#But I do know that above all else I believe in Kindness

[silentstaresfanficandfanart]

you know this post seems a lil sad to me, cause when I was stuck in a corn maze I only managed to get out because there was an enthusiastic effort amongst everyone in the corn maze to help one another get through it, pointing the way and offering hints and asking questions When I was in the dmv so miserably early the doors hadn't even opened yet people were bringing over big buckets for others to sit on, and when inside there were so many random acts of kindness between the individuals there and silly little interactions that by the time I finally got my driving test done there was an air of kinship in the air and I only got out so quickly because another person realized she'd gotten something wrong paperwork wise and gave me her place in line

And when I hurt my wrist as a kid everyone kindly held open doors for me at every turn When my mom and I got stranded in the middle of no where thanks to a car issue like 5 different people stopped by our car and asked if we were okay, offered to help, (we were waiting for the repair guys or something like that) and warned us "its a bad area so be careful" and yet not once did anything bad happen at all, every person we saw was kind and worried for our wellbeing...(which while that does make me wonder what on earth they were trying to warn us about it did give me the impression at the time that perhaps they just all had some sort of beef with other, but i was a little kid so I wouldnt really know, it seemed to me like it was in fact a much nicer than average area)

When tragedy strikes don't people rush out to help?

When there's a hurricaine, a fire, a tornado, an earthquake, don't neighbors rush to help and protect one another? don't we try to save each other? don't we express heartache and rage when the first response ISINT to help? Why is it that our first response is rage? grief? heartbreak? when the first response to a bad situation is to take advantage of it or to abandon those suffering, or worse yet, to yank them back down?

Because we are social animals Crabs dont likely understand why they cant get out or even that theyre forcing the other crabs to stay in the bucket when they yank and pull, they just think its a way to pull themselves up, they dont have enough going on to grasp how physics works or to be cruel and want others to suffer with them.

Selfishness does exist, but it's not the rule

it's the exception, and we shout and point when it happens.

Of course we notice, because kindness is the rule

do we know the names of every single individual to ever save another human life? let alone to save thousands? Have we memorized the names of heroes who eradicated disease or created safety guidelines or fought for rights and for goodness in this world? Is it not the names of those we revile that we focus on most

telling our children of their crimes?

Why don't we focus more on every hero? Because theres just too many of them, because being a good decent human being is the norm.

Maybe not perfect, maybe even a pretty messed up human being but with a good heart, goodness knows I know a lot of people who while you might not say "thats a great person" you'd also never call them cruel or evil, just that they could use some help or deserve better lives.

I truly believe humans for the most part are good, and I say this without denying the evil exists. I am vividly, horrifically aware of the darkness in this world, but I refuse to let that define our race because to do so would be to excuse those who chose to do the wrong thing.

I believe humans are above all else, defined by the fact we can chose right or wrong. I dont want those who do evil to be the ones who represent us, in my mind or in anyone elses mind

They are the exception to a kinder rule.

this is just a me ramble though , my opinion thats not more valuable than anyone elses, just one I felt like sharing, because maybe it will bring someone some relief...

I used to feel guilty as a child for being human, for being something as horrible as that, and I know maybe some others did or do too

But remember please like mewtwo once said, its not the circumstances of your birth which defines you, but what you do with the gift of life.

we are not evil we are capable of it.

we are not good

we are capable of it.

and we will do both in our lives.

but I have been pleasantly surprised now that I'm older and know more about the world to see that in fact the world isint just like in history books overflowing with grief and pain, and convinced that since everyone said children were naive and unaware, that it must be worse than I could ever imagine

but in fact the world is full of the mundane, and every day normal people go about their lives and chose to be decent to one another and often do much more kindness than we will ever know.

I'm glad we arent crabs in a bucket

i love you all

people are like "if you put crabs in a bucket they can't escape because they keep pulling each other back in, this is called crab bucket mentality and describes why people don't help each other" and never acknowledge that crabs do not naturally occur in buckets, a human with more power had to put them there

[multific]

Of Dog Tags and Love Letters

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon Riley never says “I love you” out loud. Instead, he writes letters, letters you were never meant to find.

Simon wasn’t the kind of man who said “I love you” easily.

He showed it instead.

He showed it in the way he pulled you close at night, in the way his hand always rested on the small of your back in public, in the way he made sure you always walked on the safer inside of the sidewalk.

His love wasn’t loud or obvious, but it was steady, always there.

Still, you wanted to hear it.

Just once.

Just once you wanted to hear him say it.

Simon had been gone on a mission for a few weeks.

You missed him, missed the way the house felt different when he was home.

Tonight, the quiet felt heavier than usual.

That’s what led you to the room, sitting on the bed, fidgeting with his dog tags.

That’s when you found them.

A small metal box, tucked away beneath an old shirt. You were trying to find a shirt which still smelled like him.

Inside the box, there were letters.

Dozens of them, all folded neatly, your name written on each one.

Your stomach flipped as you picked one up, your fingers shaking slightly as you unfolded the paper.

The handwriting was rough and rushed.

But it was undeniably his.

If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it back.

Your breathing stopped, but you kept reading.

I don’t say things the way I should. Never have. But you should know… you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re the reason I want to come back in one piece. If I don’t... just know that I love you. Always have, always will.

Your chest ached as you grabbed another letter.

It was the same.

So was the next.

You looked at the dates. Every letter is written before a mission.

Every single one, carrying the words he never said to your face.

I love you.

All of them, filled with meaning and care. All of them are written from the heart.

You pressed them to your chest, blinking back tears.

Three days later, he was home.

The second he walked through the door, you didn’t wait. You crashed into him, arms wrapped tight around his middle.

He let out a small grunt of surprise. “What’s all this then?”

“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

He huffed a quiet laugh, arms circling around you. “Good to see you too, Love.”

You pulled back, searching his tired eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Simon’s body tensed. “Tell you what?”

You lifted your chin. “About the letters.”

His whole body went still.

“…You found them.” His voice was quiet.

You nodded. “Yeah. And I had to find out from some scraps of paper that you truly love me?”

His jaw flexed like he was bracing for something. “I didn’t think I’d ever—” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not easy for me.”

“I don’t care if it’s easy,” you shot back, stepping closer to him. “Do you think this is easy for me? Waiting? Wondering if you’ll come home?” Your voice cracked. “Wondering if I’ll ever get to tell you—”

You stopped yourself, swallowing hard.

Simon’s eyes softened. “Tell me what?”

You exhaled. “That I love you too, you idiot.”

His breath hitched.

Then, before you could say anything else, he cupped your face in his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. His touch was warm, and grounding.

“Say it again,” he whispered, begged.

A smile tugged at your lips. You rested your hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I love you.”

His eyes closed, and he let out a slow breath like he was letting himself believe it. When he spoke again, his voice was deep, barely above a whisper.

“I love you too.”

And this time, he didn’t need a letter to say it.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗜’𝗩𝗘 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗗 lando norris x  fem! reader (angst) fic summary . . . Lando's playboy image has everyone, including yourself, convinced he's just another guy who sleeps around, until he finally opens up about his feelings that is (482 words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

There was a sharp edge to your voice tonight. Lando had heard you angry before, but never like this. Never when it was aimed at him.

“You know what, Lando?” you snapped, arms crossed as you stood in his hotel room. “Why don’t you go find some random girl and fuck your feelings out like you always do?”

Lando flinched like you’d struck him.

You didn’t even see it. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t care—not in the heat of the moment. Not when he’d been pissing you off all night, poking at you, pushing, teasing like always, but this time it was different. This time it hurt, and you didn’t even know why.

Lando let out a short laugh, but there was nothing funny about it. “Is that really what you think of me?”

You scoffed. “Everyone knows, Lando. It’s not exactly a secret.”

Everyone. Social media. The paddock. The world.

Everyone had an opinion about him. About the playboy image, about the girls, about the headlines. He knew what people said. Knew what they thought.

But he never thought you believed it.

Lando exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His voice was quieter now, strained. “You really think I just sleep around with random girls?”

You shrugged, still defensive. “I mean… yeah?”

And fuck—something inside him cracked.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his whole body taut like a string pulled too tight. His throat was burning, his heart was pounding, and suddenly, the words he’d been burying for years clawed their way up his throat.

