, this is weird—really, really weird—I don’t understand how th—”

He straightens, instincts flaring. “What’s going on? You caught Calloway?” With a flick of his thumb, he puts the call on speaker so Austin can hear too.

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end, then Garcia’s voice—urgent, almost breathless.

“Morgan I called Reid first but his phone it’s not working, Wallens Ridge just called. Calloway never left the facility.”

The blood in their veins turned to ice at the thought of it. If it wasn’t Calloway—the only one who knew about such a macabre detail—then who? Who else could possibly know?

They both bolted out of the car. Who even had your address? It had to be someone trusted. Someone close. Someone you had let too close.

　　　　  　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

A blinding explosion of pain cracked through your skull, turning the world sideways. The room twisted, floor tilting beneath you as your knees buckled. The taste of copper flooded your mouth.

Hands—rough, too strong—grabbed at you, yanking you forward before you could catch yourself. Your body slammed into something solid. A wall? A desk? It didn’t matter. The impact rattled through your bones, sending shockwaves down your spine.

Panic surged through the haze. You tried to move—tried to fight—but the dizziness slowed your limbs, making everything feel sluggish. You wanted to scream for help, for someone, anyone, for Spencer, to come help you, but the spinning world had stolen your words.

Your fingers clawed for anything—something—to defend yourself. Your vision swam, but you felt it: the sharp edge of something on the desk. A pen? A letter opener?

Your hand closed around it.

But Caleb was faster.

A crushing grip seized your wrist, twisting, forcing your fingers open. The object clattered to the floor. He shoved you back—hard. Your shoulder slammed into the wall, pain blooming through muscle and bone. The air left your lungs in a choked gasp.

You had to move. Had to run. Had to— A sharp sting. Cold flooded your veins.

Your body locked, every nerve screaming in protest as the drug hit.

No. No. No.

You thrashed, arms flailing weakly, but your strength was already draining, slipping away like water through your fingers. Your vision blurred at the edges, dark spots creeping in.

Caleb yanked you by the arm, dragging you across the floor. The wood scraped against your skin, tearing at you as you kicked weakly. Your fingers clawed at the ground, desperate for an anchor. You dug your nails into the floor, hanging on, fighting to the last.

A white-hot burst of pain exploded through your hand as your index’s fingernail caught on a splintered groove in the floorboards—and ripped clean off.

A strangled cry wrenched from your throat. The agony barely registered before the blackness swallowed you whole.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

They were too late.

Your office was a disaster—papers scattered, the desk chair overturned, a letter opener lying abandoned on the floor. The air felt wrong, thick with something unsaid, something violent. But it wasn’t until Spencer’s gaze dropped that his stomach lurched.

A fingernail. Lodged between the wooden floorboards.

His breath hitched, nausea creeping up his throat, but there was no time to process it. Austin was already moving, frantic, his eyes darting toward the hallway. He knew there were cameras out there—but not in here. Whoever had taken you had known exactly how to stay hidden.

Morgan and Austin had sprinted up the stairs the second Garcia’s call came through, barely stopping when they saw Spencer frozen near the entrance. The silence in the office was suffocating. There was no one else here. Everyone was at the gala.

Spencer was supposed to be watching you. Supposed to make sure nothing happened. And yet—he had failed. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating, as Morgan barked into his phone, demanding that Garcia access the security cameras, cursing when the signal started to fail.

That’s when he heard the soft creak of a door.

He turned just in time to see Caleb stepping out of the bathroom, his face and hands damp, water still clinging to his skin.

Something wasn’t right.

“Where is she?” Austin’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Caleb blinked, frowning. “Where’s who?”

The nonchalance sent a cold chill through Spencer’s body.

Morgan wasn’t wasting time. He tore through your office, yanking open drawers, rifling through papers, looking for any sign of where you’d gone, but there was nothing. Austin was shouting your name now, advancing on Caleb, his voice rising with barely contained rage.

Then—Morgan cursed. Low. Cold. Spencer turned just as Morgan reached into Caleb’s desk and pulled something out. A signal jammer.

That was why his phone hadn’t worked.

That was why Morgan’s call had cut out.

You were gone.

And they had walked straight into it.

Austin was the first to react. In a blur of movement, he grabbed Caleb by the collar of his blue jacket and slammed him against the wall with enough force to make the drywall tremble.

Someone close. Someone who knew the building well enough to avoid the cameras. Someone who knew you—your schedule, your address.

Austin’s grip tightened. His voice was razor-sharp. “What have you done to her?”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His face paled. “I—I swear, I didn’t w-want t—”

Austin didn’t let him finish. He slammed him back again, harder. “Where is she?” His voice was low, lethal, vibrating with fury.

Morgan was calling Garcia again, his voice tense in the background, but Austin barely registered it. His entire world had narrowed to the man in front of him—the only lead to where you were.

“They—they threatened me,” Caleb stammered, hands raised in surrender. “My family—I’m sorry, I—”

Austin didn’t care. He shoved him harder against the wall. “Where. Is. She?”

Caleb’s breath came in ragged gasps, terror widening his eyes. His voice cracked as he stammered, “I—I don’t know—they just gave me the needle, and they took her through the back door.”

Morgan was already moving, heading toward the back of the building in search of any trace of you.

Austin didn’t budge. His grip on Caleb’s jacket tightened, his knuckles white. “What did you give her?” His voice was sharp, edged with something raw and dangerous. When Caleb hesitated, Austin snapped. “I’ll kill you with my own hands—what did you give her?!”

You had been drugged.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years of sobriety—stolen in an instant.

The thought sent fire through Austin’s veins. His chest heaved with barely contained rage, but before he could lose himself in it, Spencer’s voice cut through the chaos.

Spencer’s gaze locked onto Caleb’s blue jacket, his mind racing. Then, he caught it—the dirt under Caleb’s nails. His stomach twisted.

The warehouse.

Caleb had been there. He was the one you saw. The one you spoke to in your office—where he could have easily eavesdropped.

You had been watched. You had a target on your back for far longer than any of them had realized.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

The air smelled of damp wood and rusted metal, creeping through your nostrils as your vision swam in and out of focus. Slowly, you began to regain awareness of your body and surroundings. A harsh light flickered overhead, blurring your senses, and a sharp pain on the side of your head made you wince.

Your hands were bound tightly behind your back, the rope digging into your skin, and the searing pain made it almost impossible to ignore. A sound, sharp and unsettling, reached your ears—the click of someone’s tongue. It was enough to snap you from your fading consciousness. You fought to stay awake, but your body felt like it was on fire, an unnatural heat that made your skin crawl. Despite the whistle of the wind coming from somewhere in the room, that warmth felt suffocating, as if it were dragging you deeper into memories—or perhaps the lack of them. Blurry flashes, distorted sounds, and a gnawing sense of wrongness churned in your mind, making you want to destroy anything within reach.

Then came the steps, heavy and deliberate, each footfall resonating through the creaking wood beneath.

“This one used to be one of my favorites, you know?” A low, cold voice slithered through the air.

Something about it... felt familiar. Your mind, clouded by pain and fear, tried to place the voice, but it wouldn’t come. It wasn’t Calloway, you knew that tone—there was no forgetting in the one that had whispered awful things to you in the dark, its pitch a disgusting echo in your ear.

Your mouth was dry, coated with a thick, cottony feeling that made it hard to speak. "Who... are you?" Your voice came out barely a whisper, weak and fragile—closer to breathless than you would’ve liked.

He hummed as he approached, the light casting long shadows over his grey and black hair, his dark clothes blending into the ominous surroundings. His presence was suffocating, strong and undeniable. He squatted down in front of you, the light revealing his sharp features and a long, crooked nose that seemed to sharpen his sinister presence.

"It doesn’t matter who I am, sugar," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with malice. "What matters is how close you've been sticking your nose in my business."

Another wave of sharp pain surged through your skull, confusing your thoughts as you tried to place the familiar face before you. But it was like trying to grab smoke—elusive, slippery.

He stood, his footsteps heavy as he moved behind you, his presence darkening the space.

"A friend of mine gave me some tips about what to do with you," he continued, his tone cold and casual, as if discussing something mundane.

You felt a jolt as his hands grasped your arm, and instinctively, you tried to squirm away, but his grip tightened like iron.

"Although," he mused, his voice taking on a sickening quality, "he preferred you docile. I’d rather have you... more awake." His words made you feel sick, each one like poison dripping into your ears.

The needle slid deeper, it's cold metal scraping against your skin, and you could feel the fluid entering your bloodstream—too quickly, too forcefully. Panic surged within you, clawing at your chest, suffocating you. You fought against it, trying to tear your arm away, but his grip was unyielding.

The world began to spin. The adrenaline hit you fast, a hot wave of electricity zipping through your veins, making your heart race and your breath catch in your throat. Your mind was a fog, thoughts slipping in and out like water running through your fingers.

"You feel that?" He whispered close to your ear, his voice smooth, almost coaxing, like a predator with its prey. "The rush. It's all just a little push, and you'll be awake for everything. For all the things that are coming."

The blurry edges of your vision started to sharpen, your breath coming in short, rapid gasps, your chest heaving with every painful inhale. Each breath felt like a battle, the world spinning around you as the adrenaline pulsed through your veins, burning you from the inside out.

Behind you, you heard him laugh—a harsh, cruel sound that sent ice through your veins. But it wasn't the laugh that made you shudder; it was the anger underneath it.

"If only Dean could see how big his sweet girl has grown," he spat, his voice thick with venom, dripping with something darker than just anger. "He was a good associate, knew exactly how and when to prescribe pills for our little business."

The words were like poison, each one meant to wound, to remind you of the twisted connections. You could feel your pulse racing from the adrenaline, your body on edge as the drug coursed through you, making your heart hammer and your vision swim.

"He's rotting in prison now," he continued, his tone laced with twisted satisfaction. His hand grabbed a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back so roughly that a sharp gasp of pain ripped from you.

But it didn’t stop you. The adrenaline only fueled the fire in your veins, making the anger burn hotter. You gritted your teeth, trying to focus, your throat raw and dry. "Same place you'll go when they catch you," you spat, voice hoarse but unwavering, as the rage swelled inside you.

He chuckled darkly, the sound grating against your ears, before the cold, hard press of metal settled against your temple. The weapon’s chill did nothing to cool the heat that roared inside of you, only making your body tremble with a surge of fury.

“Don’t be so sure of it, sweetheart,” he taunted, leaning in closer, his breath hot and rancid against your skin. “You and that friend of yours have been causing me a lot of trouble.”

Your chest heaved, but this time, the adrenaline wasn’t clouding your thoughts—it was sharpening them, feeding the fury that burned in your veins. Austin. His words only made the fire inside you grow.

“You’re the little bitch who runs that human catalogue? The whorehouse we searched?” you hissed, every word dripping with venom.

He chuckled darkly, the sound making your blood boil. “Whorehouse? Is that how you call orphanages now?” His twisted smile spread across his face when he saw the flicker of confusion in your eyes.

A sharp sting ripped through the right side of your cheek as he slapped you hard, the pain jolting through your skull. Orphanages? You tried to focus, trying to make sense of his words, but the anger only surged more violently within you.

He laughed harder, the sound reverberating through the cold air. “I thought they called them foster homes now. You’re one to know, aren’t you, sweetheart?” His voice dripped with mockery, savoring the way his words landed, knowing exactly how to twist the knife.

He circled around you like a predator, his steps slow and deliberate, inspecting the room. “Like I said, this one was one of my favorites.” His words were casual, but they carried a weight that made your stomach turn.

Through the sharp blur of your vision, you turned your head, your eyes darting to the right. The trees outside were bare, dry branches silhouetted against the bright moon. Recognition hit you like a blow to the chest, and your heart sank. You were in the warehouse you and Spencer had searched earlier.

The memory hit you like a freight train—rows of tiny beds, abandoned, empty, each one a reminder of the lives stolen and shattered. The thought of those children, trapped in that hell, sickened you, making every inch of your skin crawl with the need to escape.

A low, guttural groan escaped your lips, fury burning in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You fought against the ropes binding your wrists, the adrenaline sharpening your senses, making everything feel raw. "I’m going to kill you," you snarled through clenched teeth, barely able to contain the rage. The thought of being in that place again, again, after everything you'd been through... it made your entire body tremble with fury.

“Where’s Calloway’s little girl? His sugarcube? The one he refused to sell after seeing her so tiny and beautiful in that hospital bed?” He taunted, pulling a piece of candy from his pocket. “He told me you loved these. Didn’t you like my special delivery? He used to give you these and you’d just love them.”

His words hit like a sledgehammer. The memories flooded back—sharp and violent, dragging you into the past. You could almost feel the sticky sweetness coating your tongue again, the bitterness mixing with the sugar, and the suffocating control of it all.

Calloway used to feed you those damn candies—piles of them—whether you wanted them or not. He would shove them in your mouth, watching you as you had no choice but to swallow, his sick pleasure in the power he had over you written all over his face. He reveled in your discomfort, in your helplessness, in your inability to escape.

Once, you’d tried to hide some of the candy, just a few pieces, to give to the other kids in the foster home. Maybe it would make them smile, maybe it would give them a little relief from their own nightmare. But Calloway had caught you. He’d punished you for it—made you pay the price for defying him.

You never tried to hide the candy again.

The sickening memory made your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat. The pain of the past felt so close now—too close, threatening to overwhelm you. The heat of adrenaline still surged through you, but it didn’t dull the disgust, the rage.

“I have proof of your sick business,” you spat, your voice rough and dripping with fury. “Every escape route, the safehouse, the money transactions—everything. And you’ll go to the most disgusting 2x2 cell I can find in this world and rot there, going crazy in isolation.”

He hummed, his gaze cold and calculating as he slowly pointed the gun at your forehead, steady between your brows. You stared him down, defiant, refusing to let him see even a hint of fear.

“You think that’s going to save you?” His voice was a low murmur, twisted with mockery. 

His grip tightened on the gun, and for a brief moment, the world narrowed down to the cold, unforgiving barrel pointing against your forehead. You could feel his anger radiating off him, a palpable heat, but it only fueled your own defiance. His words were venomous, designed to rattle you, but you stood strong.

“You’re going to die here, sweetheart. You’ve been a thorn in my side for too long. All your little threats, all your big talk? It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll put so many bullets in your head, God wouldn’t even recognize you.” He sneered, the words dripping with malice.

You rested your head against the cold steel, the metal biting into your skin, but you didn’t flinch. In that moment, the sensation was almost soothing, like the clarity that comes when everything else fades away, leaving you focused. Focused on one thing.

“I don’t believe in God,” you said, your voice low and steady, despite the terror churning in your chest. "Go ahead and shoot. See if that stops me from haunting you from the grave."

His finger moved over the trigger, just a whisper away from pulling it. The sound of quick footsteps approaching was the only thing that stopped him.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

The BAU stepped out of the SUV with precision, their movements sharp and efficient. Spencer felt his chest tighten beneath the bulletproof vest, adrenaline buzzing through his veins.

After your kidnapping, they had brought Caleb in for questioning. He had confessed to aiding people who had threatened him and his family, revealing that he had given them your personal address. He had been sent to retrieve documents from the same warehouse where you'd been taken, but he panicked and dropped them before JJ could reach him.

The threats had been traced to a man named Graham Sullivan, a former doctor who no longer practiced. He traveled frequently, never staying in one place for long. Garcia had tracked his rented car through its online GPS, leading them straight to the warehouse.

Spencer could only hope they weren’t too late. Again.

Hotch directed the team to surround the house, already briefing them on the structure. He and Morgan led the breach, kicking the door down and clearing every room with practiced efficiency.

"FBI! Put the gun down!" Morgan’s voice rang out from the last room.

Reid rushed in behind Hotch, his heart pounding. His eyes landed on you—sitting in a chair, wrists raw and red from the restraints tied behind your back. Across from you, Sullivan stood with a gun aimed directly at you.

Sullivan’s grip on the gun was steady, his finger hovering over the trigger. His eyes flicked between the agents and you, calculating his next move.

Reid could feel the pulse in his throat, pounding, deafening. He tightened his grip on his own gun, but his hands were steady—years of fieldwork had trained them to be.

“Graham,” Hotch’s voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “There’s no way out of this. Put the gun down.”

Graham’s presence triggered something in your memory—distant, almost dreamlike, but unmistakable. The image of Uncle Gram flashed before you, an echo of Calloway’s manipulation. You could almost hear his voice, coaxing you to greet him every time he visited, making you act like everything was normal. But it never was. After his visits, the house always felt emptier, the silence heavier, as if another group of children had been “adopted,” leaving behind only their absence.

Graham moved to fire, but Hotch was faster. He saw the threat in his eyes before Graham could make a move, and with practiced precision, he shot him in the leg. Graham crumpled to the floor, dropping the gun as he went down, clutching his leg above the knee. Spencer immediately rushed to undo your restraints, but you didn’t follow him. Your eyes were fixed on something else. You weren’t looking at Graham, or even at Spencer. 

All you saw was the gun in the corner. All you felt was the burn of your newly freed hands. All you wanted was revenge.

Before anyone could stop you, you lunged for the gun, fingers closing around the grip. Adrenaline surged through your veins, your breath ragged as you turned the weapon on Graham.

He was on his knees, bleeding, vulnerable.

Morgan called your name, but you didn’t hear him. Your eyes were locked onto Graham’s.

Your right hand trembled slightly, the raw, nailless finger resting over the trigger. It pulsed—as if calling you to pull it.

The sirens in your head were deafening, drowning out Morgan and Hotch as they tried to reach you.

“Where’s your God now?” you spat, voice sharp and shaking with rage. “Because He sure as hell wasn’t in that house.”

Your entire body trembled, but not with fear. Not with hesitation. With something darker, something primal, something that had lived inside you for years, clawing at the walls of your ribs, screaming to be let out. And now—now that monster had a name, a face, and he was kneeling right in front of you.

Your chest heaved as you tightened your grip on the gun, the cool weight of it grounding you, fueling you. Your hands ached, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer force with which you clenched the weapon. Your index finger twitched against the trigger, the tendons in your wrist pulled so taut they might snap, the palace were you nails used to be pulsated as if it was calling you. Do it.

“This man trafficked children across the country.” Your voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the fury that laced every word. It crackled in the air around you like the moments before a thunderstorm, suffocating and electric. “He made them think they were safe. He made them trust him. He took their hands, promised them safety, and then he sold them. He ruined their lives—just like Calloway did.”

Morgan’s expression hardened.

You knew if you kept talking, you could get to him. You could make him see. Maybe, just maybe, he would let you do this. You could say it was an accident, that it was life or death. And you could walk free.

You didn’t move. You didn’t take your eyes off Graham, who had the audacity to grin.

The sight of his teeth—white, clean, untouched by suffering, untouched by the pain he had inflicted on others—sent something violent and raw ripping through you.

"Finally," he mused, his voice tainted with amusement, mockery, knowing. "Calloway’s little sugarcube. The angry one. The wild one. The one who snapped that boy’s arm like a twig when she was what—six? seven?"

Something inside you cracked.

The air turned thick. The blood in your veins ran hot, too fast, too much. You felt it in your fingertips, in the throb of your pulse, in the back of your skull where pressure built like an overfilled dam, desperate to break.

Your ears rang with the phantom sound of his voice—not Sullivan’s, but Calloway’s—the slurred taunts, the threats, the sickly sweet way he’d whispered your name while he—

Morgan took a careful step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Put the gun down," he urged, his voice calm but firm. "This isn’t you."

But it was you.

The gun in your hand felt like the only real thing in the room. The weight of it, the cold metal against your palm—it was control, justice, revenge.

Graham’s smirk deepened, unfazed. "Go on," he taunted, his voice raspy. "Show them who you really are."

Your heart pounded. Your finger hovered over the trigger, aching to pull it.

"You don’t have to do this," Morgan tried again. "You pull that trigger, you don’t get to come back from it."

The words hit you like a slap, but they didn’t land. The sound of the gun, of Graham’s taunting grin, drowned everything else out.

Your chest was tight, your breath ragged and shallow. Every fiber of your being was screaming, do it. End him. Make him pay. But something else, something deep inside, tugged at you—just a whisper of hesitation, but it was enough.

And then Spencer appeared at your side.

His voice, when it came, was soft. It wasn’t the sharp edge of a command or the hard lines of Morgan’s warning. It was patient, the way he always spoke to you when he thought you needed to be reminded of your worth. Of your humanity.

He called your name, his voice threaded with something like understanding, like he was walking on glass but knew that you needed him to be there. “I know what you’re feeling. I know you want him to pay. But this won’t fix anything. You know that, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes were locked on Graham, on his smile. The gun in your hand felt so right. But there was something in Reid’s voice, something gentle, that made you waver.

You could feel his presence now, right next to you. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body that seemed to pull you in. He wasn’t backing off, wasn’t giving you space to breathe—he was there. Centered.

Reid repeated your name, his voice lower, more insistent. “You’re not him. You’re not the monster he’s trying to make you. Please.”

But you were a monster. Weren't you?

You finally tore your eyes away from Graham, the weight of your anger still pressing down on your chest. And then you saw him—Reid. His eyes weren’t filled with fear, or judgment, or pity. No, they were soft, gentle, as if he was trying to reach something deep inside of you.

He wasn’t looking at you like you were some broken thing to be fixed, or a threat to be afraid of. He wasn’t recoiling in disgust. He was looking at you like you were human. Like you mattered. Like you weren’t the monster you thought you were.

"Please," he whispered, his hand—slow, tentative—moved toward your trembling wrist. "You don’t need to do this. You are not alone."

Your breath hitched. A sob built up in your chest, hot and sharp. The rage was still there—so there—but somewhere in the flood, you felt something crack. A dam breaking. The years of holding everything back, all the hurt, the memories, the weight of a life you had never asked for, crashing down on you. You closed your eyes, and in that moment, Reid’s voice was the only thing you heard.

“I’ve got you,” he said, almost like a prayer, his fingers brushing yours, a lifeline in the chaos.

Your chest burned with the need to scream, to yell at him to stay away, to let you do what needed to be done. But instead, your hand—still holding the gun—slipped. Your fingers, raw and trembling, lost their grip, and the weapon fell to the floor with a soft, final clink.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. You stared down at the gun, a wave of dizziness crashing through you.

The urge to kill, to make him feel the same terror, the same helplessness, was gone. But in its place… there was nothing. Just emptiness.

Reid’s hand was on your arm now, guiding you, steadying you, like a shore amidst the storm. You let him pull you back, away from Graham, away from the moment you almost gave in to. You let him lead you out of the fury, out of the darkness that had almost consumed you.

Hotch kicked the gun away, and Morgan quickly cuffed Sullivan, but none of it registered. All you could hear was the thudding of your own heart in your ears, drowning out the world around you. You couldn't shake the feeling of weakness gnawing at you—how you couldn't pull the trigger, how pathetic it felt to even consider it. The shame washed over you in waves, thick and suffocating.

And then, hands were on you—Spencer’s hands. Soft, steady, and protective. They guided you, as if he could sense the storm raging inside of you, and he didn’t let go. His touch grounded you, calming the chaos, but it didn’t stop the guilt. You wanted to pull away, to hide from the vulnerability that threatened to swallow you whole, but Spencer didn’t let you. His presence was a quiet reassurance, his grip gentle yet firm, and for once, you let yourself be guided. You needed it. You needed him.

The freezing raindrops began to fall as Spencer walked you out of the building toward the waiting paramedics. Each drop felt like a sharp reminder of everything that had just happened. As the cold settled into your bones, everything hit you all at once. Your body trembled, weak and exhausted, while self-loathing thoughts swirled in your mind. You couldn't stop thinking about what you'd done—or what you had almost done.

Spencer noticed the way your body quivered, how your shoulders were bare in the downpour. Without a second thought, he draped his FBI windbreaker over you.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice broken, eyes filled with regret.

Before he could reassure you—that none of this was your fault, that you hadn’t done anything wrong, that everything would be okay—one of the paramedics rushed toward you with a stretcher. In an instant, they pulled you from his arms, guiding you toward the ambulance.

Spencer cursed under his breath, the image of you in that moment burned into his mind. He knew it would stay with him for the rest of his life.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

The sun bathed the park in a golden glow, its warmth fighting against the crisp breeze, making the trees shimmer with life on what the weatherman called ‘the warmest day of our winter’. Everything looked prettier at sunset. It was a beautiful day—one best spent among the laughter of children and the quiet focus of elderly chess players, their skill not only clearing your mind but offering it a rare moment of peace.

It had been two weeks since the night you almost lost control. After that, you decided to take three weeks off work—time you had spent searching for a new place, moving in, visiting your parents, and coming to the park.

"Check in five," Ethan said with a confident smile.

He was good—really good. He assessed the board with careful precision, you considered every move, from the forced plays to the controlling one's for the next move. 

"I see it in four," a voice said behind you.

The sound sent a shiver down your spine.

“Yeah, but he plays with the rooks,” you said, studying the board after spotting the move Spencer had pointed out.

Ethan frowned as you moved your bishop, setting up a check he hadn’t seen yet—not until he moved his pawn.

“Check in two,” you announced.

He sighed and pushed his king piece forward. “I officially surrender because I do not remember moving my bishop there.” His confused expression made you smile. Then, he glanced behind you. “And I’m glad you finally showed up. Can’t wait to see which one of you is better.”

Spencer tensed slightly but forced a polite smile at Ethan, who had no idea what had happened between you two. And Spencer hadn’t come here looking for you—but considering the probabilities of both of you being at the same place at the same time, he wasn’t exactly surprised either.

Still, he didn’t know how to talk to you. He still felt guilty about how he had treated you in the warehouse, and you were ashamed of how you had reacted.

As Ethan walked away, Spencer took the seat across from you. Something shifted in your stomach when you noticed his hair—it was shorter now, messier, no longer brushing his shoulders. Your blood rushed at the sight.

“Hi,” he said, offering a small, tight-lipped smile.

It was infuriating and embarrassing how impulsive you became around him. “You cut your hair.”

“Uh—yeah. My boss said I looked like I joined a boyband.” He ran a hand through it, chuckling nervously. 

“I think it looks good.” Where had all the apologies you prepared for this moment gone?

He smiled softly, wishing the hair was long enough to cover his pink ears, and you looked down at the chessboard, unable to meet his eyes.

“Do you want to start over?” he asked gently.

When you looked up again, it wasn’t the board he was focused on—it was you. There was something in the way his eyes shine, the way he swallowed nervously. That’s when you realized he wasn’t just talking about the game.

So much remained unspoken. Too much. Fear and shame sat heavy between you. You had convinced yourself that no one could love someone with the monster you carried inside you. But Spencer had seen it. And somehow, he was still here, offering a way forward.

He extended his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

His skin looked soft, and you hesitated for only a second before reaching out. For the first time in weeks, physical touch didn’t make you flinch.

You smiled. “I’m Woody.” Your voice was soft but steady.

“I’ve been told you’re good at chess.” He smiled at you the way the sun warmed the park—quiet but certain.

“Well, wanna see for yourself?” You began arranging the pieces.

He did the same, his fingers moving with practiced ease. Maybe the odds suggested otherwise, and maybe you didn’t believe in destiny—but if Spencer ever confessed how he had felt inexplicably drawn to the park that day, you might just believe him.

Dostoevsky once wrote, “To love someone means to see them as God intended them to be.” And Spencer, ever the atheist and man of science, found himself willing to believe in God every time he looked into your eyes.

　　　　 　　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　　　 　　 　　 　

FINALLY MY BABYS ARE TOGETHER. the request for them are OPEN. And the series is going to take a jump in time, next time i post about them, they are going to be already together

Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

tag list: @arialikestea @hellsingalucard18 @pleasantwitchgarden @torturedpoetspsychward @cultish-corner @nymph0puppp @l-a-u-r-aaa @cherrygublersworld @theoceanandthestars @i-need-to-be-put-down @esposadomd <3

[goreandbunnies]

❝ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛!𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜 ➺

Inspired by @sweetlandspos ‘s fanart ♡

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

You see him again on campus a week later as you’re eating lunch in the park, nose in a book, not noticing that he spotted you from a mile away and has been watching you for a moment until he grew too impatient to wait any longer. 

Dealer!Sukuna who sits across from you on the picnic table, wearing shades and grinning like he just won the lottery. He leans in and peeks at the cover of the book you’re reading, snickering when he sees the spicy themed cover. 

“I knew you were a fun one under that shy attitude,” he teases before picking up a fry from your lunch and munching on it, his pink hair dancing in the warm breeze as you look up at him. 

“What do you want?” You ask, trying to sound resigned and confident but you almost choke on the words. 

You’ve been thinking about him. Of course you have. The campus’ bad boy offered you to spend a night with him and you just ran away like a scared cat. You were torn between shame and regret but also still deeply turned on by the memory of that night. The missed opportunity drove you mad, until now. 

Dealer!Sukuna kept his promise to himself and started chasing after you. 

“Do you want the polite version or the truth?” He asks back, grinning before placing a cigarette between his teeth. He leans back, throwing his shades on the table as his knee gently bumps into yours under there, sending electric shockwaves between your legs.

“Both,” you reply shyly, smiling a little. No harm in chatting with him and teasing back, right? 

“Well first I’d like us to be friends, baby,” he shrugs, drawing attention to the tattoos on his massive arms, his black tank top clinging to his upper body and not doing a good job at concealing how huge he was. He nods at you and leans over, you mimic him, like two friends sharing a secret. “Then I’d have you in my bed, making sure I’d ruin you for other men in the future. Fictional or real,” he adds mockingly, glancing at your book. 

Your breath is hitched, you feel too hot in your own skin and his presence crushes you in the best way. He’s intoxicating, much like the drugs he likes to consume. You wish you could be free to give in, to want him back openly, maybe even make him work for it a little since he wants it - you - so bad. But your studies are too important, you’re too focused on your goal to ruin your chances because of a frat boy. No matter how tempting. 

“I- I’m not interested, sorry,” you tell him, frustration and regret gnawing at your gut. 

Dealer!Sukuna who sees right through your lies. He knows the effect he already has on you. 

“One night, that’s all I’m asking for,” he offers, finishing his cigarette and crushing the butt on the wooden table. “If you don’t want to see me again after that, I’ll let you go,” he lies. But you believe him and this time, it’s too tempting to refuse. Again. 

Besides, one night of fun can’t be that harmless. Most students get trashed weekly and yet they still graduate. One night to unwind with the hottest guy on campus wouldn’t put your plans in danger. It’s been forever since you’ve had some adult kind of fun, sticking to smutty books to make sure not to get attached or too distracted by a real man. 

“What do you say, Princess?” He insists, one of his long legs sliding between your pressed thighs, prying them open. You let him. 

He doesn’t look like the type of guy who gets attached anyways. You tell yourself that you can spend that one night with him then just lie, tell him it wasn’t that good and get back to your bland, boring life. You already know any sex with him would be life changing. It scares you a little. He scares you even more. 

“Okay,” you eventually give up, heart pounding in your chest. 

Dealer!Sukuna whose eyes light up with malice and excitement the second that small word comes out of your mouth. He’s not the type to work for things, he’s used to people coming to him and giving everything he wants on a silver platter. 

This is a first for him. Just like it’s a first for you too. You’ve always made sure to keep away from trouble and he always stuck to the wilder girls out of habit. None of them had sparked a similar interest in him. 

His hand reaches out and cups your chin gently. His hand smells like the cigarette he just smoked and this alone ignites something in your lower belly. 

“Clear your schedule for me tonight then,” he demands, impatient. You shake your head. 

“Not tonight,” you feel stupid for saying no yet again. But you need more than an afternoon to prepare yourself for a whole night with him. 

Dealer!Sukuna who lets go of your face, huffing as he collects his shades on the table and snatches a pencil from your stuff. He scribbles his phone number on the margin in the book you’ve stopped reading. 

“Up to you now, princess,” he slides the book back to you before getting up, his playfulness gone as he leaves you there, alone. 

Your face falls as you glance at the phone number, feeling like you’ve just lost your opportunity to step out of your comfort zone. The one chance to experience more. Defeated, you collect your belongings and head to your next class. 

The entire lecture, your mind is on the number written in that book, wondering whether or not you should text him and apologize - what for, being a coward? Or simply tell him that you can’t see him tonight because you’re too nervous. You end up doing nothing, going along with your day. 

You’re walking to your last class when a strong hand snatches you from the corridor into a fire exit. Before you can scream, that same hand covers your mouth as you’re being pinned against a wall. Pink hair and crimson eyes come into view and you suddenly become acutely aware of the proximity between your body and his. 

Dealer!Sukuna who is just tired of waiting for a taste of his new favourite drug.

♡ Taglist : @gojoscumslut @bohoooitsme @call-memissbrightside @yuujispinkhair @seellove @s3ns4ti0n4l ♡

Dividers by @cafekitsune and @firefly-graphics

Copyright © goreandbunnies 2024-2025, all rights reserved, do not repost, use or plagiarize

[thimbleandakiss]

How about a story about cowboy Sevika x y/n. Super soft one about Sevika finding the reader in their horse stables after a long day. >:3

Sorry this is kinda short, the motivation came and went so fast 😭

Pretty Little Lady

Cowgirl!Sevika x Rancher's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Sevika finds you in the stable, brushing your horse an hour before schedule.

Content: fluff, banter, could possibly be interpreted as a suggestive ending, possibly

Cross-posted on Ao3

Playlist used to write

Much to your parents’ frustration, you’ve always loved to spend time in the stables. 

The sweet smell of hay, the musk of horses, is strangely comforting. And that’s not even beginning on the beasts themselves. 

With large, kind, intelligent eyes, silky hides, and personalities more interesting than most members of high society, horses are by far your favorite thing about the ranch. 

Well, second favorite. 

While you’ve been preoccupied with brushing down your favorite painted mare, murmuring sweetly to her, Sevika, the head ranch hand, has been leaning against the entrance to the stables, just… watching you. Enjoying the sight of you in your pristine, pastel-colored dress, stockings, and straw hat tied beneath your chin with a delicate ribbon. 

“Well, now I’ve seen everythin’,” She drawls, pushing herself off the doorframe, boots crunching on the hay strewn about the floor. 

You whirl, breath catching in your chest, you hand gripped tight on the horse brush. After a moment, you clear your throat, smoothing out your skirts, trying to grasp at that air of superiority your mother seemed so skilled in. 

She tips her hat in greeting, but there’s a mocking gleam in her eyes, dark lips pulled into a smirk. The late afternoon sun cast her outline in an almost golden glow, making the sweat of the day on her skin gleam almost ethereally. 

“What’s daddy’s little girl doin’ in the stables all by her pretty little self?” She coos, coming within arm’s reach of you. 

“I am not ‘daddy’s little girl’,” You retort, crossing your arms in a very unladylike gesture. 

You look at each other for a heartbeat longer before breaking out into wide grins, and she barely opens her arms to you before you’re in them. 

“That’s right,” Sevika hums, lifting you up for a little spin, giving you a kiss on your forehead after setting you back on your feet, “‘Cause you’re mine, aren’t ya, doll?”

You smile up at her, eyes sparkling, and nod. 

“Whatcha doin’ here, anyway?” She asks, gently readjusting your hat. “Riding lessons aren’t for another hour.” 

“I know,” You sigh, taking a step back to admire her, “I just thought I’d get a head start, I suppose…”

You trail off, a little too lost in the sight of her. Sevika’s naturally darker complexion is tanned to a medium-dark brown from long days in the field, smudges of dirt on her hands and cheeks. Her leather hat sits low on her head, shielding her face from the glare of the sun, her short, silky brown hair tied back into a small ponytail at the base of her neck. 

Her clothes are… ragged, to put it kindly. The sleeves of her shirt are torn off to reveal the bulky muscles of her arms–not that you’re complaining–but with how much your father pays her, you’d think she’d be able to buy better clothes. 

You’d asked her about it, once, on one of your long trail rides. “Rich clothes, poor clothes, I’ll rip ‘em the same,” She’d said, “no point wastin’ my money on ‘em.”

Sevika gently flicks your nose with one of her large fingers, bringing you back to the present. 

“Starin’ pretty girl?” She teases, and you huff indignantly, ducking your head to hide your grin. 

“Well,” Sevika begins with a sigh, “Since we’re both here early, why don’t I saddle us up, and you can have an extra hour, hm?”

Your entire demeanor immediately brightens, biting your lip excitedly. That’s exactly what you’d been hoping for. You had a sneaking suspicion that Sevika knew that already. 

“Yes, please!” You exclaim, polite as ever. 

Sevika scoffs and shakes her head affectionately, moving over to the saddle stand, effortlessly lifting the hunk of leather off the stand and onto your mare. You watch her as subtly as you can manage, which isn’t much better than openly drooling at the way her muscles flex. 

“I know of a real nice spot by the river,” She grunts, leather groaning as she tightens the straps, “Covered in that soft, spongy kind of moss.” 

She turns to find you already leading her own roan mare forward with a hand on the horse’s strong neck. Sevika smirks appreciatively, haltering the animal and tying her next to yours. 

“If we ride at a reasonable pace, we can spend that whole extra hour there, how’s that sound?” Sevika suggests, eyes sparkling beneath the brim of her hat when she glances at you. 

You smile, lifting onto your toes to plant a kiss on her cheek. “That sounds lovely."

[airconditionertm]

Aemond x wife reader pillow talk

Summary: all y/n wants is just a sliver of warmth from her husband Aemond

CW: angst, arranged marriage, arguing

Word count: 1220

“May we speak Aemond before you leave “She pulls the sheets up to cover herself. Aemond was already getting dressed again. “ we can speak I suppose, “ he said bluntly. She took a deep breath “ I know that this marriage isn’t what you wanted and I cannot expect some great love, however I … I want us to have something at least some warmth some comfort anything “. Aemond sat up sharply “ I will do my duty to you as a husband nothing more, “ he said.

“Well isn’t it part of your duty to care for me … I’m a lady I have a need for these things, you can find it elsewhere with lovers and whores but I I can’t I am here away from home and my family and the only person I have is you yet you can’t show me even an ounce of warmth, I don’t want this for me I don’t want this for our future children “ she explained.

Aemond turned to look at her “You shouldn’t solely rely on me for .. warmth “ he said the word like its very syllables left poison on his tongue. Rising from the bed he left without another word.

——

“This is taking awfully long, “ he said exasperated. “I don’t understand people have children by accident!, yet it has been months of trying and I’m still no closer to an heir “. He sat up in frustration messy silver locks adorning his back. “It will happen when it will there’s nothing we can do nature has to take its course” y/n tried to calm him down gently untangling the hair on his back and sitting next to him. “ I just don’t understand why this is so difficult, “ he says.

“ well my mother always said that children will not be brought to an unhappy couple by the gods,” y/n said trying to catch his eye. “ seriously you want to make this about what you want again “ he recoiled from her touch. “ that is not how I meant it and it’s not just about me this clearly affecting you so you cannot tell me that this is what you want out of marriage “ she tried to move closer to him again . “ what I want out of this marriage is an heir! “ he yelled “ I don’t give a shit about grand romance and love and warmth, that was never meant for me “ he continued.

“ I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want “ she whispered standing up for the bed and grabbing her chemise . “ why is love not meant for you Aemond” she asked cautiously looking back at him before she left.