“I don’t.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“I don’t sleep around,” Lando bit out. His voice shook, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. “Because the only girl I have ever wanted is you.”

The air in the room changed.

You blinked, lips parting slightly, but no words came out.

Lando let out a breath, shaking his head. “God, do you have any idea what it’s like?” His voice wavered now, and fuck, his eyes were stinging. “To be so fucking in love with you that it hurts?”

He laughed bitterly, swiping at his face. “I can’t even look at another girl because no one—no one—could ever compare to you. And yet, here you are, shouting at me, looking at me like I’m some kind of—some kind of fucking stranger.”

You still weren’t saying anything.

“Jesus, Yn,” Lando whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You’re tearing me apart.”

His chest felt tight, too tight, like his ribs couldn’t contain everything inside him anymore. Like it was all breaking apart and you were just standing there, watching him bleed.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

And then, finally, your lips parted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“…You love me?”

Lando huffed out a breath, looking away as a tear slipped down his cheek. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Just—just forget it,” he mumbled. “I’ll go.”

And then he turned, chest tight, hands trembling—because if he stayed, if he looked at you for even a second longer, he was pretty sure his heart would never recover.

[lustlovehart]

OH MY GOSH RIDDLE??? He is ACTUALLY a pretty princess now omg. And tangled?? Me and Riddle are the same person fr 🤞🤞

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASEEE imagine being the Eugene to Riddles Rapunzel. (With a few creative liberties <3)

Cw: Rapunzel Riddle, Mother Gothel Ms.Rosehearts, A blade is held to your throat, Threatens of Beheading, You both get really close, Low key just cheesy stuff, Riddle deep in his mothers control and you’re the one who breaks it <33

The moment you set foot into his tower shelves upon shelves of books surround the room, all of which seem pertained to studies that you simply could not care in the least about. A vast majority of them are related to medical while a smaller portion is other educational subjects like Math and English.

It has no matter to you though, all you need is shelter before the guards inevitably catch your thievery. Originally, you believed this place to just be an abandoned library, but the closer you look at it… Fresh tea and a warm plate filled with food that looks plain yet nutritional tells you a different story. Especially how organized and tided the room is, and… The long cascade of red hair that has circled around the room.

You don’t have the chance to fly out the window before someone holds you in place, a blade to your throat.

“Mother said the most important rule is to not let anyone inside.” You don’t turn around to look at your captor, only tightening the grip on your bag.

“Is her rule more important than the law? I hope not—“ before you know it he pulls you to the floor, his long hair tangling into your legs. You finally see his face in all its glory, the sun hugging his skin. He looks… Familiar.

“Yet you’re trespassing. If you really cared for the law you wouldn’t be here!” The blade is closer to your neck, his fingers grazing your skin. He opens his mouth to say more truth, his eyes shifting over to your bag. In turn you catch his gaze when he reaches over.

“Ah ah—! Hey that’s mine you recluse—!” You stretch over to grab your rightful steal before he can, but you’re too late.

“… What’s inside?” It’s a book no doubt, he can tell from the indent of the object through the fabric.

“You don’t talk to anyone but your mommy do you? I’m not telling someone who just tried beheading me!” For a moment his face goes red, expression shifting to anger, ready to yell every rule you’ve broken so far. His rage subsides when he notices the way your freed hand grips his hair.

No one else has touched it but his mother.

When you notice the natural progression of his emotions, you lean into him, your faces a few inches apart. It takes a moment before he realizes how close you are, his body falling back in shock. He buries the book into his body, looking up as your body pins him from above. It’s weirdly a pretty sight, the strands of his crimson hair highlighting your features as it webs your body like webs. He winders what kind of person you are.

“Do you wanna leave?” The words don’t fully process, as if he has never even considered the thought. He doesn’t reply, furrowing his eyebrows in suspicion. He really shouldn’t trust you, not at all, yet your smile seems so genuine he can’t help but feel his worry dissipate at your face. You lower your body down, your chin placing itself on the book, the only obstacle blocking you both from practically embracing each-other. “I’ll help you out, and you can give me the book back.”

He shouldn’t believe you, but the moment you smiled at him, he can’t help but put his belief in you.

“… Riddle.” He leans back up, his hair following him, which only further traps you in himself, but you don’t seem to mind for some reason. Your finger twirls his hair, your hand grabbing onto his.

“Let’s go then, Riddle.” Little does he know, the familarity you felt has been realized.

This Riddle, is your childhood crush who suddenly moved away.

[lmo82]

How L is with N vs A

With N

-the looks he would give her during the whole tour

-always touching/cuddling

-always holding hands and L will bring her hand even closer to him, like towards his legs more or in Brazil his Crotch…lol

-Always being body guard Luke

-Pulls her closer to his body, like in Italy WT pictures

-they share drinks and utensils like couples do

-interviewers believe they are really in love.  The one gasp from the reporter when N caresses L hair

-they both talk about how much they love each other 

-L meeting N family.  This one is HUGE for me and the one I always go back to.  N sister crying when Mom and L hug.  SIL snapping her fingers, while patting N’s brother on the chest.  Mom nodding her head approvingly as she walks back to her seat.  And in another video it shows N wiping away tears as her mom and L hug.  

-L wouldn’t let go of N hand at the London premiere

-the ring, enough said there

-As an add on N mentioning people wanting her to marry L in Time.  She also mentions her dad who has passed and she rarely talks about him.  To me it seems like she is mentioning the two most important men in her life in a very very important article about herself

How L is with A

-NYE kiss, where maybe they were drunk and then apparently a simple kiss the next day at a tennis court(have not seen this one). This was pre WT so to me it doesn’t even need to be including per say, but doing it anyway

-she was on friend trips with L, never seemed alone, even if that was alluded to

-Was at both premieres but L avoided her, even when she tried holding his hand…claw grasp anyone? 

-A was at GQ event with R and S too.  All pictures of them together he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else

-In Sorrento he was Lifeguard Luke *

-in videos he doesn’t know he is being recorded he avoids her, like not being near each other for Rs birthday cake video or the recent Boss event bts footage

-Didn’t see them around each other since July until recently.  Just pictures alluding to them being around each other 

-Boss event where after helping her out of the car let’s go of her hand and it looked awkward.

-Inside Boss event they did look close and laughing and hands on each others backs.*

-like stated above though, bts video of the event shows that after they walked into the event they weren’t close to each other.  Another bts video of them getting drinks again not close, in fact L seem to keep his drink in his right hand to keep the space between them

In conclusion how he is with N screams love and couple.  The only thing that says couple with A are the two on my list with the * .  And both those times it appears they knew they were being filmed.  Now I don’t know why N and L would go to this trouble to pretend to be in relationships with others.  Not going to address JD because that one isn’t worth a breakdown If you look at his friends and SM.   On the other hand I don’t understand why the world tour would all be PR either…especially with N family involved.  A lot of what we got from, N and L was from the WT, so people want to ignore it as PR…I don’t.  Yesterday I kind of went down that path and it doesn’t make sense.  It just doesn’t.  So if we believe that the WT was them being them, we need to realize that 2 somewhat displays of affection between L and A are not even close to the levels we got from L and N.  Why are we holding more weight to those 2 displays.  Especially when L has never confirmed that is his girlfriend.  And the few articles written have always been about promoting A.  I know to the outside or more “realist” people we seem conspiracy level nuts, but we are looking at the big picture imo.

[rosedustdreams]

Heyy!!😊

Can I request something with Walker and reader based off the song Into you by Ariana grande. I love your work 🥰

Into you

The music thumped softly in the background of the late night cast party, but your attention wasn’t on the music or the chatter in the room. It was on him.

Walker stood a few feet away, his back to you as he talked to one of the crew members. The way his head tilted slightly when he laughed and the way he leaned against the counter it all made your heart race.

You weren’t sure when it had started. Maybe it was the long hours on set, where the two of you would share quiet jokes between takes. Or maybe it was the way his teasing smile would soften whenever you caught him staring at you. Either way, he was consuming your thoughts more and more these days.

And tonight? Tonight, you swore there was something in the way he looked at you a flicker of something just waiting for the right moment.

As if sensing your gaze, Walker turned, his eyes locking onto yours. Showing off his playful smirk, as he raised an eyebrow, silently asking What’s on your mind?

You looked away quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks. But out of the corner of your eye, you saw him excuse himself from the conversation and make his way toward you.

Your heart leaped.

“Hey,” he said when he reached you, his voice low enough that only you could hear it over the music. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You smiled, trying to play it cool. “Just… enjoying the vibe.”

Walker tilted his head, studying you like he didn’t believe a word of it. “Uh-huh,” he said, leaning in slightly. “So you weren’t staring at me just now?”

Your cheeks burned, and you tried to laugh it off. “What? No, I wasn’t—”

“Sure you weren’t,” he teased, his grin widening.

“Walker,” you groaned, shoving his shoulder lightly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Only when I’m right,” he shot back, his voice warm and teasing. Then, after a beat, his expression softened, and he leaned just a little closer. “You know… I don’t mind it.”

“Mind what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper now.

He hesitated for a moment, his confidence faltering just enough to let you see the nerves underneath. “When you look at me like that,” he said finally. “Like I’m the only person in the room.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. The air between you felt charged, like one spark would set it ablaze.

“I…” You swallowed, trying to find the right words. “Maybe it’s because you kind of are.”

Walker’s eyes widened slightly, and then his grin returned smaller this time, but more genuine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, your voice soft.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The party faded into the background as the two of you stood there, the space between you shrinking with every passing second.

“I’m not great at this kind of thing,” Walker said, his voice quiet but steady. “But if you… I mean, if you want…”

You smiled, taking a small step closer. “Walker, just say it.”

“Can I take you out sometime?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t hesitate. “I’d like that.”

His grin was blinding, and for a moment, you thought he might say something else. But then someone called his name from across the room, and the moment was broken.

“I should…” he said, gesturing toward the voice.

“Yeah,” you said, biting back a smile.

“But, uh…” He hesitated, his hand brushing yours for just a second. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

“Not a chance,” you replied, your smile growing.

As he walked away, you felt your heart race again, this time with the kind of giddy excitement you only ever heard about in songs.

A/N: sorry this is so short I'm working on so many requests at the moment idk how to feel about this.

Tags: @izzystylinson, @sophand4n4, @kaiwrites092, @shellsarepretty, @cheoriemoawa, @prettiesteyess,  @vintagewntr10, @hecallmebigpurrr420, @killualovbot, 

[sunbl3achedfly]

Do the dead comfort you? Pt.2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Spencer does all he can to save you from the hands of a psychotic unsub, and he makes a promise to remain by your side in the aftermath of the ordeal.

Content: Dead bodies once again, (tw) torture, stalking, breakdowns, hospital visits, blood, (tw) sexual assault, trauma, Spencer to the rescue & being a tad protective of the pretty girl he only met once before, the reader realizes she can't use her morbid sense of humor to cope with everything, hurt/comfort I guess?

Author's note: Here’s part two!!! I was listening to Ethel's new album while writing this and holy moly I was in the zone and wrote most of it in one go. (Pulldrone is exactly what was playing when I wrote the scenes while she was kidnapped and I feel like the eery ambiance encapsulates the utter sense of dread and despair that hits the reader once she realizes how serious the situation is). Hope you all enjoy <33

Let me know if you guys want a part 3!!

5,331 words (it’s a long one aha)

part one

masterlist

When you finally managed to open your eyes again, a sharp, dull pain radiated through your skull. The harsh fluorescent lights above didn't help as they glared down at you. At least you weren't on the floor. Nope, just restrained to an ice-cold metal slab. Fancy that. This must be how all my patients feel before I embalm them.

You attempted to look around the room but the bright lights from above prevented you from doing so. As you regained consciousness, you began to realize that both your wrists and ankles were restrained to the embalming table. And you were only in your underwear. The panic had begun to set in and you tugged at the restraints, but to no avail, they wouldn’t budge.

"Struggling won't help", a voice echoed through the room, "I made sure of that."

Your head snapped to the right as you took in the man who now began leaning over you. At first, he didn't even look real. He stood over you, bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the morgue’s overhead lights, his figure stretched and distorted by your disoriented mind. A nightmare stitched together from shadows and flesh, from surgical steel and the sickly scent of embalming fluid. His eyes—God, his eyes—weren’t just looking at you; they were studying you, cataloging every inch of your body as if you were a specimen he was about to dissect.

On any normal day, his face may have been forgettable, the kind you’d pass on the street without a second thought. But at this moment, in this place, it was the only thing in the world. The sharp angles of his cheekbones cast deep, skeletal hollows in his skin, making him look half-dead, like something that had crawled out of the very slabs you worked on everyday. His mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer—just wrong, like he wasn’t used to making expressions that mimicked human emotion.

Then came his voice, it slithered into your ears, so sickly sweet that it made you nauseous, "You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you? But they all stop fighting eventually.”

You tried your best to focus on anything else at that moment, the details of everything else but him. The thin, latex gloves that he wore, they were stretched way too tight across his knuckles. The way his coat —a pristine white lab coat, because of course it was—fluttered slightly as he moved, the motion strangely elegant. You could smell him too. He smelled clean, too clean, like antiseptic and soap, but underneath that all was something rotten, something decayed. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it wasn’t.

As he began mulling over which embalming tool to pick up first, his fingers hovering over them as if one of them was beckoning to be chosen, you realized just how exposed you were. For the first time since waking up, at the mercy of this thing, wearing a man's skin—you started to believe you might actually die here.

The sound of splintering wood as the mortuary door crashed open was deafening. You flinched violently, your body instinctively pulling against the straps that pinned you to the cold metal table. Relief and terror fought for dominance in your chest.

They’re here. Oh God, they’re finally here.

But then, just when you had begun to relax for the first time in hours, you felt the scalpal press harder against your neck. The tip of it broke through skin, not deep, but enough to make your breath catch.

"Don’t move,” the unsub growled under his breath. His voice was sharp, his calm façade cracking under the pressure. You could feel the tremor in his hands now, the desperation radiating off him.

Your pulse thundered, the pain from the cut on your arm flaring as you tried to keep still. The various cuts and injuries that littered your body were nothing compared to the fear the tiny blade at your neck instilled in you. You bit down on your lip to stop it from trembling. Don’t panic. Don’t make this worse. They’re here. They’ll get me out of this. Please let them get me out of this.

"FBI! Drop the weapon!" A commanding voice filled the room.

"Come any closer and I slit her throat!" The man bellowed. Up until this point he had not raised his voice once, and the sheer volume caused you to flinch again, the scalpal breaking through more skin. You could feel a warm liquid trail over your collarbone.

Your eyes darted to the doorway, tears stinging as you caught sight of the dark vests, the guns, the agents—saviors. But the unsub only pressed closer, his body partially shielding you. The scalpel was an unrelenting threat, cold and unmoving against your skin. The sharp sting at your neck anchored you to the moment. A hot tear slipped down your temple. I’m going to die here.

From Spencer's position in the doorway, his sharp eyes took everything in. The unsub’s trembling hands, the scalpel pressed against your throat, your bloodied arm, and—God—your state of undress. His chest clenched painfully, guilt and anger battling inside him. He only hoped the unsub hadn’t gotten too far before they arrived.

She’s absolutely terrified. One wrong move and she’s dead. Come on Spencer, think!

His jaw tightened as he saw the unsub’s gaze flick toward him, possessive and unhinged. Spencer’s hands twitched, his instinct to charge forward barely restrained. Stay calm. She needs you to stay calm.

"You don’t want to do this,” he finally said, his voice softer than usual. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands visible. Carefully, he raised them, shifting the gun away from the man. He was acutely aware of the five other guns trained on him, ready to fire if he made a wrong move, which was why he was willing to take the risk. “This doesn’t have to end badly. Let her go, and we can talk this through."

There was a slight pause in the unsub's movements.

“You’re in control right now,” Spencer continued, his tone gentle, almost soothing. “But if you hurt her, that control is gone. You don’t want that. You don’t want to make this worse.”

Spencer’s gaze flicked to yours, meeting your tear-filled eyes. You looked at him like he was your only lifeline. The desperation in your expression hit him like a punch to the gut. The only thought running through his mind like a mantra was that he needed to get her out of there, fast.