“ you have met me you know why, “ he said “ I’m a kin slayer, I am cruel and cold, and nobody but my family dares talk to me, I was simply not made to do this, we simply both need to do our duties and then the rest doesn’t matter, you cannot change who I am, so stay in your place and do your duty ” he demanded. “ well unfortunately shear dutifulness cannot conjure up a babe ” y/n yelled in return storming out of his chambers.

———

“Where have you been!” Aemond yelled as he found y/n in the gardens. “ here “ she said looking at a flower in her hand. “ You were supposed to be in my chambers I summoned you multiple times “ he yanked the flower from her hands. “ skipping one time won’t make a difference anyway “ she replied. “you have a duty to your husband and to the realm,” he said. “ and what of your duty to me !“ she stood up from her seat to face him. “I have fulfilled all my duties you have a home allowance staff anything you could wish for, “ he said looking straight at her . “ yes I have that but I don’t have the one thing I truly want a husband who cares for me why can’t you understand that this is a need for me” she stepped closer to him as tears welled in her eyes. the others in the garden could here their arguing and began to form a crowd. “ your making a scene “ he said grabbing her arm guiding her away from the crowd.

———

“So what is it you want from me what would make you feel the warmth you need” he had asked sitting up in the bed and getting ready to leave. “Well for a start not rushing away the second you're done bedding me would be nice…. It makes me feel like a common whore“ she said the last part more cautiously. “ I don’t intend to make you feel like that you’re my wife you should be able to feel pride in that “She gestured for him to lay back down which he did. “ you know we have never actually slept in the same bed “ she moved closer to him. “ that’s not too uncommon “ Aemond replied. “Why do you stay in my bed for so long after we lay together” he asked suddenly. “ laying down is supposed to help the seed take, I also like to lay in your bed it’s soft and it smells nice and it’s really the closest I can get to true intimacy with you, “ she said looking at him laying down. “I would consider laying together quite intimate “ he replied, she chuckled “ do you really consider what we do intimate, me laying in bed like a starfish while you.., it feels mechanical to me like it’s just another duty to you, “ she said. “ it is my duty, “ he said bluntly. “ I know but I simply wish you would want to do it and not force yourself, is it that I’m not enticing to you “ she spoke softly.

“ no you’re quite beautiful my lady it's just that I’m not one who enjoys this “ he replied avoiding her eye contact. “ then why do you go to brothels, “ she asked confused. “ I don’t go to brothels I go to one brothel where …. I pay for women to simply hold me, I know it is strange it’s…“he said quietly. “ it’s not strange you’re seeking warmth, what I don’t understand is why won’t you accept mine why do you pay another woman to hold you when I could do the same ” she reaches out to hold his hand. “ I’m your husband it’s not my role to seek comfort from you,” he said as he allowed her to hold his hand. “ marriage is more than a contract and a set of roles Aemond. I know you don’t love me but that doesn’t keep me from caring for you “She moved close to him squeezing his hand. He pulled her in closer she wrapped her arms around him and he buried his head in her chest listening intently to the rhythmic beating of her heart. The two stayed in silence holding each other as they lay in bed enveloped in each other's warmth.

[diamonddaze01]

i lied i have two thoughts

fiancé seokmin who has been getting really secretive lately. slipping away a lot, staying up late at night when you're asleep. you're worried. is he getting cold feet

you find out later on— either when you confront him, or at the altar— he's been going absurd lengths to learn your mother tongue behind your back. lee seokmin, husband-to-be, who makes sure his vows are in the words of your childhood. who would he be if he didn't learn all of the languages you could be loved in

예쁜 말

-`♡´- PAIRING: lee seokmin x reader | -`♡´- WC: 1.0K -`♡´- A/N: outing my mother tongue in this one.... but anyways enjoy yet another office bathroom iphone notes fic

Something is wrong.

It starts small at first. Seokmin slipping away at odd hours, muttering vague excuses about work or helping a friend. You tell yourself it's nothing, that you're just overthinking. But then it becomes a pattern—he’s slipping away more often, staying up late at night when you’ve already fallen asleep, leaving you with nothing but an empty space beside you.

It’s nothing drastic, but your mind races, and you can’t stop wondering if there’s something he's not telling you. You don’t want to jump to conclusions, but you can’t help it. You know him—his gentle nature, his loyalty, the way he’s always open with you. But lately? He’s been so distant, so secretive.

Is he… getting cold feet?

You push the thought away, but it lingers, creeping under your skin. The doubt gnaws at you every time you look at him, every time he runs off to his study, every time his phone buzzes, and he quickly silences it.

One night, when you wake up and find the space beside you cold, you decide you can’t wait any longer. You slip out of bed, padded footsteps soft on the floor as you make your way to the living room. There, you find him, hunched over his laptop, headphones on, his back to you. He doesn’t hear you approach.

You stand in the doorway for a moment, watching him. There’s something about the scene that makes your stomach twist—a strange feeling of both intimacy and distance. The glow of the screen illuminates his face, the way his lips move as if he’s speaking to someone. The soft murmur of his voice, too low for you to catch, only adds to the tension in the air.

"Seokmin?" you say softly, breaking the silence.

He jumps, startled, quickly slamming the laptop shut, like he’s been caught doing something wrong. "Baby! You scared me. What are you doing up?"

Your heart races, but you force the words out, your voice wavering, unsure if you’re ready to hear the truth. "What are you doing, Seokmin? Why have you been acting so secretive lately? Are you… getting cold feet?"

His eyes widen, disbelief flashing across his face. He stands up quickly, stepping toward you with a mix of confusion and frustration. "No! Why would you think that?" he exclaims, his tone softening when he sees the worry in your eyes. "It’s not like that at all, I promise."

"But you’ve been so distant. You’ve been sneaking around and staying up late. I don’t know what to think, Seokmin."

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair as if caught in a bind. You watch him closely, searching for any sign of the man you know and love—the one who would never keep secrets from you. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, he sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"I’m sorry," he murmurs, looking down. "I should’ve told you sooner."

"Tell me what?" you ask, voice shaking now. "What’s going on?"

He takes a deep breath, pulling you gently toward him. "Baby, I—" He pauses, gathering his words like they’re precious. "I’ve been learning Kannada."

You blink, confused. "What?"

He gestures awkwardly toward his laptop. "I’ve been learning your language. I—I want to say my vows to you in Kannada. On our wedding day."

Your mind races, trying to process the words. Kannada? Your mother tongue?

"But… why?" you whisper, heart pounding in your chest.

Seokmin smiles sheepishly, his ears turning pink. "I just… I wanted to be able to promise you forever in the words that shaped you. The words you grew up with. The language that loves you first. I wanted to make sure that when I stand up there on our wedding day, I’m giving you all of me, in all the ways I can."

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can stop yourself, tears spring to your eyes. You blink quickly, trying to hold them back, but Seokmin sees it anyway. He reaches out, gently brushing away the tear that’s already slipping down your cheek.

"Seokmin."

He winces. "I’m not very good yet. I’ve been practicing so much, but my pronunciation still sucks. Jeonghan made fun of me last week, and I made my tutor cry—"

"You what?"

"Okay, she was crying from laughter, but still." He groans dramatically, burying his face in your shoulder. "I just—I wanted to do this right. I wanted you to hear it on our wedding day and know that I love all of you. Every part, every language, every version of you that’s ever existed."

There is a lump in your throat, a tightness in your chest that feels dangerously close to crying.

"You—" Your voice shakes. "You learned my language?"

"For you?" He cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that escapes. "Of course I did."

And that is what breaks you. You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in his neck as you cling to him. "You idiot. I thought you were hiding something terrible."

"To be fair, I was hiding something terrible. My accent is awful."

You pull back, looking at him through damp lashes. "Say something, then. I want to hear it."

He swallows. "Right now?"

"Right now."

Seokmin’s ears go red, but he nods. He takes a breath, searching for the words he’s practiced over and over in secret. And then—

"ನಾನು ನಿನ್ನ ಪ್ರೀತಿಸುತ್ತೇನೆ."Naanu ninna preetisuttene.

The words are a little shaky, thick with his accent, but they are unmistakably clear. I love you.

You let out a soft, broken noise, hands coming up to cradle his face. "Again."

He smiles, eyes shining. "Naanu ninna preetisuttene."

This time, you kiss him. You kiss him with every ounce of love in your body, with the weight of every word he’s ever spoken and every word he’s still learning. He melts into you, laughing against your lips, holding you like he’ll never let go.

"Seokmin," you breathe against his lips. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your face. "I’ll love you in every language I can find, forever."

"God," you murmur when you finally pull away, breathless. "What did I do to deserve you?"

Seokmin grins, nose brushing against yours. "I ask myself the same thing every day."

You shake your head, overwhelmed with love. "Say it again."

And so he does.

[definitelynotafurinasimp]

Hey i see your request are open so could i ask for any characters of your choice with a s/o that has a strong battle lust like no matter the situation they if they see something or someone they think is strong or scary enough they just go “lets kill it” anyway thank you for making content its people like you who get me through the day don’t feel obligated to write this if you don’t want to love your stuff keep it up!

Them with a reader that wants to fight everything

characters: Eula / Keqing / Clorinde x gn!reader

warnings: none

a/n: I gotta recover those character banners I used back in the day...

Anyway, thanks for the request and the kind words, they mean a lot and I hope you enjoy!

Eula

Eula has had to work with more people than she could recall over the years, some of them more tolerable than others, whether it was due to their personalities or work ethic. And yet you still managed to rank amongst the most exhausting companions she ever had to work besides.

It wasn’t your personality – she could count the times you got into any kind of conflicts with your squadmates on one hand – nor was there any kind of definition she could use to call your work ethic lacking. If anything… it was the complete opposite.

Having to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed after charging headfirst into battle was tedious enough, and yet it weren’t just Lavachurls and other kinds of monstrous beasts that regularly drew your lust for battle.

“Please, Eula. Just one Punch!” You begged like a little child that was told their parents wouldn’t buy that one toy that they had set their minds on for them, trying your damnedest to wiggle out of her grip. And yet to no avail, as shoulders remained in her tight grip.

If she didn’t know better, Eula would think you were the one that had spent their evening drinking their frustrations away, and not her. If it were anyone other than you, she’d at least try to tell you to calm down, that strangers judging her for her heritage was nothing new for her, and yet considering it was you, she doubted it would have made any difference whether the tall big guy in front of you hadn’t insulted her or not.

Sure, you seemed agitated enough while listening to him talk, but it had only been after he challenged you to a fight that you had tried jumping at him with the excitement of a dog chasing his favourite toy.

Not that you ever got the chance to strike, having your arms used to pull you back the same way one would use the leash on a dog the moment before your feet took off. Nor did you have to punch anyone, as your lack of even a sliver of hesitation and lust for battle alone did enough to drive anyone stupid enough to challenge you away.

“No! We can go search for hilichurl camps tomorrow, sit down!”

Eula didn’t even expect that to work. And yet the moment those words left her mouth you were sitting on the bench as if nothing had ever happened.

Keqing

“What do you have to say for yourself?” The Guardman’s voice echoed out, staring accusatory daggers into you as he tried to catch his breath from having to run all the way here, the footsteps of his companions trailing not far behind him as you immediately raised your arms in a show of peace.

“They tried to hurt each other”, you gestured to the several bandits lying around the grassfield, none of them showing any signs of consciousness, although each of them were still clearly alive.

“But, I’m a peaceful person, I don't do things like that.” As those words flew past your lips, Keqing’s eyes locked with the guard’s.

The two of you had been on a small errand, when a group of treasure hoarders had ambushed you just outside the city’s view, each of them large in stature and looking threatening in their own right, before demanding your goods and mora.

Not wanting to use unnecessary violence, Keqing had just started to try and resolve the conflict with words when you had suddenly kicked one of them with enough force to have him roll down the hill, letting out a war cry best described as ‘unhinged’ before literally picking up the smallest of them and throwing him as if competing in a sport.

By the time the Yuheng stopped blinking at you in utter surprise and sprang into action, all of the bandits had either been knocked out cold or were running for the mountains.

It was… an experience.

“Everything I did, I did in self defense.” You added in a tone that almost made it seem you were sad you had to resort to violence in the first place. 

…She doubted you were. There weren’t all too many pacifists she knew that had a war cry ready at a moment's notice.

“Miss Keqing, you’ve seen the scene play out, I presume? Is it the truth?” The Guard asked her now, the Yuheng’s eyes widening in surprise for a brief moment as she hesitated to answer for a moment before doing so with confidence.

“Considering they did ambush us, I would call it self defense as well.”

Just like that, the two of you were free to go. But while you no longer had anything to explain to the Guards, that didn’t mean you weren’t going to have a discussion about this.

Clorinde

There weren’t many people that would willingly challenge Clorinde to a fight, most of her potential opponents fled or decided to get sentenced instead of duelling her. Not that she could blame them. The number of human fighters in Fontaine that could stand their ground against her could be counted on one hand.

And then… there were you. Always challenging her to fights whenever you could, only to get rejected each and every time. 

Work and private life didn’t mix for Clorinde. You were part of her private life, while duelling was work. She was more than happy enough to have you join her and the others playing games or to indulge you in your hobbies, but duelling? That was out of the question.

Not like her rejections impacted your determination in any way though. You’d still continue asking.

Today was a day to celebrate. Not for Clorinde’s sake, the woman only begrudgingly let you and Navia celebrate her birthday after all, but for yours. Celebrating other peoples’ birthdays or achievements was something entirely different, especially if it were those of people close to her. And yet considering what had led you here in the first place, Clorinde found it difficult to decide whether to congratulate or chide you.

“Congratulations on your promotion. Navia baked some macrons for you when she heard the news”, The woman with a small box of the sweets in her hand, only to pull it away just in time to dodge the hand of yours that reached out to grab it.

“Playing with a wounded officer’s feelings? You’re too cruel, Clorinde”, you pretended to be disappointed in her, only to quickly smile at her, using the momentary distraction to try grabbing the sweets once again.

“And how exactly were you wounded?” She asked in her usual stoic voice as she dodged your hand once again, already knowing the answer to her question.

“By valiantly trying to protect a member of the community.” You declared before trying to strike a pose, only to hiss in pain as you moved your injured arm.

Considering you did manage to help catch a wanted criminal, Clorinde decided not to add insult to injury, leaving out her comment about how she seriously doubted it was the potential victim that caused you to lunch at the criminal and not just the thrill of the fight, letting out a small sigh before placing Navia’s gift in front of you, only to watch you inhale them within moments.

“Clorinde, let's have a duel tomorrow”, you stated in between your bites, only for your movements to come to a grinding halt the moment you heard a dry chuckle escape her lips.

“I’m not going to duel an injured person.”

Almost immediately, Clorinde wished she had phrased that statement differently, as your eyes lit up with almost childlike excitement.

“So you’re alright with duelling me once I’ve recovered?!”

[daegall]

☆ unexpected company.

➷ in which the Gods give your boyfriend a shitty past few weeks, and you attempt to make up for it.

pairing: son of poseidon!jeno x daughter of apollo!reader

genre: reverse hurt comfort, fluff, angst, established relationship!AU

warnings: mentions of injuries (i think???)

word count: 2k words

a/n: jumpscare guys omg what the fuck i havent written since christmas 2 years ago LOOOOL um anyways........ comeback ? everyone say thank you jeno bc he is always and will always be my inspiration <3

btw this is basically . pt.2 of late night company so if you wanna go read that for just a little bit of context go crazy!! (you can read it without it tho)

The last few weeks in the infirmary have been busy, buzzing with clumsy teens and kids who carelessly run around in a sparring with someone clearly much stronger than them. You guess they get it from their god parent. As much as you love the infirmary and taking care of people, you're tired. Really tired. However, your (finally official) boyfriend for 2 months has always been there to help you through it.

Jeno Lee is someone you never expected to be so loving, but really, you should have known when he gave up his own team's flag just to go help you fight off Clairise during a capture the flag match. Despite his very busy schedule, Jeno loves to hang out around you, cracking jokes when you tend to crying, injured kids, getting you water when you don't realize you need it, and always attentively listening to you, whether it be a rant of frustration, or just a chat. Your favorite part is when he kisses you and tells you of how good of a job you've done.

As mentioned, Jeno has a very busy schedule. As expected, from a child of one of the big three gods. However, recently it's been… really packed. When Jeno does have the mercy of free time, he's always sleeping. You haven't seen him in two whole weeks. He's never talking to his friends, you never seen him swimming anymore,a nd worst of all? He's not eating. He loves to eat─and he's not eating. This calls for an emergency visit.

If only you had the ability to. You're in charge of the infirmary, however, and can never seem to find a replacement since your siblings always avoid the job and run away. You contemplate running away from your duties. For Jeno. You could send Jaemin to check up on him… no, he'd end up flirting with any girl (or guy!) he sees on the way. Damn Aphrodite kids. Finally, you decide to act on the former thought.

You don't even make it to the door, before you notice a very familiar presence by the door.

Your breath hitches as your eyes meet Jeno's. They look… tired. Nonetheless, you can still sense the love behind them, and it stirs something in you. You feel a small flame light in your heart, as if he's the one that set it on fire. The fire spreads to your feet as you make your way to him, to your fingertips as they reach out for him, and it's as if that fire has radiated on him, because he instantly melts into your touch, his nose bumping into your palm as he sighs out in what you can only make out to be satisfaction.

Despite his happy demeanor, you still can shake off the feeling of worry that stirs within you, noticing how his shoulders are tense─how he limps as you escort him towards a bed, how exhausted he looks. You wonder if this is how he felt when he saw you that night, on his dock, crying. If so, you'd never want him to feel this way ever again.

"I was just about to come to you, you know," You laugh softly, as you take a seat next to him and grab his hand in yours. It's warm, you've missed how warm it was.

Jeno's fingers instinctively curl between yours, and you feel the callouses of his fingertips on your skin, and it's oddly comforting. His head leans against yours, and he's strangely touchy, as if you were his battery source─like sunlight to a sunflower. "Oh? You were going to sneak out for me?"

You roll your eyes fondly. "I'd do anything for you."

"I know,"

And when his lips press against your temple, its you who melts this time, transforming into a giggly, grinning mess.

"I've missed you, you know,"

Jeno knows. He hopes you know that he's missed you even more. He's missed you every time he sees a band aid, he missed you every time someone made a lame joke, he saw you in every sunrise and sunset, he missed you when he gazed into water─which happens a lot, as a child of Poseidon. If he could, he'd abandon all these missions─what the hell are camp counselors thinking anyway, sending a kid off to beat the largest, most hazardous of creatures? He guesses that's the price of having power.

Jeno doesn't want power, however. He wants you. If power is in the way of him seeing you, he'd rather give it all away to the first person who asked, he'd give everything away for you.

"I've missed you too, baby,"

Your eyes tear away from your connected hands, trailing up to meet his own. They're longing and earnest. You smile, in hopes to comfort him.

It works, it always works. Jeno grins back, his other hand reaching up to brush your hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. He notices a small chunk of your hair is shorter than others, and thinks back to the letter you sent him, the one where you ranted out of frustration when your siblings pranked you during your sleep and cut your hair. He smiles.

"Tell me about your missions," You mumble, encouraging him to fill you in on everything you missed out.

"Well… I kicked ass. Got my ass kicked. End of story?"

Jeno yelps and laughs when you punch at his shoulder. "Fine, fine, it was… fun,"

"Really? But isn't it scary to be doing that all alone?"

In an instant, Jeno's face changes. Alone. He's been feeling that lately.

"uh… yeah, you could say that."

You notice the way his lips curl down, how his brows just furrow slightly. It tugs on your heart.

You squeeze his hand gently, head dipping down to chase his gaze. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Jeno's lips curl back into a smile, and though its weaker than before, it's still there. "Nothing, just a little tired." You nod at his words, processing and attempting to dissect his intentions. "…okay, do you wanna rest here? I can watch over you,"

At your pure intentions and even purer heart, Jeno melts, pulling you closer with a shake of his head. "No need, just want to be here, with you. No longer alone…"

"Hey," You give him a look. He knows that look. You've caught him red-handed. "I'm here for you, you know that. Tell me what's wrong…"

Jeno cracks almost instantly. He could never be dishonest when it comes to you─he could never hurt you. "I just… I was so lonely on those missions. Yeah, I was out at sea, and sure I did talk to my dad a few times but it's… it's not the same as camp, you know? Where you could spar endlessly just for fun, where every meal was full of laughter and not some cold, prepacked plate of literal shit. Where fighting never had me thinking that this could be my last fight."

He pauses for a moment, breathing in deep breaths, but you wait for him. You know when to talk, and now is not the time. Instead, you rub up and down comfortingly at his back, something he's always loved. You feel his breathing slow, and his muscles relax. Then, he continues.

"Nobody understands me. I'm the only Big Three child here, and I hate it. I hate that I'm the only one who doesn't get to join bonfire nights, I hate that I'm the only one that has to constantly live in fear of constant death, I hate that I can't love you the loudest─just to keep you safe! God, I hate that I can't give you everything… to tell you the truth… I hated it out there. I hated every second in solitude, I hated how my thoughts raced for no reason, and how I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, and how empty I felt. I know I'm an introvert, and I love my personal time, but out there… I wasn't alone. I felt like death was creeping up on me, keeping me company. I didn't want death's company─I wanted your company. I missed you, Y/N… so much… and it killed me to know that you missed me too."

Your heart shatters at his words, and the glassy look in his eye, indicating his tears. Your palms envelop his cheeks, despite his tight grip, and you gently direct him to look down at you. "You're here now, aren't you? I'm here, with you," You start with a shaky breath. "and don't you dare say you don't give me everything. You give me everything and more. You'd give me the whole universe and still think it's too little, Jeno," You laugh airily, squeezing his cheeks fondly. "and even though you were away, I always felt loved. You don't need to be here physically for me to know, you know, that how much I trust you. So trust in me too, please. Trust that I'm satisfied, trust that I can take care of myself and that I want you to love me without any fears because we shouldn't have to have fears. Let go, you uptight man, and live! There might not be a lot of people out there who get exactly what you're going through, but people will relate on some level. People are just like that, empathizing and loving. Don't hate who you are, please, because you'd be hating something that I love, something I know is always worth my time and attention and something I will never give up on. Okay?"

Jeno stares at you, his eyes glossy with a tint of red on the outer corners of his eyes. He still looks handsome. He's always handsome. His hand are on your waist, his thumbs rubbing gently over the material of your t-shirt, gently tugging you towards him.

"…shit, did I ramble? Was I too fast? Do I need to say it all again? Gods─um, you give me everything, and more, and I trust you, and I─"

Jeno shuts you up effectively, nudging away your hands holding at his face to dip his head down and connect his lips with yours. They're salty with tears, and so soft, moving gently against yours as you reciprocate the kiss, your hands finding comfort in his hair. He kisses you with yearning, and he thinks that if you came just a millimeter closer, you'd feel the ache of his heart and his craving for you. Your comfort, your hugs, kisses, your smile and your gentle touches, your appreciative glances, your love. He craves your love, and now that he has it, he won't ever let go.

He makes it clear as he chases your lips when you pull away in what is, in his opinion, way too fast, gently maneuvering you closer to him, your chests pressed together and arms wrapped around one another. You wouldn't be surprised if your heart reached out and merged with his.

When Jeno does pull way, it's only to shower your face with kisses and hug you even tighter.

"I'm always here for you, Jen,"

"I know, baby."

You grin, taking his hand in yours as you gaze into his eyes. "Stay the night? I've missed your cuddles."

Jeno's nose bumps against yours as he nods, his smile mirroring yours. "Never wanted anything more."

As you lay in an infirmary bed, wrapped in Jeno's arms, you realize that Jeno has already given you the universe. The warmth you identified as a flame of adoration in your heart has grown into a sun, and Jeno's orbiting around that sun, keeping you loved and cared for. Much like how he is your moon, and you are the tide, constantly gravitating towards him. You like this universe he's gifted you.

[the-winter-spider]

The Archer | Steve Harrington

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: Angst, fluff.

A/N: Found this in my drafts loo enjoy

----

You’ve never been the kind of person people stay for.

Your parents taught you that early on, love is temporary, conditional, fleeting. Your father left when you were nine. Your mother stayed, but she never really wanted to. She was always looking for an out, always halfway gone. You liked it better that way at first being alone, not truly having anyone so when they left it didn’t hurt as much, it was just another no one coming in and out of your lives. You learned that people only stick around until they find something better.

So you made sure to never need anyone. You let people in just enough to keep them close, but not enough for them to see you. You laughed when you were supposed to, played the part of the girl who was fine, always fine, even when you weren’t.

Because if you let people see what’s underneath, if you let them know how broken you really are, they leave and that’s why Steve Harrington is the worst thing that ever happened to you.

Because he sees you, even when you try to hide, even when you deflect and brush him off, even when you keep him at arm’s length…he still sees you.

And y’know what's worse? He stays. You don’t know what to do with that, because Steve is not supposed to stay. No one ever does and that’s why you don’t let yourself believe this could be real.

Because if you do? If you let yourself reach for him, if you let yourself want him the way you already do….you might lose the only person who’s ever tried to love you anyway.

Steve doesn’t know when he started noticing you like that.

You were always there. First in the way all Hawkins kids inevitably are, crossing paths in school hallways and at parties. Then through Nancy, through Jonathan, through all the bullshit with the Upside Down. You weren’t just another face in the crowd. You were watching, always sharp-edged, always standing on the outside like you were waiting for something to go wrong. Because well everything always did. But Starcourt happened and after that, you stopped just watching.

But no matter how close you got, there was always a wall.

That stupid, beautiful, impenetrable wall.

Steve tried to climb it. He tried again and again, reaching, pushing, pressing against the cracks, but you never let him in and man, it was frustrating because he knew you were holding something back.

It was in the way your eyes flickered when conversations veered too close to the truth. The way your laugh got a little too loud when someone asked how you were doing. The way you kept people just close enough to feel real but never close enough to matter.

Steve didn’t know why he kept trying, maybe because he saw himself in you. Maybe because he knew what it was like to be left behind, maybe because he cared more for you then he ever intended, maybe it was because his feelings for you were overwhelming and that was the problem. Because the more he cared, the more you pulled away.

You were right there but you weren’t, something just out of reach. Something like fear in your eyes whenever the conversation got too real, whenever Steve tried to lean in past whatever self-protective armor you had wrapped so tightly around yourself.

It’s late when he finally calls you out on it. Robin and Dustin had already passed out on the couch, snoring softly under a tangle of blankets. The TV flickers in the background, playing some terrible late-night infomercial neither of you are paying attention to.

You’re in the kitchen, sitting on the counter, legs dangling, spinning a spoon absently between your fingers. Steve is standing across from you, arms crossed, leaning against the fridge like he’s working up to something.

He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You glance up at him, startled by the sudden weight in his voice. You try to play it off with a small, teasing smirk. “I do talk to you.”

Steve scoffs, shaking his head. “Not about the things that matter.”

Something flickers across your face, too fast for him to catch, but not fast enough to completely hide.

“Not everything has to matter, Steve.”

He watches you for a second, really watches you, and it frustrates the hell out of him, the way you do this. The way you let him in just enough to keep him close, but never enough to let him have you.

“Yeah, it kinda does.”

Your fingers are still against the metal spoon. “Why?”

Steve lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Because I feel like I’m talking to a version of you that only exists on the surface. Like there’s this whole other part of you, and I’m just—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanna know you for real.”

Your stomach twists. “You do know me.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He takes a slow step forward, voice softer now, more careful. “Do I?”

You swallow, shifting uncomfortably. “Why are you pushing this?”

“Because I—” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, suddenly looking so fucking tired. “Because I care, okay? Because I keep trying to get close to you, and every time I do, it’s like you—”

He stops himself, shaking his head.

You feel something in your chest tighten, something sharp and dangerous.

“Like I what?” you challenge, voice quieter now.

Steve meets your gaze, and for the first time in a long time, you can’t read him. “Like you’re afraid of letting me in.”

The air between you goes thick and still. Your fingers tighten around the spoon, the metal cold against your skin. You should say something, laugh it off, shrug..change the subject, run.

But you don’t, you don’t know how.

Steve watches you, waiting, hoping you’ll finally let him in.

You take a breath, force a smirk, flick the spoon between your fingers. Deflect, deflect, deflect. “And here I thought you just liked the chase, Harrington.”

His face falls. Disappointment flickers through his eyes, just for a second before he masks it with a sigh. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend this is some kind of game.”

Your stomach twists violently.

“Steve—”

“Forget it.” His voice is tired now, frustrated, resigned. He pushes off the fridge, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna let me in. You never do, it doesn't matter.”

You watch him walk away, and for one fleeting second, you almost call him back. But then the moment is gone and so is he.

---

It happened in small moments. All the almosts. Little cracks in the armor, fleeting glimpses of something real before you slammed the door shut again.

Like the time you were sitting in his car after a shift at Family Video, both of you were too lazy to go inside. You had the windows rolled down, music playing low, the humid summer air wrapping around you like a second skin.

“You ever feel like this town is just… waiting to swallow you whole?” Steve asked, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

You had gone still. Not laughing it off, not dodging. Just silent.

“Yeah,” you had murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Steve had turned to look at you. “Yeah?” he echoed, like he wasn’t expecting you to agree.

You hesitated and for just a second, he saw something in your eyes. Something unguarded, raw, real. But then you blinked, shook your head, and it was gone.

“Never mind,” you had said quickly, forcing a smirk. “I think that was just your deep poetic soul talking, Harrington.”

He sighed, tilting his head back against the seat. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”

“And yet, you still hang out with me.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I do.”

Or the time you had been walking back from the arcade with Max, Steve trailing behind.

It had been one of those perfect summer nights, warm but not suffocating, the cicadas humming in the distance. Max had been rambling about some stupid bet she had with Lucas, and you had been laughing, head tilted back, eyes bright in the glow of the streetlights.

And Steve, well he had been watching you something he found himself doing for a while now. Noticing the way you seemed lighter when you weren’t thinking too hard. The way you let yourself exist without overanalyzing it.

He had leaned in, bumped his shoulder against yours, and said, “You should let yourself be happy more often.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he saw it. The way you stiffened. The way your smile faltered, the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides. He didn’t mean it the way he realized after how it sounded, he meant it like you should smile more. It was the more beautiful thing he ever saw, and that you should laugh more because man, it was music to his ears.

“I am happy.”

Steve stopped walking. “No, you’re not.”

You turned to face him, eyes dark and guarded. “What the hell do you know about it?”

“I see you.” The air between you had stretched thin, tight as a wire. Max had awkwardly cleared her throat, clearly wanting to be anywhere else.

“You don’t see shit, Harrington,” you had muttered before walking ahead.

Steve let you go.

But then came the night you slipped and this time you couldn’t take it back, it was real, too real.

It had been a rough day. Too much Hawkins, too much silence, too much weight pressing down on your ribs. You had snapped at Robin, ignored Dustin’s calls, spent the whole day pretending you were fine until it nearly cracked you in half.

So you did what you always did, you went to Steve. Not because you meant to talk but because he made it easy to exist.

Steve never asked for more than you were willing to give or at least you thought he didn’t.

You had climbed into his passenger seat without a word, legs pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself.

Steve didn’t ask why you were there, he just drove.

Out of Hawkins, past the flickering streetlights, past the places that felt too full of memories. He parked at some random spot near the woods, turned off the car, and just waited.

You could feel him watching you, could feel him waiting for you to speak and for a while, you didn’t.

Then you did. “I don’t think I know how to be loved.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, the second they left your mouth, your breath caught in your throat, panic clawing up your ribs. Shit. Shit. You weren’t supposed to say that.

Steve, who had gone completely still.

Steve, whose face didn’t change, whose hands didn’t move, whose voice didn’t tremble when he said, “Why would you think that?”

You had shaken your head quickly, fingers curling into your sleeves. “I…forget it. I didn’t mean—”

“Hey.” His voice was gentle but firm.

Steve reached out, carefully….slowly. Giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t, his fingers found yours, warm and steady, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“You don’t have to know how,” he murmured. “You just have to let someone try.” His fingers softly rubbed your hand. “And believe me someone will.”

That was the moment you realized he wasn’t going to leave, that Steve Harrington had been choosing you this whole time and maybe you could choose him back.

---

The sun is setting by the time Steve pulls the car into the gravel lot at the park. The air is thick with summer heat, the smell of grass and pavement still warm from the afternoon.

Robin is complaining loudly about having to be here, Dustin is talking way too fast, Max is rolling her eyes at something Lucas said, and you… you’re laughing. Like, really laughing, Steve’s known you long enough to know the difference.

There’s the laugh you use when someone expects it from you, quick, practiced, sharp at the edges like you don’t actually feel it.

There’s the one you use when you’re dodging something, louder than necessary, exaggerated, filling in the gaps so no one realizes you’re avoiding something real.

And then there’s this one, light, unrestrained..real.

You’re on the swings with El, kicking your feet, trying to get higher, grinning over at her like you’re daring her to catch up. Max is watching, smirking, shouting something about how she can go higher than both of you. Dustin and Lucas are arguing about whether this counts as a real competition.

Steve leans against the car, arms crossed, watching you.

Robin nudges his side. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not..” He stops, scowling when she raises an eyebrow. “Shut up.”

Robin snorts, looking at you again. You’re still laughing, still smiling, still unguarded in a way you never are. “You should tell her, you know.”

“Tell her what?”

Robin scoffs, shoving his shoulder. “That you’re in love with her, dumbass.”

Steve rolls his eyes, muttering something about how she’s so annoying, but he doesn’t actually deny it.

Because, yeah…maybe he is.

It happens fast. One second, you’re happy.

Genuine, effortless, real.

Then something shifts.

Steve doesn’t know what triggers it. Maybe it’s the way the sun catches on the trees just right, and the shadows look off. Maybe it’s the sound of the cicadas humming in the background. Maybe it’s nothing at all.

But he sees it, because you're all he sees. Your laughter falters. The way your eyes flicker with something heavy, distant, haunted.

The way your shoulders tense, like you’re suddenly remembering where you are, who you are, what you’ve been through.

It’s gone almost instantly. Your mask snaps back into place, and you’re smiling again, laughing again, playing along like nothing happened.

But Steve sees it, he sees all of it. That’s when it happens. That’s when he realizes he’s in love with you, truly in love with you. Because he doesn’t just love the version of you that you let everyone see.

He doesn’t just love the girl who makes fun of him, teases him, kicks his feet off counters.

He loves the whole thing.

The girl who smiles like she means it but sometimes doesn’t.

The girl who holds everything so tightly inside herself because she’s too scared to let anyone else carry the weight.

The girl who is so good at pretending she’s okay, she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it anymore.

“You good?” Steve’s voice is soft, meant just for you.

You blink at him, startled, like you weren’t expecting anyone to notice, like you weren’t expecting him to notice.

That kills him a little because he's done nothing but show you he sees you, he notices you.

But instead of answering, you plaster on that same damn smirk and say, “You worried about me, Steve?”

Steve, he doesn’t buy it. Not even a little. But he lets you have it. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just don’t go falling off that swing and breaking something, okay?”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches, just slightly.

Steve just knows. That someday, he’s going to get past those walls. Someday, you’re going to let him in and when you do? He’ll be right there. He’ll always be here.

----

It’s late. Too late for someone to be knocking on his door.

Steve is already awake, though. He hadn’t fallen asleep, not really. He had just been lying there, staring at the ceiling, stuck in that awful in-between place where his body was exhausted but his mind wouldn’t shut off.

He wasn’t expecting anyone. But the second he hears the knock, sharp, urgent, desperate his heart kicks up.

Because what if it’s one of the kids? What if it’s Dustin? Max? Lucas? What if something happened? What if it's back? What if it's something worse?

He yanks the door open without thinking and it’s you.

Standing there, arms wrapped around yourself, tears streaked down your face, chest rising and falling like you ran all the way here.

Steve feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest. “Jesus, what happened?” His voice is urgent, rough, and panicked.

You just shake your head, breathing uneven. “I—” Your voice catches, like you can’t get the words out, like if you say them, they’ll be real.

“Hey, hey, come here.” Steve doesn’t even hesitate.

He grabs you, yanks you inside, pulls you against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.

You collapse into him, fists gripping the fabric of his t-shirt, burying your face into his shoulder.

“You’re okay,” Steve murmurs, his lips against your hair, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles against your back. “I’ve got you. Whatever it is, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

You shake your head against him, breath hitching. “I, I had this dream, and it felt so real—”

Steve stills. “What kind of dream?”

You swallow hard. Your whole body trembles. “You were gone, y-you died and it got you, I just it was so real..”

Steve feels something deep in his chest fracture. You grip him tighter, like you need to physically make sure he’s here, that he’s solid, that he’s real.

“You were just..” Your voice shakes. “I don’t know, I just, I woke up and I couldn’t breathe, and I had this awful feeling and I had to make sure—” You stop, your voice breaks. “I just had to see you.”

Steve doesn’t say anything.

He just pulls you even closer. “I’m here.” His voice is softer now, steadier, full of something heavy and unspoken. “I’m right here and I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

You nod against him, but you still don’t let go. So neither does he, he never wants to let go of you again.

Because if this is what you need to be held, to be grounded, to be reminded that he’s not going anywhere then Steve will hold you all night. He would hold you for the rest of his life if you’d let him.

---

It starts small, something stupid, insignificant, something that shouldn’t even matter.

You don’t even remember what sets it off. Maybe it’s the way Steve keeps pushing, keeps asking, keeps trying to dig past the walls you’ve spent years perfecting.

Maybe it’s the way you deflect, dodge, pretend you don’t care when you care so fucking much it’s suffocating.

Maybe it’s all of it. But suddenly, you’re both yelling.

Loud, sharp, raw.

Like neither of you can stop. Like this isn’t just about this moment it’s about everything you’ve both been avoiding.

“Why do you do this?” Steve demands, running a hand through his hair, pacing like he physically can’t stand still.

“Do what, Steve?” Your voice is sharp, your chest heaving.

“Act like none of this fucking matters!” He whirls on you, eyes burning, voice full of something angry and desperate. “Like I don’t fucking matter!”

Your stomach twists. “I never said that!”

“You don’t have to!” Steve throws his arms out, exhaling hard. “You just keep running, keep pushing me away every time I try to get close to you!”

“I’m not running!”

“Bullshit!”

Silence.

The word hangs in the air, thick and heavy and undeniable. Your fingers curl into fists, your chest aches.

“Why do you even care?” you snap, voice shaking now, uneven. “Why the fuck do you keep trying to fix me, Steve? Huh! I didn’t ask for this, I-I didnt ask to be fixed!”

Steve stares at you, breathing hard, shaking his head like he can’t fucking believe you just said that. “Because I fucking love you, that’s why!”

The words explode into the space between you, loud and sharp and so, so real.

Your breath haults.

You don’t move.

You don’t speak.

Because this is what you were afraid of. Because if he loves you, if he really fucking loves you, then that means he can leave and take everything you have left with him when he does.

Steve, he sees the way your face crumples for just a second before you shove it all down again. He sees all of it.

“Yeah,” he breathes, shaking his head, “that’s what I thought.”

He turns away and for the first time he’s the one walking away from you.

----

You don’t know what breaks first.

Maybe it’s the silence. The unbearable weight of it, the nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering why the hell you keep doing this, to yourself, to him, to both of you.

Maybe it’s the fight. The way Steve walked away from you, the way his voice cracked when he told you he loved you, the way you let him go anyway or maybe it’s just everything.