The tension in the room was suffocating, each second seemed to stretch on for eternity. Then, the unsub shifted slightly, but it was enough for Derek Morgan to lunge forward like a strike of lightning.

The scalpel hit the floor with a sharp clang as Hotch slammed into the unsub, yanking him away from the table. Chaos exploded around you—shouts, the scuffle of bodies struggling—but it barely registered. Your chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, your throat raw as you fought for breath, tears blurring your vision.

Spencer was at your side in an instant, undoing the restraints that held you down, while simultaneously giving you a once-over to take in any serious injuries he may need to keep in mind for the first responders.

You were in such a state that you barely registered whose hands were touching you and your heart rate immediately spiked. Your eyes were shut and you began thrashing on the table whilst whimpering loudly.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s over,” Spencer’s voice broke through the haze.

You blinked, realizing he was kneeling beside you, his hands moving to undo the straps that held you down. You flinched as his fingers brushed your wrist, a sob escaping your throat before you could stop it.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “He can't hurt you anymore. I promise.”

As the final strap came loose, you tried to sit up, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your legs felt weak, your hands trembling so badly you couldn’t push yourself upright.

“Here—let me help you.” Spencer’s hands were gentle as he guided you into a sitting position, his movements careful, almost hesitant.

The moment you were upright, you instinctively reached for him, clutching his shirt as your body shook with silent sobs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you. His vest felt stiff under your cheek, but his touch was warm, steadying. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe now.”

You couldn’t stop crying, the reality of everything crashing over you. His hand rested lightly on the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles on your back.

Spencer’s heart twisted at how small you felt in his arms, how vulnerable. Gone was the sarcastic, spunky girl who had left such a strong impression on him after just one meeting. He held you tighter, his own breath uneven as he fought to keep his emotions in check. She’s okay. She’s okay now. But she’s so scared. I need her to know she’s safe.

When you finally managed to speak, your voice was barely a whisper. “He almost…” Yet another sob prevented you from continuing.

Spencer shook his head, cutting you off gently. “But he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? You’re here. You’re safe.”

You buried your face in his chest again, your fingers clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. And in that moment, he didn’t care about protocol or what anyone else thought. All that mattered was comforting the girl with the shattered spirit in his arms.

The sharp, sterile scent of the hospital was the first to hit you as the nurse wheeled you through the emergency room doors. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, their clinical glow exposing every bruise, every scrape, and every jagged line of your vulnerability. They reminded you of the lights in the embalming room. The embalming room. That man. The tools piercing your skin.

You were vaguely aware of Spencer at your side, walking just close enough that his hand occasionally brushed against the armrest of the wheelchair. You wanted to tell him you were fine, that he didn’t have to stay, but every time you opened your mouth to speak, the words got stuck in your throat. You didn't want to do this alone.

The nurse guided you into a small room, where a doctor was already waiting. Spencer stopped just outside the doorway, shifting awkwardly, his hands buried in his pockets.

“We’ll take it from here,” the nurse said gently, giving him a polite but firm smile.

Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting between you and the nurse. You could see the conflict on his face, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for an argument.

You managed to find your voice, though it came out weaker than you intended. “Spencer…”

His gaze snapped to yours expectantly, his features softening.

“Can you… stay?” The words were barely a whisper, but the way his expression shifted—relief, determination, and something almost protective flashing across his face—made you feel a little steadier.

“Of course,” he said without hesitation, stepping into the room. He pulled up a chair near the bed, sitting close but giving you enough space not to feel overwhelmed.

The doctor began her examination, her voice calm and clinical as she asked you questions. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Are you in pain anywhere besides your arm?”

You answered automatically, your voice hollow as your mind wandered. The doctor’s questions blurred together with the sting of antiseptic on your wounds, and the rustle of the hospital gown you’d been asked to change into felt deafening in the quiet.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the unsub’s hands on you, the way his gaze had stripped you of every ounce of dignity. The memory was suffocating, curling around your chest like a vice.

Spencer’s voice cut through the fog, grounding you. “Hey,” he uttered softly, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay?”

You blinked, realizing the doctor had finished and was watching you with the same concerned expression.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction.

Spencer didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he waited until the doctor left the room before leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied you.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke up again, "You're not fine."

You looked down at your hands, the hospital gown feeling too thin, too revealing, despite being more covered than you were earlier. You didn't know how to respond.

Spencer hesitated, noticing the sudden vulnerability in your expression. “I uh... I need to ask you a few questions… about what happened. It’s just procedure—to make sure this guy gets what he deserves. We don't have to do it now, but I'm here when you're ready.”

The sincerity in his tone made something in you crack. You weren’t ready to talk, not yet, but the way he said it—as if there was no question that he would be there for as long as you needed—made you feel a little less alone.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly, though the thought of him leaving made your stomach twist.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “Not until you’re ready for me to, at least.”

You glanced up at him, expecting to see pity in his eyes, but all you saw was quiet determination. It made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected.

You took a shaky breath, your hands clenching into fists as you tried to steady yourself. “Ask the questions,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm with determination.

Spencer’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but insistent. “You don’t have to right now. We can wait until you’re ready. You don’t have to rush through it.”

But you shook your head, a flicker of something fierce in your eyes. “No… I want to do this now. If I don’t… I won’t ever.” The words tasted bitter in your mouth, but you pressed on, your heart pounding as the weight of what you were about to do sank in. “I need to nail this bastard. For me, for them… for everyone he’s hurt.”

Spencer remained quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, weighing your words. Finally, he nodded, his expression unreadable but softening with understanding. “Alright..." he hesitated, "This is going to sound silly, but can you close your eyes for me and tell me... what he did to you?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the request. For a moment, you didn’t know how to react. But the quiet, sincere way he asked you made something inside you settle, just a little. The room felt quieter now, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Closing your eyes, you tried to push the memories to the surface, to bring them into focus. Your heart beat faster, but you steeled yourself, knowing this was the only way to make him pay.

"When I woke up from being knocked out… I was tied down to the embalming table in my underwear, the straps were tight," you began slowly, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly. The sensation of the straps still lingered, and it made your skin crawl. "I couldn’t move."

Spencer stayed silent, his gaze never leaving you, his presence grounding you even as the weight of the memories pressed in. "Take your time," he said quietly, voice gentle but firm.

You took a shaky breath, nodding, trying to find the strength to continue. "He... he just stood there for a while, watching me. I could feel his eyes on me, like... he was enjoying it." You paused, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. "I couldn’t even scream. I just had to wait for him to decide what he wanted to do next."

Spencer’s jaw tightened, his mind was piecing it together, filling in the gaps even if you didn’t want him to. But he said nothing, giving you the space to speak. You appreciated that more than you could express.

There was no avoiding it. You had to talk about it. You had to say the words, had to help the FBI put together the full picture. You took a slow breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“He—he used different embalming tools.”

Spencer looked up sharply, he noticed the pained expression on your face and realised just how hard this was going to be for you.

Your heart started to pound. As soon as you said it, the memories came rushing back.

The metal table was freezing against your bare skin, your body trembling with something beyond the cold. You pulled at your restraints, but they were too tight, digging into your wrists and ankles.

“I’ve always been fascinated by preservation,” the unsub mused, his fingers trailing over a set of gleaming instruments. “The way death can be… delayed. How a body can be made beautiful again.”

You didn’t say anything. Your throat was raw from screaming earlier, and you were running out of ways to keep yourself from panicking.

The unsub turned, holding up an embalming trocar—long, sharp, and glinting under the fluorescent light. “Did you know this is used to remove fluids and gases from a body before preservation?” He traced the tip lightly down your abdomen, not pressing hard enough to break skin. “It’s important to prepare the body properly.”

Your breathing hitched, and you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself not to react.

His expression darkened. “You’re supposed to be still,” he murmured, and without warning, he pressed down.

Pain flared white-hot in your side as the tip of the tool pricked your skin, just enough to draw blood. You gasped, your body instinctively jerking against the restraints.

The unsub sighed, shaking his head. “Messy,” he muttered, wiping the small bead of blood with his gloved hand. “I’ll have to try again.”

You inhaled sharply, coming back to yourself. The hospital bed, the warmth of the blanket, the steady presence of Spencer beside you—it was enough to pull you out of the memory, but your skin still burned where the tool had touched you.