All of it. The exhaustion, the longing, the fear. The realization that you’re ruining this. That you’ve spent so much time pushing Steve away that you never stopped to think about what would happen if he actually left and you can’t do it anymore. Because you don’t want him to leave, you want him to stay. You finally want someone to stay, not just anyone but Steve Harrington.

Fuck this.

You grab your jacket. Your hands are shaking as you shove your feet into your shoes. You don’t even think, you just move.

You need to tell him. Now.

Before you lose your nerve. Before you talk yourself out of it. Before it’s too late.

You step out into the cool night air, heart pounding. The streetlights cast long shadows along the pavement, stretching toward Steve’s house, toward him.

That’s when you see him…walking, laughing.

With some girl you’ve probably seen before but never with him. She’s pretty, dark hair, bright eyes, smiling up at him like he’s the best thing in the world and Steve is smiling back. Laughing, carefree, easy. Never the way he is with you.

Then he sees you and his face falls. Like he wasn’t expecting you, like he somehow knows exactly what you were about to do because no matter how hard you try to stop it no one sees through you the way he does and like he's realizing it's already too late.

Something inside you shatters, you don’t wait for him to say anything.

You turn around and you leave. You don’t know where you’re going.

Your vision is blurring, breath shaky, uneven, hands curled into fists.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t look back. You don’t let yourself feel it because if you do, if you really let yourself feel it, you’ll fucking break and you can’t. Not here, not in the middle of the street. Not where he can still see you.

You don’t realize where you’re going until you’re standing in front of Robin’s house. You knock fast, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to hold it all in.

Robin opens the door, half-asleep, blinking. “Jesus Christ, do you know what time it—”

She stops. Her whole face softens. “What happened?”

You step inside, barely breathing, barely holding it together, then you break. “It’s my fault,” you whisper, voice shaking. “It’s all my fucking fault.”

Robin pulls you in instantly, arms wrapping around you solid, warm, safe. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing feels safe right now. Nothing feels real except the way your chest is collapsing in on itself, breath coming too fast, fingers gripping her sweater like you might fall apart completely if you let go.

“Hey, hey, slow down…what happened?”

Robin’s voice is soft but urgent, her hands moving up and down your back like she’s trying to steady you, like she knows if she lets go you’ll shatter completely.

Your throat is so fucking tight it hurts to speak, hurts to breathe, but you force it out anyway. “I was gonna tell him.”

Robin’s whole body goes still.

You suck in a sharp breath, chest heaving, forcing yourself to keep talking because if you stop, you’ll never say it. “I was finally gonna fucking tell him.”

Robin pulls back just enough to look at you. And the look on her face, the pure disbelief, the realization, the holy-shit-you-were-actually-going-to-do-it, holy-shit-i-fucking-knew-it, makes something in your stomach twist.

“Steve?” she asks, like she has to be sure. Like there’s even another answer.

You nod quickly, breath shaking, trying to keep it together. But you can’t. Because suddenly you’re back there, standing in the middle of the street, heart racing, hands sweating, ready to tell him everything.

Then the girl, he laugh, the way Steve had looked at her.

Your stomach clenches. You shake your head, biting back a sob. “And then I saw him.”

Robin’s eyes widen. “Saw him where?”

Your mouth opens, but the words don’t want to come out. Because if you say it, it’s real.

If you say it, then it happened. “With some girl.”

The second the words leave your lips, your throat tightens, hot and painful. You try to push the image away, but it’s seared into you. Steve walking beside her, easy and happy, like he wasn’t carrying around the same weight you were, like he had already moved on while you were still stuck trying to figure out how to hold him in your hands.

You force yourself to finish the thought.

“And he was…”

Your voice catches.

Robin’s fingers squeeze your arms. “Hey, look at me.”

But you can’t.

You squeeze your eyes shut, like if you don’t see her face, you won’t have to see his.

“He was laughing.”

The words feel so small. So stupid in comparison to the way they’re tearing you apart.

“He was… happy.”

Robin swears under her breath, pulling you in tighter, gripping you like she can physically hold you together.

“Okay, okay, just—” She exhales sharply, like she’s trying to find the right words, like she’s trying to fix this.

But she can’t, because you did this, because this is your fault.

“It’s my fault,” you whisper again, and this time, you feel something inside you break completely.

Robin shakes her head, fast, frantic. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this—”

“But it is!” Your voice rises, sharp, angry, desperate. Not at her, at yourself.

Because you did this, you pushed him away. You made him think he was never going to be enough for you. You waited too fucking long.

“I’ve been doing this for months, Robin!” Your breath is ragged, hands trembling so badly you have to curl them into fists. “I’ve been fucking running, and he, he finally had enough and now it’s—”

“He told me y’know? He told me he loves me and I—” Your voice breaks completely.

Because you can’t even finish the sentence, because the end of it is too fucking final.

Robin pulls you against her again, arms tight around you, whispering something soft and steady against your hair, but you barely hear it over the roaring in your head.

“It’s not too late,” she murmurs. “Trust me, It’s not.”

But you just shake your head. Because it is and you hate yourself for it. You hate yourself for so many things.

For being a coward, for waiting until it was too late. For loving him at all and then it comes out. The thing you’ve been choking on for months.

“I love him, Robin.”

Robin stiffens.

You squeeze your eyes shut, a choked sob ripping from your throat.

“I love Steve.”

Your voice is wrecked, broken, shattered beyond repair.

“I love him.”

And saying it doesn’t fix anything, It just makes it hurt worse. Robin’s hands tighten around you and you finally just let yourself cry.

---

Steve is already at Family Video when Robin walks in, half-asleep and nursing a coffee the size of her head.

“We have a problem. A big problem.”

Steve barely looks up from where he’s crouched behind the counter, digging through a box of VHS tapes with a deep scowl.

“Yeah, I know.” He groans, tossing a cassette aside. “They sent us two boxes of the wrong movies. Keith’s gonna have a fucking aneurysm if we don’t..”

“No, you idiot,” Robin cuts in.

Steve pauses. Looks up, frowning. ”…What?”

Robin crosses her arms, expression dead serious. “Y/N.”

Steve freezes. The tape in his hand slips from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

“What happened?” His voice is suddenly tight, sharp, urgent. “Is she okay?”

Robin exhales deeply, already exhausted. “She saw you.”

Steve blinks. “Huh?”

Robin glares. “Don’t play dumb, Harrington.”

That’s when it clicks, his face falls. “How do you know about that?” he asks slowly, voice almost hesitant, like he’s bracing himself.

Robin throws her hands in the air. “Because she came to my house at ten PM last night…crying!”

Steve’s stomach drops. “Wait, what?” He shakes his head. “Why? Why was she crying?”

Robin gives him the most exasperated look he’s ever seen.

“What do you mean why?! She saw you walking with some girl! She thinks you were on a date, dingus!”

Steve’s entire body locks up.

“What? No, no! That wasn’t—” He drags a hand down his face, heart pounding. “Wait, let’s, fuck, let’s take it back a minute.”

Robin stares at him expectantly.

Steve takes a deep breath, trying to make sense of the mess in his head.

“I was walking Mindy home. You know, Mindy, the one who works at the café next door? She got in that car accident last month, remember? She didn’t want to drive at night, and her boyfriend was working late, so I said I’d walk her home. Because I’m not an asshole.”

Robin’s eyes narrow. “So you weren’t on a date?”

“No!” Steve groans. “I told you, I was taking Keith’s closing shift! Why the fuck would I go on a date when I’ve been pining after the same girl for a year?”

Robin freezes andthen, it hits her. “Oh my God,” she whispers.

Steve rubs his temples, still processing.

“But Y/N, she was there, Robin and she looked, fuck, she looked so determined and then her face just fell. I thought—” He exhales sharply, voice wrecked. “I thought that was from seeing me because, God, I told her I was in love with her, and then I just fucking left. I did the thing she was most scared of, I left. I didn’t even give her a chance to speak.”

His hands are shaking. “Fuck,” he whispers, horrified. “I made her cry?”

Robin nods slowly. “Steve,” she says carefully, watching the realization slam into him all at once. “She was gonna tell you something.”

Steve’s mouth opens, ready to ask what…But then, he sees it.

He sees it on Robin’s face, the way she doesn’t say it but doesn’t have to. It crashes into him like a fucking freight train.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, eyes going huge. “No way. No….no way.”

Robin nods. “Go.”

Steve doesn’t even think, he doesn’t need to. He just grabs his keys and runs.

-

Steve is out of breath.

His heart is pounding, sweat dripping down his back, his hair a mess from running his hands through it over and over again.

But he doesn’t care, because he can’t find you and he has to.

You weren’t at your house, you weren’t at the library, you weren’t at the cafe and every second he can’t find you, the panic in his chest gets worse.

He almost gives up, but then he sees them, the kids

They’re at the arcade on the bench, arguing over something stupid, but Steve doesn’t care.

He rushes over. “Have any of you seen Y/N?”

They all stop, turning to look at him.

“No,” Max says, frowning. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“None of your business.”

“Why are you sweating?” Mikes noses scrunches

Dustin's eyes widened, as he reads Steve’s face. His mouth drops open. “Holy shit, it’s happening!”

Mike blinks. “What’s happening?”

Lucas grins, nudging Dustin. “No way.”

Mike scowls. “Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

Dustin points at Steve like he’s just uncovered the greatest mystery of all time. “He’s gonna go get the girl!!!”

Steve groans. “Oh my God.”

“Finally, fuck!” Lucus yells.

Steve scoffs, flipping him off as he turns back toward his car.

“You guys are the worst.”

“YOU’RE WELCOME!” Dustin shouts after him.

But Steve isn’t listening anymore, because he thinks he knows where you are.

Steve finds you at Lover’s Lake. Sitting on the dock, feet dangling over the water, staring out at nothing.

And when he sees you, when he finally fucking sees you, he lets out a breath of pure relief. His whole chest unclenches. You don’t even look at him when he sits beside you. You don’t startle, don’t ask how he found you, don’t even acknowledge his presence at first.

You both just sit there. The sound of the water lapping against the wood. The distant hum of crickets, the soft rustling of the trees.

Steve doesn’t know how to start this.

But you do.

Your voice is small, barely above a whisper. “I feel like I’m sinking.”

Steve’s whole body goes still, because this is it he thinks, the walls are coming down.

“Like I can barely breathe,” you continue, staring straight ahead. “Like I’m barely above water and sometimes I just… I just want it to stop. I want to stay at the bottom, where it’s dark, where there’s no air, where it’s quiet.”

Steve’s heart fucking breaks.

“And I feel horrible thinking like that,” you whisper, voice wavering, hands trembling. “Because those kids? They’re handling this better than I ever could and I don’t know why I’m like this, Steve.”

“Hey.” Steve leans forward, eyes locked on you. “Hey, look at me.”

You don’t, you just keep going because if you don’t you might lose the courage.

“I don’t like to get close to people,” you say, voice flat now, like you’ve rehearsed this, like you’ve convinced yourself that this is just the way it is. “Because everyone leaves.”

Steve’s chest tightens.

“My dad was supposed to love my mom and he did—” You pause, let out a bitter breath. “Until I came. Then he left and once he left, my mom didn’t want me anymore. Because I was—”

Your throat closes up.

Steve is listening so hard it hurts.

“Because I’m unlovable.”

Steve inhales sharply, like he’s about to interrupt, about to argue, about to tell you you’re wrong, you’re so wrong.

But you keep going. “Being alone? There’s less feeling involved. Less chance of getting hurt. Less disappointment. It’s just… easier.”

You exhale, shaking your head, “But you, Steve…”

His breath catches.

“You make me want to swim.”

Steve sucks in a breath.

“You’re the sun,” you say, voice shaking now. “Shining on the top of the water, lighting the way up and it’s so fucking scary, because—”

You finally turn to face him, tears clinging to your lashes. Eyes so open, so raw, so full of everything you’ve been holding in for so goddamn long.

“Because I love you, Steve Harrington.”

Steve feels like he can’t breathe.

“I love you.”

His heart is slamming against his ribs, his hands are shaking.

Because this is it, this is everything.

You clench your jaw, arms tightening around yourself, like you’re trying to brace for impact and Steve hates it.

Hates that you expect love to hurt.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, softer now. “I’m right here. I’ve always been right here.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t know how to be what you need,” you whisper.

Steve exhales. “You already are.”

Steve finally pulls you in, pressing his forehead against yours, holding onto you like he’s never going to let go, his thumbs brushing away your tears.

“Say it again.”

You blink, surprised. “Steve…”

“Please.” His hands are on your face now, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears. “Say it again.”

You let out a breath, a broken, shaky, beautiful breath.

“I love you.”

Then he kisses you and it’s not soft.

It’s everything.

It’s months of tension snapping like a rubber band.

It’s his hands shaking against your skin, your fingers tangling in his hair, both of you holding on like you’re afraid this moment might slip through your fingers.

It’s the realization that neither of you have to be alone anymore.

That you’re finally, finally getting it right, when you finally pull away, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, hearts racing.

Steve smiles. “I love you too.”

[estellan0vella]

You Better Remember This Time: B.C & L.F Bang Chan x fem!reader x Lee Felix (College AU)

WC: 25.9K

CW: Violence and Physical Altercations, Sexual Harassment & Assault Implications (abuse of power & non-consensual groping), Anxiety and Panic Attacks, Self-Esteem Issues, Discussions of Gender-Based Violence, Crossdressing (Men in Skirts), Background Seungbin, Seungmin being the best best friend, Minho being the best older brother figure, pining Chanlix, reader is kind of oblivious due to self esteem issues, comforting!2min, Jeongin being a menace

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The air in Seungmin’s room is warm, the scent of old books, fabric softener, and a faint trace of the cinnamon candle you bought him last semester lingering in the air. His desk is a chaotic mess of law textbooks, highlighted notes, and an empty coffee mug that’s been sitting there long enough for a faint coffee ring to stain the wood. You, Seungmin, and Jeongin are sprawled across his bed and the plush rug beneath it, a laptop perched between you as you attempt to power through another hellish week of coursework.

Your light grey sweatpants are soft against your skin, your white off-the-shoulder jumper slipping slightly as you adjust your position. Your pink fluffy socks wiggle in the air as you stretch out, your sneakers long discarded in the corner of the room. Silver-lavender strands of hair escape from the messy clip on top of your head, and your blue-light glasses are perched on your nose as you squint at the tiny text on your screen.

Seungmin, forever the grumpy civil law major, sits cross-legged on the bed, his laptop balanced on his thighs as he types with practised precision. His orange hair is slightly mussed from where he’s been running his fingers through it in frustration, and he barely looks up when Jeongin, flopped on his stomach beside you, groans dramatically.

“This is so fucking lame,” Jeongin complains, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. His black hair is still damp from his shower, and his loose hoodie is slightly wrinkled. “We should be out drinking and having fun, but no, Miss Cheerleader-With-The-Packed-Social-Schedule and Mr Grumpy-Ass-Antisocial-Law-Student are drowning in coursework instead.”

You huff a laugh, nudging him with your foot. “I told you we could go out tomorrow.”

Jeongin lets out an exaggerated sigh before perking up. “Oh, yeah! Tomorrow’s still an option.”

“For you, maybe,” Seungmin mutters, not looking away from his screen. “I have a fucking midterm on Monday, so my ass is staying right here.”

“Boo,” Jeongin teases, sticking his tongue out. “Anyway, I call bullshit, Y/N. You always leave me to hook up.”

“I can’t help it! It’s my hookup time,” you say with a grin, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Jeongin glares at you in faux betrayal. “Last time, you left me for Jennie Kim.”

You shrug, lips twitching. “Yeah, well, I got fucked by the president of Kappa Tau, and you dicked down that cute guy from Delta Nu. Chan-hee, wasn’t it?”

Jeongin narrows his eyes, recalling the memory. “Okay, fair point. But still, you ditch me like clockwork.”

“You should go with Hyunjin tonight,” Seungmin suggests without looking up.

“Uh, no,” Jeongin replies immediately, shaking his head.

You giggle, propping your chin on your palm. “Go with Minho and Jisung, they’re fun on a night out.”

“Only because you and Jisung are basically the same bundles of anxious sunshine energy with no survival instincts,” Seungmin remarks dryly. “And Minho feels a need to protect you both.”

You pout. “That’s not true.”

Seungmin finally looks up, his expression flat. “You know what Changbin calls you and Jisung?”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“Quokkas.”

You blink, confused. “Like the happy little animals?”

“The happy little animals with no survival instincts,” Seungmin clarifies, voice tinged with amusement.

Jeongin cackles, nearly rolling off the bed. “Oh my God, that’s so accurate.”

You scoff, placing a hand over your chest in mock offence. “I have survival instincts. Sort of. Like, I can keep myself alive... I think.”

Jeongin snorts. “You’re smart, but you lack common sense.”

“Not true!”

“So true,” Seungmin and Jeongin say in unison, making you groan.

“Hey! I’m a flyer on the cheer squad, and I live every time!”

“Very different from keeping yourself alive in a scenario that requires common sense,” Jeongin counters, wiggling his brows.

Seungmin leans back, stretching his arms over his head. “I bet right now, if I asked you to go make us coffee with the coffee machine, you wouldn’t be able to.”

You scoff, pushing your glasses up your nose. “I would!”

“Okay,” Seungmin says, raising an eyebrow. “Off you go, prove us wrong.”

You start to move, but he holds up a hand. “And you can’t get Minho to do it for you.”

You gasp, placing a hand on your chest in fake indignation. “I would never.”

“Yes, you would,” Jeongin says, smirking. “Because he’s like your older brother, and he’d do anything you asked.”

Seungmin hums in agreement, shooting you a knowing look. “So, go on then. Prove us wrong, Miss ‘I Totally Have Survival Instincts.’”

Your lips press together in determination as you push yourself up from the bed, grabbing your phone. “Fine. I’ll show you both.”

Their laughter follows you as you make your way to the kitchen, muttering under your breath about how they always gang up on you.

The Alpha Phi kitchen is eerily spotless, the kind of clean that could probably get the entire frat house featured in a lifestyle magazine, if not for the sheer chaos that brews within its walls on a daily basis. But no one dares disrupt the pristine order because this is Minho’s domain, and Minho takes the state of his kitchen personally.

Everyone still remembers the time Changbin thought he could get away with leaving a mug of coffee behind the microwave. By the time Minho found it, it had grown a fuzzy green mould colony, and Minho had tried to shove Changbin into the oven as retribution. Lesson learned. No one fucks with Minho’s kitchen.

You hum to yourself as you pull open the cabinet that holds your most prized possession, your matching Powerpuff Girls mug set with Jeongin and Seungmin. Your mug is Bubbles, because obviously. Jeongin’s is Blossom, because he insists he’s the responsible one, which is a lie, and Seungmin’s is Buttercup, mostly because he’s a little shit with a permanent resting bitch face. You smile fondly at them as you line all three up on the counter, feeling a strange sort of satisfaction at the sight.

Then you turn to the coffee machine and immediately, all confidence drains out of your body.

You tilt your head, staring at the intimidating array of buttons and dials, completely at a loss. Why does it look like something that belongs in a spaceship? At your apartment, you just boil water like a normal person, scoop in some instant coffee, and call it a day. But, of course, there’s no fucking kettle in this kitchen. Because this is Alpha Phi, and they do everything the fancy, overly complicated way.

You exhale through your nose, placing your hands on your hips as you analyze your enemy. It can’t be that hard, right? There are buttons. Probably labelled ones. Maybe you just-

The door swings open, and you turn just in time to see Chan and Felix walk in, hand in hand, their fingers loosely intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Felix is practically glowing, his blue hair looking extra tousled, probably from Chan’s hands. Chan, on the other hand, has that effortlessly cool thing going on, dressed in one of his many hoodies with his black hair falling over his forehead.

Both of them pause when they see you standing in front of the machine, looking like you’re about to challenge it to a duel and Chan raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

You blink and glance over at him. “Yeah.”

Felix’s lips twitch as he follows your gaze to the machine. “You making coffee?”

“Hopefully at some point in the next decade,” you say, crossing your arms. “Seungmin said I’m intelligent but have no common sense and bet I couldn’t use the machine. And I want to prove him wrong.”

Chan and Felix exchange a look, both clearly amused.

You huff. “He also said I can’t ask Minho for help, which is absolute bullshit because Minho would totally help me.”

Chan chuckles. “Maybe start with plugging it in.”

You blink. Then slowly look down. The fucking machine isn’t even plugged in.

You inhale sharply, closing your eyes for a moment to suppress the overwhelming sense of defeat. Then you sigh, waving a hand. “You know what? I’m just gonna go tell Seungmin he’s right. I can take the blow to my pride.”

Felix gasps. “You can’t.”

“You’re right, my pride definitely cannot take it,” you admit solemnly. “I’ll just go to that cafe down the street and buy coffee. I’m a genius.”

Chan laughs, shaking his head. “That’s cheating.”

“And?” You arch an eyebrow. “I am perfectly willing to cheat my way through life, just not through academics.”

Felix looks at you like you’ve just declared yourself a prophet. “That might be the most relatable thing you’ve ever said.”

Chan sighs fondly before reaching for the cord and plugging in the machine himself. He flicks a few switches, presses some buttons, and within seconds, the machine is whirring to life like it wasn’t just a fucking Rubik’s cube of confusion two minutes ago.

“Alright,” he says, stepping back and gesturing. “I’ll make them, but you have to at least watch so you can fake it in case Seungmin quizzes you.”

“Understood.”

Felix leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Chan starts measuring out coffee grounds like a professional barista. His eyes flick toward you, glinting with amusement. “You really thought about just walking out and buying coffee, huh?”

You grab the Oreo tin from Jisung’s snack cupboard and pop it open. “Of course. It’s the fastest way to preserve my dignity.”

Felix snickers. “You have a very loose definition of dignity.”

You grin at him, grabbing a handful of Oreos. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”

Chan shakes his head as he pours hot coffee into the mugs, steam curling into the air. “You do know this machine has been here since the first time you visited the frat house, right?”

“Listen.” You lift a single Oreo between your fingers and point at him. “I have better things to worry about than the history of your unnecessarily complicated kitchen appliances.”

Felix reaches over and plucks an Oreo from your pile, popping it into his mouth with a pleased hum. “I can’t believe you’re the only person Jisung lets into his snack stash.”

You shrug, munching on one yourself. “He loves me.”

Chan snorts, setting the now-filled Powerpuff Girls mugs on the counter. “Nah, it’s ‘cause you’re the only one who doesn’t steal half his shit.”

Felix gasps, clutching his chest. “Excuse me, I always ask.”

“Yeah,” Chan drawls, “after you’ve already eaten it.”

Felix pouts, but you just grin, hugging your Bubbles mug to your chest. “Felix gets a pass because he’s adorable.”

Chan scoffs, shooting Felix a pointed look. “This is why she doesn’t believe people flirt with her.”

Felix just smirks, licking an Oreo crumb from his thumb. “I know. It’s fucking hilarious.”

You frown at them. “What?”

Chan just shakes his head, eyes warm as he nudges your mug closer to you. “Nothing, angel.”

You don’t register the pet name as anything but friendly, because why would you? You think they’re just naturally affectionate. You don’t notice the way Felix watches you with open fondness or the way Chan’s gaze lingers just a little too long. 

Felix and Chan watch as you disappear up the stairs, the three Powerpuff Girls mugs carefully balanced in your hands, your fluffy pink socks muffling your footsteps against the hardwood floor. The moment you’re out of earshot, Chan lets out an exasperated sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as he leans back against the counter. His other hand stays curled around Felix’s waist, instinctively keeping him close.

“She doesn’t have a fucking clue we like her, does she?” Chan mutters, voice heavy with disbelief.

Felix snorts, nestling himself against Chan’s side as he tilts his head up to press a kiss to Chan’s jaw, his lips soft and warm against the older boy’s skin. “Not a single fucking one,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his voice.

Chan groans, throwing his head back slightly before running his fingers through his hair. “Is she blind?”

Felix hums, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in his dark brown eyes. “Considering she didn’t realize the coffee machine wasn’t even plugged in, it’s entirely possible.”

Chan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Fuck, you might be right.”

“I mean,” Felix continues, stretching his arms out lazily before linking his fingers behind Chan’s neck, “her and Jisung are basically the same fucking person. Lack of survival instincts? Check. Unaware of their own goddamn appeal? Check. Oblivious as fuck to people flirting with them? Massive check.”

Chan raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “So, what, you’re saying we’ve got another Minho and Jisung situation on our hands?”

“Oh, one hundred percent.” Felix grins, poking Chan’s chest playfully. “Minho could suck Jisung’s dick and that dumbass would still be like, ‘Minho’s my bro. Bros suck bros’ dicks sometimes, right?’” He pauses for dramatic effect, then shakes his head. “He’s still fucking convinced Minho is fully straight.”

Chan lets out a loud, incredulous laugh, gripping Felix’s waist tighter as he tries to catch his breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I’m just saying,” Felix shrugs, resting his chin against Chan’s shoulder, “if Jisung can’t tell Minho is obsessed with him, then Y/N’s never gonna figure out we both want to rail her six ways to Sunday.”

Chan groans again, head falling back against the cabinet with a dull thud. “God, don’t fucking say shit like that when we just watched her skip out of here with that stupid, happy smile on her face.”

Felix giggles, wiggling his eyebrows. “What? You know I’m right.”

Chan exhales, shaking his head. “Yeah, you’re right, and that makes it so much fucking worse.”

Felix pats his chest comfortingly. “It’s okay, babe. We’ll just have to make our flirting even more obvious.”

Chan side-eyes him. “We literally call her angel. We buy her food. We’re constantly touching her. What the fuck else are we supposed to do? Write her a goddamn love letter?”

Felix considers this for a moment before smirking. “Maybe.”

Chan lets out another groan and tilts Felix’s face up to kiss him, slow and lingering, the warmth of Felix’s lips grounding him. Felix sighs happily into it, fingers curling into the fabric of Chan’s hoodie, and for a moment, they just exist in their own little world.

When they pull apart, Felix rests his forehead against Chan’s. “We could just tell her,” he suggests softly.

Chan lets out a humourless chuckle. “Yeah. And risk scaring her off?”

Felix sighs, closing his eyes. “Yeah, that’d fucking suck.”

Chan presses another quick kiss to Felix’s lips before nudging him toward the doorway. “Come on, let’s get out of here before Minho finds out we’ve been standing in his kitchen this whole time without cleaning anything.”

Felix grins, lacing their fingers together as they head toward the living room. “Good call. I’d rather not end up in the oven like Changbin.”

The crisp autumn air carries a sharp bite as you and Jeongin weave through the bustling Miroh College campus, the two of you moving with a level of urgency that would make anyone think you were late for an important lecture. But, in reality, you're just trying to avoid Seungmin. “We can’t keep running forever,” Jeongin huffs, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder as he glances over his shoulder like a man being hunted.

You scoff, heels clicking against the pavement as you grip his sleeve and pull him behind a large oak tree near the library. “We can and we will. We lost that bet, and there is no way in hell I’m letting Seungmin cash in on whatever horrifying punishment he’s cooked up for us.”

Jeongin presses himself flat against the tree trunk, panting slightly as he peeks out into the open courtyard. “I knew we should’ve never bet against him. We’re fucking idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” you mutter, adjusting your white headband with one hand while your other rests on your hip. “I just got dragged into your dumbass decision.”

“Oh, please,” Jeongin rolls his eyes, looking you up and down. “Like you weren’t all smug and confident about it. ‘Oh, Jeongin, there’s no way Seungmin can beat us in trivia night, we’re both so smart and pretty, what could go wrong?’” His voice mimics a high-pitched version of your own, and you jab him in the ribs.

“I do not sound like that.”

“You absolutely do,” he retorts, dodging another jab. “And now we’re paying the price for our hubris.”

You sigh dramatically, shifting your weight onto one leg. The fitted black sweater layered over your white ruffled blouse hugs you comfortably, and your pleated black-and-white tweed mini skirt flutters slightly in the breeze. Your glossy Mary Janes gleam in the late afternoon sun, and you feel an odd sort of satisfaction knowing your outfit is cute as hell, even if you are currently in hiding.

“We need a plan,” you say, squinting into the distance as if the answer to your predicament is hidden among the crowd of students milling about the quad.

Jeongin waves a dismissive hand. “We don’t need a plan. We just need to avoid him for, I don’t know, another week?”

“A week?” You snort. “Seungmin’s patient as fuck. He’ll wait until we’ve let our guard down and then pounce.”

“Okay, true,” Jeongin admits, scrunching his nose. “We might need a new strategy.”

Before either of you can formulate one, Jeongin’s face suddenly lights up, his posture straightening with excitement. “Oh! We’re going out next Saturday.”

You blink at him. “Okay. Where?”

“Side Effects,” he announces proudly, rocking back on his heels. “You know, the bar where all the drinks are named after side effects of medication?”

Your lips curve into a grin. “Oh, Jisung and I are regulars there.”

Jeongin smirks knowingly. “Yeah, of course, you two anxious motherfuckers are.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “Anxiety is our typical order.”

Jeongin laughs along with you. “Obviously. Anyway, me and the rest of the frat are all going as a group, and you’re coming too.”

You pause for a moment, tilting your head. “Are you sure? I mean, you said it’s a frat thing.”

Jeongin fixes you with an unimpressed stare. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re around the house enough that you’re basically our honorary female member.”

You scoff playfully. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is now,” Jeongin declares, folding his arms. “So, you coming or what?”

You exhale dramatically as if you actually need to think about it, before shrugging. “Sure. I need a break from reading about immunology anyway.”

“Yes!” Jeongin pumps a fist in victory before his expression turns serious. “Now, the real challenge. We need to convince Seungmin to dress sexy.”

You let out an undignified snort. “We’d have better luck winning the lottery.”

“I know,” Jeongin groans, rubbing his face. “But he has to. He cannot-” he emphasizes the word with a dramatic hand gesture, “-come with us in a sweater vest. I will kill myself if he does.”

“Same,” you deadpan, crossing your arms.

Jeongin sticks out his fist. “Pact?”

You nod solemnly, bumping your fist against his. “Pact.”

“Found you.”

You and Jeongin freeze in tandem, like two deer caught in headlights. Slowly, ever so slowly, you turn your heads, only to find Seungmin standing a few feet away, arms crossed, lips curled into the most infuriatingly smug smirk you’ve ever seen.

“Shit,” Jeongin whispers.

“Run,” you whisper back.

You both bolt, feet pounding against the pavement as you attempt to escape the inevitable wrath of Seungmin, but it’s no use. He’s quicker than he looks, and before you can make it more than a few steps, he reaches out and snatches both of you by the collars of your shirts like a pissed-off mother cat.

"Where exactly do you think you're going, dumbasses?" Seungmin drawls, voice laced with unimpressed amusement. He doesn’t even sound winded, which is the real insult here.

You kick your feet uselessly in the air, your glossy Mary Janes barely brushing against the ground as you struggle in his grasp. “Let us go, you tyrant!” you cry dramatically, thrashing like a wild animal.

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Seungmin deadpans. “Let me just release the two dipshits who thought they could evade me forever.”

Jeongin groans beside you, his arms flailing as he tries to pry Seungmin’s grip off his hoodie. “We had a good run.”

“You had a stupid run,” Seungmin corrects.

Then, just as you’re about to accept your fate, you spot your saviour. Standing across the quad, looking effortlessly unbothered, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. And just like that, an idea forms. A brilliant, foolproof, utterly genius idea. “Minho!” you yell, your voice carrying across the campus like a war cry.

Seungmin stiffens. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Minho’s head lifts at the sound of your voice, his gaze flicking toward you with mild curiosity. When his eyes land on the sight of you and Jeongin being physically restrained by Seungmin, one brow raises, amusement flickering across his face. “Do I even want to know?” Minho calls back.

Seungmin clicks his tongue, already knowing he’s lost. He curses under his breath and, begrudgingly, lets you go. Because if there’s one thing Seungmin values more than retribution, it’s self-preservation. And he knows, he fucking knows, that Minho will bite him if he even so much as thinks about bothering you. A fact that you abuse often.

With a triumphant grin, you immediately hop over to Minho, leaving Jeongin to suffer alone. “You saved me from a fate most foul,” you sigh dramatically, slipping beneath Minho’s arm as he wraps it loosely around your shoulders. “Seungmin was about to make me suffer the consequences of my actions.”

Minho hums, nodding as if this is the most serious information he’s received all day. “Can’t have that happening to you.”

You shake your head solemnly. “Only Jeongin.”

Minho smirks. “Only Jeongin.”

From behind you, Jeongin lets out a betrayed noise, his eyes wide with sheer, unfiltered horror as Seungmin tightens his grip on his hoodie. “Wait, no! You can’t just leave me!” Jeongin wails, legs kicking uselessly as Seungmin starts dragging him away. “I THOUGHT WE WERE IN THIS TOGETHER!”

You press a hand to your chest, feigning sadness. “I’ll miss you.”

“YOU’RE THE WORST,” Jeongin screeches, fingers clawing at the ground as if he can somehow anchor himself there.

Seungmin, thoroughly unamused, adjusts his hold and hauls Jeongin over his shoulder like he weighs nothing. “This is what you get for thinking you could escape me.”

Jeongin’s wails only grow louder as Seungmin marches away with him, and you make no effort to suppress your laughter. Minho chuckles beside you, shaking his head.

“You’re such a little shit,” Minho muses, poking your side.

You beam up at him. “I know.”

And as Jeongin’s suffering echoes across the campus, you loop your arm through Minho’s and happily walk the other way, completely unbothered by whatever punishment Seungmin is about to unleash on your poor, unfortunate best friend.

Jeongin strides into Chan’s room without knocking, entirely unbothered by the fact that Chan and Felix are currently engaged in an absolutely filthy makeout session on the bed. Chan is shirtless, his toned torso on full display, while Felix is clad in nothing but his boxers, straddling Chan’s lap as they move against each other, a slow, heated grind of hips that leaves very little to the imagination. The air is thick with the scent of cologne and something heavier, something unmistakably them. Moans mix with breathy chuckles, the occasional murmured praise between kisses filling the space.

Jeongin doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge the borderline indecent display. Instead, he holds out his hand, palm up, expectant. “Pay up.”

Felix barely pulls back, lips kiss-bruised and breath uneven. “What?” he pants, blinking dazedly at Jeongin like he’s only just registering his presence.

Jeongin stares at them, unimpressed. “I got her to agree to come to the bar with us next Saturday. Now, pay up.”

Chan groans, not out of frustration but more in the for fuck’s sake, I should’ve expected this kind of way. He leans back against the headboard, dragging a hand through his hair before reaching over to the nightstand. Without hesitation, he slaps a wad of sixty thousand won in notes into Jeongin’s waiting palm.

Felix, finally processing the information, straightens up slightly. “You really got her to come?” His voice carries equal parts excitement and disbelief.

Jeongin pockets the cash without ceremony. “Yeah. It wasn’t that hard. She likes going out; she just doesn’t have the time for it. You know, because of the whole double major thing.”

Felix flops dramatically onto Chan’s chest, groaning. “How does she not know we like her?”

Jeongin snorts, shaking his head as he folds his arms across his chest. “Because I love the girl, but she just thinks everyone is nice. She doesn’t know she’s a fucking knockout that has half the campus trying to get into her panties.”

Chan frowns at that, jaw tightening. He shifts slightly, like the idea of people wanting you in that way doesn’t sit right with him. Like he hates that you don’t see it, that you don’t see yourself the way you deserve to. Felix sighs heavily, running a hand through his tousled blue hair. “She really doesn’t notice, does she?”

Jeongin shakes his head. “Nope. Not even a little bit. She’s got, like, the lowest fucking self-esteem I’ve ever seen. Just assumes no one sees her as anything more than a friend.”

Chan exhales through his nose, rubbing his temples. “But we flirt with her all the time.”

Jeongin shrugs. “Yeah, and she thinks you’re just being friendly.”

Felix lets out an almost pained noise, burying his face against Chan’s shoulder. “This is actually suffering.”

“You’re gonna have to ease her into it,” Jeongin advises, plopping himself down in the chair near the desk. “She’s not used to people liking her, let alone an already established couple.”

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Fucking hell.”

Felix groans. “I wanna kiss her so bad.”

Jeongin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to work for it, because she’s not gonna get it unless you basically spell it out for her.”

Felix flops backwards onto the bed with a defeated sigh. “This is bullshit.”

Jeongin smirks. “Well, on the bright side, you have an insider source. Consider that a blessing.”

Chan levels him with a look. “You extort us.”

Jeongin shrugs, completely unrepentant. “Tomato, to-mah-to.”

Felix suddenly perks up, propping himself up on his elbows, eyes gleaming with mischief. “We could just tell Seungmin that you’ve been helping us try to date his and your best friend.”

Jeongin snorts so hard he almost chokes. “Pfft. You wouldn’t.”

Chan raises a brow. “Wouldn’t we?”

Jeongin grins, shaking his head. “Nah, because then Seungmin would start extorting the two of you, and you know that motherfucker would be worse than me.”

Chan exhales sharply. “I hate that you’re right.”

Felix throws his head back with a dramatic groan. “This is the worst timeline.”

Jeongin just laughs, standing up and patting his pocket where his freshly earned sixty-thousand won sits comfortably.

“Help us make some semblance of a plan,” Felix whines, poking at Jeongin’s leg with his foot as the younger boy makes himself comfortable in the chair by the desk.

Jeongin doesn’t even look up from where he’s idly scrolling on his phone. Instead, he just holds out his hand, palm open, expectant.

Chan groans, rubbing his temples. “You’re like a fucking toll bridge.”

“And yet you still pay every time,” Jeongin muses, barely hiding his smirk as Chan slaps another wad of cash into his palm. He counts it leisurely, flipping through the notes with a pleased hum before tucking it into his hoodie pocket.

Felix watches this unfold with narrowed eyes, then squints at Jeongin in suspicion. “You just made us pay you to make her come out with us, and now you’re charging us again for a plan?”

Jeongin grins, stretching his arms over his head. “The plan I will give you is, unfortunately, a premium subscription. Unless you want the basic plan.”

Chan exhales sharply through his nose, already annoyed. “And what the fuck is the basic plan?”

Jeongin tilts his head. “Just keep doing whatever the fuck you’re doing and hope she gets a clue in the next ten years.”

Felix gasps, appalled. “That’s fucking useless.”

Jeongin shrugs. “Exactly. Hence the premium plan.”

Chan glares, muttering something under his breath about thieves and con artists before begrudgingly slapping more cash into Jeongin’s waiting hand and Jeongin grins, cracking his knuckles. “Alright, listen up, dumb and dumber. The problem here is that she thinks you two are her friends.”

Felix groans. “We are her friends.”

Jeongin shakes his head. “No, no, I mean she sees you the same way she sees me, Seungmin, Minho, and Jisung.”

Felix gasps so dramatically that Chan actually has to slap a hand over his mouth to shut him up and Jeongin nods solemnly. “Yeah. You two are, in her mind, firmly planted in the best friend zone. You might as well be me, dude. That’s your competition right now.”

Felix slaps Chan’s hand away, scandalized. “WHAT THE FUCK?! CHAN, WE’RE IN THE JEONGIN ZONE?!”

Jeongin simply nods, like this is serious news that must be taken with the utmost gravity. “Yes. You are in the Jeongin Zone.”

Chan’s entire body sags as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“So,” Jeongin continues, propping one leg up over his knee, “you need to make her see you in another light. Right now, she’s got you classified under ‘Safe and Non-Threatening Friendship.’ You need to shake that up. Gently.”

Felix narrows his eyes. “How the fuck do we do that?”

Jeongin hums, tapping his chin. “First of all, do not make her uncomfortable. She’s not used to being wanted, so don’t just come at her full force. Ease her into it. Little things. Keep flirting, but push just a bit further every time. Compliment her more, but in a way that makes it clear you see her as attractive, not just cute. Physical affection? Step it up, but keep it natural.”

Chan nods, considering this. “Okay, that makes sense. What else?”

“Oh,” Jeongin grins, “also? She has arachnophobia.”

Felix perks up immediately. “That’s perfect. We can save her from spiders.”

Jeongin smirks. “That’ll score you some points, yeah. Now, one last thing.” He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You need to convince Coach to let the cheerleaders perform for the full duration of halftime at the next game against the Levanter Lobos.”

Chan furrows his brows. “Why?”

Jeongin’s smirk fades slightly. “Because they’re staging a protest.”

Felix and Chan exchange a glance and Jeongin sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “You know that TA who only got a brief suspension after harassing female students?”

Chan’s expression hardens. “Yeah.”

Jeongin nods. “The cheer team were his biggest targets, and now that he’s back, they want to protest his return.”

Felix sits up straighter. “Even Y/N?”

Jeongin shrugs, looking away. “It’s her story to tell.” His voice is quieter now, more serious. “It took her a while to tell Seungmin and me. I’m not gonna spill her business.”

Chan clenches his jaw, hands tightening into fists. “Fucking hell.”

Felix exhales slowly, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll get Coach to approve it.”

Jeongin nods, standing up and stretching. “Good. Now, I’ve got shit to do, and I’m already a couple hundred thousand won richer, so I’ll be taking my leave.”

Felix throws a pillow at him. “Fucking scammer.”

Jeongin catches it with a grin. “Pleasure doing business with you, losers.” And with that, he waltzes out, leaving Chan and Felix sitting there, more determined than ever.

The Alpha Phi kitchen is dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the overhead stove fixture and the dull glow of Jisung’s laptop screen. It’s the middle of the night, and you and Jisung have long since abandoned any pretence of productivity. The initial plan had been noble, an all-nighter to power through your respective essays. Jisung, working on a criminal psychology paper about the correlation between childhood trauma and serial offenders, and you, tackling an extensive pharmacodynamics essay that had been looming over you for the past two weeks.

It had started well enough, with the both of you settled at the kitchen table, books and notes spread chaotically across the surface, the occasional scribble of a pen filling the silence. But the problem with you and Jisung studying together is that you both suffer from severe procrastination and catastrophic attention spans.

The moment one of you so much as breathed in a way that hinted at distraction, it was game over. So, naturally, about an hour ago, you’d both given up. Now, the essays are forgotten, the textbooks shoved aside in favour of something far more important, music, gossip, and Jisung’s secret stash of soju.

Jisung sits across from you at the table, clad in his signature late-night study attire, white Hello Kitty pyjama pants, a white tank top, and his ridiculous pink slippers. He had insisted on buying the matching pyjama pants for you, too, claiming it was non-negotiable. You’d relented, and now you sit mirroring him, your pink Hello Kitty pyjama trousers comfortable as you sip soju straight from the bottle, legs curled up on the chair. Your cropped white camisole barely does anything to keep you warm, but the alcohol buzz helps.

Jisung is mid-rant, voice animated as he leans across the table. “Okay, so, get this. You remember that one TA, you know the one, who was fucking around with that sophomore from the dance department?”

You blink at him, soju bottle pausing mid-air. “The guy who looks like he’s one bad decision away from committing wire fraud?”

Jisung cackles, smacking the table. “YES! Him! So, apparently, he got caught trying to cheat on his fiancée, who, by the way, is pregnant, but get this, he tried to do it with one of the professors. Like, a whole ass faculty member.”

Your jaw drops. “No fucking way.”

Jisung nods rapidly, eyes wide with glee. “Swear to God. And the best part? The professor rejected his ass so hard she went straight to the dean about it.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp. “As she fucking should!”

He holds up a finger. “Wait, it gets better. The dean pulled up receipts from other students who had already complained about him for being a sleazy bastard, and now his fiancée, who, might I remind you, is carrying his unborn child, found out everything.”

You gasp again, slamming your palm against the table. “Tell me she left his ass.”

“Oh, immediately,” Jisung confirms with a manic grin. “Kicked him out of their apartment, trashed his shit, and she blasted his cheating ass all over social media.”

You let out a delighted shriek, shaking his arm. “I love women.”

Jisung laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Women are a fucking gift.”

You nod fervently, taking another swig of soju. The warmth of the alcohol spreads through you, making you sink further into your seat, relaxed and happy. This is your favourite part about late-night study sessions with Jisung. Sure, you never actually get anything done, but the chaos, the drama, the stupid giggles, it makes it worth it.

Jisung lets out a long yawn, stretching his arms over his head before pushing himself up from his chair. “I need a fucking caffeine boost if we’re gonna keep going.”

You frown as he makes his way to the fridge, opening it and rummaging through the shelves. “You do realize we haven’t actually studied for like an hour, right?”

He snorts. “Details, details.”

A moment later, he turns around, two energy drinks in hand. He tosses one to you, and you catch it easily, popping it open without hesitation. The moment the liquid touches your tongue, you let out an involuntary shudder and Jisung notices immediately, cackling. “Tastes like battery acid, doesn’t it?”

You cough. “This is gonna restart my fucking nervous system.”

Jisung takes a sip of his own and physically recoils. “Why does this taste like regret?”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “We are so gonna regret this in the morning.”

Jisung waves a dismissive hand. “Future us problem.”

You both clink your cans together in mock celebration.

Then, it happens. From the corner of your eye, something moves. It’s fast, dark, and scuttling across the kitchen floor with far too many legs. For a moment, your brain refuses to process what you just saw. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the soju. Maybe it’s the godforsaken energy drink rewiring your neurons. But then Jisung sees it too and all hell breaks loose.

“SPIDER!”

You and Jisung fucking shriek in perfect harmony, launching yourselves onto the kitchen island so violently that your slippers are left abandoned on the floor. The bottle of soju tips over, spilling across the table, but neither of you care. Your priorities have dramatically shifted.

Jisung clings to you like his life depends on it, arms locked around your waist in a death grip as you both balance precariously on the counter, legs curled up as if that alone will protect you from the eight-legged demon lurking below.

“Oh my fucking god,” you wheeze, voice barely coherent. “Jisung, do something!”

“ME?!” he screeches, clinging to you tighter. “BITCH, WHAT THE FUCK AM I GONNA DO?!”

You shake his shoulders violently. “FUCKING KILL IT!”

Jisung glares at you, scandalized. “YOU FUCKING DO IT, YOU’RE A SCIENCE MAJOR!”

You let out a strangled noise. “WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?!”

Jisung waves his arms wildly. “FUCKING ANATOMY OR SOME SHIT! DISSECT IT! SCIENCE IT TO DEATH!”

You whimper, gripping his tank top like a lifeline. “Jisung, it’s so big.”

Jisung’s entire body trembles. “I know.”

The spider remains where it is, unmoving, as if it knows it holds all the power in this situation. You and Jisung, still clinging to each other for dear fucking life, remain standing on the counter. Screaming.

The gaming room is bathed in the glow of LED lights, the screen flashing the victorious finish line of Mario Kart as Felix groans into Chan’s mouth, thoroughly defeated. He had been determined to win at least one round against Chan, but his boyfriend is a fucking menace with the controller, and every single time Felix had gotten close to victory, Chan had thrown a well-timed shell or expertly drifted around him, smirking like an asshole the entire time.

Now, Felix is venting his frustrations in the only way he knows how, straddling Chan’s lap on the couch, gripping his jaw, and kissing him hard enough to make up for every single loss. Chan doesn’t seem to mind, hands firm on Felix’s waist, thumbs rubbing slow, teasing circles over the warm skin beneath his hoodie. Their breathing is heavy, lips brushing lazily against each other as Felix grumbles between kisses.

“I fucking hate you,” Felix murmurs, sucking Chan’s bottom lip into his mouth and nipping it with his teeth, just to be a little mean.

Chan hums in amusement, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, his fingers digging into Felix’s waist with just enough pressure to make him feel it. “Yeah? What else is new?”

Felix rolls his hips down, making Chan inhale sharply through his nose. “Fucking cheated,” Felix mutters.

Chan chuckles against his lips. “Not my fault you’re shit at Mario Kart.”

Felix pulls back just enough to narrow his eyes at him, prepared to argue, but before he can get a single word out, an ear-piercing scream echoes from somewhere in the house. Both of them immediately freeze. Another scream follows, two voices this time, high-pitched and frantic. Felix and Chan exchange a glance.

Jisung. And you.

Chan barely has time to mutter, “What the fuck-” before Felix is already up, yanking him off the couch, both of them racing towards the kitchen, their previous activities completely forgotten.

The scene they walk in on is utter fucking chaos. You and Jisung are on the kitchen island, clinging to each other for dear fucking life. Your eyes are wide, faces tight with sheer terror, limbs wrapped so tightly around each other that it’s hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins. The spilt soju bottle drips onto the floor, forgotten, while the cause of your absolute distress lurks menacingly near the fridge.

A spider. And not just any spider, a big fucking spider. Felix stops short, eyes flicking between the scene in front of him, then to Chan, then back to you two, who are still making absolutely no effort to get down from your self-made safety island.

Chan takes a slow step forward, hands raised cautiously. “You guys okay-”

Before he can finish, you make a split-second decision, driven purely by instinct. You launch yourself off the counter and straight into Chan’s arms. Chan barely has time to react before he catches you, arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as you cling to him like a lifeline, your legs wrapping around his torso like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Chan stands there for a second, eyes wide, before looking down at you, pressed completely against him. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, breath shaky against his neck. “Don’t put me down,” you whisper.

Chan lets out a slow breath. “Wouldn’t fucking dream of it.”

Jisung, meanwhile, is still stranded, now pointing accusingly at the spider. “Kill it,” he commands.

Felix blinks, then sighs, grabbing the nearest rolled-up magazine from the counter. With zero hesitation, he steps forward and mercilessly swats the spider, its body crumpling instantly beneath the impact. The kitchen falls silent as Felix turns back around, tossing the magazine into the trash like he just finished a job well done.

Jisung, still visibly shaking, lets out a breath. “I want you to know that you just saved two lives today.”

Felix smirks. “What, you think I’d let you two fucking die over a spider?”

You groan, still curled into Chan’s hold. “It was so big, Felix.”

Chan sighs, rubbing soothing circles over your back. “Yeah, yeah, we know, angel.”

Felix eyes Jisung with mild amusement. “You planning on getting down anytime soon?”

Jisung scoffs. “Absolutely fucking not. I need time.”

Felix holds out a hand. “Come on, dumbass.”

Jisung hesitates for a long moment, eyes still darting around the kitchen like more spiders are lurking in the shadows. Finally, with great reluctance, he reaches out and lets Felix help him down. His legs wobble the moment he touches the floor, and Felix has to grip his arm to keep him steady.

Jisung exhales, rubbing his face. “I fucking hate this house.”

Chan chuckles, but before he can respond, Jisung suddenly tenses. His eyes go wide again. “THERE’S ANOTHER ONE!” he shrieks, scrambling back onto the counter so fast that he nearly topples over.

You let out an actual whimper, tightening your grip around Chan’s neck like you’re trying to merge with him as Felix groans. “Fucking hell.”

Without another word, he strides across the kitchen, snatching the magazine back out of the trash as Jisung flails. “BURN THE HOUSE DOWN.”

Felix ignores him, eyes scanning the area. “WHERE IS IT?” he demands.

Jisung points furiously toward the corner near the pantry. “THERE. LURKING.”

Felix moves, quick and efficient, and then SMACK. Another one down and Jisung lets out a breath of relief but still refuses to move. “Do a sweep.”

Felix whips around, scowling. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes.”

Felix sighs so hard, but pulls out his phone, turning on the flashlight, and starts fucking inspecting the entire kitchen. 

You, meanwhile, do not move from Chan’s arms. Chan doesn’t seem to mind. His hold on you is steady, his body warm against yours. His hand rubs soothing circles into your back, the soft, repetitive motion helping ease the residual panic still buzzing beneath your skin.

As Felix methodically searches every inch of the kitchen, his phone’s flashlight flickering over cabinets and countertops like he’s a highly trained investigator rather than a half-dressed frat boy at two in the morning, Chan lets his gaze drift toward the kitchen window. His arms are still securely wrapped around you, your body warm and pressed tightly against his, and he has no intention of letting go anytime soon. You’re still slightly trembling from the spider-induced terror, and honestly, Chan’s kind of enjoying the way you’re clinging to him. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud. But then, movement catches his eye.

Outside, in the dimly lit backyard, Jeongin is crouched just beneath the kitchen window, peeking in like a goddamn goblin. The moment their eyes meet, Jeongin grins like the absolute menace he is and lifts his hand in an exaggerated thumbs-up. Chan furrows his brows, confused for a moment until it clicks. Jeongin. The little shit. He planted the fucking spiders.

Chan’s grip tightens instinctively around you as the realization hits him like a fucking truck. He doesn’t know how Jeongin managed it, but it’s so painfully obvious now. The conveniently placed, terrifyingly large spiders? The fact that both you and Jisung freaked out just enough to need rescuing? When Chan and Felix were the only ones downstairs?

That devious little bastard planned this.

Chan narrows his eyes in silent warning, but Jeongin only grins wider. Then, still maintaining eye contact, Jeongin forms a V-shape with his fingers, then promptly darts his tongue between them, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Chan almost fucking drops you. His first instinct is to throw something, but his hands are full with you, and he definitely doesn’t want you turning around and seeing Jeongin acting like a feral cryptid in the backyard. So instead, he tightens his grip around your waist, subtly shifting you so that your face remains buried in his shoulder, keeping you blissfully unaware.

Then, he mouths a very clear, very deliberate, “You’re fucking dead.”

Jeongin does not take the threat seriously. If anything, it just makes him worse. He grins even wider, then lifts one hand and makes a circle with his fingers while the other hand repeatedly jabs a finger through the centre, his shit-eating grin widening as he nods enthusiastically.

Chan’s eye twitches and Jeongin then fucking levels up. He cups his own hand like he’s holding a nonexistent dick and fake jerks it off, his tongue darting out obscenely at the same time. Chan visibly recoils, horrified but Jeongin just keeps going. Now, he’s forming two circles with his fingers, mimicking breasts while thrusting his hips wildly, looking like a deranged demon outside the fucking window.

Chan is this close to having a goddamn aneurysm.

Felix, who is still inspecting the kitchen but has now noticed Chan’s sudden stiffness, frowns slightly. “What’s wrong with you?” he murmurs, shining his flashlight toward him.

Chan desperately tries to get Felix’s attention without you or Jisung noticing. His eyes dart meaningfully toward the window, and Felix follows his gaze, only to immediately snort when he sees Jeongin outside. Jeongin, who is now making exaggerated moaning faces while fake-thrusting into thin fucking air. Felix wheezes, nearly dropping his phone. “Oh my fucking God.”

Chan shoots his boyfriend a panicked glare, subtly jostling you against his chest to keep your attention away. Felix, however, is having the time of his fucking life. He watches as Jeongin ups the insanity, now pretending to spank himself while mimicking exaggerated slapping noises with his mouth.

Chan’s expression is pure, undiluted murder and Felix, choking back laughter, lifts his hand and silently salutes Jeongin through the window, acknowledging his true villain status. Chan tightens his grip on you again, his fingers pressing into your back in an attempt to ground himself. He knows the moment he lets go, he’s fucking launching himself out there and killing Jeongin with his bare hands.

Jeongin, still entirely unbothered by the absolute wrath in Chan’s eyes, winks, blows a lewd, exaggerated kiss, then sprints off into the darkness like the chaotic little goblin he is.

Felix, still quietly losing his fucking mind, finally nudges Chan with his elbow. “You have to admit,” he whispers, barely containing his laughter, “that was some next-level shit.”

Chan glares. “I’m going to fucking end him.”

Felix grins. “Not before I thank him.”

Chan groans, resisting the urge to just drop to the floor in exhaustion.

And the worst part? You and Jisung remain completely oblivious to all of it, still wrapped up in your arachnid-induced trauma. 

The neon lights of Side Effects pulse in time with the deep bass of the music, the air thick with the scent of alcohol, expensive perfume, and just a hint of cigarette smoke from the back patio. The bar is packed, filled with students and young professionals alike, all looking for a night of reckless abandon. You stride in confidently, flanked by Seungmin, Minho, and Jeongin, the four of you cutting through the crowd like you own the place.

With your black faux leather blazer draped effortlessly over your shoulders, your fitted burgundy crop top hugging your frame perfectly, and your black leather mini-skirt barely skimming mid-thigh, you look like you belong in the VIP section of some exclusive underground club. Your chunky platform ankle boots add just enough height to make you feel powerful, and your dangling star earrings glint in the flashing lights as you toss your hair over your shoulder. Your black patent leather handbag swings lightly against your hip, the perfect finishing touch to your outfit.

And for once, for once, Seungmin doesn’t look like a grumpy lawyer in training. Through a combination of your relentless pleading, Jeongin’s shameless bribing, and one single, perfectly arched eyebrow from Minho, you’d finally convinced Seungmin to dress like he actually wants to get laid. 

He’s wearing a deep emerald satin button-up, only half-buttoned, tucked into fitted black trousers that hug his legs just right, paired with sleek black boots that add just enough edge to make him look dangerous in all the right ways. His orange hair is styled slightly messier than usual, the strands falling into his eyes in a way that looks almost unintentional, but it’s not.

“You know,” Jeongin muses as he takes in the sight of Seungmin’s outfit, “I hate to say this, but you actually look kind of fuckable.”

Seungmin side-eyes him, unimpressed. “And yet, I still choose not to be.”

You snort, linking your arm through Minho’s as the four of you head toward the bar. “You say that now, but just wait. By the end of the night, someone is gonna be all over you.”

Seungmin scoffs. “If that someone is you or Jeongin, I’m calling campus security.”

Jeongin dramatically clutches his chest. “We would never hit on you, Seungmin. We have taste.”

“Mm-hmm.” Seungmin rolls his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitches just slightly, betraying his amusement.

As you weave through the crowd, your eyes catch on the large booth near the back of the bar, where the rest of your friends are already settled. The sight of them makes you grin.

Chan is perched at the head of the booth, looking obscenely good in his fitted white cropped tank top, oversized black cargo pants, and those chunky black boots that make him look like he could stomp on you and you’d thank him for it. His red and black leather jacket hangs off his shoulders just right, and his statement necklace catches the light as he tilts his head slightly, talking to Changbin. His multiple earrings gleam in the dim lighting, and you swear he just radiates effortless confidence.

And then there’s Felix, curled up right in Chan’s lap, looking like absolute sin in his sleeveless black leather vest, the sheer shimmering long-sleeve mesh shirt underneath adding just the right amount of tease. His low-rise distressed denim jeans hug his hips obscenely, and his fingers, adorned with chunky silver rings, drum lightly against Chan’s shoulder as he speaks animatedly to Jisung. His platform boots add just enough height to make him look dangerously pretty, and you barely resist the urge to sigh at how unfairly attractive both of them are.

Minho nudges your side, smirking. “You’re staring.”

You roll your eyes but don’t deny it. “They’re pretty.”

Minho snorts. “They know they’re pretty.”

You hum in agreement before pulling him toward the bar. “Come on. Drinks first.”

The moment you reach the counter, the bartender gives you a knowing nod. You and Jisung are regulars, after all. You lean against the bar, drumming your fingers against the polished wood. “An Anxiety for me.”

Minho slides onto the stool next to you, resting his elbow against the bar. “Mania.”

The bartender quirks an amused brow but doesn’t comment, moving to mix your drinks and a presence sidles up next to you, and you glance over to see a guy, tall, decent-looking, clearly confident, leaning against the bar with a smirk that screams bad intentions.

“Hey,” he drawls, eyes sweeping over you, lingering on your bare midriff. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

You tilt your head, smiling politely. “Oh, I come here all the time.”

His smirk falters for a fraction of a second, but he recovers quickly. “Yeah? Funny I haven’t noticed you.”

You hum, sipping your drink. “Probably ‘cause I usually come with my friend.”

The guy chuckles, leaning in slightly. “Well, maybe now you’ve got another reason to come.”

Minho watches, amused, as you completely miss the blatant flirting. You just smile, oblivious, sipping your drink as if this is just a pleasant conversation with a stranger. The guy seems to take your silence as encouragement, because he lifts a hand, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. Before his fingers can so much as graze your skin, Minho’s hand snaps up, smacking the guy’s hand away with a sharp slap. The sound is loud enough to cut through the music, and the guy jerks his hand back, startled.

Minho levels him with a single, unimpressed brow raise. “Don’t.”

The guy hesitates for a second, looking between you and Minho, clearly debating whether to push his luck. But then Minho tilts his head slightly, gaze turning just a fraction sharper, and the guy immediately backs the fuck down.

Without another word, he mutters something under his breath and walks away and you blink after him, confused. “What just happened?”

Minho takes a sip of his drink, completely unbothered. “He was hitting on you, cupcake.”

You pause, processing this, before frowning. “Really?”

Minho side-eyes you, lips curling slightly. “You’re so fucking oblivious.”

As you and Minho weave through the crowd back toward the booth, you frown, still stuck on what just happened at the bar. You take a sip of your Anxiety cocktail, the sharp tang of citrus and vodka lingering on your tongue, before turning to Minho with an inquisitive look.

"How do you even know that guy was hitting on me?" you ask, genuinely confused. "And second, why would he?"

Minho halts mid-step, exhaling through his nose like he’s just heard the dumbest thing in existence. His grip tightens around your wrist, and before you can react, he turns to face you fully and pinches your cheek hard.

You let out a whiny yelp, swatting at his hand. "Ow! Bitch!"

Minho sighs dramatically, shaking his head. "Cupcake, my poor, sweet, tragically unaware cupcake," he says, voice dripping with pity. "How do I even begin to explain this to you?"

You glare at him, rubbing your cheek. "You could start by not assaulting my face, dickhead."

"That was tough love," Minho deadpans before his expression softens just slightly. He exhales, tilting his head as he studies you, his eyes unreadable under the dim bar lights. "You’re hot, idiot. That’s why."

You blink, momentarily stunned. "Excuse me?"

Minho rolls his eyes, groaning. "See? This is what I’m talking about. You walk around every day acting like you’re just some random background character when, in reality, you’re the kind of girl people fucking notice, whether you realize it or not."

You open your mouth to argue, but Minho doesn’t let you.

"You have zero fucking clue what you look like to other people," he continues, voice firm but lacking its usual bite. "You walk into a room, and people see you, cupcake. You’re all big smiles and pretty fucking eyes and this insanely annoying energy that somehow works for you. You’re the kind of person who’s too fucking bright to be ignored. And guys? Guys notice that shit."

You shift on your feet, suddenly flustered. "Minho-"

"No, shut up, I’m talking," he interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. "You can’t fucking see it, but everyone else does. And it pisses me off that you don’t give yourself the credit you fucking deserve."

You chew on your bottom lip, uncertain. "I just don’t-"

Minho flicks your forehead and you yelp, pressing your hand to your forehead. "Ow! What the fuck?!"

"Shut up and listen." Minho leans in, expression serious. "You don’t think people want you. But they do. You just don’t notice it because your brain is too busy convincing you otherwise. That guy at the bar? He wanted you. That’s why he was trying to touch you. And if I hadn’t been there, you would’ve let him, because you’re too fucking nice to assume the worst in people."

You let out a frustrated sigh. "You assume the worst in people."

"Because I’m right," Minho says flatly. "And I swear to God, cupcake, if you ever let some random motherfucker touch you again just because you think it’s ‘harmless,’ I will actually commit a felony."

Despite yourself, you laugh. "What felony?"

"I don’t know yet," he says thoughtfully. "Manslaughter, probably."

You shake your head, exasperated. "You’re fucking insane."

"And you’re fucking blind." Minho pinches your cheek again before slinging an arm over your shoulder, steering you toward the booth. "Now, let’s go before I get pissed off for real."

Still flustered from Minho’s impromptu mean but weirdly touching pep talk, you let him lead you without protest. As you approach the booth, your eyes instinctively flick to Chan and Felix, where Felix is very much still in Chan’s lap, comfortably curled against him like he belongs there. Chan’s arm is draped over Felix’s waist, fingers tracing absentminded circles over his exposed side where his mesh shirt rides up.

Felix notices you first, eyes lighting up as he spots you. "There she is!" he exclaims, grin wide as he pats the empty seat next to Chan. "Come here, angel."

You don’t hesitate, sliding into the booth beside Chan. The leather seat is warm, and Chan, still radiating heat from the alcohol in his system, presses comfortably close to your side. Felix, still nestled in Chan’s lap, leans toward you with a teasing smile, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Took you long enough."

Minho, instead of sitting on the other side of the booth, slides in right next to you, effectively sandwiching you between himself and Chan.

You blink in surprise. "Uh."

Chan smirks. "Comfy?"

Felix chuckles, running his fingers through his hair. "Damn, you’re in the safest spot in the whole bar right now. No one’s getting near you without explicit permission."

You let out a snort, sinking further into the seat. "Yeah, I fucking gathered that."

Minho leans back, expression smug as he casually throws an arm over the back of the booth. "What? Don’t like feeling protected, cupcake?"

You huff, crossing your arms. "I don’t need protection. I can take care of myself."

Chan, still silent, hums softly beside you, his fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against his thigh. Then, in a single, smooth motion, he leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear. "We know you can, angel. But it’s still fun to do it anyway."

Your breath catches and Felix watches with interest, eyes glinting as he nudges your thigh with his knee. "You do make it easy to look after you."

You blink at both of them, thoroughly confused but too flustered to argue and Minho watches the exchange with mild amusement before sighing dramatically. "Jesus fucking Christ, she really doesn’t get it."

Felix cackles. "Nope."

Chan just smirks, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Not yet."

The night has spiralled into beautiful chaos. Two hours, countless drinks, and an obscene amount of bad decisions later, you find yourself slumped between Chan and Minho in the booth, your entire body boneless from alcohol and laughter. Felix, still perched in Chan’s lap like he was made to be there, is giggling into Chan’s neck, shoulders shaking as he wheezes with amusement.

On the dance floor, Hyunjin is grinding on Jisung, his hands on Jisung’s waist, moving obnoxiously to the beat of the music. Jisung, never one to be outdone, has his hands above his head, rolling his hips in exaggerated thrusts, his face dead serious as if this is the most important performance of his life.

Minho, ever composed, takes a slow sip of his drink, his other hand lazily playing with the hem of your top as you remain draped over him. “If I had a fucking won for every time I had to witness Jisung’s crimes against humanity, I’d have fully paid off my student loans.”

Chan chuckles, but his gaze flickers back to the dance floor, watching as Jisung gyrates with deep commitment. “You jealous, Min?” he teases.

You grin, resting your chin on Minho’s shoulder. “Don’t be jealous, Min, Jisung would never fuck Hyunjin.”

Minho hums, unconcerned. “That’s ‘cause Jisung thinks I’m as straight as a ruler.”

Chan snorts. “Well, yeah.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, shifting slightly, allowing you to sink even further into him. “Me? Straight? That’d be cruel of me. I’m for the he's, she’s, theys, and everyone else.”

Felix fucking screeches, throwing his head back against Chan’s shoulder as he cackles and you lose it, burying your face into Minho’s neck as your body shakes with uncontrollable laughter. 

Across the table, Jeongin is draped over Seungmin, his entire body limp as he lets himself be cradled like a fucking rag doll. The sight alone is alarming, Jeongin isn’t exactly touchy, and Seungmin? Well, Seungmin is Seungmin.

Which means the fact that Seungmin is openly cuddling Jeongin is a surefire sign that they are both drunk as hell.

Chan eyes them warily. “That’s how you know they’re fucking gone.”

You nod solemnly, squinting as you watch Seungmin idly rub Jeongin’s back, the latter murmuring something incoherent against his shoulder. “I never thought I’d see the day,” you mumble.

Minho exhales. “We need to document this.”

Felix fumbles for his phone, still giggling. “Hold the fuck on.”

As Felix snaps a quick picture, Minho’s fingers reach for your hair, gathering the loose strands and twisting them up into a messy but secure bun. You let out a soft sigh as his hands work through your hair, gentle despite the usual roughness in his demeanour.

“Why’re you doing that?” you murmur, voice drowsy from the warmth of the alcohol and the constant contact.

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “So you don’t fucking get puke in it if you’re sick later.”

Meanwhile, Changbin, ever the responsible chaos enabler, waves down a server and orders another round for the group.

Chan groans, but he doesn’t argue as Felix cheers.

You just giggle into Minho’s shoulder, and he groans. “You’re so fucking wasted,” he mutters, exasperated.

You grin, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. “I love you, Min.”

Minho sighs, long-suffering. “I know.”

The first thing you register upon waking up is the absolute fucking warzone that is your brain. Your skull is pounding, your mouth feels like you swallowed an entire desert, and your stomach is not okay in the slightest. The second thing you register is that you are not in your own bed.

You crack open one bleary eye, blinking against the soft glow of morning light filtering in through the curtains. The walls around you are familiar, decorated with framed photos of cats, a collection of books stacked precariously on a small shelf, and a plushie that you distinctly remember gifting to Minho last Christmas still tucked into the corner of the bed. You’re in Minho’s room which means you got absolutely trashed last night. 

You groan, throwing an arm over your face. You don’t even remember getting home, let alone changing clothes but judging by the fact that you are now in a pair of Minho’s loose shorts and an oversized t-shirt that definitely smells like him, you know exactly what happened. Minho took care of you. Again.

Still groaning, you push yourself up into a sitting position, your movements slow and painful, your head throbbing in protest. You barely manage to glance down before a voice pipes up from the floor.

"Aigoo," Minho coos, his voice still thick with sleep, his face half-buried in his pillow as he cracks one eye open to peer at you. "My cute little hungover monster."

You glare at him weakly, but there’s no energy behind it. "Shut the fuck up."

Minho just smirks lazily, snuggling deeper into his air mattress, his blanket pulled up to his chin. "Suffer," he mumbles before closing his eyes again, clearly not planning to move anytime soon.

With great effort, you peel yourself out of bed, the floor cool against your bare feet as you stumble toward the door, your limbs weak and uncoordinated. Your stomach churns violently as you make your way out into the hallway, one hand bracing against the wall as you try to keep yourself upright. You make your way painfully downstairs, each step a personal attack on your already fragile state. By the time you reach the kitchen, you’re questioning every single life choice that led to this moment.

Seungmin is already there. Slumped over at the kitchen table, his hoodie pulled up over his head, his face half-buried in his arms. He looks about as dead as you feel. The only thing keeping him upright is the large mug of coffee clutched in his hands, steam curling up into the air.

He doesn’t even look at you as he reaches for another mug, sliding it across the table toward you. Your Bubbles mug.

"You’re a goddamn angel."

Seungmin lets out something that sounds like a half-hearted grunt. "Don’t talk to me."

You take a careful sip of your coffee, the warmth instantly soothing the wreckage that is your soul. You exhale, closing your eyes for a moment as you let the caffeine begin to work its magic. After a long moment, you finally open your mouth. "I remember nothing."

Seungmin lifts his head just enough to give you a tired, unimpressed look. "Me neither."

You stare at him. "We were so fucked up last night."

Seungmin sighs, taking another slow sip of his coffee before setting it down with a heavy thud. "And if we can’t remember, it’s a sign we shouldn’t find out."

You nod solemnly, clutching your mug like it’s a lifeline. "You’re so right."

Jeongin stumbles into the kitchen like a zombie, his black hair a disaster, eyes still half-closed as he drags his feet across the floor. He looks exactly how you and Seungmin feel, like absolute shit. He grumbles something unintelligible as he approaches the table, rubbing at his face before slumping into the chair next to you with an agonized sigh.

Seungmin, who still has the bare minimum of functional brain power left, wordlessly slides Jeongin’s Blossom mug across the table toward him.

Jeongin grips it like it holds the meaning of life itself, lifting it to his lips and taking a slow, careful sip. He makes a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a sigh, then finally cracks open one bloodshot eye to glance at the two of you. "You two remember anything?" 

Seungmin exhales, shaking his head. "Nope."

You raise a single finger, barely lifting your head from where it’s collapsed onto your crossed arms. "Both blank," you mumble.

Jeongin sighs, shaking his head as if he expected this answer. "Three best friends with no memories," he mutters, lifting his mug into the air.

You and Seungmin lift yours as well, the three of you clinking them together like the brain-dead morons you are, letting the warm ceramic press together in an unspoken toast to reckless stupidity.

None of you notice Felix standing in the doorway. He stops, hovering just outside the kitchen, expression faltering as he hears you say you don’t remember anything. His lips part slightly, his fingers tightening around the doorframe as something sad flickers in his dark eyes.

Inside the kitchen, you groan, resting your forehead against your arms again, fully giving in to the sheer fucking exhaustion in your bones. Seungmin, always the most practical one out of the three of you, reaches over and rubs a slow, soothing hand against your back.

You let out a soft, pitiful noise in response and Jeongin watches, then groans loudly, dropping his forehead onto the table in solidarity.

Seungmin stares between the two of you, unimpressed. "Are you two communicating?"

Jeongin, without lifting his head, makes another low, miserable noise and you groan again in response. Seungmin sighs. "Jesus Christ."

Jeongin finally peeks up, blinking at Seungmin blearily. "It’s our new language. Hangovernese"

You nod into your arms. "Fluent."

Seungmin mutters something about wishing he had better friends but doesn’t stop rubbing your back, his fingers kneading into your muscles just enough to help with the pounding ache in your head. Then, another presence stumbles in.

Jisung enters the kitchen looking like he’s been dragged through hell itself, his tank top askew, his hair a fucking disaster, his Hello Kitty pyjama pants inside out for some reason. He does not acknowledge anyone. He does not speak. He moves like a man on a mission, straight toward the coffee machine.

The entire room watches in silence as Jisung yanks open the cabinet, retrieves his Howl’s Moving Castle mug, then aggressively bangs several buttons on the coffee machine, waiting for it to finally start brewing. When it does, he sighs heavily, crossing his arms over his chest and slumping against the counter, fully relying on it to keep him upright.

Then finally he turns, looks directly at the three of you and groans. Immediately Jeongin groans back and you, despite the pounding in your skull, let out another weak, suffering noise in agreement. Jisung nods, then takes his seat next to Jeongin as Seungmin throws his hands up in the air.

"I fucking hate all of you."

Felix trudges back upstairs, his stomach sinking with every step. His head still pounds from the lingering remnants of his hangover, but the ache in his chest is worse. He doesn’t even realize he’s made it to his room until he’s pushing the door open, stepping into the dimly lit space where Chan is sprawled out on the bed, clad only in his boxers, his toned arms stretched lazily above his head.

Chan barely cracks one eye open when Felix enters, shifting slightly against the pillows. "Did you not grab the coffee?" His voice is still hoarse, thick with sleep and the remnants of last night’s alcohol.

Felix doesn’t answer right away, just stands in the doorway, staring at the floor, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard he might actually draw blood and Chan frowns, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Lix?"

Felix finally lifts his gaze, and Chan immediately knows something is wrong. "She doesn’t remember."

The words come out flat, empty, like Felix doesn’t even want to say them out loud, like saying them makes it real. And Chan hates that he understands exactly what Felix means immediately, hates the way his stomach drops as the memories of last night flood back.

The music, the alcohol, the heat of it all. You, pressed between them, your body warm, your laughter breathless as you let them pull you in. The way you moved, letting yourself get lost in them, letting yourself fall into them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Chan remembers the way you kissed, soft at first, hesitant in that way that made his head spin, then growing bolder, like you wanted more, like you wanted everything. He remembers how you’d turn, alternating between kissing him and then Felix, your arms wrapped around both of them, your hands gripping onto their shirts, their shoulders, anything you could reach.

He remembers Felix’s hands on your waist, guiding you as you danced between them, his lips trailing lazy kisses down the side of your neck before reaching Chan’s mouth again, the two of them falling into an easy rhythm, losing themselves in the feeling of you.

He remembers all of it.

"Shit," Chan mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Felix lets out a sharp breath before he moves, crossing the room in a few quick steps before climbing into bed next to Chan, curling into his side instinctively. Chan immediately wraps an arm around him, fingers slipping beneath the hem of Felix’s shirt, rubbing slow, absentminded circles into the bare skin of his back.

Felix exhales slowly, letting his forehead press against Chan’s shoulder. "She doesn’t remember," he repeats, softer this time, voice carrying something achingly close to disappointment. "Like it didn’t even happen."

Chan doesn’t answer right away, just tightens his grip around Felix, his fingers still tracing slow patterns against his skin, grounding both of them. Because fuck. What now?

The air at Miroh College’s football field is thick with tension. It’s halftime at the biggest game of the season, Miroh Maniacs versus Levanter Lobos. The crowd is electric, the bleachers packed with students and faculty alike, their voices carrying over the field in waves of cheers, jeers, and murmurs of anticipation for the second half. The players are huddled along the sidelines, sweat dripping down their temples as they gulp down water and electrolyte drinks, their jerseys sticking to their skin beneath their protective padding.

But the excitement that usually comes with halftime is different tonight. It’s heavy, tinged with something sharper. Something that settles in the air, creeping into every inhale. Because tonight? Tonight is not just about football. Tonight is a statement.

You stand in formation with the rest of the cheerleading squad, positioned at the centre of the field, facing the bleachers. The usual red and black cheer uniforms have been discarded. Tonight, every single cheerleader is clad in white. A white crop top with long sleeves, the fabric tight against your skin. A white pleated skirt so tiny that it barely reaches mid-thigh, swishing with every movement. White Converse laced up your calves. Your hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, tied off with a matching white ribbon.

Covering every inch of every single uniform are red handprints. They are smeared across your torsos, over your arms, staining the fabric like bloodied evidence. Some are haphazard, some deliberate. Each one a symbol, a mark left behind, a story untold, a voice unheard.

The field, once filled with the usual halftime chatter, falls silent. The crowd, students, faculty, alumni, watches as the entire cheerleading squad stands shoulder to shoulder, fists raised high in the air.

You stare straight ahead, your breathing steady, your fingers curled tightly as your arm remains locked in place above your head. The adrenaline from the first half of the game still hums in your veins, but it’s overpowered by the burning weight of what you’re standing for.

Across the field, on the sidelines, the football team moves as one. Chan, Felix, Minho, Hyunjin, Jisung, Jeongin, Seungmin, Changbin, and every single one of their teammates raise their fists in the air. A show of unity. Of solidarity. The entire team stands, unmoving, their fists clenched tight, their eyes locked ahead. 

Low, mocking laughter, carrying across the field like an ugly stain and you barely have time to register the sound before hands are suddenly grabbing at you. A startled gasp rips from your throat as you feel fingers close around your waist, another set gripping at your arm. 

Around you, the other cheerleaders yelp as players from the Levanter Lobos sneak up behind you and the rest of the squad, yanking at skirts, pulling at tops, their laughter growing louder with every struggle. “Oh, come on,” one of them taunts, a smirk curling on his lips as he tugs at Ryujin’s wrist when she tries to shove him off. “It’s just a joke.”