Spencer’s knuckles were white where he gripped his knees. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his eyes—his eyes were burning with something deep and unsettled.

“He used a trocar,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “He—he didn’t go deep, but he wanted to see me flinch.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to will away the image forming in his mind. “And the other injuries?” he asked, his voice strained.

You swallowed. “A needle. He… he injected something into my leg. Some kind of preservative, I think. It burned.”

Another flash—

The burn spread up your thigh, a fire beneath your skin. You cried out, muscles seizing, your entire body locking up.

The unsub tilted his head, watching with interest. “Formaldehyde is quite versatile,” he said conversationally. “It won’t kill you. Not yet. But I wonder how much your body can handle before it starts shutting down?”

You bit down on your lip, hard enough to taste blood.

You took a slow, shaky breath, forcing yourself back into the present. The hospital bed. The warmth of the blanket. The steady presence of Spencer beside you.

Spencer’s hands had curled into fists. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching.

“What else?” he asked, voice strained.

You hesitated again. “He used the embalming pump.”

Spencer’s breath audibly caught in his throat.

The hum of the embalming machine filled the room, a steady, mechanical noise that only added to the horror of the moment.

You were still strapped down, too weak to fight, but your breath was coming in panicked gasps as the unsub adjusted the tube connected to the pump.

“This is a test,” he murmured, almost absently. “A small amount, just to see how the body reacts.”

You barely processed his words before you felt the cool sensation of liquid seeping into your veins.

Your vision blurred for a moment. It wasn’t enough to kill you—not yet. But it left you dizzy, sluggish, your limbs feeling even heavier than before.

“Fascinating,” the unsub muttered to himself. “I wonder how much you can take.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "The last thing he did... he told me exactly what he was going to do to me. Everything he'd done to his other victims—every single cut, every injection, every—"

Your breath hitched, your throat closing around the words.

"But I—I was going to be his favorite," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Because I had spunk. Because I fought back."

A shudder ran through you, your entire body recoiling from the memory. You couldn't say the rest. You didn't need to say the rest. The way his voice had darkened, the way he'd described it, savoring every detail like a promise—

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could block it out.

Spencer's hand closed over yours, grounding you. His grip was firm, steady, as if willing you to feel something other than that sickening sense of violation crawling under your skin.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low but unwavering.

You shook your head, your breathing uneven. “But you need to know—”

“I do know,” Spencer cut in, his voice sharp but gentle. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with something unreadable—but underneath it, there was a quiet, unshakable promise. “You’ve given us enough.” He exhaled, slow and controlled, but his next words carried the full weight of his conviction.

“He’s never going to hurt anyone ever again. I swear to you—I’ll make sure he rots in prison for the rest of his life.”

A sob caught in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t ready to cry—not yet. But for the first time since it happened, you felt the faintest flicker of relief.

Spencer wasn’t just listening. He was hearing you. And he was going to make sure you got justice.

You weren’t alone in this.

And for now, that was enough.

As the night wore on, the hours began to blur together. You knew you wouldn't be able to sleep that night, and as guilty as it made you feel, Spencer didn't seem to mind. Throughout the night, nurses came and went, checking your vitals, re-bandaging your arm, and murmuring reassurances that didn’t quite reach you. And through it all, Spencer stayed.

The hospital room had settled into an almost eerie calm. Machines beeped softly in the background, and the dim lighting made everything feel slower as if the world outside had paused. You were sitting up in the hospital bed, the scratchy blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Spencer sat in the chair beside you, his legs crossed, thumbing through a book he’d found somewhere in the waiting area at a speed you didn't think was humanly possible.

The silence was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. The FBI agent that had first pushed the unsub away from you in the embalming room stepped inside. At first, his presence intimidated you, his muscular frame and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure, but there was an undeniable warmth in his deep brown eyes. His smooth, dark skin contrasted with the sharp angles of his jawline, and a hint of stubble shadowed his face. He was holding two cups of hospital jello, one red, the other green.

“Thought you two could use a little pick-me-up,” He said, holding the cups aloft with a charming smile. “It’s not gourmet, but it’s better than nothing.”

You managed to return a weak smile back, taking the red jello as he handed it to you. Spencer set his book aside and accepted the green one without hesitation.

“Thanks, Morgan,” Spencer said.

Morgan gave you both a once-over, his gaze softening when it landed on you. “If you need anything, just holler. But I’ll give you two some space.” He gave Spencer a pointed look as if to silently remind him to keep an eye on you, then slipped out of the room.

You began poking at the jello with the plastic spoon. The silence stretched between you and Spencer, not uncomfortable, just heavy with unspoken things.

"You know", you said finally, your voice a little raspy, “jello might be the most depressing food ever invented.”

Spencer glanced up from his cup, his lips quirking in a faint smile. There she is. “It does have a strange texture. Did you know it’s made from gelatin, which comes from—”

“Animal bones,” you finished for him, giving him a sidelong look. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

He blinked, a little surprised, then nodded. “Right. I guess... you would know that.”

You smirked faintly, the smallest flicker of your usual sarcasm peeking through. “What can I say? I'm full of fun facts. Comes with the job, really.”

Spencer tilted his head, studying you once again. "Your job... I can't imagine it's easy," he said carefully, his voice gentle.

You hesitated, your spoon hovering just above the jello. For a brief moment, you considered brushing him off with a joke or changing the subject like you usually would. But when you met his gaze, there was something about the way he was looking at you. God, stop looking at me like that. His unwavering, earnest stare made you feel safe enough to answer honestly.

“It isn't most of the time” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But it’s worth it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he kept his gaze on you, his expression soft yet intent—like he was trying to unravel everything you weren’t saying. His eyes, sharp with quiet intelligence, searched yours as if they could decode the weight you carried, the thoughts you never voiced, the depth you kept hidden from the world.

There was something about you that fascinated him—not just your words, but the silences between them, the guarded way you spoke about things that mattered. He could tell there was so much more beneath the surface, layers of emotion and experience you refused to share. And yet, just for a moment, it felt like he could see them anyway.

He finally spoke, "Why?"

You sighed, setting the jello cup on the bedside table. “Because… when I embalm and prepare a body, when I make someone look like the person they were before…” You paused, swallowing hard. “I get to give their family one last chance to say a proper goodbye. One last moment where they can see the person they loved, not the person the world left behind.”

Spencer kept his gaze steady as he took in your words. He could tell how much those words meant to you. Surprisingly, his expression held a little bit of understanding and even awe.

"That's... incredible." he said finally, "I had never thought of it that way."

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well… not everyone thinks it's incredible. Most people just think it’s creepy."

Spencer’s lips quirked into the smallest smile. "I mean, technically, you do spend a lot of time with dead bodies."

You gave him a pointed look. "And you spend a lot of time profiling serial killers, but you don’t see me calling you creepy."

Spencer tilted his head, considering that for a moment. "Fair point."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the heaviness of the conversation lifting just a little.

Before the conversation could continue you blurted out, "Thank you."

Spencer glanced at you, “For what?”

“For staying,” you said simply.

He hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I couldn’t leave,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Not when you…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “I just couldn’t.”

You nodded, understanding more than words could convey. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel completely alone.

As you leaned back against the pillows, your eyes growing heavy, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were going to be okay.

After your third day in the hospital, you were finally discharged. The hospital doors slid open with a quiet hiss, letting in a crisp evening breeze. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with fresh air—something that didn’t reek of antiseptic or overcooked hospital food. The gauze beneath your shirt still tugged slightly with each breath, but the soreness was manageable.

Freedom. Finally.

Beside you, Spencer hovered with the same quiet intensity he’d had when you arrived at the hospital, arms crossed like he wasn’t entirely convinced letting you leave was a good idea.

“You know, I appreciate the escort,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your good shoulder, “but unless you’re planning on kidnapping me back to my hospital bed, I think I can manage from here.”

Spencer blinked. “I just— I wanted to make sure you got out okay.”

You smirked. “What, did you think I’d trip over my own feet and fall into traffic?”

“I— statistically, you’re not at full mobility, and with your pain medication, your reflexes might be slightly impaired—”

You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’m not going to faceplant into the street.” Then, after a beat: “At least, not immediately.”

The corners of his lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile but failing miserably.