“Yeah,” another one laughs, stepping up behind Lia, his fingers gripping at the hem of her skirt. “You guys wanna make a statement? Let us help you make one.”

Your stomach churns with disgust, your entire body going rigid as a pair of rough hands slide around your waist from behind, one palm pressing firmly against your stomach, the other creeping upward. You freeze for a split second before instinct kicks in, and you thrash against his grip, but he’s strong, keeping you locked against him with ease. “Where you goin’?” he sneers against your ear. “Thought this little protest was for attention, well you’ve got it”

Your pulse spikes, heart hammering against your ribs as you try to pry his hands off, but he’s solid, unmoving, his grip tightening around you. Every fibre of your being is screaming to fight, to get the fuck out of his hold, but he’s laughing now, like this is all just some funny fucking joke. You hate the way your stomach turns, the way your throat tightens as panic starts to crawl its way up.

Then there's a roar of voices from the sidelines, a battle cry of righteous fury. The sound of feet colliding against the field and then the Miroh Maniacs are on the field. Chan. Felix. Minho. Jisung. Hyunjin. Jeongin. Seungmin. Changbin. And every single player in red and black, running, charging, colliding with the Levanter Lobos players who dared to lay their hands on the cheer squad.

It happens so fast. A player from Miroh slams into the guy gripping Ryujin, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Another tackles the one who had been yanking on Lia’s skirt, sending both of them crashing into the dirt.

It’s an all-out fucking brawl. Bodies crash together, fists swing, jerseys rip, grunts and yells echoing across the field as punches land with sickening accuracy. Players tackle each other to the ground, limbs tangling as they struggle to overpower their opponents. 

Somewhere in the chaos, you shove the guy holding you as hard as you can, your heart racing as you stumble backwards, but before you can take another step, he and his friend grab you again. A gasp catches in your throat as fingers dig into your arm, another hand gripping at your waist, trying to restrain you.

“You little bitch-”

And then, they’re gone, ripped away from you in an instant. Felix, his usually soft features twisted into pure rage, tearing the guy off of you, his fist connecting with his jaw with a force that makes the fucker stumble back. Chan, his jaw clenched, his muscles tensed, yanking the second guy back by the collar before slamming a fist into his gut, making him double over in pain.

Minho dances through the fight like he was born for this, dodging a wild swing from a Levanter player before delivering a brutal counter, his movements quick, calculated, dangerous. His opponent barely has time to react before Minho’s foot connects with his ribs, sending him crashing onto the ground.

Jisung is feral, throwing a well-placed punch that sends his opponent stumbling before following up with a knee to the stomach. Hyunjin moves like lightning, sidestepping an incoming hit before swinging his leg out in a brutal kick that takes his opponent’s legs out from under him.

Jeongin moves with a precision that’s deadly, swift, knocking his opponent to the ground with a calculated strike. Seungmin’s expression is cold, focused, as he slams a fist into the side of another player’s face, uncaring as he stumbles back, dazed. Changbin is an absolute tank, practically lifting one of the Levanter players before slamming him into the ground with a force that you're pretty sure makes the entire field shake.

Cheerleaders scramble back, their eyes wide, some of them clutching at each other as the fight rages on. You can feel Yeji wrap her arms around you, pulling you close, her body shaking as she watches the chaos unfold. Your own hands tremble as your mind races to process what just happened, what’s still happening.

The sound of whistles pierces through the night as the coaches and campus security flood the field, yelling for everyone to stand down. But not a single Maniac player stops until the Levanter Lobos players are down. Not until the damage is done.

The kitchen is eerily quiet, the dim overhead light casting a warm glow over the room, but the atmosphere is anything but comforting. You sit across from Seungmin at the kitchen table.

Your hands work carefully, methodically, as you clean the dried blood from Seungmin’s knuckles, dabbing at the split skin with a disinfectant-soaked cotton pad. He doesn’t flinch, barely even registers the sting, his anger is too potent, simmering beneath his skin like a slow-burning fire.

"I’m fine, Min," you murmur, voice soft as you move to clean the cut on his eyebrow. He’s still in his football uniform, dirt and sweat clinging to his skin, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle twitch.

Seungmin exhales sharply through his nose. "It’s not fucking fine."

You sigh, shaking your head. "Min-"

He jerks his face away from your hand, eyes locking onto yours, burning. "No, don’t fucking ‘Min’ me. This is not fine. You getting grabbed like that, like you’re some fucking thing to be touched whenever some asshole feels like it? Not fine."

Your throat tightens, but you keep your expression neutral, keep your hands moving as you press another clean cotton pad against his brow. "Are you okay?" you ask, voice quieter now.

Seungmin lets out a sharp, humourless laugh. "No, actually, I’m fucking not."

You sigh again, more resigned this time. "Min, it’s life. I learned to deal with it a long time ago."

"You shouldn’t have to just deal with it."

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by the fury in Seungmin's voice.

"Just like you shouldn’t have had to deal with that piece of shit TA," Seungmin continues, voice sharp, practically vibrating with rage. "And you shouldn’t have to deal with all the other bullshit you go through just because you have fucking tits. And what’s worse? You’re fucking taught that it’s just life. But it’s not life. It’s bullshit."

"We all want to change the world, Min," you murmur, dipping the cotton pad back into the bowl of disinfectant. "But it won’t happen anytime soon."

"That’s not fucking good enough."

You swallow. "I know all the tricks, you know?" Your voice is softer now, tired. "Shouting fire instead of help, carrying deodorant because pepper spray is illegal. Knowing which shoes to wear in case I have to run. Walking with my keys between my fingers." You place the cotton pad down, exhaling slowly before meeting his eyes again. "This isn’t a burden you can carry for me, Min."

"I can try."

Your chest aches. "And I love you for that."

His breath shudders as he exhales, and then suddenly, he’s pulling you into a hug, his arms strong, steady, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go. You sink into it, pressing your face into his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat, cologne, and the faintest hint of the laundry detergent he always uses. For a long moment, the two of you just sit there, the weight of the night pressing down but not breaking you.

Then, Seungmin sighs, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I’m surprised the guys who grabbed you is still breathing after Chan and Felix got their hands on them." His lips quirk slightly, though there’s still anger lingering in his expression. "I mean, I assumed after you, Chan, and Felix made out at Side Effects, you’d be a little love polycule by now."

"What?"

Seungmin frowns. "You don’t remember?"

You stare at him. "No, the whole night is a fucking blur, I was wasted, remember? I thought you didn’t remember anything!"

Seungmin shrugs. "I didn’t at first."

You raise an eyebrow, suspicion creeping in. "And now?"

Seungmin sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Until I was looking at pictures Changbin took and in the background and in the back is you, with Felix and Chan’s tongues in your mouth." He tilts his head slightly. "At the same time."

Your entire fucking body goes still and your brain stops functioning. The words sit there for a moment, just hanging, as you try to process what the fuck Seungmin just said. But all you can focus on is the way your stomach plummets, the way heat crawls up your neck, the way your heart starts pounding in your ears.

"What the fuck-"

Seungmin just watches you, waiting for the realization to fully hit.

And when it does, it hits hard.

"You’re fucking lying," you whisper, but even as you say it, there’s a gnawing feeling in your chest, a deep certainty that he’s not.

Seungmin shrugs. "I can show you the picture if you want."

You flail for something, anything, to latch onto. "How the fuck do you even know that’s what was happening? Maybe it was-"

"It was exactly what it looked like." Seungmin deadpans. "Don’t try to logic your way out of this, you were fully making out with them."

Seungmin watches you closely as you start wringing your hands, your eyes darting around the kitchen like you’re trying to physically locate an escape route from your own fucking reality. Your breathing picks up, the telltale sign of impending panic, and Seungmin knows he has exactly two seconds to do something before you completely freak out.

“Okay, okay,” he says quickly, his voice calm but firm. “No panic attacks, no freaking out. People kiss people all the time. It’s not that deep.”

You gawk at him, your whole body vibrating with the sheer magnitude of what he just dropped on you. "People kiss people all the time? Min, I kissed Chan and Felix at the same fucking time!"

He shrugs, his expression deliberately casual. "And? I’ve kissed Changbin.”

“You’ve WHAT?!”

You momentarily forget about your personal crisis and instead latch onto his, your hands slamming against the table as you lean in, your earlier panic momentarily shoved aside. “No, no, no. You do not get to say something like that and move on!” Your voice pitches, your thoughts now entirely derailed. “You and Changbin? Since fucking when?!"

Seungmin sighs, as if this is so inconvenient for him. "We’ve also blown each other."

Your hand flies to your chest like you’ve just been personally victimized by this information. "Kim fucking Seungmin, explain yourself right fucking now."

Seungmin tilts his head, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I think you need some wine for this.”

"Oh, for sure," you agree immediately. "We need some fucking wine."

Without hesitation, you practically launch yourself toward the fridge, yanking the door open and grabbing the first bottle of wine you see. You twist the cap off, toss it somewhere over your shoulder and take a long sip straight from the bottle before shoving it into Seungmin’s hands.

"Okay," you breathe, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Talk."

Seungmin takes a casual sip, smacks his lips, and sets the bottle down with an obnoxiously casual expression. “Well,” he starts, leaning back in his chair. “It started when I started going to the gym more.”

You nod. “Okay, yeah, because you wanted to bulk up, got it.”

“Right,” Seungmin confirms, then lifts a finger. “And who is the most insanely jacked person we know?”

You narrow your eyes. “Changbin.”

“Exactly,” Seungmin says, smirking. “So, he offered to help me out with my training.”

You grab the wine bottle back, taking another sip before pointing at him with it. “Right, okay, makes sense. Keep going.”

Seungmin hums thoughtfully. “Well, you know how the gym gets all sweaty and intense-”

“Oh my God.”

“-and there’s just a lot of testosterone flying around,” he continues, completely unfazed by your reaction. “And, you know, sometimes after a workout, you just feel so pent up and, well, one thing led to another.”

You slap your free hand over your mouth. “You fucked.”

Seungmin shrugs. “We blew each other a few times and then, one time, I railed him in the gym showers.”

Your entire fucking worldview has been shattered so you shove the wine bottle back into Seungmin’s hands, as if forcing him to drink it will make this easier for you to process. He accepts it, taking another sip like he hasn’t just rocked your entire fucking world with this information.

You lean in, your voice barely above a whisper. "Wait, wait, wait." You place both hands on the table, steadying yourself. "Changbin the beefcake is a bottom?"

Seungmin snorts, nodding his head. "Yes."

You sit back, exhaling sharply. "That tracks."

Seungmin just smirks, taking another slow sip of wine.

You stare at him, processing, processing, and then, suddenly, a giggle bubbles up from your throat and then another. Until suddenly, you are laughing hysterically. Seungmin watches as you dissolve into laughter, your head thrown back, your entire body shaking with the sheer absurdity of this night.

But then, just as suddenly, the laughter turns into sobs. Your shoulders shake, your breath stuttering, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. Your body collapses forward, and Seungmin moves instantly, catching you before you can fall apart completely.

His arms wrap tightly around you, his hand cradling the back of your head as you sob into his shoulder, your fingers clutching at his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you together. He rocks you in his arms, his grip firm but gentle, his chin resting on the top of your head as you quietly sob against his shoulder. His hand rubs slow, steady circles on your back, the repetitive motion grounding you, keeping you from fully spiralling. 

Your breathing is uneven, your body shaking as your mind keeps looping back to what happened. The rough hands on your body, the way your own strength wasn’t enough, the sheer helplessness of it all. The first time you’d broken free, only for him and his friend to grab you again, like you were just something to be handled, owned, controlled.

You hadn’t been able to fight back. Your body had gone into survival mode, your brain too stunned to react in the way you always thought you would. You froze. You fucking froze. And in a different scenario, in a different place, with different people- What would have happened?

Your stomach churns violently at the thought, your fingers clenching into Seungmin’s jersey as your anxiety surges, drowning you in worst-case scenarios.

Seungmin senses it immediately. “Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice low, soothing. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I got you, okay?” He rocks you a little more, his grip tightening, his body a solid, unmoving presence. “Nothing happened. You got out. You’re here. Breathe. Just breathe.”

You try, you really fucking try, but the thoughts just keep piling up, pressing down on your chest, making it harder to think, to move, to fucking breathe and then, the kitchen door creaks open.

Seungmin doesn’t let go right away, but you feel his head lift slightly, his arms adjusting around you as someone steps into the room. Minho. Still in his bloodied, torn football uniform, his hair damp with sweat, knuckles bruised and split, his expression carefully blank. His eyes scan the room, assessing, before landing on you, curled up in Seungmin’s arms, shaking.

“Give her to me,” Minho murmurs, voice gentle.

Seungmin exhales, his grip lingering for just a second longer before he slowly, carefully transfers you into Minho’s waiting arms. You barely have time to process the change before Minho pulls you in, his arms wrapping around you just as tightly, just as securely as Seungmin’s had.

Seungmin steps back, pausing only to squeeze Minho’s shoulder before silently exiting the kitchen, pulling the door shut behind him. It’s just you and Minho now. His hand smooths down the back of your hair, his other arm snug around your waist, anchoring you to him. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you settle against him, lets you breathe.

Slowly, your heartbeat starts to even out and Minho’s fingers stroke through your hair, his voice warm and steady when he finally speaks. “You did good, you know?” he murmurs.

Your throat is still too tight to respond, so you just blink at him.

Minho’s lips twitch, something fond glinting in his tired eyes. “With the protest.” He nods, his fingers still moving through your hair, lulling you into something calmer. “You made me proud.”

Your breath stutters slightly, something heavy pressing against your ribs, something that feels like both relief and overwhelm at the same time.

Minho smirks, tilting his head slightly. “Even though you don’t need a man’s validation-”

You let out a weak snort through your sniffles, and Minho grins, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your neck. “-you’ve got mine,” he finishes.

A laugh bursts from your chest, sudden and unplanned, bubbling up between your lingering tears. It’s messy, half-choked, breaking into a soft sob immediately after.

Minho doesn’t even flinch. His fingers just continue their path through your hair, his other hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, his voice a steady, warm murmur in your ear.

“I got you, cupcake,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you. Not while I’m here. Not while we’re here.” He lets his chin rest against the top of your head. “You’re the strongest fucking person I know. You don’t have to believe it right now, but I’ll believe it for you.”

You sniffle against his chest, still fighting the wave of emotions pressing down on you.

Minho continues, voice unwavering. “You’re gonna get through this. You always fucking do.” His thumb rubs slow circles against your back. “And if you ever feel like you can’t, then you call me, and I’ll carry your ass through it. You hear me?”

You nod, pressing your face further into his chest.

Minho huffs out a quiet laugh. “Of course, you probably won’t need me, because you’re a fucking menace, and I pity anyone who ever thinks they can take you down.”

You don’t respond, but your lips twitch slightly.

Minho grins, tilting his head. “There she is.”

His words settle warmly in your chest, pressing into the cracks, filling the spaces where fear had tried to take root. Slowly, the weight on your chest eases.

Eventually, you shift in his hold, tilting your head up slightly. Your voice is hoarse when you finally speak. “Can I ask you something?”

Minho nods. “Of course.”

You hesitate for a second, then swallow, gathering your courage. “Did I really make out with Chan and Felix in Side Effects?”

“Yep.” He grins, his hand still stroking over your hair. “And it was hot.”

You let out a weak giggle, rolling your eyes, but before you can dwell on it too much, the panic returns. “What do I do about them?” you ask, biting your lip.

Minho hums, considering you for a second before shaking his head.

“One problem at a time, cupcake,” he murmurs, resting his chin atop your head again. “Right now, it’s just us. The rest of the world?” He closes his eyes, pulling you close. “It doesn’t exist.”

Chan and Felix stand in the dimly lit hallway, their muscles still tight from the adrenaline of the brawl, their bodies aching from the bruises forming beneath their torn and dirt-streaked jerseys. Neither of them speaks, their ears straining for any sound coming from behind the closed kitchen door where Minho and you are. Their fists clench, not from anger but from sheer helplessness.

When Seungmin steps out of the kitchen, closing the door behind him, both of them immediately straighten, their eyes locking onto his.

Seungmin sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck before meeting their stares. "I know you two like her," he says, voice low but firm. "And I know you want to help her. But right now? She needs Minho, okay? He's got it under control."

Chan and Felix exchange a look, neither of them questioning the truth behind his words. They want to be in there with you, to be the ones holding you together, but they also know Minho is the only one who can truly reach you when you're like this.

So they nod and Seungmin lets out a small breath of relief. "Good. Now, let's get you two cleaned up, you're both a fucking mess." 

The living room has been turned into an impromptu first aid station. Blood-streaked towels litter the coffee table, open medical kits scattered between them. The air smells like antiseptic and sweat, and the low murmur of voices fills the space as the rest of the frat tend to their injuries.

Jisung is slouched on the couch, a bag of ice pressed against the side of his face, his cheekbone already swelling into a nasty bruise. Jeongin sits next to him, sniffling as Hyunjin holds a tissue to his still-bloody nose. Changbin is on the floor, legs sprawled out, dabbing at a cut on his knuckle with a disinfectant wipe, his lips pressed into a thin line.

The energy in the room is electric, but there’s no regret. Only satisfaction. Chan and Felix don’t hesitate before grabbing the med kits and moving to each other, Chan tugging Felix down onto the armrest of the couch as he tilts the younger’s chin up, examining the damage. Felix lets him, his hands curling around Chan’s thigh for balance as Chan gently cleans the scrape along his jaw, the cut he hadn’t even realized he had until now.

Seungmin crouches down in front of Changbin, grabbing a fresh antiseptic wipe and reaching for the cut on his chin. "Hold still," he murmurs, dabbing carefully.

Changbin watches him intently, his expression unreadable, his gaze flickering between Seungmin’s fingers and his lips. His usual tough, cocky demeanour is absent, replaced with something softer, something almost dreamy.

Seungmin notices but doesn’t say anything, his lips twitching slightly as he focuses on his task. His thumb brushes against Changbin’s skin, and Changbin visibly exhales, blinking like he’s just remembered where he is.

And then Hyunjin dramatically sniffs the air and everyone turns to look at him.

Seungmin furrows his brows. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Hyunjin takes a deep breath, wafting the air toward his face like he’s absorbing something supernatural. "You two," he says, eyes narrowing at Seungmin and Changbin. "I smell queerness."

Jisung snorts, nearly dropping his ice pack as Felix and Chan exchange grins, and Jeongin, who still has a tissue shoved up his nose, suddenly perks up.

"Oh, shit, he’s right," Jeongin says, nodding sagely. "It smells fruity in here."

"Very fruity," Jisung agrees, voice muffled as he presses the ice pack harder against his face. "Like a freshly blended smoothie of boy love romance brewing in real time."

"Like the softest fucking yaoi," Chan muses, tilting his head as he inspects Felix’s wound.

Felix, ever the chaos instigator, inhales deeply and then lets out an exaggerated "Mmm, yes, I smell gay yearning."

"Strong gay yearning," Hyunjin adds, nodding.

Changbin chokes, his face turning bright red. "Oh, for fuck’s sake-"

"Admit it, Binnie," Jisung drawls, grinning despite his swollen face. "You were fully giving Seungmin heart eyes just now."

Seungmin doesn’t even deny it. He just smirks, wiping the leftover antiseptic on Changbin’s chin. "I mean," he says, voice dripping with amusement, "can you blame him? I am pretty fucking hot."

Changbin groans, tilting his head back against the couch. "I hate all of you."

"No, you don’t," Felix says cheerfully.

Hyunjin gasps dramatically. "Wait, do you think Seungmin railed Changbin in the gym showers?"

The entire room turns to stare at Seungmin and Changbin who share a single pointed look.

Jeongin, still holding his tissue, narrows his eyes. "Wait a fucking second-"

"We are not talking about this right now," Seungmin says, standing up immediately.

"Which means it happened," Jisung sings.

"I hate all of you," Changbin repeats, burying his face in his hands.

Chan and Felix just smirk as they continue tending to each other’s wounds, the lighthearted chaos of the moment briefly allowing them to forget the violence of the night. Even if only for a little while.

The morning light filters in through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across the walls of Minho’s room. You blink groggily, taking a moment to gather your thoughts, the weight of exhaustion still heavy in your bones. The scent of Minho’s laundry detergent clings to the oversized hoodie and sweatpants you borrowed from him last night, your usual routine after crashing in his bed.

Minho is once again passed out on the air mattress on the floor, one arm draped over his face, his mouth slightly open as soft snores escape him. His limbs are sprawled out, completely dead to the world, and you suppress a giggle.

The two of you had stayed up stupidly late watching British Love Island, a show Minho somehow managed to stream despite the fact that you were in Seoul. You don’t know how he did it, but he had simply smirked at you from behind his laptop, muttering something about a few VPN tricks and sheer determination before successfully pulling it up on his screen.

You had mocked the contestants, throwing popcorn at the screen every time someone made a questionable choice, and Minho had loudly judged every single one of them in the most Minho way possible.

“That man is built like an unevolved Pokémon.”

“She’s had her lips done. No way she hasn’t.”

"I would simply choose to have a personality instead of making out with the first man who acknowledges my existence."

"If I ever act like this, please drown me in the Han River."

You sit up slowly, wincing as you shift your hands against the blankets. Your wrists ache immediately, a dull, throbbing pain radiating from where the Levanter player had grabbed you, his fingers pressing too hard, too rough. You turn them over, and sure enough, the faint outlines of bruised handprints remain, ghostly reminders of what happened.

You exhale sharply, forcing yourself to move. Laying here, dwelling, won’t do anything.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you stand, stretching out the stiffness in your limbs before making your way out of Minho’s room. He doesn’t stir, not even when you carefully step over his sprawled-out limbs.

You make your way downstairs, the scent of something warm and savoury filling the air, leading you straight to the kitchen.

Inside, Chan and Felix are already up, standing by the stove as they move around effortlessly, their bodies bumping into each other occasionally as they work in perfect sync. Felix is focused on stirring a pot of kimchi-jjigae, the rich, spicy scent filling the kitchen and Chan is slicing rice cakes for the tteokbokki, the soft thud of his knife against the cutting board the only sound accompanying the quiet hum of their movements.

You hesitate for a second before softly clearing your throat. "Hey."

Felix looks up immediately, his lips curving into a soft smile. "Hey."

Chan turns at the sound of your voice, his eyes scanning you quickly, taking in the oversized hoodie, the tiredness in your face, the slight way your fingers are trembling as you wring them together. His brows pull together slightly, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. "I’m sorry."

Chan frowns, setting the knife down. "What? Why?"

You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling small. "The protest, it was my idea. I pitched it to Yeji. If I hadn’t-" Your voice wavers slightly, and you hate how weak it sounds. "If I hadn’t, well, there wouldn’t have been the fight. I just wanted to- I don’t know-"

You squeeze your hands together, an anxious habit you can’t seem to break.

"No," Chan says firmly, his voice leaving zero room for argument.

"Absolutely fucking not," Felix adds, shaking his head.

Felix steps away from the stove, moving toward you with careful, deliberate steps, his hands twitching like he wants to reach for you but is holding himself back. "You are not blaming yourself for this, angel," he says, voice soft but stern. "None of this was your fault."

"Not a fucking ounce of it," Chan agrees. "The only people responsible for what happened were those fucking assholes. Not you. Never you."

Your throat tightens, emotions bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

"You did something important," Felix continues, his voice warm, his eyes so unbearably kind. "You made a fucking statement. You didn’t just stand by and accept bullshit, you fought for something, for yourself, for everyone on that squad. You were brave."

Chan steps closer, his presence solid, warm. "Never doubt that," he murmurs. "Not for a fucking second."

You barely have time to react before you’re being wrapped in a solid, comforting side hug, Chan’s arm looping around your shoulders as he tugs you against him. The warmth of his skin seeps into you, grounding you, holding you together in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

You let yourself sink into him, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you inhale the faint scent of his cologne, something woodsy and warm, something safe.

Felix watches for a moment before nodding to himself, stepping back to the stove and returning to the kimchi-jjigae, stirring it with a soft hum.

You close your eyes for a second before speaking, voice quiet but certain. "I know I kissed you two at Side Effects," you say, feeling Chan’s arm tighten ever so slightly around your shoulders. "But can we talk about it some other time?"

Chan doesn’t hesitate. "Yeah, of course," he reassures you immediately. "Don't feel like you have to talk about it now, okay? No pressure."

You nod against his shoulder, exhaling as some of the tension in your chest loosens. "Thank you."

"You don’t have to thank me," Chan murmurs, his thumb rubbing small circles against your arm. "We’ll talk when you’re ready. No sooner."

Felix glances up from the stove, watching the two of you for a moment before turning back to the pan in front of him. You can feel his gaze lingering, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything. He just lets you be.

After a few moments, you shift slightly, still leaning into Chan’s side. "The TA took power from so many girls at the college," you say, voice quieter now, more measured. "The protest was supposed to be our way of taking it back."

Felix sets the ladle down, turning to you fully. "You did take it back," he says firmly, eyes locked onto yours with unwavering intensity. "You and the whole cheer squad. What you did? That wasn’t just a protest, that was a fucking statement. You stood there, in front of the whole college, in front of him, and you didn’t back down. You didn’t let him fucking win."

Chan hums in agreement, squeezing your shoulder. "You were fucking brave. And I swear to fucking god, Y/N, if I ever hear you try to downplay that again, I will fight you."

You let out a weak laugh, shaking your head. "You’d lose."

"Yeah, probably," Chan admits with a grin. "But I’d still try."

Felix smirks, flipping the last of the rice cakes in the pan. "I’d pay to see that."

Chan pulls away slightly, his warmth lingering as he crouches down to rummage under the sink, grabbing a small tube of bruise cream. "Can I put this on your wrists?" he asks, already uncapping it. "It’ll make them less sore, and it won’t throb as much."

You glance down at your hands, at the faint outlines of bruised handprints that still linger on your skin, a sickening reminder of what happened. You hesitate for only a second before nodding. "Yeah. Okay."

Chan nods, his movements slow and careful as he squeezes a small amount of cream onto his fingers before gently reaching for your wrist. His touch is light, barely there, but the moment his fingertips brush over the bruised skin, you flinch involuntarily. 

"Sorry," Chan murmurs immediately, pulling his hands back slightly. "I’ll be gentler."

"No, it’s okay," you say quickly, shaking your head. "Just keep going."

He nods again, his touch even softer this time, his fingers moving in slow, soothing circles over your skin, rubbing the cream in carefully. His brows are furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a thin line, his whole body language radiating focus.

Felix, in the meantime, grabs nine plates and begins plating breakfast, moving with effortless ease as he finishes up the last of the cooking. He doesn’t comment on what Chan is doing, doesn’t interrupt, he just exists in the moment with you both, the three of you moving in a quiet, comfortable rhythm.

The world outside is still chaotic, still loud, but in here, in this small, warm kitchen, with Chan’s careful hands tending to your bruises and Felix humming softly as he plates food, it feels like, just for a second, you can breathe.

The football coach’s office is stifling, the air thick with barely contained rage as he paces back and forth behind his desk, his fists clenched at his sides, his face red with barely restrained fury. The walls, lined with framed jerseys and old game photographs, seem to close in, the fluorescent lights above buzzing irritatingly as he glares at the two of you standing in front of him.

Yeji stands slightly in front of you, her posture rigid, her chin tilted just high enough to let him know she’s not backing down. You, on the other hand, keep your hands clasped tightly together, wringing them to try and control the anxious energy buzzing through your body, your nails pressing into the soft skin of your palm as you fight the urge to fidget.

The coach slams his fist against the desk, making you jump slightly, but Yeji doesn’t even flinch.

"What the fuck were you two thinking?! You turned the fucking half-time show into a fucking circus! The news caught wind of this bullshit!" he continues, jabbing a finger toward his computer, where the screen is lit up with what is clearly a news article. "You two just fucking ruined the reputation of this football program!"

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste iron and Yeji’s expression doesn’t waver.

"Do you know how fucking humiliating it is to have the school board breathing down my goddamn neck?!" The coach slams his palm against his desk again. "Do you know how many angry fucking calls I’ve had to sit through today?!"

You inhale sharply, keeping your breathing even, focusing on the slight sting of your fingernails pressing into your skin.

"And you know what?" he sneers, leaning forward. "Because of you two and your little fucking stunt, that game was cancelled. The biggest fucking game of the season, gone. Do you know how much money was lost because of that?! Do you fucking understand the damage you two caused?!" 

His voice is booming, his face growing redder and redder with every word but Yeji still doesn’t move, her expression eerily calm despite the fire raging in the coach’s eyes.

"And the fight?" His lips curl into a sneer, his hands slamming onto his desk as he leans over it, glowering at both of you. "That was on you too. If you hadn’t pulled that little fucking stunt, the guys wouldn’t have started swinging, but instead, the whole goddamn field turned into a war zone."

He’s breathing hard now, his nostrils flaring, and for a moment, it almost seems like he’s done. Then he laughs, a short, bitter sound. "And guess fucking what?" he says, his voice dropping to something almost mocking now. "Because of your bullshit? That TA?" He points toward the screen, where a very familiar face is plastered all over the article. "He’s gone. Permanently."

"The media went fucking wild over the protest. The school couldn’t fucking hide it anymore, not with videos spreading like wildfire all over social media, so congratulations," he sneers, "you two just got him fucking fired."

Something burns in your chest, but you keep your mouth shut. Yeji, however, smiles. It’s small. Barely there. But you see it and from the way the coach’s eye twitches, he sees it too.

"You think that’s fucking funny?" he snaps.

Yeji shakes her head. "Not at all, Coach." Her tone is even, unreadable. "I just think it’s interesting that you’re angrier about the game than you are about the reason we protested in the first place."

The tension in the room is suffocating, and you feel the weight of it pressing against your chest, making it harder to breathe. The coach lets out a slow, measured breath before he smiles.

"Effective immediately, the entire cheer squad is suspended from the program.You two might not give a fuck about this school’s reputation," the coach continues, voice laced with venom, "but I do. And I will not have a squad of disruptive, attention-seeking, reckless fucking brats tarnishing this program."

Yeji tilts her chin up higher. "I authorized it," she says, her voice like steel. "As cheer captain, I take full responsibility for the protest." She turns to you then, her gaze gentler, though her posture remains firm. "Y/N has received her scolding. She can go now."

You hesitate but Yeji gives you a pointed look and you swallow thickly, turning on your heel and walk out of the office, your hands still trembling at your sides.

The shouting starts behind you as you walk away from the coach’s office, Yeji’s voice sharp and unwavering as she fires back at him, matching his fury with her own. You can’t make out the words anymore, not properly. It all feels muffled, like you’re underwater, the sounds distorted, blending together into an indistinct roar.

Your heartbeat is loud in your ears, your hands still trembling at your sides as you walk down the hallway, your feet moving on autopilot. The weight of everything presses down on you, coiling tight in your chest, a mixture of emotions threatening to drown you.

You should be angry. You should be furious. The protest was necessary, the fight wasn’t your fault, and yet, here you are, punished for standing up for yourself.

Your fingers curl into fists as you walk, your breathing uneven, your vision unfocused. You barely register the sound of footsteps coming toward you until you bump into someone.

The impact jolts you slightly, knocking you back a step. You blink and find yourself face-to-face with Felix, his usual easygoing expression shifting into something more serious the second he gets a proper look at you. His brows knit together, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady you, gripping your arms gently.

"Angel," he says, his voice soft but concerned. "What’s wrong?"

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get caught in your throat. The emotions, the frustration, the exhaustion, it’s all sitting there, clawing at your ribs, but you can’t seem to get it out.

Felix doesn’t press you for an answer, instead, his grip on your arms tightens slightly, grounding you, and then, without hesitation, he grabs your hand. "Okay," he says firmly. "Come with me."

Your fingers instinctively curl around his, the warmth of his palm a steadying presence against your own. You don’t question it. You don’t ask why. You just nod, letting him lead you away from everything, away from the coach’s office, away from the suffocating weight of the conversation that just took place, away from the overwhelming noise of it all.

As he pulls you down the hallway, you manage to find your voice. "Where are we going?"

Felix glances over his shoulder at you, his lips twitching slightly into a knowing smirk. "Mine and Chan’s favourite place," he says. "I’ll text Chan to meet us there."

You blink at him, your fingers still wrapped around his. "I didn’t know you guys had a secret hideout."

"Well you do now," Felix says with a small grin, squeezing your hand gently before tugging you along, leading you out of the building and into the crisp afternoon air.

Felix leads you down a winding path, away from the bustling campus, past old industrial buildings and empty parking lots, until you reach the outskirts of Seoul. It takes about ten minutes before you arrive at your destination, an old scrapyard, tucked between rusted-out shipping containers and stacks of discarded metal parts. 

The place is huge, sprawling out in all directions, piles of junk reaching up toward the sky. There are abandoned cars, broken appliances, and stacks of old furniture, all left to decay in this forgotten corner of the city.

You stare at it, blinking. "A scrapyard?"

Felix grins, clearly proud of himself. "Yep!"

You look at him, then back at the scrapyard. "Okay, but why?"

Felix tugs you further in, stepping over a pile of rusted pipes, leading you toward an old workbench near the centre of the lot. There, sitting in an open wooden crate, is a collection of metal baseball bats, their surfaces scratched and dented from obvious use.

He gestures to them with a dramatic flourish. "So," he says, "whenever Chan or I are having a really bad day, we come here and we use these."

Your brows knit together as you stare at the bats. "And do what?"

Felix’s grin turns absolutely mischievous. "Break shit! It’s fun! You shout what you’re angry about as you smash things. Helps let it out."

You blink at him. "You just come here and destroy things?"

"Yep!" Felix says cheerfully, reaching down and picking up a bat, resting it against his shoulder like a professional. "Way cheaper than therapy."

You stare at him for a long moment before exhaling a laugh. "This is the most unhinged thing I’ve ever heard."

"And yet," Felix says, tilting his head, "you kinda wanna try it, don’t you?"

You hesitate. You do. There’s something appealing about it, something cathartic about the idea of taking a bat to something breakable and not having to worry about consequences. Before you can respond, the sound of sneakers hitting pavement catches your attention.

Chan jogs into view, slightly out of breath but grinning, his curls bouncing with every step. "Sorry, sorry," he pants, coming to a stop beside Felix. "Had to sneak out of practice before coach finished arguing with Yeji."

Felix snickers. "So what you’re saying is, we need to get this anger session started before he figures out we're gone?"

"Exactly," Chan huffs, running a hand through his damp curls before turning to you. "You ready to get mad?"

You hesitate again, still unsure, but before you can overthink it, Chan hands you a pair of safety goggles. "Gotta protect those pretty eyes," he says with a wink, before putting a pair on his own face.

Felix hands you a bat, practically vibrating with excitement as he grabs one for himself. "Don’t think too much about it," he says. "Just let it out. Watch and learn, angel."

Felix takes a step forward, rolling his shoulders, then grips the bat with both hands. He scans the area, eyes landing on an old television set half-buried under a pile of scrap. "Okay, I’ll start," he says, adjusting his stance. "I fucking hate those Lobos bastards."

Then he swings and the bat connects with the glass screen of the TV, shattering it on impact. The crash echoes through the scrapyard, shards flying, the sheer force of the hit making the TV collapse inward.

"Fuck yes!" Felix cheers, shaking out his arms. "That felt amazing."

Chan grins, stepping up beside him. "My turn."

He grips his own bat, eyes scanning the area before landing on an old car door, slightly unhinged from its frame. "I hate that guys get away with hurting women because they can. Because society lets them." His voice is steady, but there’s a sharp edge to it, something dark simmering beneath his usual calm demeanour.

The impact of Chan’s swing is deafening, the metal bending brutally beneath his strength. The door caves inward, the force of the hit making it rattle against the ground and Chan exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders before turning to you. "Your turn."

You stare at them and then down at the bat in your hands. "I don’t know what to say."

"Say whatever you feel," Felix encourages. "Doesn’t have to be deep. Just let it out."

You take a breath, adjusting your grip on the bat. Your eyes flicker around the scrapyard until you spot an old rusted-out filing cabinet, the metal already warped from years of exposure.

You shift your stance, adjusting your hands on the bat. "I hate that we got punished for the protest," you say hesitantly.

Then, tentatively, you swing. The bat connects with the cabinet, sending a dull clang ringing through the air. The hit isn’t as strong as theirs, but the impact still sends a thrill up your arms, a spark of something electric settling in your chest.

Felix whoops, clapping his hands. "That’s our girl!"

Chan grins. "Again."

Something in you clicks and you adjust your grip, planting your feet more firmly. "I hate that we were the ones who had to stand up for ourselves!"

You swing again, harder this time. The bat crashes against the metal, leaving a dent.

"Yes!" Chan yells.

"I hate that the TA got away with it for so long!"

Another swing. Another impact.

"I hate that people like him exist, that people like him win all the fucking time!"

The bat slams into the cabinet, the force making your arms shake, but you don’t care, you don’t care because suddenly you’re furious, the weight of everything, the anger, the helplessness, the fucking injustice of it all, pouring out of you.

Felix and Chan start joining in, their voices rising with yours, bats swinging, metal crunching, glass shattering. The scrapyard is filled with laughter, with shouts, with the pure catharsis of letting go. By the time you’re done, you’re breathless, your hands shaking not from fear, but from the adrenaline rush of it all.

Felix drops his bat first, turning to you with a huge grin. "Feel better?"

"Yeah," you say, breathless. "I really fucking do."

The three of you stand amidst the wreckage of the scrapyard, your breathing still slightly uneven from the sheer adrenaline of smashing things. The sun hangs lower in the sky now, casting an orange glow over the metal and broken glass scattered around you. Chan and Felix are grinning, eyes bright with excitement, as if they’ve just finished the best therapy session of their lives.

"I think I’m ready to talk about the kisses now."

Felix’s smile lingers for a second before he blinks, tilting his head. "Yeah?"

Chan rubs at the back of his neck, a small smirk playing on his lips, but his expression is carefully neutral. "Okay, let’s talk about it."

You nod, adjusting your stance slightly as you tighten your grip around the bat still resting in your hands. "I just... I want to know what you two were thinking. Because you two are already together, so I don’t-" You hesitate, struggling to find the right words. "I don’t get it?"

Felix immediately steps closer, reaching out to take your hand gently in his. His grip is warm, grounding, as he meets your gaze with nothing but sincerity. "We’re together," he says softly, "but we like you too, sweetheart."

Your brain short circuits and you blink. Then you point at yourself silently, tilting your head to the side, because surely he’s not saying what you think he’s saying.

Felix laughs, his grip tightening around your fingers. "Yes, you," he confirms.

Chan, who has been watching this entire interaction with poorly concealed amusement, lets out a chuckle, shaking his head. "You really had no clue, huh?"

Your lips part slightly, but no words come out. Your thoughts feel scrambled, like someone just hit shuffle on your entire fucking life.

"We’ve been flirting with you for months," Chan continues, crossing his arms over his chest. "But you never realised."

"You were flirting with me?"

Chan snorts. "Oh my God, yes."

Felix grins, nodding along. "Like, blatantly, sweetheart. Like, we could not have made it more obvious if we tried."