The silence stretched for a moment. For all his intelligence, Spencer still looked like he wanted to say something but hadn’t quite figured out the words. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was debating reaching out.

You tilted your head at him. “You okay there, Doc?”

He cleared his throat, straightening. “I just— I hope you know that you, um… don’t have to go through this alone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I was alone in the embalming room with a serial killer, so technically—”

Spencer shot you a look.

You snorted. “Okay, okay, I get it. Not the time."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… I know how trauma can make people isolate themselves, and I just wanted you to know that you have people who care.”

You nodded slowly. There was a warmth in your chest at the sincerity in his voice—softer, earnest.

“Well, in that case,” you said, shifting your weight to your good side, “since you care so much, would you... wanna get dinner sometime?”

Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, you know. The thing where people sit at a table, order food, and consume it?” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I mean, unless you don’t want to—”

“No! I mean— I do! I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, looking both overwhelmed and adorable in a way that made you bite back a grin.

You decided to put him out of his misery. “Spencer," your voice softened, "I’m trying to ask you on a date.”

He froze.

“Oh.”

You smirked. “Yeah. Oh.”

Spencer’s brain seemed to reboot in real time. “I—yes! Yes, I would like that.”

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Good. You can pick the place.”

He nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Right. I, um, I’ll text you.”

You chuckled, stepping back toward the curb where your ride was waiting. “See you soon, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer stood there as you got into the car, still blinking, like he was trying to process what had just happened.

As you pulled away, you saw him through the rearview mirror—standing there, hand running through his hair, a small, boyish smile tugging at his lips.

For the first time in a long time, despite everything that had happened, something felt right.

[effieotto]

Yeah, i know Haymitch might have been desired by a handful of Capitols during his twenty-five years of “contribution” -for all the wrong reasons, for sure. But there’s a fundamental aspect behind this “transition” that is important to bear in mind when discussing about the prostitution industry in the Capitol: It was an acutely restricted kind of business, and most of the Capitols with weird fantasies about the old, drunk Abernathy didn’t have the money for it

Not everyone could afford a victor, and the few who could were part of the highest level of society -thus less fan-girlies who dreamed of one day being with Haymitch Abernathy, and more twisted Capitols with pre-defined priorities. So, although i do believe there were the collectors between them and Haymitch HAD to endure some appointments, even later in his life. We can’t ignore how the richest were the ones to value beauty, refinement and youth above anything else (that’s why Finnick was so popular when he was still a child). Therefore, since most of them had the entire menu of Victors (and probably some escorts too) at their disposal -some even younger, fresher and better behaved than Haymitch-, i stand by the idea that his tactic of shaping his public figure to be as undesirable as he could be, was very effective.

like sure, He was a quarter quell victors -the last living quarter quell Victor even. And a lot of people probably bought him a couple of times because of this. But he was also the laughing stock of Panem. The drunk unkept twelve victor. And with the way the Capitols were always extremely careful with their own appearances before society, I don't think they would spend an offensive amount of money on a victor like Haymitch, when they had options just as popular as him, and definitely less embarrassing…

Effie may or may not have played a big part in his lack of appointment over the years, but his way of behaving and maintaining the image he created was a major factor in his unpopularity and, consequently, in the reduction of interest in the part of Capitols…

Haymitch was the biggest lier in the whole Panem and you all truly believed him when he told Katniss the Capitol had never forced him into prostitution?

[rassmentalism]

ONESHOT

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ- am i real?

pairings : carlgrimes x f!reader

warnings : sh, knife, cruel past, angst

words : 687

the night is quiet. too quiet. the kind that weighs on carl’s chest like a boulder, makes his fingers twitch against the grip of his gun. there’s no wind, no rustling leaves, no distant groans of the dead. just silence.

he hates silence.

you sit a few feet away, back against the wall of the run-down house you found for the night. your knees are drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them like you’re trying to hold yourself together. carl knows that feeling too well.

he watches you in the dim glow of the lantern, the flickering light casting long shadows across your face. you look tired. not just the kind of tired that comes from running all day, from swinging a knife into soft, rotting skulls, from watching your own back like it’s second nature. no, this is something else.

he knows what it is.

“you should sleep,” he says, voice low. he’s not looking at you when he says it. it’s easier that way.

you huff out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “should you?”

he shrugs. neither of you are sleeping tonight. that much is clear.

the silence stretches between you again, heavy and unspoken. the kind that’s worse than words.

then, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it—

“do you ever feel like you’re not real anymore?”

he turns his head, frowning. you’re staring at the floor, fingers clenched into the fabric of your jeans.

“like… like you could disappear, and nothing would change,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “like the world wouldn’t even notice.”

his stomach twists. because he knows. god, he knows.

“yeah,” he says after a beat. “i do.”

your breath shudders, and he catches the way your shoulders tense, like you regret saying anything at all. he wants to tell you it’s okay. that he gets it. that it’s not stupid. but the words die before they ever reach his tongue.

instead, he reaches for the knife at his hip and pulls it free. the metal catches the light as he turns it in his fingers, the motion slow, careful.

“what are you—”

before you can finish, he rolls up his sleeve.

his arm is a map of old scars, pale and faded, blending into the rest of his skin like they belong there.

you inhale sharply.

“carl…”

he doesn’t look at you. just presses the flat of the blade against one of the scars, tracing over it like he’s trying to remember.

“it doesn’t help,” he says finally, voice flat. “not really.”

you don’t say anything. maybe you already know that. maybe you don’t.

“hurts like hell, though,” he adds, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

your fingers twitch against your knee, like you want to reach for him but don’t know if you should.

he finally looks at you then. your eyes are wide, glassy.

“do you?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

you flinch. then, slowly, you roll up the sleeve of your own jacket.

carl swallows hard.

your arm is lined with fresh cuts, some still red and angry, others barely healed. some shallow, some not.

his chest feels tight.

he doesn’t say anything. just sets the knife aside and holds out his hand.

you hesitate, glancing at it like you don’t understand what he wants.

“let me see,” he says.

your throat bobs as you swallow, but after a long pause, you finally reach out. your fingers are cold when they brush against his, but you don’t pull away when he turns your arm, tracing his thumb gently over one of the older scars.

“you’re real,” he murmurs.

your breath stutters.

“you’re real, and you’re here.”

your eyes shine with something he doesn’t want to name. something too fragile, too raw.

“it doesn’t change anything,” you whisper.

his jaw tightens.

“it changes everything.”

you don’t argue. don’t fight him on it. maybe you’re too tired. maybe you just want to believe him.

the night is still too quiet. but somehow, it doesn’t feel as heavy anymore.

quick note : i hope it wont trigger anyone.. thank u for all the support i got on my previous oneshots, i usually write cai bots so this format is different for me ;p

[maroonshirt81]

Am I No Joke to You?

9k carcar os

Carlos also knew Oscar didn’t hate him because he had asked him outright, and the answer had been, “Yes, Carlos, I have a dartboard with your face pinned to it right above my desk. You never noticed?”

(He had secretly checked. There wasn’t one.)

Unfortunately, the only conclusion left to draw was that Oscar simply didn’t find him funny. And Carlos refused to believe that.

---

or: 5 times Carlos failed to make Oscar laugh and 1 time he succeeded

___

(extract:)

“Maybe you just rub him the wrong way,” Lando suggested, sitting on the edge of the table in their office break room like he had never before heard of the concept of chairs.

“But you always make fun of him, and he’s all ‘heeheehee!’” Carlos objected, scowling at the new coffee machine, which looked more like an airplane dashboard, with random blinking buttons and different levers.

“Maybe,” Lando continued, “you have to learn to rub him the right way, yeah?”

“I do not plan on rubbing my paralegal in any way, Lando,” Carlos huffed.

“Maybe you should?”

Carlos turned away from the futuristic machine to throw Lando an incredulous look. “I hope you are joking.”

“Dead serious,” Lando said, looking—in fact—dead serious. “I actually think he likes you.”

“I think it’s time to take you to the vet again,” Carlos mumbled, turning back to the coffee machine, which unfortunately hadn’t magically turned less complicated in the last five seconds, even though Carlos’s need for coffee had just skyrocketed.

“Look, mate—some people are just like that,” Lando continued cheerfully. “When they have a crush on someone, they become all mean and playfully judgy. He probably wants to look cool in front of you—can’t really do that when he’s giggling like a schoolgirl at everything you say.”

Carlos decided the best course of action was to ignore Lando and his crazy conspiracy theories that no one but his therapist should ever hear spoken out loud.

“This thing should come with a robot barista!” he said, pressing a few random buttons. Thankfully, he heard Lando dissolve into giggles behind him, so any further advice was successfully silenced for now. “What did they expect, putting this into a lawyers’ break room? Intelligent people? I get paid to talk for a living, not push buttons. We even have an elevator guy!”

Lando’s giggles evolved into a full-mode laughing fit, which Carlos knew he would not recover from for the foreseeable future, so Carlos was free to fall into his rant for an appreciative audience. The shrieking laughter was already attracting other people—the door to the break room opened to reveal Alex and… Oscar.

Perfect.

“Hellooo?” Carlos sing-songed, knocking against the coffee machine’s top. “Maybe it is voice-activated?” He grabbed one of the random handles and spoke into it like a microphone, “One espresso, please, Mr. Machine.”

Lando let out a howl. Oscar was stone-faced as always.

“Look at this!” Carlos ranted, pointing at a temperature gauge. “Why does it have a speedometer? Am I supposed to regulate the speed of the coffee flow myself?” He yanked one of the levers and blanched when it actually came off, turning to give Alex and Oscar a guilty look, as if he had just realized they were witnesses to his crime. “You saw nothing!” he said, hiding the lever behind his back. “I am serious! If you rat me out, I will bring you down. I know some good lawyers!”

Alex laughed, like any normal person would.

Oscar looked like Carlos had just recited a bad rendition of Hamlet in front of the class. But not only that. He was also coming closer, until he was standing right in Carlos’s space, reaching around him to grab the broken lever. And then, as if he had done nothing else his entire life, he pushed the lever back into its place, grabbed a clean espresso glass from the cupboard, put it under the machine, and pressed a button, upon which a stream of delicious-smelling espresso flowed into the glass.

Carlos, too stunned to speak, had kind of forgotten to give Oscar some actual space to work his magic and was now standing so close, he could count the moles on his cheek.

Oscar turned to look him straight in the eye and said, “You see. There’s a button that says ‘espresso’ on it. What you want to do is—you push it.”

Carlos silently gawked back until the machine stopped whirring. Oscar held his gaze. When Carlos didn’t say anything, he finally turned back to the machine. “You know what?” he said, pushing the same button again. “Let’s get you a double.”

Lando’s laughing fit was reaching the stages of teary breathlessness, squirming on the floor red-faced and weak, and Oscar looked way too proud of himself as he pushed the espresso glass, filled to the brim, into Carlos’s hand.

“Maybe you’d understand the coffee machine better if you actually got your own coffee from time to time instead of making your paralegal get it for you?”

Carlos grabbed the almost overflowing cup and shuffled over to the table, sinking down into his chair with a thousand-yard stare into the warm brown of the espresso foam.

“Anyone else want anything?” Oscar asked the room. Carlos assumed Alex shook his head because all he could hear was Lando wheezing, followed by the whirring of the machine as Oscar made his own coffee.

“All right, back to work,” he announced a minute later. When Carlos finally looked up, he saw that Oscar had stolen his #1 Boss mug and was silently toasting him before walking out of the room.

“Oh my God,” Alex snorted as the door closed behind him. “He is hilarious around you, Carlos!”

“Yes, you two should have your own show!” Lando agreed from the floor, still wheezing for air. He started to pull himself up by the table leg, his flushed face appearing over the surface. “Are you seriously making him get your coffee?”

“It was one time!” Carlos said darkly. “By accident.”

“How do you make someone get you coffee by accident?” Alex inquired.

“He was getting chummy with Verstappen, so I needed him to be busy.”

“Ah,” Lando coughed as he plopped his ass back onto the table’s edge, continuing his boycotting of chairs. Then, out of nowhere, he turned to Alex. “Hey, do you see Oscar’s Insta stories every Sunday?”

Alex looked just as confused about the sudden change in topic as Carlos. “Huh?”

“Yeah, every Sunday, he posts the same picture of the view from the lookout at the top of the mountain with the caption #cyclinglife or something equally lame.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen it,” Alex said. “Why?”

“Yes, why are you telling this story to Alex like it’s not clearly aimed at me?” Carlos asked, frowning.

Lando shrugged, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a grin. “Just to have plaulsibl—uhm. Pausible—shit! Plaulauli—fuck, it’s getting worse…”

Carlos gravely shook his head. “How you finished your degree, I will never understand.”

“Oh, shut up,” Lando snorted. “That’s why you’re the one talking in front of big audiences, and I’m the one holding the clients’ hands and making them laugh. Who needs to know how to say ‘palausible denybility’ anyway?”

“This is why I keep my accent,” Carlos declared. “Because it makes me pronounce English better! Listen!” He took a deep breath and moved his hand like a conductor as he slowly spelled it out for Lando.

“Plau-si-ble De-nia-bibli—FUCK!”

Lando collapsed right back onto the floor.

[loafysainz]

Animals Chapter 1 | LN 4

cast: lando norris x minji newjeans

warn: PLS DONT READ IF U NOT INTO DARK FIC! SMUT 18+, NSFW, MDNI, toxic relationship, manipulation, obsession, controlling behaviors, mention of rape, suicide, and sa, rough sex, no-consent, kidnapping, full of madness, stepbrother lando!, stepsister minji!

song rec: animals - maroon 5

chapt 1/8

PLS DONT READ IF U NOT INTO DARK FIC!

"Papa!" 

Bianca barged into the VVIP hospital room, her heart racing as she spotted her father sitting on the bed. Without hesitation, she threw herself into his embrace, not caring that the book he’d been reading slipped from his hands. Nor did she pay any attention to his assistant, who was quietly standing by the window. Her worry overshadowed everything else. 

"Why didn't you tell me? How could you keep this from me?" she demanded, her voice trembling. 

Her father chuckled softly, running a hand through her disheveled hair. "You were on your way to campus, weren't you? Telling you would've only made you more anxious. But now you're here, and I'm fine."

Bianca pulled back, seeing her father's face. His calm demeanor unsettled her, as if nothing was wrong. But before she could ask more, his assistant coughed lightly, signaling the need for discretion. 

He gestured toward the man, raising an eyebrow. "Speaking of surprises, you want to tell me what I've been hearing about you and Daniel? Meeting at a hotel of all places?" 

Her stomach dropped. "Papa, it's not what you think! We ran into each other by coincidence. We only talked about work, nothing more." 

Her father's stern expression softened, but only slightly. "You know how it looks. The media doesn't care about coincidences, Bi. And Daniel…he's a sharp man, but I'm not sure he's above using this to his advantage."

"I promise, nothing happened," she insisted. "I was completely innocent."

"I believe you," her father sighed. "But next time, be more careful. In this world, even innocent moments can be scandals."

***

"Bi," her father called gently, breaking the silence in the room. 

She looked up from the couch where she had been sitting, her arms folded tightly around her knees. Her eyes were still clouded with worry. 

"It’s late," he continued, glancing at the clock on the wall. The hands showed it was nearing midnight. "You should go home and get some rest. You’ve had a long day."

"No," Bianca protested immediately. "I want to stay here with you, Papa. What if something happens? I need to be here."

Her father sighed, a mix of affection and exasperation. "Bi, I'm fine. You've seen for yourself that there's nothing to worry about. The doctors are excellent, and I’m in good hands. Besides," he added, gesturing toward the door, "I won't rest properly knowing you're here, sitting on that uncomfortable couch.

"But, Papa-"

"No buts," he cut her off firmly, though his tone remained kind. "I need you to take care of yourself too. Go home, sleep, and come back tomorrow. You'll feel better after you've had some rest."

She hesitated, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her father reached out, taking her hand in his. "Please, for me. You being healthy and well is the best thing you can do for me right now."

Reluctantly, Bianca nodded. "Okay," she whispered. "But you have to promise to call me if you need anything. Anything, Papa."

He smiled, squeezing her hand. "I promise. Now go, and drive safely."