You squint at them, your brain scrambling to backtrack, to replay every interaction you’ve had with them over the past few months, trying to see if you missed something.

"Okay, but what does that mean?" you finally ask, shifting your weight slightly. "Like, what are you saying, exactly?"

Felix squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly. "A polycule, a throuple, a triangle of love," he says. "All three of us."

You take a breath. "So is this a date?"

Chan grins, shaking his head. "No."

Felix lets out a soft laugh. "We’d do a date properly, sweetheart."

Chan gestures around at the wrecked scrapyard, raising an eyebrow. "Think of this as, like, a pre-date date."

You blink again and Felix beams. "She’s buffering."

"She is," Chan agrees, amused.

You roll your eyes, finally finding your words again. "I was not buffering, I was just processing!"

"Sure, sure," Felix teases, bumping his shoulder against yours. "So, does that mean we get an actual date?"

"Yeah. I think I’d like that."

The air is warm as you step out of your apartment building, a gentle breeze brushes through your hair, making the loose strands dance around your face as you shift your bag over your shoulder, scanning the parking lot for Chan’s car and there they are.

Leaning casually against Chan’s sleek black car, both of them looking like they walked straight out of a streetwear editorial.

Felix is the first to notice you, his eyes lighting up instantly, a huge grin stretching across his face. He pushes himself off the side of the car, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black-and-white windbreaker jacket. The oversized fit of it drapes over his frame effortlessly, the simple white tank underneath hinting at the toned muscle beneath. His black knee-length shorts give him an almost skater-boy edge, thick socks scrunched up over his chunky black combat boots, the entire look screaming casual but expensive.

Chan follows Felix’s gaze and turns toward you, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He stands, dressed in all black, his fitted ribbed tank top hugging his frame in a way that makes your stomach flutter just a little bit. His black knee-length shorts are loose but structured, the perfect blend of relaxed and stylish, paired effortlessly with his black sneakers. The final touch, a soft grey beanie, rests snug over his curls, making him look even softer than usual, despite the way his muscles flex as he stretches.

Both of them take their time drinking in the sight of you, their eyes flickering over your outfit, the cropped white tank layered under your slouchy grey zip-up hoodie, the way the slightly oversized fit makes you look effortlessly comfortable but still put together. The black flares hug your legs perfectly, the hem grazing the tops of your chunky white sneakers, a simple but stylish choice. And the black ruched shoulder bag resting against your hip completes the look with a subtle touch of chic.

Felix whistles, tilting his head as he gives you a once-over. "Damn, angel," he muses, his eyes sparkling. "You clean up nice."

Chan snorts, rolling his eyes at Felix before stepping forward slightly, his gaze softer, more appreciative. "Told you comfy would suit you," he murmurs, reaching out to tug at the edge of your hoodie playfully. "You look perfect."

Your face warms slightly under their attention, but you mask it with a playful eye roll. "You two act like I showed up in a ballgown or something," you say, crossing your arms.

Felix gasps dramatically. "That would’ve been iconic!"

Chan chuckles, shaking his head. "C’mon, let’s get going." He pulls open the car door, gesturing toward the passenger seat with a teasing grin. "Unless you plan on standing there and letting us admire you all day?"

You huff a laugh, shaking your head as you climb into the car. "You act like you don't admire me all the time anyway."

Felix, climbing into the backseat, laughs loudly. "She’s got a point, Channie."

Chan just grins, starting the engine as Felix settles in behind you, the doors closing with a soft thunk. As the car hums to life, you turn to Chan, raising an eyebrow. "So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?"

Felix leans forward between the seats, resting his chin on your shoulder with a smug grin. "That would ruin the fun, sweetheart."

You groan, slumping back into your seat. "You two are menaces."

Chan laughs, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot. "You’ll love it, trust us."

The car rolls to a smooth stop, and you glance out the window and you see the large, softly lit sign of a luxury spa. The building is sleek and modern, the entrance framed by elegant gold accents, the kind of place that screams relaxation and comfort.

You blink in mild surprise as Chan shifts the car into park, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. He turns to you, his smirk nothing short of pleased with himself. "See? Comfort."

Felix unbuckles his seatbelt, already stretching in the backseat, his grin mischievous. "We figured you could use a break," he says, voice warm. "And let’s be real, we needed one too."

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you lean back against the headrest. "I haven’t been to the spa in ages."

Chan raises an eyebrow. "Then it’s about time we changed that."

You sigh dramatically. "The last time I went, it sucked because Seungmin kept pointing out violations in the law the entire time. He literally made a list."

Felix laughs loudly, shoving open his door. "Of course he did."

You step out of the car, stretching your arms above your head as you take in the building. "Alright, so what’s the plan here? What kind of spa day am I in for?"

Felix steps beside you, throwing an arm over your shoulder, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "We booked a private room just for the three of us," he says, his fingers squeezing your shoulder lightly. "TV, face masks, nice food, the works."

You raise an eyebrow. "No massages?"

Felix smirks, his grip tightening slightly before he leans down to whisper, "Not unless you want me to do it."

Your breath hitches for half a second before you scoff, shoving his arm off of you. "Oh my God, you’re impossible."

"I try my best," Felix says with a wink.

Chan, clearly amused by the entire exchange, nudges you toward the entrance. "Come on, let’s get inside before Felix starts offering his services to random strangers too."

Felix places a hand over his chest dramatically, gasping in mock offence. "I would never-"

"You absolutely would," you and Chan say at the exact same time.

Felix pouts as he follows you both inside. "You guys have no faith in me."

The moment you step inside the spa, the air changes, it’s warm and inviting, carrying the faintest scent of lavender and chamomile, the kind of atmosphere that immediately makes your muscles loosen.

 The reception area is sleek and minimalist, the lighting soft, the furniture unreasonably comfortable-looking. There’s a quietness to the space, a peaceful hum that settles deep in your chest, already melting away the tension you hadn’t even realized you were still carrying.

Felix is practically buzzing beside you, clearly excited about this whole plan. "See, angel? No stress. No noise. Just us, hiding from the frat, doing nothing for a few hours."

You huff a laugh, already feeling yourself relax at the idea. "So basically, we’re having a quiet, lowkey movie day with face masks and food, where the rest of the frat can’t find us?"

Chan nods, his smirk widening slightly as he pushes open the door to the private room with Bang on the door. "Exactly."

You grin, looking between the two of them. "I love it."

The private room at the spa is stupidly nice, plush seating, a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, dim lighting that makes everything feel way more expensive than it probably is. The air smells like fresh linen and essential oils, something soft and calming, and the walls are lined with neatly arranged trays filled with skin-care products, towels, and refreshments. There’s even a massive sofa with fluffy blankets thrown over the back, making it perfect for sinking into and never leaving.

As soon as you step inside, Felix throws his arms up with a grin. "Hell yeah, private luxury, baby!"

Chan shakes his head, but you can see the fond smile tugging at his lips as he walks over to the TV, grabbing the remote. "Alright, what are we feeling? Classic Disney or some random bullshit?"

Felix, without missing a beat, plops down onto the sofa and stretches out dramatically. "Classic Disney, obviously."

You smirk, kicking off your sneakers near the door before making your way toward him. "You say that like you don’t always pick Disney movies when you’re hungover."

"And I stand by it," Felix says, dead serious. "Disney movies heal people, angel. It’s science."

Chan hums in agreement, scrolling through the options before clicking on Beauty and the Beast. "Perfect."

You grin, flopping down beside Felix as he immediately grabs one of the spa’s fluffy blankets, throwing it over both of your laps. Chan joins you a second later, sighing as he stretches his legs out as Felix reaches over to poke your side. "Alright, before we get too comfy, we’re doing face masks."

You brighten up immediately. "Oh, hell yes."

"But-" Chan starts.

"No buts," Felix cuts him off, sitting up. "We’re pampering you tonight, Channie. Don’t fight it."

Chan groans. "Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?"

Felix ignores him, already reaching for one of the spa’s pre-packaged clay mask powders. You scoot closer, peering at the instructions before Felix unceremoniously dumps the powder into a bowl.

"How much water does it need?" you ask.

Felix shrugs. "Eh, I’ll just eyeball it."

Chan immediately lifts his head. "Wait-"

Too late. Felix dumps an arbitrary amount of water into the bowl, the mixture immediately turning into something that looks more like thin oatmeal than a face mask.

"Looks… fine?" you say.

Felix nods. "Yeah, totally fine."

Chan squints at you both. "It’s fucking liquid."

"Shhh," Felix hushes him, grabbing a brush and stirring. "It’s gonna be great."

Chan sighs like he knows this is going to go terribly, but still sits up obediently, letting you and Felix hover over him as you both dip brushes into the bowl of sludge.

You bite your lip, trying so hard not to laugh as you swipe the mask onto Chan’s forehead. It immediately starts sliding down toward his eyebrow.

"Oh my god," you whisper. "It’s so bad."

Felix snorts, painting a thick, gloopy streak down Chan’s cheek, only for it to drip toward his jaw. "It’s art, angel. Let it happen."

Chan stays painfully still as you and Felix struggle to contain your laughter, the mask refusing to stick properly to his skin. Then Felix grabs the cucumber slices from the refreshments tray and just starts slapping them onto Chan’s face.

"There we go," Felix says, deadpan. "Perfect."

Chan sits there stoically, his entire face covered in dripping face mask and randomly placed cucumber slices, looking like he’s reevaluating all of his life choices.

"You two are actual menaces," he says flatly.

Felix beams. "Thank you."

You wipe tears from your eyes, your stomach hurting from laughing so hard. "It’s a look, honestly."

"I hate both of you," Chan mutters, though he doesn’t move to wipe any of it off.

Felix claps his hands together. "Alright, now it’s our turn."

You and Felix opt for sheet masks instead, much safer than the crime you just committed on Chan’s face. The cool fabric presses against your skin as you smooth the mask over your features, the slight tingle from the serum oddly soothing.

Felix leans back, sighing happily. "Skincare gods, bless me tonight."

Chan, who still has a single cucumber slice hanging off his cheek, just shakes his head. "You two better not fucking take pictures."

"No promises," Felix replies immediately.

You giggle, adjusting your sheet mask before Felix suddenly perks up, his eyes landing on a small manicure kit near the refreshments table.

"Oh? Oh."

"What?" you ask, following his gaze.

Felix grins, grabbing the small kit and waving it in front of your face. "I’m doing your nails, angel."

Your brows lift. "Are you even good at it?"

"Excuse me," Felix gasps, placing a hand to his chest like you deeply offended him. "I have skills, Y/N. Let me prove myself."

You glance at Chan, who is still sitting there with cucumber chaos on his face, watching the two of you with his arms crossed. "Should I trust him?"

Chan shrugs. "No idea. This is new information to me."

Felix pouts. "You doubt me?"

"Absolutely," you tease.

Felix huffs but still gently grabs your hands, pulling them into his lap. "Doubt all you want, sweetheart. You’ll be thanking me when I make these nails look amazing."

You smile, letting him file and buff your nails, the repetitive motion oddly calming.

Chan, still stuck in his gloopy mask, watches silently, his head tilted slightly as he listens to you and Felix giggle at each other. You catch the way his lips quirk slightly at the corners, the affection in his gaze as he watches Felix compliment you nonstop while painting your nails.

"This color matches your hair," Felix hums, carefully brushing on the polish. "You’re gonna look so fucking cute."

You roll your eyes but grin, watching the polish glisten under the dim lighting. "I’ll admit, you’re not bad at this."

"Told you," Felix sing-songs, sticking his tongue out.

Chan exhales a soft laugh, adjusting the cucumber slice barely hanging onto his nose. "I can’t believe this is my life."

"You love it, don’t lie."

Felix finishes up, blowing lightly over your nails before beaming at you. "Perfect. My best work yet."

You wiggle your fingers, admiring them. "Okay, I kinda love them."

"Told you," Felix says smugly.

An hour later, the three of you are completely settled into the plush sofa, tangled up in the kind of warmth that comes from being full, comfortable, and undeniably spoiled. The spa staff have been slipping in and out quietly, refilling plates with fresh fruit, delicate pastries, and warm, fragrant tea that you’re sure costs more than your monthly grocery bill.

The TV now plays Peter Pan, the familiar scenes casting a soft glow over the dimly lit room. It feels perfect, the kind of peace you never realized you needed until you were right here, living in it.

Felix is pressed against one side of you, his body warm beneath the fluffy blanket you’re sharing, fingers idly tracing patterns against your knee. Chan is on the other side, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the occasional brush of his fingertips against your shoulder sending tiny sparks up your spine. All of you have matching nail polish now, Felix’s idea, obviously. His nails, Chan’s nails, your nails, all a perfect glossy shade that matches the soft lavender tones in your hair.

Felix tilts his head toward you, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. "So how did we do?"

You hum thoughtfully, sipping your tea, dragging out the moment just to make them wait for it. "Well," you start, setting your cup down carefully. "Neither of you has asked me for a lock of my hair yet, so already, you’re doing better than my worst date ever."

Chan snorts, shaking his head. "No fucking way."

"Swear to God," you say, solemnly. "Dude just straight-up looked me in the eyes and asked if he could keep a piece of me like I was a goddamn Victorian ghost bride."

Felix wheezes, his entire body shaking against yours. "Angel, what the fuck?"

"You’re telling me!" you exclaim, throwing a hand up. "And I still had to sit through the rest of that meal because he drove us there and I didn’t want to die walking home."

Chan sighs dramatically, shaking his head. "This is why we’re never letting you date people we haven’t pre-approved."

Felix hums in agreement. "Exactly. We’re your new dating consultants."

"Or," Chan adds smoothly, his fingers brushing lightly against the bare skin of your forearm, "you just date us instead."

You glance between them. Felix, his bright mischievous gaze locked onto yours, his fingers still tracing gentle lines against your knee. Chan, steady and certain, looking at you with something deep, something that makes your heart skip a little too fast.

Felix licks his lips. "Can we kiss you?"

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening around the blanket without meaning to and you nod. Chan chuckles, tilting his head. "You better remember this time."

Felix leans in first, closing the space between you so smoothly that it feels seamless, like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. His lips brush over yours, gentle at first, almost teasing, before he deepens it, tilting his head to slot against you more perfectly.

His lips are soft, slightly sweet from the tea, moving against yours with a warmth that sends a spark straight through your body. His fingers slide up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek as he takes his time, savoring the kiss like he never wants it to end.

The second Felix pulls away slightly, Chan is there, his lips pressing to yours in an entirely different way, firmer, more certain, like he’s been dying to do this. His fingers slip beneath your chin, tilting your head just right so he can kiss you deeper, letting out a quiet hum of satisfaction as he feels you melt against him.

Felix is still there, still watching, his breath slightly uneven as he lingers close, his forehead brushing against yours when Chan finally pulls away. For a second, you’re just breathing, lips tingling, your heart hammering so hard you’re surprised they can’t hear it.

Then Felix grins, tilting his head. "One more."

And then he’s kissing Chan, right in front of you, moving into him so smoothly that it feels natural, like it’s something they’ve done a thousand times before which they have. Chan hums against his lips, his hand sliding up into Felix’s hair, pulling him in closer as he tilts his head. Your breath catches, eyes locked onto the way Felix sighs softly against Chan’s mouth, the way their lips move together in sync, the way they fit.

Felix pulls away first, his lips pink, his eyes still half-lidded as he turns back to you. "Now you."

You don’t even know who kisses who next, because the next thing you know, Felix’s fingers are threading through your hair as he tugs you back in, his mouth slotting perfectly against yours as you sigh into the kiss.

Chan laughs softly against your jaw before pressing kisses there too, his lips brushing over your skin, trailing soft, teasing pecks down your neck. Felix nips at your lower lip before pulling away, pressing his forehead to yours as he exhales a soft laugh. "You definitely remember this time, right?"

You let out a breathless giggle, feeling a little dizzy from the warmth of them both surrounding you. "I think it’s burned into my brain forever."

"Good," Chan murmurs, nudging his nose against your temple before pressing a slow, deliberate kiss there.

Felix sighs happily, nuzzling into your other side. "We should do this more often."

You laugh, tilting your head slightly to bump against his. "What, make out?"

"Yes," Felix replies immediately.

"Yes," Chan agrees.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. "You two are the worst."

"And yet," Felix teases, his fingers slipping beneath your hoodie to brush against your waist, "here you are."

Chan hums in agreement, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist, tugging you even closer. "And you’re not running away."

"Nope," you say, smiling to yourself as you rest your head against Chan’s shoulder, Felix’s arm still wrapped around your middle. "Not running at all."

Chan presses a final kiss against the top of your head before letting out a satisfied sigh. "Yeah. I think this date went pretty well."

Felix grins. "Same time next week?"

"Sounds perfect."

The air is thick with tension and the undeniable hum of adrenaline as the half-time whistle echoes through the field. The Miroh Maniacs and the Cle Cobras break away from the first half of the game, sweat dripping down their faces, jerseys clinging to their bodies from the intensity of the match. The Maniacs have been dominating the field, outrunning and outplaying the Cobras at nearly every turn, and the scoreboard reflects that perfectly, Miroh sitting comfortably with a twelve-point lead.

The bleachers are alive with roaring cheers, students decked out in Maniacs’ red and black, waving banners and throwing their arms in the air as the players jog to the sidelines for a much-needed water break.

You, however, are not down on the track with your team, shaking pom-poms and hyping up the crowd like you should be. Instead, you and the rest of the suspended cheer squad are sitting on the front row of the bleachers, your legs casually crossed over one another, exuding pure nonchalance despite the fact that you’re not technically supposed to be here.

Your red ribbed turtleneck sweater fits snugly, hugging your torso in a way that makes you feel both comfortable and a little bit powerful. The black pleated mini skirt you paired it with barely brushes mid-thigh, but the real finishing touch to your outfit is the black bomber jacket draped over your shoulders, Chan’s jacket, the faint scent of his cologne still lingering in the fabric. You tug it around yourself, adjusting the sleeves slightly as you lean back, shifting your black rectangular sunglasses higher onto the bridge of your nose.

Beside you, Yeji is practically vibrating in place, her fingers tapping against the metal bleachers, her body buzzing with anticipation. "How much longer?" she mutters under her breath.

You smile, shifting slightly as you glance toward the centre of the field. "Should be any second now."

None of the other cheerleaders know why the two of you are waiting so eagerly, why you’re both sitting there grinning like you own the place, practically giddy despite your suspension. But they’re about to find out.

Lia, who’s seated a few spots down, narrows her eyes suspiciously as she leans forward. "Alright, what the fuck are you two plotting?"

Yuna, her brows furrowed, leans in next to her. "Yeah, you’re acting way too smug for two people who are technically banned from cheering right now."

Ryujin crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head as she watches you both closely. "What the fuck are you hiding?"

You and Yeji exchange one glance and then, simultaneously, you grin as the opening beats of Queencard by (G)I-DLE explode through the field speakers.

A ripple of confusion spreads through the crowd, heads snapping toward the field as the Miroh Maniacs, Chan, Felix, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jisung, Seungmin, Jeongin and the rest of the team, come jogging out of the changing rooms and they’re not in their usual jerseys. They’re in cheerleading uniforms. The same red and black skirts, the same cropped tops with MIROH MANIACS emblazoned across the front, the same pom-poms clutched in their hands. And then they start dancing.

Yeji gasps beside you, slapping your arm as the entire squad erupts into laughter, screams of shock and delight echoing across the front row of the bleachers.

"NO. FUCKING. WAY." Ryujin cackles, doubling over. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?"

Lia shrieks, gripping Yuna’s wrist as the two of them lose their minds, their laughter barely heard over the crowd that is absolutely eating this up. You knew this was happening, you and Yeji personally helped teach them the choreography in secret, but seeing it now, in full effect, is something else entirely.

Chan, smirking, perfectly in sync with the rest of the team, spins on his feet before dropping low, his movements sharp and fluid, perfectly timed with Felix, who is on his left.

Felix, his grin shining brighter than the fucking sun, shakes his pom-poms before tossing them up dramatically, winking straight at you. You laugh, doubling over as Yeji clutches her stomach, shaking with laughter.

"Oh my GOD," you giggle, covering your mouth. "They’re actually doing it! They’re fucking doing it!"

The Miroh Maniacs execute every single move with alarming accuracy, hitting each step of the routine flawlessly, their footwork sharp, their hip rolls too precise for comfort.

"THEY’RE SO GOOD," Yuna screeches, hands clutching her cheeks. "WHY ARE THEY SO GOOD?"

"This was Chan and Felix’s idea," Yeji gasps out, still laughing, barely able to breathe. "*They wanted to do it for us, for you, especially."

Your heart flutters wildly at that, but you barely have time to process it before: "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS BULLSHIT?!"

The coach’s voice explodes from the sidelines, his face turning an alarming shade of red, his arms flailing wildly as he marches up and down the field. "WHO THE FUCK APPROVED THIS?! THIS IS A FOOTBALL GAME, NOT A GODDAMN CIRCUS!"

You burst out laughing, your whole body shaking as you watch the coach lose his absolute mind, veins popping in his neck, hands thrown in the air like he’s praying for patience. "LEE MINHO, STOP FUCKING GRINDING ON YOUR TEAMMATES AND PLAY FOOTBALL!"

Minho, who is currently rolling his hips like he was born to do this, smirks at the coach and winks. "Sorry, Coach! Gotta keep my form tight!"

"STOP WINKING, YOU MENACE-"

Before the coach can fully combust, the entire field erupts in a deafening scream as Jisung, wild-eyed and completely unhinged, does a quick spin, drops low, then BENDS OVER and flips his skirt up, revealing a pair of lacy red panties.

"OH MY GOD," Lia shrieks, practically collapsing against Yuna. "WHAT THE FUCK IS HE WEARING?!"

"WHY DIDN’T WE KNOW ABOUT THIS?!" Ryujin screams, clutching onto your jacket.

The crowd is going insane, whistling and whooping as the Cle Cobras are staring in pure disbelief, some of them doubled over, others just straight-up wheezing on the field.

Jisung, still bent over, ass on full display, smacks his own ass and blows a kiss to the crowd.

"HAN JISUNG, YOU ARE DONE, YOU HEAR ME?! DONE-"

"You can’t stop me, Coach," Jisung purrs, flipping his skirt back down. "I was born to be a star."

You are crying, tears are streaming down your face, your lungs giving out from how hard you’re laughing. And then Chan and Felix, grinning like absolute shitheads, blow you kisses. You barely manage to catch your breath before you instinctively blow one back.

Yeji gasps beside you, her mouth falling open. "NO!"

You blink. "What?"

"YOU SNAGGED CHAN AND FELIX?!" Yeji demands, her eyes wide with betrayal.

You laugh, running a hand through your hair. "I mean, I’m not their girlfriend yet but pretty much?"

Ryujin groans, throwing her head back. "Fucking FINALLY."

"Wait, hold on, hold on-" Yuna waves her hands wildly, her eyes darting between you and the two men who are still watching you from the field, clearly entertained by your reaction. "When the fuck did this happen?!"

"I KNEW SOMETHING WAS UP," Lia gasps, hitting Ryujin’s arm. "I KNEW IT!"

Before you can answer, the entire squad suddenly stills, eyes snapping back to the field. Because Minho is now bent over in front of Jisung and Jisung is pretending to spank him and Yeji freezes. "...We didn’t teach them that, right?"

You tilt your head, watching Minho throw a wink over his shoulder as Jisung dramatically smacks the air behind him. "No," you say, grinning. "But I love it."

And as the crowd erupts once more, the Miroh Maniacs fully committed to their performance, the coach on the verge of a stroke, you think, that this might just be the best halftime show you’ve ever seen.

The second half of the game is a bloodbath. Whatever little morale the Cle Cobras had left after that halftime show is utterly destroyed by the time the whistle blows again. The Miroh Maniacs hit the field running, and it’s clear they have no intention of letting up.

Chan, back in his usual jersey, is all business, barking out plays, directing his team with sharp, decisive gestures. Felix moves lightning-fast across the field, agile and lethal, outmanoeuvring every single defender that tries to get in his way. Minho and Changbin are unstoppable, bulldozing through the Cobras' offence like they weren’t even there.

Hyunjin, graceful and calculated, dances across the field with the ball, spinning out of reach from grasping hands before launching a perfect pass to Jeongin, who slams it home into the end zone.

The crowd erupts. The Cle Cobras are absolutely done. By the time the final whistle finally sounds, the scoreboard is practically mocking them: Miroh Maniacs 42 - Cle Cobras 10

The crowd explodes in cheers, deafening, the entire student section losing their minds as the Maniacs gather at the centre of the field, whooping and shouting, piling onto each other in a sweaty, exhausted but exhilarated heap.

You’re already moving, practically hopping down from the front row of the bleachers as the team trots off the field, jerseys soaked with sweat, hair disheveled, their energy still thrumming with the high of their victory.

Chan and Felix are near the front, pulling at their jerseys to wipe the sweat off their faces, their skin flushed and shining under the bright field lights. 

You grin, jogging over to meet them. "Not bad, Maniacs."

Chan snorts, throwing an arm over your shoulders as soon as you reach him, pressing a grossly sweaty kiss to your temple. "Not bad?"

"Absolutely not bad," Felix corrects, tugging at the collar of his jersey, trying to get some airflow. "We annihilated them, angel."

"True," you concede, letting them pull you in between them as they catch their breath. "Still doesn’t change the fact that Jisung stole the whole fucking show."

From the sidelines, where he’s chugging a bottle of water, Jisung whoops loudly, pumping a fist in the air. "Damn right, I did!"

Chan laughs, shaking his head. "I’m never letting him live that down."

"I don’t think any of us are," you agree. "That shit is going down in college history."

Felix grins, bumping his shoulder against yours. "That aside-" he starts, his voice slipping into something smoother, something teasing. "Did we dance good enough to become your boyfriends officially?"

You pretend to think about it, tapping your chin, humming dramatically. "Mmmm... I dunno..."

"Angel," Felix whines, leaning in closer, pouting like he’s actually suffering. "Don’t do this to us."

Chan huffs, reaching over to poke your cheek. "We put our bodies on the line for that performance, Y/N."

"We learned how to twerk," Felix deadpans, lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. "For you."

You snort, finally turning to face them fully. "Fine, fine," you grin, throwing up your hands in mock defeat. "You pass. You’re my boyfriends now."

Before you can even process what’s happening, Chan and Felix lunge. Felix grabs your face, his hands warm, his grin radiant as he presses his lips to yours, soft, but giddy, like he can’t contain how fucking happy he is. The second he pulls away, Chan’s there, his hands firm on your waist as he tilts your chin up, kissing you with a little more pressure, a little more certainty, like he’s staking his claim.

When he pulls back, Felix giggling into his shoulder, you’re breathless, warmth blooming in your entire body.

"YOU’RE WELCOME!"

The three of you turn to see Jeongin, still sweaty and grinning like a little shit, has his hands cupped around his mouth, shouting from the sidelines. You burst into laughter, still pressed between Felix and Chan, who are both shaking their heads in exasperation.

"Little bastard," Chan mutters under his breath, but there’s nothing but fondness in his tone.

Felix sighs dreamily, leaning his head against your shoulder. "He really does deserve some credit."

"Only some," you grin, tilting your head slightly so Felix can press a kiss to your temple.

Chan snorts. "Disgusting."

"Jealous?" Felix smirks, lifting his head just enough to flutter his lashes.

"Deeply," Chan says flatly before tugging you back into him, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I call next kiss, fuck off."

Felix laughs, wrapping his arms around both of you as the team celebrates in the background, as the crowd cheers, as the stadium lights shine down and for the first time in forever, everything feels exactly the way it’s meant to be.

A/N: This draft has been sitting stewing for nearly two months because I got stuck on the plot after the scene in the coach's office but multiple anon requests for Chanlix made me reopen the document again and get to work <3 A/N 2: Also please look at my poll and answer so you have a say in what you see next

Requested by: multiple anons

Bang Chan Taglist: @0haerireah0

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1

Proofread by the lovely @eastjonowhere

[eeerrrrewsd]

A Love That Can’t Be Named

Part 2

Bruce didn’t move for a long time after you left.

The space you had occupied still carried the warmth of your presence, but it was fading, just like everything else good in his life. Just like you.

And yet, he had let you go.

Of course, he had.

Because what did you expect?

Bruce Wayne did not get to have good things.

Bruce Wayne did not get to keep the people who mattered.

And you? You mattered too much.

He exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple as if the pressure might somehow lessen the ache in his chest. It didn’t. He knew it wouldn’t.

Alfred’s voice drifted in from the doorway, quiet, unimposing. “That went well, I presume.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Alfred sighed, stepping forward, his usual patience laced with something almost reproachful. “You know, sir, for someone as intelligent as you, you have a truly remarkable ability to be an idiot.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “Alfred—”

“No,” Alfred cut in, firm. “No excuses. No brooding deflections. You hurt her, and for what?”

Bruce’s fingers curled into his palm. He knew why.

Because she made him weak.

Because she saw him, and Bruce wasn’t sure which part was more terrifying—the fact that she could, or the fact that she still wanted him anyway.

Or maybe it was the fact that he wanted her, too.

That he had always wanted her.

But he couldn’t have her.

Didn’t she understand that?

Didn’t she see that every time she looked at him with those damn knowing eyes, every time she stayed, despite every cold push and every hard-edged word meant to drive her away?

He wanted her to be safe.

And loving Bruce Wayne? That was anything but safe.

Alfred shook his head, something almost pitying in his expression. “One day, she’s not going to come back.”

Bruce exhaled sharply. He already knew that.

The problem was, he wasn’t sure what was worse: the thought of losing her, or the thought that he might already have.

You weren’t sure how long you wandered the city after storming out of Wayne Manor, but by the time you finally made it back to your place, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin.

The fight—if you could even call it that—kept replaying in your head.

Bruce’s blank expression. His steady, even tone. The way he had looked at you like you were nothing.

But you weren’t stupid.

You had seen the way his hands twitched. Had heard the slight hitch in his breath. Had felt the sharp, almost desperate energy between you both—an energy that had been there for months, thrumming beneath the surface, always just on the edge of too much.

Bruce wanted you.

He cared.

You knew he did.

But he would rather burn alive than admit it.

And that? That made your heart ache in ways you weren’t sure you could fix.

You sank onto your couch, head falling back against the cushions, eyes closing against the familiar sting of frustrated tears.

Maybe this was your fault.

Maybe you should’ve never let yourself believe that Bruce Wayne would ever let himself love you.

Maybe you should’ve never loved him in the first place.

A sharp knock at your door made you jolt upright.

Your stomach twisted.

For a second, a ridiculous second, you let yourself hope.

But when you swung the door open, it wasn’t Bruce standing there.

It was Selina Kyle.

She raised an eyebrow at your expression. “Did I interrupt something dramatic?”

You swallowed hard, stepping aside. “Just my pride, probably.”

Selina hummed, walking inside with the casual confidence of someone who knew she belonged anywhere she went. She took one look at you and sighed.

“Let me guess. Tall, dark, and brooding said something stupid?”

You let out a breathy laugh, bitter and exhausted. “He’s a real poet, that one.”

Selina perched on the arm of your couch, studying you with those sharp, feline eyes. Then, she smirked.

“You know, it drives him insane that he loves you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the casual ease with which she said it. “Excuse me?”

She leaned in, almost conspiratorial. “Oh, come on. You think I haven’t noticed the way he watches you? The way he never lets his guard down, except when you’re around?”

Your breath hitched.

No.

You knew it.

But hearing someone else say it made it feel… real.

Selina tilted her head, smirking. “So? What are you gonna do about it?”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into your palms.

The real question was, what was Bruce going to do?

And how much longer were you willing to wait for him to figure it out?

Bruce was standing on the rooftop across from your apartment, watching as Selina leaned in to whisper something to you.

He couldn’t hear what she said.

Didn’t need to.

Because he saw the way your expression changed.

Saw the way you stiffened, lips parting slightly as if the words had unraveled you.

Bruce’s throat tightened.

He had made a mistake.

He had known it the second you walked away.

And now?

Now, he was running out of time to fix it.

Part1

[hades-in-bloom]

On Nights Like These

Vergil Sparda x Reader

summary: after running away night after night, Vergil finally forgets to leave.

warnings & contents: fluff with a teeny-tiny assumption of spice happening behind the scenes; seriously, mostly cuddling; Vergil is—well—vergiling (this man be blessed); turned out more poetic than I thought it would; could be age gap, could be none; the reader could be any gender; emotionally mature reader though; no mentions of y/n

a/n: h-hi! It’s been a while. I got myself into writing an actual book, so that’s been happening (aside from other life stuff). In the meantime this silly man has been making me lose my mind, so I had to come back, even for a blurb. As always, proceed at your own risk. Love y’all. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

***

Vergil never stays the night.

He’s already irritated enough for that he feels compelled to come over again. The long-buried sensation of another's touch sends his mind into a frenzy; at first, he resents it, feeling as though he’s losing control. It gnaws at him from within, breaking through the iron-clad defences he’s built for himself since he was a kid.

He’s a survivor, and then he’s the Alpha and the Omega. He was there at the beginning, and he will be there at the end, no matter the cost.

He’s so accustomed to being haunted for decades, whether it’s his past or ambitions, so when you offer him a safe haven in your embrace, his brain short-circuits. It feels both wrong and sweet, like forbidden fruit. He’s been alone for so long, consumed by his feral pursuit of power, so the only true horror for him is the one of depending on anyone but himself. He knows that your touch could shatter every belief he clings to, yet he reaches for it anyway, surrendering to the overwhelming urge to connect and explore.

On nights like these, he lies beside you, a mix of vulnerability and yearning in his eyes, resorting to desperate measures to reclaim his power when all else feels futile.

On nights like these, his touch is rough and demanding—his way of asserting control over you when he feels utterly powerless. He’s lost and frustrated, and it shows in every movement, in the way he touches you, worships you, and uses you.

You are weak—in his eyes, just a human with all the needs and desires he has tried to cast aside over the years. He’s better than that. He’s better than you.

Yet while he sees you as weak, in his eyes, you are far from powerless. The influence you have over him drives him mad, and time and again, he succumbs while punishing you both for the vulnerabilities you share.

On nights like these, he takes so much from you, but it doesn’t bother you—he gives in return plenty.

And then, on nights like these, he runs. As soon as you fall asleep, he slips away, leaving you to awaken in an empty bed. You never know when he’ll return, yet deep down, you know he will—sooner or later.

Until, on one of those nights, he forgets to leave at all. When you wake at dawn, his head rests on your chest, and his breathing is steady and calm. One of his arms curls around your waist, and in that moment, he looks almost angelic despite his demon blood. It makes you uneasy; you’ve never seen him so trusting before. For a brief second, it’s your mind that is plagued with the thought of running.

He shifts in his slumber, as if your thoughts of abandoning him have disturbed his nightmares. A frown creases his brow as he barely opens his eyes. Then his eyes widen in fear as he realises what he's done.

He’s succumbed. He always knew you would be his ruin, and now it has happened—tonight.

Tonight, you gently brush your fingers through his hair, keeping his head resting on your chest. Tonight, no one is running away.

“Sleep, Vergil,” you whisper. It’s not an ask—an order. A clear-cut command despite your gentle touch and voice. A faint smile graces your lips as you close your eyes, drifting back into blissful dream of your own.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you give him a promise.

He scoffs, but chooses not to protest as he closes his eyes once more. Tonight, he’s weary from running; tonight, he succumbs.

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Haunted- Tom Riddle "x" Reader-oneshot

Summary; Tom uses the basilisk to make his first Horcrux-except something else latches onto his diary, and then-to himself.

warnings; murder, death, vengeful sprit behavior, blood, horror images. meh 2nd half plot.

i like the first half of this fic better then the 2nd,but i ran out of ideas halfway through and just went through the story. i wanted this to be more of a...haunted horror fic? but also funny because ghost fucking with Tom??? idk enjoy?

=

When Tom made his first Horcrux, the diary-using the basilisk to kill a girl who’d been crying in the girls bathroom. It wasn’t that Myrtle girl like Tom planned-it was some random girl, wearing a Slytherin tie-but that didn’t matter, Tom successfully got away with it and all he needed to do was formally split his soul to put into his diary.

Except he couldn’t, when he tried, it was like something was already inside it-like something had already put its soul into his diary.

He was confused-his diary was from a muggle supply shop-how could it have a soul in it already??

Tom huffed to himself, glaring down at his diary. It was a secondhand diary anyway, stupid muggle things-stupid lack of funds. He placed his soul back inside him, nearly throwing up at the feeling. He cleaned himself of the pitch-black potion and put it away for later use-glaring at his diary again.

He picked it up, flipping through it to look at his past entries.

He found the pages about the night he killed the girl-only to find them scribbled over, in writing he never put.

WHY?

That was the only word that was scribbled over his entries in scratchy writing, Tom frowned, snapping his diary closed, feeling slightly uneasy.

Then he tossed his book away, keeping it hidden beneath his bed until he could find use for it again.

The next day, he spotted a girl staring at him from far away, others not really paying attention to her, and…her eyes were odd. They were black with a tiny white dot staring at him-black tears going down her face. His brow furrowed, staring back at her. “what are you staring at?” his follower Nott asked, looking to where Tom was staring.

But saw nothing.

He said as such and Tom swallowed, blinking and the girl was gone. It seemed he had a ghost on his hands, the girl he’d murdered with the basilisk, instead of being a roaming ghost-she’d attached to him, to his diary.

He wasn’t scared, no, he was never scared-not since he was young. But he was frustrated. Frustrated at another set back, frustrated this girl was clinging to him-preventing him from making his first Horcrux.

So he found an easy exorcism spell-preformed it on his diary. It seemed to work, as the scribbled words on the pages disappeared. He got out the pitch-black potion again, took out his soul-and was about to put it in his diary when two deathly pale ghostly hands gripped his wrists, coming from behind him-phasing through his shoulders.

He was yanked back-he let out a yelp as he hit the floor of the chamber of secrets, his head starting to pound as heat built in his nose. He couldn’t move his arms, instead they moved against his will-putting his soul back inside him forcefully.

He tore his eyes opened-breath catching as he saw the girl, black tears dripping down onto his face-staining it-her beady white dot eyes staring down at him. Wide. Unblinking.

Angry.

Tom swallowed hard, releasing his grip on his soul-and the girls ghostly painful grip faded too. She’d once more prevented him from making his horcrux-except this time, instead of possessing his diary-she’d physically stopped him. She’d attached her soul to his.

She knew he killed her, she’d seen him before she died-saw him order the basilisk to murder her. She was angry, confused, vengeful.

And Tom knew then and there that he’d never be rid of her.

-

Rosier noticed Tom wasn’t doing to well these days, especially after summer ended, and everyone returned for their next/final year. Tom was head boy now, but he was distracted, looking at things that others couldn’t see, sometimes speaking to something that wasn’t there. His followers grew concerned, seeing the dark circles growing under Tom’s eye, the way his hair became less-tamed as weeks went on.

“Tom-my lord-are you alright?” Nott asked Tom-who sat quietly at the library table they were studying at. Tom remained quiet, his eyes locked onto his essay, others unaware of the invasive presence hovering just behind him.

It was the girl, her name was, or had been, (y/n).  She didn’t speak to Tom, not once, only staring at him. She didn’t glare, she didn’t sneer, she only stared. Blank and angry.

Her black tears that dripped down her face had long stained his uniform and skin-but no one else could see them. He couldn’t wash them out, couldn’t charm anything clean-the stains would remain, always there, like acid on his clothes and skin-burning him with every new drop.

He felt like he was losing his mind.

She made him lose sleep. Nightmares of death plaguing him every night, of being killed by the basilisk, dying alone in a ditch, killed by a muggle serial killer, left alone in a forest to starve, hit by a car and left to bleed to death, unable to move as a train sped towards him.

Each nightmare-all of his very worst fear-left him bolting up at night, screaming-tears streaming down his face, only to be met with the blank angry stare of (y/n), making him jolt back-sometimes falling out of his bed, sometimes smacking against his headboard.

They’d stare at each other, for what felt like hours. She blended into the darkness of his room-sometimes only her eyes visible. “Leave me alone!” Tom screamed, it had been months after she’d begun to haunt him. “Just-go away! Why are you still here?!”

She got into his face, her mouth opening-blood-black and putrid-dripped out, staining her chin, teeth, his shirt as it splattered on him. He felt like puking, turning his face away as an inhuman pain filled scream came from her, making his ears ring and nausea fill his throat.

“Stop!” Tom screamed-covering his ears, clenching his eyes shut. “Stop stop! I’m sorry-I’m sorry! You weren’t the one I meant to kill! It was meant to be someone else-just stop!”

The non-apology, without any true remorse, meant nothing to (y/n). for the rest of the night she kept hovering over him, her face only inches away, her black blood dripping onto his face.

He didn’t get any more sleep that night.

-

During winter break of his 7th year, he went back to London-took a train to Little Hangleton, and met his uncle. A putrid man, a vile thing that was deformed from years of incestual breeding. He could only imagine that if his mother hadn’t bred with his father, Tom Riddle, the thing in front of him would’ve been his dad.

It was a disgusting thought, and Tom could only feel slightly grateful for a muggle man being his father, since he gave Tom his dashing looks. He stole his uncle's wand and the gaunt ring, aiming to make the ring his first Horcrux now that his diary had been prevented from being made one by (y/n).

She was still there, hovering behind him, following him everywhere, staring silently. She followed him to his fathers, his family manor. It was old and decaying, the rich muggle family clearly not carrying enough to put money into repairing it. Tom had heard as he traveled through the town about the Riddle family-cruel uncaring people, who were the ‘lords’ of the town, who didn’t help anyone in need and kept all their money to themselves, dreadfully paying the taxes due.

Such a waste. If he had such money-if he had been able to grow in a manor like this-he would’ve kept it in a state of beauty, not allowing the family to horde it pitifully.

He confronted his family, his grandparents and father. They were frightened, especially his father-who quickly assumed Tom was the bastard son of the witch who had raped him years back. Tom could understand such fear-and as his father spat insults at him, bred by the fear-he understood why his father didn’t stay. He never knew why his parents had gotten together, only sort’ve knowing his mother was abandoned by his father, thus abandoning Tom when he was still unborn.

He hadn’t known the lengths his mother had gone, and while he still felt angry, he understood. Who would stay with someone who had raped them? Possibly under a love spell for so long.

Still, Tom wanted his father, his muggle ties, dead. He raised his uncles wand only for a cold ghostly grip to wrap around his wrist, forcing his hand down. He glared at (y/n), who stared right back-preventing him from murdering his father, who was quick to run.

“Let me go-let me go! He needs to die!” Tom screamed, feeling terribly frustrated, feral with anger-he blasted her with a spell he’d discovered a few months back-one that worked on ghosts.

She flew back, hitting a chair that tumbled over-Tom didn’t care. He raced after his father, eyes wide and gleaming green under the light of the death curse. He caught up to his father, and drew his wand. “AVADA KADAVRA.” Tom bellowed, and his father dropped dead.

He did the same to his grandparents.

He breathed heavily, eyes wide as he stood over their bodies, their faces still with death and fear, the thrill of it all thumping in his chest. He almost waited for their ghosts to appear-but muggles couldn’t be ghosts, especially not when killed by the killing curse, for it destroyed the soul with it.

He looked up, seeing (y/n), staring at him again, black tears dripping off her chin to stain the very old ruined carpet. “Oh, shut it. I had a bloody reason for them. They deserved it.” Tom hissed at (y/n), turning on his heel to leave the bodies of his muggle family on the floor to rot. He found the safe-it had all the money. He pocketed it and left the house, returning his uncle's wand to him-it would be too easy to frame him.

He got on the train and returned to London. He felt giddy with it all-he knew he’d get away with it, just like he got away with (y/n)’s death as well, he ever got a bloody reward for catching her murder. He’d framed Hagrid but whatever, the half-breed didn’t belong at Hogwarts anyway, especially with his habit of bringing dark creatures into the school full of children.

(y/n) sat, or well, hovered on the seat across from him. Her uniform, stained with her black tears, seemed to melt into the shadows of the train seat. For the first time in a while, he looked at her-really looked at her. She still looked the same as she did when she died. 16.

He’d grown. In a few days he’d be 17.

He’d taken her life and now it was bound to his. “Why do you keep following me? Surely you’d rather pass on, haunt someone else?” Tom muttered, spinning the Gaunt ring that was now on his finger-he wanted her gone-he knew if she was around he wouldn’t be able to split his soul into the ring-she’d stop him. Just like she stopped him every other time he tried to make his diary a horcrux.

“Why?” Tom heard her rasp, audibly for the very first time. He looked up at her, she was close now-face only inches from him. “Why?” she asked again, her voice croaky with a death rattle, unnerving and making him queasy.

“It wasn’t meant to be you,” Tom admitted, looking down at his ring. “it was meant to be that crying Ravenclaw girl, Mortie or something, I planned for her to be the death I needed to make a horcrux, I didn’t know you were in there.” (y/n) just kept staring at him.

That wasn’t the why she wanted.

So Tom told her.  About his fear of death-which she must’ve already knew due to the nightmares of death she always gave him, about how he found out how to cheat death, with horcruxes. How killing someone was one of the steps to make one.

He waited for her to leave after that, to fade away or something. But she didn’t. she stayed. She kept haunting him.

Fearing death was not a good reason to murder someone. To take life away was the ultimate sin, and (y/n) was going to make sure he died. She would make sure he never became immortal.

-

She didn’t even let him make the potion this time, she shattered the jar he kept it in at school-preventing him from using it. Then she kept ruining his second potion attempt, shoving him, scaring him, screaming in his face; The potion kept blowing up in his face or became unusable because her distractions ruined it.

Another Horcrux object went unused. The ring now just a reminder of what felt like his only accomplishment; killing his muggle family and framing his uncle. He was the only heir to Slytherin now, even if he had a ghost that refused to let him rest.

She kept haunting him through the rest of the school year-his followers thought he was going mad, glaring at something that wasn’t there, or even yelling at something, her, that they couldn’t see.

He never told anyone of (y/n) haunting him, not wanting to seem pathetic-after all he was the upcoming dark lord. He was the one who would cheat death, he was the one who was going to rule the world one day. A silly ghost girl would not defeat him.

-

He was laughing, painfully and manically-Slytherin’s locket tight in his grip-shaking and dripping with blood as he stood. He’d done it. He’d made a Horcrux-after 10 years of discovering the power of the dark magic-he’d made one.

He snickered as he looked over at (y/n), who was stuck in a small summoning circle-made to keep her trapped so she couldn’t stop him this time. “oooh don’t look so sad darling,” Tom snickered, his eyes wide as he stumbled to his feet, walking over to (y/n)-staring down at her with a wide toothy grin. “isn't this what you wanted? To torment me forever? Now you can! Till the end of time.” Tom laughed, chuckling as he stumbled away, collapsing onto the bed of the inn room he’d rented, the body of a muggle sex worker on the floor-her expression white with fear, blood soaking into the wood.

(y/n) stared, anger rising.

She would make sure he died.

-

(y/n) was filled with glee-watching his spell backfire on a fucking baby. A baby killed him-it was poetic justice! But she didn’t fade away-she watched as his soul fled, a piece of it latching onto the poor baby in the crib-crying his little heart out.

Stupid horcruxes.

This baby, little Harry Potter, was the one from the prophecy-foretold to destroy Voldemort as he called himself now. (y/n) latched onto the soul piece within him.

She would make sure this boy survived to kill Voldemort. She would protect him, watch him grow, keep him safe.

Voldemort would die, she’d make sure of it.

…

Harry liked his friend. She was his imaginary friend of course, a curious girl wearing a curious outfit, with funny eyes. She protected him, from Dudley, from his uncle and aunt. She could make things move around him-scaring away his uncle, sometimes she appeared to them-especially Dudley; screaming in the boys face, black tears and all.

Harry loved her, she was maybe the closest thing he had to a mom, but she seemed to prefer if he thought of her as his sister or something. For many years he assumed she was some sort of imaginary friend that-somehow-could interact with the world around him.

When he got to Hogwarts, and she followed him-he learned what she really was. A ghost. She’d been there on the night his parents were murdered, she told him as such. “I was attached to Voldemort-he murdered me when we were both 16, I was, am, angry about it, so I latched onto his soul-following him, haunting him. I vowed to make sure he’d die, you somehow were able to do it, at least mostly. He’ll be back one day, and I’m going to make sure it’s him who dies, not you.” (y/n) told him one night, after he’d settled into Hogwarts.

Harry smiled, closing his eyes as her ghostly hand brushed over his head. “Thanks (y/n),” he murmured, falling asleep as (y/n) smiled back at him.

“You’re welcome Harry, sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

She stayed with him for three more years-helping him in his fourth year-when he’d been forced to go through the tri-wizard tournament. “I cant believe they’d make you go through it!” (y/n) ranted as Harry got ready for the first task-going against a dragon. “I mean-you’re only fourteen-they updated the age rule for a bloody reason!”

Harry was quiet, his hand shaking as he clipped together the front of his sport robes. (y/n) saw as such and sighed, moving to hover in front of Harry. “it’ll be okay kid, you’re smart-you’ve practiced the summoning charm for your broom, and you’re a wicked flyer. If you can catch a snitch with your mouth, you can get a fake egg.” (y/n) said and Harry smiled weakly.

He managed to complete the first task, and the second. The third was the worst, because it ended with him in a graveyard with Cedric, and his scar beginning to hurt.

“Harry-go now!” (y/n) yelled, having followed him through every task, her eyes going over towards a grave that went into the ground, Harry was trying to tell Cedric they should go but Wormtail killed Cedric and pinned Harry to the Riddle family tombstone statue-the statue of death holding Harry tight.

“It’s him,” (y/n) growled, her visage becoming terrifying to Harry for the first time as black tears actively poured from her eyes, her white glowing eyes becoming thin dots as Voldemort was reborn.

The reborn dark wizard didn’t even get a moment-(y/n) appeared before him-letting out a high-pitched scream that shook both Harry and Voldemort's heads. “No! I thought you were gone!” Voldemort yelled back, swinging at the vengeful ghost but she caught his arm-bearing her teeth at him-Wormtail couldn’t see her-only seeing his master swinging and yelling at something that wasn’t there.

“YOU WILL DIE!” (y/n) screeched at Voldemort, her hand grabbing at his throat, forcing him away from Harry. “I’LL MAKE SURE OF IT!” Voldemort snarled back-falling to the ground with the vengeful ghost atop him-deep scratches appearing on his face with no origin-at least to Wormtail.

Harry used this as a chance to slip out of the grip of the statue, toppling over himself before finding his wand and getting to Cedric-summoning the Triwizard cup and portkeying back to Hogwarts.

(y/n) didn’t come back with him, once more haunting Voldemort.

He hated it, the last 13 years spent as a wraith had been almost blissful without the spirit of his first victim  haunting him, he had fitfully assumed she had moved on-assuming he died. He was stupid to think that, she knew of his Horcruxes, he had made them in front of her after all.

“Would you just go away?” Voldemort hissed at (y/n) who glared back, more like an annoying pest instead of a vengeful silent spirit. “No.” (y/n) hissed back, following him through the Malfoy manor. Voldemort sneered at her and she tripped him-right in front of Lucius.

“My lord?” Lucius squeaked out in fear as Voldemort got back on his feet, Nagini and Lucius staring at him in…mostly concern. “I’m fine.” Voldemort hissed, glaring at (y/n) who was floating behind Lucius, snickering. “ignore what just happened. It didn’t happen.” Voldemort said, pointing his finger at Lucius who nodded, quickly leaving the corridor.

“Stop humiliating me in front of my followers,” Voldemort demanded, Lucius hearing him talk to…nothing just before he was out of earshot. “No. It’s funny. You deserve it.” (y/n) sneered, snickering as Voldemort sent the torture curse at her, it went right through her, hitting the wall behind her and marking the wallpaper. “Really?” she drawled, following him again as he let out a frustrated huff and continued on his way through the halls.

“You. are a pest.” Voldemort hissed at her, going into his room-allowing Nagini to slither in before closing the door, attempting to do so in (y/n)’s face but she just phased through.

“Do you want me to be worse? How about the nightmares again, or keeping you up all night, or making you seem insane to all your little friends? Huh?” (y/n) said with an intense stare and wild grin, getting in Voldemort’s face. He glared at her, flinching at the feeling of her acid tears dripping on his face again, a feeling he never got used to-even after 50+ years of it.

“Move on. I wont die. Not this time-Harry Potter will die by my hand, and you’ll watch.” Voldemort hissed and (y/n)’s wild grin turned to a near-feral snarl, grabbing his face-filling his mind with horrific death scenarios, torturing him with his worst fear once again.

“Release me!” Voldemort roared, attempting to shake (y/n) off-but she did not let go. She’d never let go. “No. I will hold onto you, I will make you suffer through the rest of your days, I will make you regret this path. I will make sure you die.” (y/n) said, glaring down at Voldemort, refusing to release his mind.

-

She continued to make Voldemort look pathetic in front of his followers, humiliating him as well. Tripping him, making him slam his face into his food, flinging his robes up over his head, only sneering back at him with every rage filled scream he aimed at her. She was ruining his image, they all thought their master was going insane-unaware of the vengeful ghost that haunted him, a spirit only Voldemort, Nagini, and Harry could see.

Voldemort attempted to exorcise her or banish her from him many times-but she held strong, clinging to his soul to torture him like a persistent parasite, haunting him at every moment, once more haunting his nightmares-making him relive his death again and again, along with filling his nightmares about a second death-no horcruxes to save him, and Harry Potter killing him.

He was going utterly insane. He was losing sleep again, unable to focus-his plans becoming sloppy. He needed (y/n) gone, but he knew he couldn’t force her to leave, she was going to be haunting him until he died.

So, as he laid on the grounds of Hogwarts, his Horcruxes destroyed and his life draining-she stood over him, staring blankly again, black tears dripping onto his face. she knelt over him, tilting her head ever so slightly, then grinning, black blood staining her teeth. “Die.”

-end-

[iwoulddieforher]

Birds of a Feather | Casey Novak × Alex Cabot

I'm back posting fics! Did anyone miss me? Probs not. Anyway, here: Set during the falling out when Liv was having trouble adjusting to the lack of Stabler, and Casey's beginning to dwindle. Very Casey-centric.

Warnings: Canon-typical case-related violence, Casey being super burnt out, minor references to Charlie/Liv & Case have big argument

Summary: Casey's exhausted from the uphill climb of returning to her former position of respect after being suspended, and Liv's becoming increasingly adversarial due to Stabler's resignation. A case involving a schizophrenic exasperates the problems between the two- and Alex shows up in the middle of Liv & Casey's blowout argument. ~13k words.

alternatively on AO3, which you can find here

“No, Sir, I know-” Casey tried to interject, pacing back and forth in her cramped, tiny office- they hadn't allowed her her original space back, and she had realized that was yet another form of punishment- and trying not to lose her sanity on call with her father.

“I’m not getting any younger and I don't like that you're still playing these legal games,” Major Novak barked, his voice the dry, scratchy cough it always was, “Casey, couldn't you have just let it be? You got suspended once, we all see the toll that took on you, and it's not like you're getting any younger either-”

“Daddy,” Casey let her voice break, finally, but it had been nearly half an hour of this back and forth and she was done, she was tired, and tears were starting to prick at her eyes. “Daddy, I know. I’ll- I’ve already asked about my work contract, I’ll…”

She moved the phone away from her mouth so he wouldn't be able to hear her sniff, forcing herself to swallow back the frustrated tears, before taking a deep breath.

Her admittance hadn't been a lie, either. She had checked what the circumstances of resigning her position had been, but- it didn't look particularly good. With a reputation like her’s, she wouldn't be able to be hired on to any sort of alternate use for her legal prowess like this, and she was far away from being able to retire properly. But her father wasn't wrong, as much as she hated to admit it, her job was starting to eat away at whatever sanity she had left.

At her submission, though, her father finally relented his beration, the line going silent for a long moment. “Good, Casey. And you mustn't worry about money, because your mother does need a keeper, and your siblings give us a share every month for that- we could fire her nurse, and you could replace her. I’m sure your brothers would be happy to support you.”

Casey grimaced, swallowing again, but with a hollow voice replied, “Thank you, Sir. I’ll consider it, really.”

She would be reduced from the formidable rising star protege prosecutor she used to be, replaced instead by being her father's failure of a daughter, the sibling who was at first so far ahead and then fell so far behind, designated ultimately to being her ailing mother’s keeper, because there was nothing else she was worthy of doing.

As she hung up the call, the darker part of her mind chided in bitterly that at this rate they shouldn't trust her to look after Mom- she’d probably fuck that up, too.

She ran her fingers through her hair, nails digging into her scalp a little more forcefully than need be, and sighed, deeply, as though letting the carbon in her lungs would cleanse her of the overwhelming feeling of filth.

Failure, she bit at herself, but her self deprecation was halted as her pager went off- she was being summoned to the precinct, evidently.

On the way there, Casey contemplated what had gone wrong in her life.

She stood at the side of the street, flagging down a taxi, and with a depressed sigh she remembered how she felt when she was youthful and energetic, eager to prove herself and ambitious, taking her bike where she needed before she had caved to those who told her it gave off an odd impression.

The fact she was about to be filled in at the precinct on the current case wasn't wasted on her demons either- she longed to show up at crime scenes like the used too, process evidence and witnesses and suspects herself, watch through the windows as detectives interviewed, jumping on leads to hound down individuals herself in the pursuit of ensuring justice.

She toyed loosely with her faux blonde hair as she climbed into the cab, her mind lingering on when it had been short and she had worn it in fiery, fierce curls that framed her face when she was back in white collar- how when she transferred to SVU, it became harder to get up in the mornings, and she defaulted to straightening it instead. Now it was long, and dyed lighter to be more what the others expected.

That sentiment- to be what others expected- hurt the more she thought about it. Over the years she really had lost that fire that used to be so central to the way she operated, and she wasn't sure if it had been tamped down or if she had simply lost it herself.

Coming back from her suspension was especially difficult. Those three long years of working odd, vague applications for her knowledge without being able to use any sort of licence were grueling and yes she had made it through but it had drained her an immeasurable amount.

She hadn't realized how much she had considered the squad some form of support system, or at the very least provided her a sense of stability, until during her suspension it was gone. Stabler, especially- Elliot had looked out for her, offered her a shoulder she had never accepted, but she liked knowing he was there. Catholics from a similar background, and he reminded her a lot of her brothers.

Casey had left New York entirely, traveled to Rhode Island, tried to find something that would make the nauseating guilt seep away. But nothing could. She had screwed up- honestly, that year had been a slow build to the climax of the violation, with the investigation into the juvenile sex offender operation, Saul Picard, and finally Officer Chase- it had brought her to an emotional epitome she simply could not bring herself down from, left lingering on cases now officially deemed closed, formulating arguments and motions she could never use.

Elliot had called her, a few times, to check in. He had been the one to see how broken the sex addict's rape had made her, and he was perhaps the only one of the squad to notice that build up. She liked talking to him, states apart, and he’d catch her up on the latest cases and complain about Greylek and how much he’d rather have her back instead of the stone-faced, impersonal ADA replacement.

She remembered the big smile he had flashed her when she first arrived back, and how it had momentarily comforted her.

Now she was back, but Stabler was gone- he had earned retirement, though, she couldn't argue against that, but still-, everything was different. Olivia was so much more adversarial, and Casey knew she was simply grieving the loss of Elliot and throwing herself nose-first into the depth of human depravity to fill the void, but it didn't help her enough to accept the jabs the older brunette shot at her without letting them build onto her growing insecurities.

Rollins seemed sweet but Casey had never interacted with her- the squad didn't get together like they used to after cases, the warm nature she had first been a jealous intruder into before eventually being accepted back in her youth was now gone. Perhaps she was too old for it now, anyway. But still, she missed the cold beers and clustered tables of cop bars, and Olivia and Elliot stopping by to invite her there. Olivia spending the nights with her in her office, grabbing coffee and chatting about the developments of cases.

She really, really missed the friendship, the solidarity that used to exist- gone, all gone, like her sense of self.

Amaro was Amaro. He followed Olivia around like Stabler used to, but it was obvious he was still fresh meat, and Olivia would not be able to bond with him the way she was seemingly tied to Stabler.

The judges were wary of her, the defense was always pleased because no judge would give her leeway and they could jab and object at whim, and she was hanging onto the DA and her job on a fine line that she felt like she would fall off any second.

Even if she didn't directly mess up, even if she never made a mistake again, she knew it was because she was playing it overtly safe, and overtly safe was no way to remake her name and image. She could be fired simply for not being interesting, for not securing the overhauling victories she used to be capable of.

But pushing the line the way she used to, to regain that feisty nature that used to make the defense’s jaw clench when she stood, required others to trust her in a way they didn't. She had forfeited that right to trust, and she had no way to get it back.

Maybe her father was right. Maybe she was getting too old for this- maybe the suspension was a sign this work wasn't what she was cut out for, and she was simply too stubborn to accept it wasn't worth it.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when the taxi pulled over, and after providing payment and exchanging courtesy she exited and tried her best to stroll into the precinct, focusing on long strides, not looking stupid when she pulled her coat off and tossed it over her arm.

Casey had started holding her jacket over her arm like that whenever she was here, so she’d have something to do with her hands, so she’d have an excuse to hold her arms tight to her body.

“So, what’s on the plate tonight, Captain?” She tried to sound cheerful, but not overly so, rearranging her face in the half-way-to-smug smile she used to flash so easily.

Cragen rubbed his nose and nodded, his broad shoulders sloped inward the way they always were. He nodded at her, and then motioned with one large hand towards an interview room, where a young man was speaking with Detective Amaro.

Olivia and Rollins were watching from the outside, staring intently, and although Amanda turned to jerk her chin up with a slight smile that Casey returned- nothing more than acknowledgement, but Casey could appreciate it- while Benson stayed still, her brow furrowed as she stared lasers into the ongoing interrogation. She did not move to welcome Casey into the space, and Casey had not assumed that she would. Regardless, she found her place standing beside her.

“A young woman was raped and strangled to death in Central Park,” Cragen said with a small sigh, “Our first suspect was the roommate, because of some suspicious texts we found on her cell, but he showed up himself willingly and agreed to talk.”

“Alright. So, he looks good for it?” She questioned, eyes on Olivia- she wanted some sort of glance, something, but Olivia did not look at her.

“She was a grad student working on a psych report on the condition of mental illness in the homeless population,” Amanda said, turning from the window and crossing her arms, shifting her weight from her heel to her toe in thought. “This guy- the roommate- goody two-shoes. Originally we thought he was so clean he must be hiding something, and he was, but just possession of marijuana. He’s real nervous about it, though.”

The young man inside the boxed room did seem beyond anxious, his shoulders angled inward, face tilted down at the table while he looked at Amaro with squinted eyes, shifting back and forth slightly. He looked ridiculously guilty, but not violent or suspicious for the crime that actually mattered- it reminded Casey of a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar, who didn't understand what type of punishment they were about to receive. He didn't seem like a good suspect for rape and murder.

“So he wants a deal? What he knows about her research and I’ll take the misdemeanor off the table?” Casey glanced once again into the interview room, and Cragen shrug-nodded.

Casey lifted her shoulders and then dropped them, tilting her head with a slight sigh. She had expected more, something to actually grow invested in, hopefully something to spark her competitive nature- but this was nothing dramatic. “Should be doable, I can make a call.”

“But he’s asking for immunity,” Olivia mused, still not looking up, “So whatever he knows, he thinks he could be prosecuted for it. I don't think we should offer him anything until we really know what's going on.”

“It doesn't look like he’s capable of much,” Casey remarked, but Olivia just huffed.

“Like you’d know, counselor.”

Casey pursed her lips and made blank eye contact with the wall for a moment, feeling the burn of Cragen and Rollin’s eyes and the icy feeling of the lack of Olivia’s, before accepting the disrespect, and trying her best to shake it off.

“Alright, but he’s a spooked college kid. He might just be asking for what he saw on TV without knowing if he actually needs it- we could advise him to get a lawyer, and then I can discuss a deal with them. Depending on the reaction I’d get it’d be easier to tell if it's anything worth looking into.”

Detectives hate lawyers, and Casey knew that, so when Olivia’s frown deepened and Rollins looked vaguely dissatisfied with the suggestion, she wasn't at all surprised.

“Does he need a lawyer for this? Can't you just go in and talk to him?” Rollins asked, “He doesn't seem to have the funds needed to get a lawyer, and it always takes forever to get one of the community ones down here-”

“Can you handle that, Casey? It's been years since you spoke one on one with a suspect,” Olivia interjected, and Casey grit her teeth. A direct challenge, now, then. Okay.

“I’m sure I’ll find my footing,” She replied calmly, forcing a smile as though she and Liv were simply friends bantering like they used to be, before turning to the Captain for permission. When he nodded, she inhaled deeply and swung the door open.

“You, out.” She barked at Amaro, deciding how she wanted to play this on the spot. She got a little of a thrill when Amaro’s eyebrows raised but he otherwise agreed wordlessly, standing and leaving the interrogation room. She claimed the seat he had just left and settled in, leaning her elbows on the table so she could inject herself forward.

“Alright, I heard you're looking to talk about your options, here? I’m Casey Novak on behalf of the Manhattan District Attorney.”

She forced her voice to be softer, lower, and offered him a half-smile. This was a skittish little college teen, and she thought he might be receptive to a more gentle approach. Seemingly he was, because the tension in his spine eased a little and he looked at her tentatively.

“I know it's a crime, but I- I just, it's the only thing that can get me to sleep, sometimes, so I-”

“I know, I know.” She leaned back, then, spreading her shoulders comfortably, “I remember those college days, long nights, sleep schedules gone to hell, anything to take the edge off, right?”

“Yes, exactly-” He leaned forward, now, eager under her carefully crafted nonchalance.

“But listen,” Casey raised a hand, “If you know anything about who did this to your roommate, you need to tell me. You seem like a good kid, and I don't want to nail you when I’ve got bigger fish to fry, okay? We’re looking for a rapist, and you're just what got caught in the net, so to say.”

He hesitated, hard, but Casey knew the look in her eyes was powerful when she tried to make it be, and right now she was giving her best altruistic stare. He relented, as she expected.

“Listen, I- I knew it was wrong, so please-”

“Just tell me what you know,” She interjected, clasping her fingers together, leaning forward and placing her elbows back down on the desk, and giving him her best imploring head tilt.

“She was bribing them,” he blurted out, finally, “in exchange for interviews and check-ins she was- she was giving them drugs, and with a few even blowies- I told her it was disgusting and I don't even know if people like that can consent, but-”

Oh, okay. Casey felt tension leave her shoulders- this wasn't really worth pursuing in court. But for the sake of the case she didn't allow her face to reflect that, instead, she remained harsh.

“Well, we’ll have to look into that.” She said sharply, “Can you provide names?”

“No, but- but I know her password for her school laptop, I know what her’s is. I’m sure she’ll have reports and things in there…”

“Alright, good,” She said soothingly, offering her a slight smile, which he seemed to relax under. “Then turn that over to the detectives and I’ll see what I can do about the possession charge, yeah?”

With that, she stood, and exited the room, flexing her eyebrows triumphantly when she made eye contact with Olivia- who gave her a begrudging nod, but a half-smile.

“Alright, the victim was offering blowjobs to mentally ill homeless men in exchange for some storytelling,” Amanda scorned, “How.. studious.”

“I’m sure she left that part out of her paper,” Casey nodded, “but it’ll make great fodder for the defense counsel.”

She turned her head from side to side, and realized something that made her heart sink into her stomach uncomfortably. Olivia and Amanda were exchanging glances, and Cragen was waiting for his detectives to begin engaging-

They wanted to discuss, but not with her.

Rejection stung, but at this point Casey was used to it, so after she cleared her throat awkwardly she glanced in the direction of the door and sighed. Her steps had felt lighter when she managed to actually be helpful for once- she secured this guy’s information, saving them time and effort- but it wasn't enough to win back the squad’s affection. The joy she felt at the minor victory was now tamped down, the bitter taste of the scorn she was trying desperately to adapt too heavy on her tongue.

“I’ll get a search warrant for the laptop, need anything else while I’m over at the courthouse?”

The resounding response was not yet, so she tugged her coat back on and focused on long strides towards the door, not the looming, overwhelming feeling of discontent.

She tried not to spit out the taste of bile that lay heavy on her tongue.

The rest of that day passed with little excitement. She had motions to file, court cases to research, and an uneventful arraignment. It felt like she was following steps laid out for her, stepping carefully on the paved floor, nothing at all like how she had used to race through the woods, chasing elk and laughter like a wolf no man could bring down. She missed feeling fearless, feeling free.

Casey was always one to fight until she was breathless, a smile on her face as her chest heaved with exertion. To throw herself into the mix, to face danger and pain and laugh at it, to take people into her arms herself and ensure it would turn out okay. She couldn't do that anymore, not with the axe hanging over her head.

She couldn't keep working this job with the other shoe dangling, lace seconds away from snapping. She couldn't keep herself looking up and wondering how long, how many more seconds she had to retain dignity, until it dropped and stole the trajectory of her life with it.

If she was younger, if she had spirit and confidence in her ability like she used to- if she had the support she used to have, the trust others used to bestow upon her- maybe she could find it in herself to keep fighting the good fight.

But she was disillusioned and tired, and no one believed in her anymore.

Not even her family, evidently. Three days later, she received a follow-up call from her younger brother, the elder of the two twins that had been born when she was starting elementary.

“Casey,” he started in a curt yet languished voice the way he always did, the slight accent he had picked up since moving to the south and marrying a Texan not lost in how he spoke, “How are you holding up?”

“Just fine,” she lied casually through her teeth.

“I don't buy that. Dad told me about your conversation the other day- about how he wants you to quit.”

Casey paused. She had been in the middle of prepping for a hearing, but with this she put her pen down in defeat. If her father told her brother, the rest of her siblings either already knew about the conversation or would soon. He had probably called to enquire if they’d do good on his proposal to support her if she retired early to care for Mom.

“...I don't know what you want me to say about that, he wants me to resign my position, but I think I’m doing well here. I’m back in my old position and everything is operating just as they used too,” - but they weren't, and if she did retire out of desperation soon she didn't want her lie to bite her in the ass, so she tried her best to cover herself - “and although I am considering it for the sake of Mom, I…”

“Casey,” he implored, “I'm your brother. I can tell when you're lying, and you've been miserable lately.”

Casey sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and stared aimlessly down at the motion she was writing a rebuttal against, watching the inked words turn into meaningless gibberish under her eyes. She stayed silent, and listened to him sigh.

“You don't have to be such a martyr,” he said softly, and it hurt.

“I’m not,” she tried to defend, but it fell flat.

“Listen, it's okay to just- to admit it's gone far enough,” he sighed, and she tried to interject, but he didn't let her.

“You were the rising star, I get it. But after the suspension, Casey, I mean- I read the news, right? When you're mentioned in the columns now it's only ever criticism, and you're not happy like you used to be at reunions, even Benny noticed-” - referring to his son, one of Casey’s many nephews, - “it’s just..”

“Daniel,” she murmured softly, trying to get him to understand that she knew, she was completely aware, she was grappling with the evidence already and he didn't need to remind her of how far she fell.

“I just want you to know that it's okay. You were always the toughie out of all of us, but… Case, you were also the one to bring home the stray kittens and build birdhouses. You’re strong, believe me, we know that, but I know how big your heart is, and this … I don't like seeing you unhappy.”

She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the iron grip she used to have, trying not to start getting emotional over the phone. Her head bowed without her noticing, and one of her paralegals glanced into her office as they walked by- great, another person as witness to her weakness.

“None of us would think any less of you,” he tried to console her, coax her, “it's a bad situation. The legal system sucks, we all know that. And I’ve talked it over with Rachel, and we’d be okay supporting you if you need it. To nurse Mom, or to find something else to do. You don't have to keep being somewhere that makes you so unhappy.”

Silent tears were rolling down her cheeks before she could realize, large glistening drops landing on the paper in front of her, her shoulders beginning to shake. She sucked the self disgust pooling in her mouth and swallowed, trying to keep her voice calm and even.

“Thank you, Daniel. I’ll see you when you all come up, okay? We can talk about this more then,” She offered, and he hesitantly accepted that motion to postpone.

If he realized there was an undercurrent of a sob in her voice, he didn't comment on it. Daniel hung up the phone.

Casey began to cry in her earnest, elbows driving into her table so she could conceal her face in her hands, shoulders shaking under the burden.

It wasn't so simple. Yes, yes, she was unhappy. She knew she was unhappy, and they were all right, she could leave, and honestly she thought that maybe she should.

But it wasn't just pride, ambition or stubbornness that kept her in this chair, it was the overwhelming drive to help. To do something, anything, to help the people who couldn't help themselves. To shield little kids from the men who wove their nightmares, to show women with red marks around their throats there was a shot at a better tomorrow, to fight, because God- she did really love fighting.

When she felt like she had power in her step, she adored the heady rush of a good debate, the smug victory of smashing a defense’s proposed story to bits. It had made all the issues in her life worth it, that knowledge that what she was doing was shielding the innocent from the evil. The validation a ‘guilty’ verdict after a hard case gave her was simply unrivaled.

Suffering through grueling law school, sleeping for hours she could count without the full use of a hand so she could instead pour her time hunched over laptops and law books full of enough legal jargon to kill a middle age man with confusion, waiting tables and odd jobs despite the exhaustion that nipped at her mind had all been considered worth it to her. Yes it was draining but the feeling of finally being able to pace on the courthouse floor and demand that justice be served to those in dire need of it had been entirely worth it. Just the knowledge she was commanding attention, she had authority, respect, and she could use it to help- that was all she had wanted.

What would she do with her words, if they weren't being used for that? What purpose could she possibly have?

It wasn't like resigning would mean she could help society in other ways, no, not like this. She couldn't find a place of worth with a reputation tarnished by her failure. Maybe if she had gone straight from reobtaining her licence somewhere else, then it would've worked, but she had craved SVU. Branch was right; she had grown to want it.

The slap on the back from Stabler, the way Olivia touched her on the upper arm, the chatter with Cragen. The victims stuck with her, but after those first few months it had turned from terrifying her with the weight of her own sympathy to a relentless drive to succeed and save more potentials. After her suspension, though, it was neither. The faces blurred together, because dull victories were the only way she could hope to keep the position at all, so her level of emotional involvement- her level of involvement at all, really, could not be regained.

Perhaps, if she was lucky, she might be able to be a teacher- one who her students would inevitably find the truth about and then laugh at- or volunteer somewhere where her fight to be recognized as powerful would simply continue until she really actually hit rock bottom.

If only she wasn't so exhausted, if only someone believed in her, if only. She would love her job if she wasn't marked by warning signs. She had known she’d need to rebuild her image and the dignity of her office but she had expected the trust from the people she had previously held stature with, but- no, they had forsaken her, and she couldn't find it in her to be upset with them around it, so all daggers she could throw turned inward.

As all it always did, time took care of her sobs, and she calmed herself down physically.

Her mental wounds were still wide open, but as she dried her face and blew her nose, she knew she’d be able to recompose herself so no one else could tell.

She had to start re-writing the same motion, as her tears had fallen on the paper and botched the ink, but that was fine. At least she was still filing motions- what used to feel mundane compared to the thrill of the active cases was now a solace, because at least she could do *something*. Soon she’d be able to do, and internally would be, nothing.

Daniel was right- there was no real reason for her to keep doing this to herself.

She’d be replaced by someone younger and feisty like she had used to be, or by someone wiser with reputation. They’d fight for justice the same way she was trying to, only they’d be successful, and they’d be applauded for it. They’d go back to squads to share the victory with, and go home to families. They’d have people who loved them, who watched and applauded them from afar.

But still. She wanted it so, so badly.

Desperation drove her when she thought the exhaustion would burn her out. She wanted to be good so badly, too badly. It meant every step felt like it was on a tightrope. She needed to feel like her work meant something, like she was winning some kind of fight, like what she did mattered to someone.

Her career was coming to an end, at some point desperation would turn into depression and she’d drown, but while she had a spark still flickering in her heart she wanted to use it on this.

A last few victories, please. A last shot to be appreciated for her life’s passion.

It was a couple days later when she was called back to the precinct on a development in that case, and Casey’s mind was consumed with pondering if her concealer managed to hide the eye bags she carried as she stepped inside, green eyes scanning for movement. Rollins, Cragen and Amaro were standing in a little triangle around the center of the squadroom, arms crossed.

“You called?” She said to no one in particular, and no eyes raised to especially meet hers, so she just glanced from face to face and chewed on the inside of her cheek. She just had to do whatever they wanted her to do, and then she'd be allowed to leave again.

God, she didn't even want to try anymore. She didn't want to keep attempting to prove herself to people who’d never give her the opportunity or the benefit of the doubt to do that. She missed Stabler and Lake. She missed when being called to the precinct made her feel energetic, like she was being helpful, like someone actually wanted *her* there, not just… whichever ADA happened to be on SVU rotation.

“So, we found most of the names on the list that kid gave us,” Amaro started, and Casey tried not to think about how Stabler would've slapped her playfully on the shoulder as a thank-you for helping acquire that list, “and this guy- this one whose spazzing out right now-”

She motioned into an interrogation room, where a very heavily disheveled looking man was pacing back and forth, dirty fingers running through locks of hair so filthy Casey wasn't sure if he was greying or if that was just the level of particles in it. He seemed very clearly to be homeless, suffering from some demons the detectives seemed not to care about to any extent.

“He seems to be the only suspect from it. His name is Peter Devilin, and he has a record for simple battery- he punched a librarian- a couple years ago, before psychiatric intervention. Diagnosed with schizophrenia which got him out of any real repercussions.”

“We have him on CCTV near the crime scene,” Rollins followed up, “and we’re pretty sure he did it- he keeps rambling, talking to someone, and he mentioned the victim’s name multiple times. We talked to the psychiatrist who worked with him back when he had medical insurance and he gave us these-”

The young blonde motioned to a stack of papers and Casey was momentarily upset no one had needed to ask her for a subpoena to hand over said documents, but then was distracted by the information on the small stack of leather-bound journals instead.

She picked up the chain of custody documentation Rollins must have filled out, scanning over the brief notes momentarily. The psychiatrist’s name and the address of his work place was jotted down- ‘Marc Mercer'.

A small light in Casey’s mind blinked on, recognizing that name from somewhere. Where was it? It had to have been in some of the case documentation she had been reading- but it couldn't have been anything major, or surely one of the others would've flagged it already.