As she gathered her things and walked toward the door, she glanced back at him one last time. He gave her a reassuring wave, his smile steady. It didn't completely ease her worry, but it was enough to make her step out into the night, the sound of his calm voice echoing in her mind.

***

Bianca got home at almost 12 a.m. Its because she had to do something for her assignment in her studio, making her late.

Bianca sighed and dragged herself up to the second floor. The house was unusually dark, which immediately annoyed her. Sure, one of the house keeper had texted saying she was at the hospital with her dad, but why were the lights off? Bianca hated the dark, especially when she had to feel her way along the walls to

“Wow. Amazing Bianca.” 

She froze. Every nerve in her body screamed. The lights suddenly flickered back on, and that voice… it came from behind her. Her breath hitched. 

“Out having fun again, huh?” 

Bianca turned slowly, her heart racing as the shadowy figure came closer. The heat of his presence suffocated her. 

“Still early, though, isn’t it?” he sneered, now circling her like a predator. His voice was icy and sharp. “Finally remember you have a home to come back to? Answer me, damn it!” 

“L-Lando,” she stuttered, her voice barely a whisper. Tears welled in her eyes, and her legs felt like jelly. He was terrifying, like a nightmare brought to life. His piercing gaze burned with anger, and Bianca was powerless against it. 

Lando Norris, her older brother that she could never escape. He leaned closer, his movements unhinged. 

"What Bianca? You don't want to see me?" he spat, his tone escalating. "Then maybe stop acting like a spoiled brat!"

Bianca flinched as his voice echoed through the house. 

"You think my life revolves around cleaning up your messes?!" Lando's furious words hit her like a truck. His breathing was ragged, and his expression was pure fury. Bianca couldn't even muster the courage to defend herself. His presence always turned her world gray, making her wish she could disappear. 

"I had to fly back from Monaco because of YOU! Do you even realize how much trouble you've caused? Papa in the hospital because of your nonsense!"

Bianca wanted to explain, to say something, but her voice was trapped in her throat. Her silence only fueled Lando's rage. He grabbed her jaw, his grip harsh and unrelenting, and shoved her to the floor. The impact made her wince, but he didn't stop. He stormed off, leaving behind the scent of bold notes of earthy amberwood, which only added to her pain. 

The housekeeper rushed over to help Bianca up, her voice trembling with concern. "Miss, are you okay? Come on, let's get you up."

But Bianca couldn't even stand. Her tears streamed silently as her heart shattered into a million pieces. 

"You know how much money I've spent cleaning up after your scandals?" Lando's voice echoed from across the room. He looked at her like she was nothing. "You're a disgrace to this family. Why do you always have to shame the family?"

Bianca's silent sobs only grew heavier. Every word cut deeper than the last. She couldn't even scream, though her soul was begging to. 

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps on the stairs broke the tense atmosphere. 

"Sir, stop. Please. She's had enough," the housekeeper pleaded, her voice breaking. 

But Lando didn't even flinch. His cold, piercing stare was locked onto Bianca. In those few seconds, she wished she could disappear. 

This wasn't just a bad day it was a storm that would leave her drowning.

next chap

[izanna]

I’m taking over this theory since I helped with it, I will not tolerate hate or harassment from EITHER side of the ships. If you are an Elriel and you don’t like this theory, MOVE ON. It was made in fun to troll and then we found merit in it and actually had fun with it.

If you are a GA and you don’t like this theory

That’s okay but respectfully move the fuck on, yall didn’t wanna claim it until we did this.

And for anyone who comes at me saying because that would make Gwyn evil and the evil elriels only said it to make Gwyn evil, a vast majority of elriels do not think Gwyn is evil even if she is a LS.

The current and most recent theory is that LightSingers will probably be like Suriel. Misunderstood because that is what SJM does commonly with her creatures.

A vast majority of elriels believe Gwyn if she is a lightsinger does not know and her powers are unintended.

While my friend did write this up; the hate she received was unjustified and disgraceful from every side. So I will take it all. if you're going to be rude, say it with your chest. my asks are open, and you can comment all you want. I won't respond to anons tho ;) you might as well be invisible dirt to me if you ask anything hateful anonymously.

Link for the OG theory post down below. 👇🏼

Now, obviously, there isn’t solid evidence for this, but hear me out. Lightsingers are described as lovely, ethereal beings—charming, beautiful, seemingly harmless. They can lure someone into their trap. Which, okay, is not something Elain has done yet, but let’s be real—if anyone in this series has the range to be cute and terrifying at the same time, it’s her.

And if we’re going with the idea that each Archeron sister has a symbolic “sister peak” to conquer—Feyre’s was Under the Mountain, Nesta’s was Ramiel—then Elain’s might be the Prison. Which would make a lot of sense if she had some kind of power to soothe or control the monsters lurking inside.

Another thing about Elain is that she is always associated with light. She’s the loveliest and most beautiful of the Archeron sisters, the one described as “a face that could bring kings to their knees.” And yet, despite all of this delicate imagery, we know she’s capable of violence when necessary. Perhaps not as a warrior with a sword, but with her own deadly ability.

Which brings me to the thing that made this theory really click for me: the phrase from the Book of Breathings that’s been haunting me. Love me. Touch me. Sing me. Feyre is love. Nesta is touch. And Elain… is sing.

Think about how Truth-Teller was described as a “bridge” between light and dark, between death and the lovely fawn. Azriel, a literal shadowsinger, paired with Elain, a lightsinger? Two beings who balance each other in ways no one else could? It’s the ultimate yin-yang dynamic, two sides of the same coin, opposites that only make sense together.

And this is where it gets even more interesting. In House of Sky and Breath, there’s a moment where a six-pointed star is described: “Two intersecting triangles. Male and female, dark and light, above and below … and the power that lies in the place where they meet.”

That six-pointed star represents balance—two forces that seem opposite but are, in truth, complementary. And when we apply that same concept to the ACOTAR world, we get something eerily familiar: the three sisters and the three brothers. Feyre and Rhys, Nesta and Cassian, Elain and Azriel. All of them marked by power in some way, by a connection to darkness and light, by abilities that—when combined—could be necessary for something far greater in either this next book or the one after it.

One last thing to think on: in ACOWAR, Feyre looks at a painting she once made of the Spring Court and realizes, “The painting was a lie. A bright, pretty lie, bursting with pale pink blooms and fat beams of sunshine.” What if that line wasn’t just about the Spring Court? What if it was foreshadowing Elain? A character who appears soft and lovely and warm—who is those things—but who also holds something capable of darkness beneath the surface? The whole “fanged beast and trembling fawn” duality?

I don’t know. I just think it would be so interesting. We’d understand more about lightsingers and shadowsingers, we’d get to see a whole different side of Elain, and it would cement her and Azriel as two halves of a whole. Light and Darkness. Not just opposites, but the kind of opposites that cannot exist without each other.

The true fated pair.

[astralazuli]

So there's that D&D class quiz going around, & I took it & was so deeply offended I got Paladin.

& so I have had conversations with both Bestie & Birdfriend about this grave insult & they both were like, "Well... They have a point?" & informed me that my desire to absorb hits meant for others & deep drive to help whenever I actually can & strong convictions make me a bit Paladin-coded.

& I am just so... Idk. It's just interesting to get glimpses of yourself from other people's POVs. To be told that my defining characteristics are protecting & healing others & being incredibly fighty about the things I care about... Especially as someone whose brain specifically fixates on whether I care enough, do enough, give enough... Yeah. It's just kinda wild.

Anyway, I'm now adjusting my self-perception to include the fact that if I were a D&D character, I would be an Oath of the Ancients Paladin & not a wizard & that actually that's okay.

[mc-critical]

Bonus:

2.22 (46) / 2.24 (48) / 2.25 (49) / 2.35 (59) / 2.39 (63)

[orcelito]

Don't know whether it's a product of my upbringing or just part of who I am, but I really do tend to shrug off things that seem to send others into massive guilt spirals. Like, what's the point? Either you meant to do it or you didn't. If you meant to do it but regret it now, make what amends you can & resolve to do better, then move on. If you didn't mean to, be honest about it, apologize if need be, & try to do better. Then move on.

Beating yourself up truly serves no purpose. What are we, catholic? If there is a god, I truly don't think they'd care, anyways

[cheryap]

ive gotten well damnginto this song