Novak’s mind pulled out the helpful answer that it must be the work of false attribution. She read hundreds of names a day in research or in motions, on witness counts or on old incident reports- if one of the detectives hadn't realized anything strange about that name, they would've already found whatever was related to it.

But still, that small defiant spark burned in her throat. She knew this name from somewhere and she could feel the fire spreading to her gut, marking that sensation as important.

While pondering on that, she picked up one of the leather-bound journals and began to skim through it.

“He wrote about what he wanted to do,” Rollins added, not necessarily helpfully as Casey was already reading but Casey had lost the spunk that would've previously rewarded the younger detective with a sly remark.

Olivia announced her arrival into the space with an elongated sigh, running her fingers through her brow hair and taking space between Cragen and Amaro, leaning against a desk.

“That was the parents, again.” She told her fellow detectives with a dejected, flat voice, her eyes fixating on a spot on the floor as she shook her head. “They're really messed up over this.”

Amaro grimaced, tilting his head almost helplessly. “They're parents. I’m a parent- imagining your kid growing up, hearing how they're so desperate to be something, to do something grand, and then… then they end up in the morgue.”

Casey bit her lip. She hadn't any children herself, nor had she ever had any sort of attachment to any youngster other than her little siblings, so adding into that conversation seemed forced. But still, she could empathize, and she did. All those ambitions, all those dreams… It was a tragedy in every sense of the word.

“They're upset we haven't done anything yet,” Olivia murmured in a hushed tone, her voice heavy with the expectations of the victim’s family and associates.

Casey’s heart grew heavy- she understood the weight Olivia must feel, the pressure to achieve any sort of semblance of closure for the grieving individuals. But she knew the only way she could help was to understand and affirm justice, so she simply stayed quiet and kept her focus on the pages unfurled in front of her.

Reading the journals, even just letting her eyes flit over them as she was doing, was very disturbing.

The majority of it were surprisingly intricately detailed drawings and diagrams of human anatomy- bones, joints, muscles, blood vessels, major nerves. Diagrams of how what could bend, what would hurt and what wouldn't as much.

It digressed later into detailed sketches of women in painful positions, noting the extent to which muscle and bone could be manipulated. Women with their faces contorted in obvious fear, women trying to shield themselves.

Around the drawings were furious, insane scribbled notes in barely legitimate handwriting. Some were simply notes correcting anatomical mistakes in the drawings- ‘this joint wouldn't bend like that, not really’, ‘this bone would be longer’, and other things along those lines. Other notes seemed to be wondering what the pain would feel like, comparing it against other things. Some notes were readable but Casey could not comprehend what they were supposed to mean, just random strung-together words that didn’t make much sense in that order, and others were written in such poor lettering she genuinely would have to spend time trying to decipher the words, which she did not want to do.

“...and these journals were made while he was medicated?” Casey muttered darkly, biting her lip.

This would be difficult to prosecute- the squad would of course urge her to convict based off of premeditated intent to commit crime using the journals and the notes as evidence, but the scenario in which this man went off of medication seemed to be not be his fault- if he lost his job and lost his insurance, then winding up unmedicated and at the hands of an overzealous and exploitative psychology student who ended up just a bit too close at a bad moment would easily be plead away by a half-decent defense attorney.

Plus, making graphic drawings wasn't a crime. People drew violence all the time, and she’d have to argue with the defense that this proved sexual intent- none of the drawings, horrible as they were, included penetration or overtly sexual imagery.

As if reading her thoughts, Amanda shook her head slowly. “According to the psychiatrist, he actively decided he didn't want to see him anymore, and didn't want to take anything. He had medical insurance via his work, but he got fired due to erratic behavior after his prescription ran out. So, he took initiative in the ending of his therapy, and thereby..”

“..the cessation of his medication and therapies was entirely his decision, and I could book him for this.” Casey finished, closing the leather-bound booklet in his palms and holding it for a long moment before setting it back down with the others.

“Why didn't the psychiatrist report this? If he knew his patient had prior convictions of violence, he shouldn't have let him make the decision to go off medication like that-” Casey began, but Cragen shrugged.

“The system is overcrowded already. People like that slip through the cracks, and no one knows what a danger they really possess until it really happens.”

“But this-” Casey motioned to the stack of journals, “This is more than just…”

“It's sick, but it's not like we don't see this all the time, Casey.” Olivia replied gruffly, crossing her arms- not defensively, just in her usual stance. “Maybe your time off let you forget.”

Her voice was wry and flat and nothing about it came off as overtly mean or mocking- but Casey knew better.

She really couldn't be in the 1-6 for longer than five minutes without some sort of jab that would haunt her for the rest of the week, huh? Olivia couldn't let her have just a little peace? Some semblance of respect? But fine, if she wanted to be like that, to hell with it. Casey would be leaving soon anyway, her reputation was already soiled completely and if snapping at detectives let her feel just a little bit less like a dog backed into a corner, then that's just what she'd do.

“I want you to look into the psychiatrist,” she countered- well, that wasn't even a real counter. “I remember his name- he came up in a legal case before, and before I indict anyone I want to know why.”

She had wanted to snap, but after the ‘you’re off’ comment she had made the other day she couldn't find anything else worth saying. She would’ve had them investigate the psychiatrist anyway. But she made sure to say it in a voice that showed she wasn't submissive to Olivia’s comment, and Benson's nostrils flared in response, so that was good enough for her.

In the back of her head, she fantasized what it would be like if it was the old squad. Stabler would be standing there with his hands on his sides, glaring down at the pages of the journals as if reading to beat the pages themselves up for being a threat to any women in his life- including her, Elliot had been protective of her, and although they never spoke about it Casey had really appreciated the feeling that someone was looking out for her safety- and if Stabler were there, Olivia wouldn't be being so mean. Instead of biting at her, Olivia would've pursed her lips and nodded along at the belief this kind of neglect was unjustifiable, and would've volunteered to make sure nothing sketchy was going on herself before Casey even asked. Stabler would swing on his coat and they’d wave her goodbye, promising to call with an update within the next couple hours.

She missed Stabler.

She missed the version of Olivia who wasn't glaring so harshly at her that she felt as though two holes were about to be layered through her face. The version of Olivia who got drinks with her occasionally after cases, who softened up eventually and opened up to her. Who confided in her, who let her confide back in turn.

Well, that hadn't worked out at all, actually. Casey’s biggest secret- Charlie- even before Stabler's absence had been abused by this woman, so she supposed maybe she had been played for the fool this entire time. Maybe she was just dumb, and that's why she didn't deserve her occupation.

What-fucking-ever. She was too tired to care.

“On it, boss.” Rollins smiled and did a small fake-salute in her southern accent, and Casey huffed softly with appreciation at the lighter gesture.

If she was as enthusiastic as the younger version of herself, she thought perhaps she and Rollins would get along. She seemed sweet. But Casey just couldn't find it in her to try to bond with the squad anymore, not with one foot out the door.

Olivia, though, remained steadfast. With her arms crossed and her eyes harsh, she was an adversary that chipped away at Casey’s fragile psyche second by second, until Casey genuinely considered stepping away.

“What good is it going to do?” Benson questioned, her voice flat. “You’re worried you won't be able to book the schizo, so you're redirecting to an overworked doctor instead? Don't do that, Casey.”

That comment was worse, and everyone in the room knew it.

The lines of Cragen’s face contorted slightly, his face turning from the floor to Olivia’s face, and Amaro and Rollins mirrored the reaction of mild shock. That wasn't just a small remark anymore, that was an outright challenge to Casey’s ability to prosecute- that was disrespect no one could dismiss.

“I don't think it's up to you to decide what I can or cannot do, detective.” Casey responded, trying to mirror Olivia’s cold demeanour, bristling and straightening her back to her full height. “I’d advise you to stay in your lane.”

“I don't think you can advise me to do anything, counselor, not until you man up and remember what we do here.”

“Excuse me?” Casey flashed, her eyes burning, but Olivia began stepping forward and Casey had to physically freeze herself to not start stepping back. Olivia’s broad arm extended and a small part of the faux blonde’s brain wondered if Olivia was genuinely going to strike here, right here in the middle of the squad room, but Olivia was only pointing at the schizophrenic mess of a person pacing and babbling in an interrogation cell. Olivia snatched up a crime scene photo of the mess left of the young college student’s body in her other hand, dangling the image forward into Casey's face as if threatening her with it.

“This man defiled, degraded and ripped a young woman’s brutalized body apart,” Olivia snapped, “I won't let you throw another case because you're too- … too shrouded by your own personal failures to do what needs to be done here!”

Casey’s mind raced and she did ultimately step backwards- if only to be able to make eye contact with Olivia around the photo pushed into her face- her heart beginning to pound in her chest.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve-!” She snapped, trying to surge forward with the intensity she used too, but although Benson growled in her throat she didn't back down.

Casey forced herself to take a deep breath, to calm the adrenaline surging through her bloodstream like fire.

“Listen, Olivia,” She barked, the concerned faces of the others fading in the background of her vision as she focused on the furious expression before her, “I just know the name of the psychiatrist and want to make sure we cover all possible bases- it's not like we have any concrete or forensic evidence, everything you’ve provided me with is substantial at best.”

“We have just short of a dozen notebooks filled with anatomical drawings of torture!” Olivia snarled with poorly concealed indignation, and Casey scrunched her brow in response.

“Some sketchbooks, a record they knew eachother and the fact he was in the general area are not enough to prove without a shadow of a doubt that he murdered and raped that girl.”

“Casey, look at him!” Olivia pointed again, jabbing her finger in his direction, and the room went silent for a couple seconds as they watched the man’s erratic pacing.

The way his eyes darted from side to side, recognizing shapes and patterns no one else could see, was all too familiar. The look in his eyes resembled Charlie’s to a significant degree, the wary pupils and the bags beneath them, rimmed with red and purple and poorly cared for skin. But Charlie’s eyes were a warm, sunrise-on-ocean-water blue, and this man’s were a more submerged brown color.

He was snarling under his breath, his face set in a heavy, paranoid glare. As Casey watched he glared so fiercely at the glass separating them she thought he was shooting a path directly into her soul- but it was a one-way mirror, and he must be looking only at himself, or at someone between them Casey and the others couldn't see.

“I- I know, Olivia.” Casey hated the way her voice faltered, the way she had grown quiet and stared longer than the others had- when she had forced herself to look away, the others were already looking at her expectantly.

“But I’m telling you,” she continued, trying her best to still be stubborn despite the way her heart was fluttering uncomfortably, “I’ll draft the indictment while you search, and if nothing else turns up, I’ll try him for it. I just want all possible bases covered. Something is up with this psychiatrist.”

Because even though she wanted to let her own perception collapse under Olivia’s harsh gaze, she stood for the law first and foremost, and everything she learned from all her effort was that there was something wrong, something was missing, and she wouldn't be able to argue anything with the ferocity she tried to allocate to each of her cases until she believed fully there was a reason to do so.

Olivia exhaled slowly, and Casey’s heart sank in her chest, because the fire in the brunette woman's eyes was turning instead straight to ice, and she already knew her heart wasn't prepared to hear what Olivia was going to say next. The sense of doom was bad enough that Amanda leaned backward slightly and Cragen extended a hand outward as if to pause the conflict he had tried to allow in order to drive the investigation forward, but Olivia couldn't be halted.

“It's depraved,” she started, “I get that. I get you don't want to believe it's his fault- you didn't want to believe it was *his* fault, either-” the others looked mildly confused and Casey was so, so mortified that Olivia was airing her dirty laundry publically, even if the others didn't know what she was referring to Casey being beaten and bruised by her own fiance, “but so help me, if you're too weak to prosecute a case as transparent as this, just do us all a favor and resign before I call the DA to do it for you.”

Cold shock enveloped Casey’s body, even though in the back of her mind she wasn't at all surprised. Still, she could feel the now-familiar weight of exhausted panic pressing against the inside of her face, and she couldn't figure out how to respond to that, because what could she possibly say-?

“You better watch your fucking mouth,” She tried, the only possible response she could come up with, trying to sound like she was seething and not about to cry. It was disrespectful and mean and it fell flat immediately, it wasn't intensely debative like the previous portion of the argument had been, it was just a stupid completely empty threat that did nothing but signal Olivia had successfully hit a nerve.

“You’re out of line.”

The voice was loud, flat, stern and commanding. Even though it wasn't at all spoken with the same erratic volume as Casey and Olivia’s voices had been, it had effectively had both of them stepping backwards in opposite directions- making space for the speaker to enter rather dramatically into the scene.

Alexandra Cabot strolled into the space as if she owned it, her hair flowing around her shoulders with a golden hue like a battle angel come straight down from the heavens, or alternatively like a kindergarten teacher come to set some rambunctious child straight.

Casey bit her cheek and looked away, fully tilting her head in the opposite direction and closing her eyes with an unfiltered grimace on her face. As if Benson’s very overt disapproval wasn't enough, now she was going to get scolded by her own colleague- the woman she supposedly was on par with, although Novak had never been able to elicit the same respect as the Cabot name.

Instead of telling Olivia to bite her tongue she should've been minding her own- she was about to pay the price for her disrespect in the way of humiliation in the most mortifying degree. Dragged off by Alex, come to defend her friend (who didn't at all need defending, Olivia hadn't even blinked), or being berated by her in front of the majority of the squad- Casey briefly debated which one would be worse.

The embers of fury gnawed on her heart, through, and bitterly she wanted to lash out at her. Fuck them all for putting her in this position- how could they not tell that she was already through? She wasn't trying to be difficult, she just wanted to chase justice the way she always had- fuck, the way they did too. Why couldn't anyone see that? All she wanted was to do her job well, and all she got in return was being reminded that she was sick and tired and alone-

God, Casey was so alone.

Green eyes opened, expecting to find the icy depth of blue staring straight into her soul like a dagger forced through a ribcage, only to find the back of blonde hair.

Alex was standing between her and Olivia, but not facing her- and as Casey watched the elder attorney cross her arms and stiffen her spine, elongating to the full potential of her height, she grew momentarily confused.

“Liv,” Alex snapped, “If someone else told me you said what I just heard from your mouth, I would've slapped them for tarnishing your name.”

Casey couldn't see Olivia very well at all, since Alex was literally directly between them, but she heard the audible pause, the half-step backward.

Alex wasn't yelling, she wasn't berating and she wasn't cruel. She reminded Casey rather like a benevolent judge- one of the younger judges, more inclined to ensuring respect and decency in the courtroom, who naively attempted to get the prosecution and the defense to be respectful. They didn't understand- just like how Alex didn't really understand- that they were trying to mix oil and water.

Casey had been putting up with Olivia’s occasional disregard for her for years. The girl in the icebox, the side comments, the unsaid yet constant comparison, the usage of the worst secret she had as an act of revenge. It was tolerable in the years prior to Casey's suspension- it was just Olivia dealing with the stress of the job, Casey had acknowledged and accepted that. She didn't think Olivia ever forgave her for her inability to prosecute Lake’s perpetrator, and she didn't think she ever would, just like how Olivia would never allow her to fully prove herself, no matter how hard she tried. From the day they met, Casey had known she'd never meet Olivia's standard. Olivia’s standard, though, was the woman using her own body as a blockade between the two.

“Alex, I-” She heard a softened voice speak, Benson suddenly turning complacent in the face of her trusted friend.

“I’m not finished,” Alex said, raising a finger in the air- not taunting Olivia with it in the slightest, rather simply indicating she held the floor right now just like she did in court and was not planning on relinquishing it.

“I know the dealing with victim’s families is emotionally taxing, difficult and strenuous, I just got finished with them myself-” (Oh, Casey thought, that's why they weren't asking her for subpoenas or search warrants, they must be bypassing her to get Alex instead, choosing to let her get close to investigations the way they chose to keep pushing her out) “but that's not excuse to question the integrity of the DA’s office by accusing a senior assistant district attorney,”

Casey felt herself swallow, her heart clenching at the way Alex said her full title with a note of reverence, with regard- but then, why shouldn't she? Alex, noble and respected as she was, was still an assistant district attorney, and technically Casey did outrank her in that regard, even though no one ever acted like it. Alex was acting like it now, though, and suddenly Casey felt like she was standing on solid ground again.

“of responding insufficiently.” Alex was still talking, still commanding the rapt attention of everyone in the room- even some of the background officers who milled about had frozen to watch her speak.

“You conduct investigations under the directions of your Captain, who I have not seen make any sort of inquiry against Novak’s handling or suggestions-” she nodded respectfully at Cragen who blinked and then chose not to respond, favoring instead to let her play this out, “and at the digression of the ADA herself, whether it be me, Hardwicke or her. To question her decision to direct further investigation is to imply the DA’s office and the body we compose as your working prosecutors lack authority and I will not allow you to employ such blatant disregard. Attempting to threaten an attorney into indicting solely at your whim is an affront to all of us- myself included.”

Alex then let her finger drop, because she knew it was unnecessary to keep holding it, Olivia wouldn't dare interject again when Alex was using her prowess the way she was. She had the circle of people entirely subdued into silence. Casey felt her chest loosen, and her ability to breathe came slightly easier.

“And that's all ignoring the disrespect towards information that was personally confided to you,” Alex said this in a lower voice, still stern and commanding but intentionally directed in a way only the circle of people could hear- again, Rollins and Amaro and even Cragen seemed rather perplexed, although despite the way they seemed confused when Olivia had brought up things unbeknownst to them, when Alex did they seemed to detach, trusting that it was simply not meant for them to be aware of.

“Which, frankly,” Alex shook her head slowly, “As your friend, I'm appalled by.”

Casey bit her lip, her hands twitching by her sides as she heard Alex inhale again, letting the momentary pause ring heavy in the air before making her version of a closing argument.

“Novak is a brilliant prosecutor and her decision to investigate any possible motive into who will most likely be your star character witness, as well as the person who gave you the only key evidence you have, is perfectly logical- I would've instructed you to do the same. I’m not entirely sure why you're so affronted, but your irreverence is palpable and I won't have that. You know better.”

Olivia audibly exhaled and Alex moved aside, glancing between the two for a half second.

No one took the floor for a long second, Benson staring at Casey with an air of discomfort and Casey staring back blankly, her mind reeling with the words that had come from Alex’s lips.

Someone was in her corner?

Someone was in her corner. Why?

Alexandra Cabot was in her corner, and Casey had no clue how the universe had granted her that solace, but Jesus Christ.

It wasn't miraculous, and it wasn't as though the weeks of exhaustion and slow deterioration were suddenly reversed. Casey was not suddenly a new, refreshed person. But the ember she had fostered, determined to keep alive until something happened- that ‘something happened’ had just unfolded.

Alex had granted her the respect, the acknowledgement she had so wearily accepted to deprivation of. Casey felt seen, as though a part of her had been invisible for months- years- was finally opaque and recognized. The ember she had tried so hard to shield flickered back and then became again a small flame, not the bonfire it used to be, but suddenly Casey felt as though she had the strength to bring it back to that level.

Alex trusted her- Casey wasn't sure how much of the conversation she had heard, how much evidence she knew about, but- enough that she assumed whatever Casey was demanding was for the best interest of the case. Alexandra Cabot, the golden girl of the squad, trusted that Casey was acting in the best interest of justice.

Olivia realized it, too. Casey was really just trying to cover all aspects of the case, not redirect or play her own agenda this time. It was as though she had had cold water splashed in her fevered, sleep-deprived addled face, woken up and made to see straight. Threatening Casey wasn't going to get her anywhere.

“...I’ll start pulling files,” Olivia said finally, her voice tinged with regret. “I didn't mean to … I didn't mean to cross a line. You're right, I’m getting tunnel vision.” (and I miss Elliot, Casey filled in mentally for her, I’m not doing well because I hate working without the stability and support my partner provided, and I just wanted to speed the case up so I can bury myself in a new shocking tragedy so I don't have time to think about him, because this case reminds me of how scared I was he would have to stop working because of Picard, and now he is genuinely gone, and I’m not coping well.) Casey accepted the partially verbal apology.

“Actually, I think Rollins and Amaro can work on that,” Cragen spoke finally. “Take some time and think about what you need to do to approach this case clear-headed, Olivia. See me in my office in an hour.”

Olivia bristled at the dismissal, but after being scolded so thoroughly by Alex- especially with the blonde still stationed so close- she didn't disobey. With a last glance at Casey- one with softened, apologetic eyes- she turned on her heel and left presumably to the cradle.

Amanda and Nick seemed to jump at the opportunity to awkwardly scramble off, impatient to begin working again and leave the very vocal confrontation between their senior detective colleague and not one but two of their ADAs.

“This was … something,” Casey murmured, after the silence stretched on for a longer moment, now exclusively between Cragen, Alexandra and her, “but I'm… I have work to do.”

“I’ll give you a lift, I need to return to the DA’s office as well.” Alex offered, and Casey thought it would be rude to refuse- especially because refusing would mean hailing a cab while Alex drove her own car, or hiding in the bathroom until Alex left, which seemed pointless and also moderately embarrassing.

“I’ll try to rein Liv in,” Cragen said as a final note, which both attorneys nodded too but otherwise let hang in the air.

Alex walked a couple inches closer to Casey than she would've entirely preferred, but didn't attempt to glance at her as the two ADAs exited the precinct, which she did appreciate.

“I’m sorry, Casey.” Alex said, her voice suddenly smooth and soft like a blanket Casey could wrap herself in, “I didn't mean to fight your fight for you. It was disrespectful for me to step in like that- it's just, I’m friends with Liv, and I hated hearing her berate you like that. She can get really carried away.”

“It’s fine,” Casey responded in what she hoped was a curt, indifferent voice. “Liv’s having a tough time without Elliot, I expected it.”

“That's no excuse for how she was addressing you, though.” Alex murmured, but in an observational, light, almost conversational tone instead of a pressing argumentative one. Casey could only shrug in response, tugging her coat back on as the two exited the precinct doors.

Obviously, Casey felt guilty for her inability to help carry the conversation. It wasn't in her interest to spend the drive back to the DA’s office in a prickling silence. But her hands were shaking just slightly near her sides, and she was consumed trying to calm her sympathetic nerve system to an extent to which she just really couldn't try to formulate the kind of precise, intentional words she’d want to be using with Alex. Making a fool in front of the elder, esteemed attorney by stumbling over exhausted, nervous words while trying to make sure Alex knew Casey wasn't actually upset at Olivia wasn't what she wanted to deal with right now.

Her heart was still beating uncomfortably, not particularly fast, but strong enough to register in her neck and ears. Casey’s lungs seemed just constricted enough to be a nuisance, and her mind was still whirling through a variety of observations, thoughts and topics. She wished she could scream at her anatomy to just stop, quit it, so she could take a deep breath and pause the cortisol flowing through her.

The faux blonde allowed Alex to lead her to where her car was parked, and they remained in a mildly tense silence throughout the brief journey. Alex seemed more inclined to allow Casey her retreat into introspection and Casey couldn't force herself to make words fall from her mouth if she tried- that is, if she tried, such she currently was not attempting to do.

Alex unlocked the car and circled around to the driver’s side, and Casey mechanically settled in on the front passenger’s seat, staring ahead rather blankly as she waited for Alex to begin driving- which she didn't do.

Once both car doors were closed, the blonde attorney turned to Casey, her expression unreadable.

“Casey, I’m going to hold your hand now.” Alex said in a soft, authoritative voice, before reaching over and clasping two hands around one of Casey’s. Her hands were soft and without discernible temperature, but they felt comforting in a way that mildly surprised her.

Casey blinked at Alex with furrowed brows, but she didn't move to shake the elder woman’s hands away, which Alex half-smile at encouragingly.

“If someone were to yell at me like that,” Alex continued gently, “I’d be all kinds of broken up about it. I can't stand loud sounds and erratic movements. And I’d want someone to sit me down, hold my hand, and listen so I could talk it through. Is that what you’d want to do?”

“No,” Casey said hoarsely, feeling a sob bubbling within her lungs. “I don't want to talk.”

Alex speaking to her with that tone, soothing, low and melodic, was simply too much for her right now. She wouldn't be able to recover if she lost her composure in front of her colleague, and if she tried to speak, tried to explain anything, she’d begin crying- she didn't realize how close she was to tears until just now.

“Do you want me to keep talking?” Alex hummed, and Casey again shook her head in denial. She felt guilty she was rejecting Alex with no type of explanation, but she couldn't explain herself, and Alex seemed to understand.

Then, so soft it was almost whispered, “..Do you want me to hold you?”

She said it so softly, with such a note of emotion, that Casey almost thought it sounded like that was what Alex really wanted to do herself.

Casey’s head met Alex’s shoulder before she realized she was moving, and despite what the overwhelming fear that sank into her mind said the second she did so, Alex was entirely receptive, her hands raising to cradle her skull softly.

She’s just back from international work in the Congo, Casey thought to herself miserably, I’m sure she’s used to cleaning up people’s breakdowns. I’m sure she’s exactly the type of good person I’m not.

Casey’s shoulders were shaking and she couldn't stop them, and her arms were numbly pawing around Alex's sides to bring the other woman closer. Alex tightened her grip, sliding one thigh across the divider in a way that must be uncomfortable and her other leg beneath her, so she could lean across and make the embrace all that much easier for the other woman.

The younger attorney could feel Alex exhaled against her scalp, and if Casey pictured it she could see Alex’s eyelids fall shut with empathy, her slim fingers laced around Casey’s shoulders like thread that held ripped fabric together.

But as much as Casey felt horrible about letting the woman comfort her, she couldn't bring herself to pull away. The allure of Alex’s warm, inviting figure, the solace being embraced brought, especially after the years of feeling so utterly alone, was too much to reject- it didn't stop her from feeling guilty about it, though. She didn't want to accept Alex's pity, but oh, how she did need it.

“It's okay,” Alex said the second Casey opened her mouth to apologize, “I’ve got you. It's hard, I know.”

That notion rang clear in Casey’s disoriented mind. Alex had referenced something specific in her verbal takedown she had no clue how the elder woman would be aware of.

“How did you know about him?” Casey said suddenly, raising her head and pulling back, staring at Alex with bleary eyes, “About Olivia telling Branch about-?”

Alex winced, then, her shoulders tilting inward just the slightest bit, her hands flexing as though she wanted to pull Casey back.

“...Liv told me,” She breathed finally, after a pause. Casey’s mind went momentarily blank, so stressed everything faded out to void, and she rested her forehead against Alex’s shoulder again, exhausted beyond measure. She'd resign next week, she internally decided, she’d recuse herself from all her active cases and leave. This was too much, all too much. But she didn't make any move to pull away from Alex, if anything, she shifted just the slightest bit closer. Alex was still talking, she realized faintly.

“She mentioned you during your suspension, when she thought- when she thought I was getting too involved.”

“What?” Casey murmured, her voice seemingly heavy and far-away. “You? You get too involved?”

Alex chuckled softly. “Haven't you heard about how I ordered an illegal search?”

It caught Casey off guard that Alex would offer up information like that. That she’d care about this conversation enough to divest vulnerability like that. Casey swallowed, once, and then when Alex’s hands flexed again, she lowered her face back to the blonde's shoulder. Alex’s slight anxiety seemed to soothe in that instant, her hands able to regain their purchase on the back of Casey’s head.

Casey thought that if she wasn't so emotionally pent up, she’d think Alex’s slight discomfort at not being able to hold her was cute.

“No, I haven't. Tell me about it,” Casey murmured, and Alex fully turned her torso in her direction, settling into a more comfortable position as she regarded the window thoughtfully, composing her words for the impromptu bout of storytelling. She wasn't particularly proud of this moment, but if it made Casey feel better, she’d divulge.

“This boy was the victim of a pedophile,” Alex started slowly, “and I knew- I knew something was wrong when he said he’d be going home, but I.. I watched him walk out of my office, and that night I got a call he’d try to kill himself, and it was horrible. He was hooked up to all those machines, and the mother was screaming at me- I had been decked by another victim of the same guy, and I thought I’d get it again from her.”

Casey nestled a bit closer, a small exhale against Alex’s neck that signalled she was listening. If Alex looked down, she'd see a rounded green eye attentively focused on her face, but she didn't. Alex was partially zoned out the way Casey always felt when she was recounting her own prior cases to herself.

“We knew from another victim, one who had grown up and been incarcerated, that the boy would have tapes of the crime in his room, and the judge denied my search warrant to go retrieve them. But I sent the detectives anyway. Liv asked me if I had a search warrant and I…” Alex shrugged slightly, Casey’s head following the motion from where it rested. “I tried to steamroll my way right through it. Still remember how…” Alex paused to search for a word she couldn't find, “how I felt after.”

It was hard for Casey to reconcile the woman before her as someone who had broken the law, but somehow the knowledge she was human like her stopped the churning of her stomach slightly.

“This seems stupid to say,” Casey murmured in her low rasp, “but I never realized you were… that you could make the kind of mistakes I do.”

Alex chuckled again sadly. “I’m far from perfect. I can be insensitive, harsh, I get tunnel vision. I put people in danger.”

Casey bit her lip, hesitantly raising her head again.

“And I call in favors,” Alex continued, “My uncle… I leaned on him a lot early in my career. On his connections with other judges. Petrovsky called me out on that before. I made a lot of publicity mistakes, too, once I didn't- I tried to navigate a case and let a boy off easy, and he ended up,” Alex swallowed, then, “murdered in the street.”

“Before I was suspended, I almost got an assault charge.” Casey admitted softly, trying to add into the conversation, not wanting Alex to be the only one bearing herself vulnerable. “I pushed a juvenile sex detention facility head against the wall after I found out that- that abuse was ongoing within the facility. After I sent… a boy there.”

“It’s tough.” Alex sighed as a response, and Casey nodded slowly. She raised her head back up, pushing her head instead against the headrest of the leather car seat, watching Alex watch her.

They sat together in silence, although unlike during the walk to the car, it wasn't uncomfortable. It wasn't bursting with racing minds and words not said, rather the budding sense of familiarity and camaraderie. Casey understood how Alex felt, and Alex understood what Casey wasn't saying. They were fighting the same fight, after all. Who would better comprehend the struggle than one who was in the same shoes?

“It starts to get exhausting,” Casey said slowly, her green eyes flicking upwards to scan Alex’s face, seeking validation in solidarity, “the politics of it all. I just …”

“... want to help,” Alex finished for her, tilting her head and raising her shoulder before letting it drop. “Want to make a difference, want to… ensure justice for people who need it. Provide solace to someone.”

“You get it,” was all Casey could respond with, but Alex nodded.

“Did you really need to go back?” Alex murmured, using her hand to motion to the steering wheel she wasn't using, and Casey pursed her lips.

“No,” she answered honestly. “I just didn't want to be in the precinct anymore. Did you?”

“No,” Alex responded in turn, and then blue eyes flicked up, studying Casey’s face as her lips curved into a soft, knowing smile. “I just … wanted the excuse to talk to you.”

Casey’s gaze slid around Alex’s features, taking in the softened gaze, the curve of her cheeks at her gentle smile, the tilt of her glasses, the slope of her hair. She noted how elegantly Alex always held her arms, but for once, she didn't try to compare herself against her colleague, rather just took in the fact a woman this gorgeous was trying to provide her with the solace she so desperately needed.

“Let's talk, then.” She murmured, and then in a rush of confidence, “It's been a while since someone tried to …”

She didn't know what she wanted to finish that sentence with. No one had stood up for her, no one had offered her a degree of companionship, no one had put in that much effort to engage with her. But that seemed utterly pathetic to divulge, so she bit her tongue. As always, as she was learning to understand through this brief interaction, Alex could tell what she meant without her needing to say it. It was comforting.

“Are we continuing this conversation in the parking lot, or am I driving you somewhere nicer, Ms. Novak?” Alex hummed, extending her arms to wrap around the steering wheel so she could lightly tap-tap-tap her fingers against it, and Casey chuckled.

“Somewhere nicer? What, are you asking me out?” Casey snorted, mirroring Alex’s turn to a proper sitting position and crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“...Would you be more or less willing if it was?” Alex smirked, but it was obvious she was jesting.

Casey grinned, closed her eyes, and flexed her eyebrows with a bit of snark she found within herself she hadn't been sure still existed. “I’m not a cheap date, counselor.”

“Then we’ll get along, because I refuse to eat anywhere that doesn't have tablecloths and a separate wine menu.” The elder attorney shot her a small smile, turning on the car’s ignition and beginning to pull out of the parking space, apparently having decided on a place already.

“Never ask me to cook for you though,” she followed that up with, “I can afford a good cut of steak, but for the life of me I wouldn't be able to cook it.”

“Then you buy it, and I’ll cook. I’ve been told I know my way around searing steak.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Alex chirped, removing one hand from the steering wheel to enclose the top of Casey’s hand, “I never did treat you to something after you saved my life. I wanted to.”

The teasing air morphed into something softer once more, warm and comfortable, as Casey’s eyes softened in Alex’s direction. The blonde was now focusing on the road, so she couldn't see the way Casey studied her features, which only created incentive for Casey to take her time doing so.

“Did you mean what you said?” She didn't like how timid her voice came out, but the words spilled from her lips before she could stop them. Alex shot her a brief glance, raising an eyebrow that signalled a nonverbal ‘about what?’.

“about … me being a decent prosecutor,” Casey pressed rather lamely, her voice not really full of conviction, because she didn't really know if she wanted the honest answer. She didn't want to hear Alex lie, and she didn't want to hear Alex struggle to justify it either.

To her surprise, Alex’s immediate response of “yes” was not hesitant or thoughtful. She said it as though it were an unarguable fact.

“I think you forget,” Alex added, “One of the people your legal prowess saved was me.”

That was before her suspension, Casey noted to herself with a sigh, back when prosecuting felt perhaps not as easy, but as natural as breathing. But maybe, possibly, with the knowledge at least one person wanted to put in the effort to support her, at least one person didn't struggle to decide if Casey was worthy of being an attorney- maybe that one person’s acknowledgement could satisfy her craving for validation. Maybe she really could climb her way back up again. Maybe it wasn't all lost.

But also, maybe that wasn't something she really had to decide ultimately in this particular moment. She could simply enjoy the company of another person who understood the intricacies of the life this job provided, chatter and storytell, and allow the drained battery to recharge. She didn't need to dedicate her life to SVU, and didn't need to start drafting her resignation forms either.

She could just choose on the simple decision of allowing Alex to take her for dinner, and worry about the rest when she could handle it, because it did now feel as though she would soon be able to handle it.

“You're really something, you know that?” She responded, turning back to face the road, and she could hear Alex smile in response.

“Just trying to repay the favor you did me,” Alex smoothed, “and… well, women like us, we should stick together.”

Casey nodded once in agreement, her lips curving into an easy smile as she replied, “that we should.”

[sturnsblogs]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆More than best-friends‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Chapter 3: The Shift

You weren’t sure when things really started to change, but they did.

Maybe it was the little things at first—Chris taking longer to text back, missing your usual after-school hangouts, or forgetting inside jokes you both used to laugh at. You told yourself it was fine. He had a girlfriend now, and things were bound to be a little different. But as the weeks passed, it became harder to ignore the growing distance between you.

And the worst part? He didn’t even seem to notice.

The tension from your last argument still lingered in the air. You hadn’t spoken to Chris much since that night, both of you too stubborn to reach out first.

Kenzie, your best friend since forever, had been your rock through all of it. “You’re not wrong, you know,” she had said when you first told her about the fight. “He’s been acting like a total idiot.”

Still, you hated fighting with Chris. It felt wrong, like something in your world had shifted off-balance.

So when your phone finally buzzed with his name, a mix of relief and apprehension hit you.

Chris: “Can we talk?”

You hesitated before replying.

You: “Sure.”

He showed up at your door twenty minutes later, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “Hey.”

You crossed your arms. “Hey.”

Chris exhaled. “Look, I—I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t important. I swear, that was never my intention.”

You stayed quiet, waiting.

“I know I’ve been distant. And yeah, I have been spending a lot of time with Avery, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. You’re my best friend. You matter to me.”

His voice was genuine, and for the first time in weeks, you saw a glimpse of the Chris you knew. The one who used to put you first, who used to notice when something was wrong.

You sighed, glancing down. “I just… I don’t want to feel like I’m always coming second.”

“You’re not.” He stepped closer. “I swear, you’re not.”

There was a beat of silence before he held out his arms awkwardly. “Can we stop being weird now? I miss you.”

You rolled your eyes but stepped into the hug anyway. “Fine. But you owe me pizza.”

Chris grinned. “Done.”

And just like that, things felt okay again.

That night, Chris invited you over to his house. “Movie and pizza, just like old times,” he had said.

For the first time in a while, you were excited. Maybe things could go back to normal. Maybe this was Chris’s way of making an effort.

But then, as you settled onto the couch with your plate of pizza, he cleared his throat.

“Hey, um…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you mind if Avery comes over?”

You froze mid-bite. “What?”

Chris shifted in his seat. “She just texted me. She’s bored, and I figured—since we’re all friends now—she could come hang out with us?”

You set your plate down. “Chris.”

“What?”

“This was our night.”

Chris hesitated, looking at his phone. “I know, I just—“

“Just what?” You let out a bitter laugh. “Can we seriously not spend one night together without her being involved?”

His expression shifted. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

“Because it is a big deal, Chris!” You gestured between the two of you. “We barely hang out as it is, and when we finally do, you want to bring her?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh my God, what is your problem?”

“My problem is that I feel like I don’t even matter to you anymore!”

Chris let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

“Do I?” You crossed your arms. “Because lately, it sure doesn’t feel that way.”

He clenched his jaw, his expression shifting from frustration to anger. “I’m not your boyfriend! I don’t have to spend every second of my time with you.”

The words hit you like a slap. You felt your stomach twist as you stared at him.

Chris scoffed, shaking his head. “Are you jealous or something?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“What?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“That’s what this is about, right?” He gestured vaguely. “You don’t like that I’m with Avery. You don’t like that I actually care about someone else.”

You swallowed hard, your hands curling into fists at your sides.

“And I’m not fucking jealous, Chris.” Your voice was sharp, firm, filled with frustration and something else—something deeper.

Chris let out a sarcastic laugh. “Really? Because you sure sound like it.”

You took a step closer, glaring at him. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I supposed to be thrilled that my best friend suddenly treats me like an afterthought?”

Chris clenched his jaw. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“No? Then what is happening?” You crossed your arms. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re replacing me.”

He let out a sharp breath. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” You scoffed. “Because you never used to ditch me for anyone. But now? Now it’s Avery first, Avery this, Avery that. And what do I get? I get scraps of your time when she’s busy.”

Chris shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, but this is fair?” You gestured between the two of you. “You ditch me, barely talk to me, and then expect me to just be okay with it?”

“I don’t ditch you!” Chris snapped. “I just—things are different now.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “No shit.”

Chris sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t get why you’re making this such a big deal.”

You stared at him, your chest tight. “Because you are a big deal to me, Chris. But I don’t think I am to you anymore.”

His mouth opened slightly like he wanted to argue, but no words came out.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. “Enjoy your night with Avery.”

And with that, you grabbed your jacket and walked out, slamming the door behind you.

Chris didn’t come after you for the first time. he didn’t come after you.

A/N- Well this was fun. i’m very sorry i didn’t come out with the third chapter last night i was very tired. Butttt what do we think? if you have any requests for anything you can always tell me in my inbox.

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @chrislilcumslvt @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04

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CHAPTER TWO