#Home Front Monument

[rabbitcruiser]

World War II: Nazi Germany and Slovakia invaded Poland, beginning the European phase of World War II on September 1, 1939.

[dishesoap]

i got trapped here once

I adore that riverside iowa just decided one day that they were where kirk was born and the writers were just like fuck it why not

[noonecareslol]

𒀯𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚

Anaxiphilia: love for or attraction to unsuitable mates; an act of falling in love with the wrong person

Hwang In-Ho x Fem! Reader

wc! 7k

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After you move away from your childhood best friend (and first love), the last place you expected to see him was stuck with you as a “player”.

TW: Violence (duh its squid game), cursing, smut 18+ pnv, unsafe sex, probably pregnant lol

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Classical music filled your ears as your eyes adjusted to the bright lights. It played throughout the room as you woke slowly and attempted to make sense of your surroundings. But, as you looked at the number placed on your tracksuit you remembered where you were.

Or at least why you were there.

You were never uncomfortable growing up. You were actually quite wealthy. Your father owned a very successful company, your mother invested money intuitively, and life seemed to improve daily. That was until you were 17 and news broke that your father’s company was a front. A money laundering business that cleaned his filthy money from years and years of fraud. When they died, they left you a monumental amount of debt. And when a suspiciously attractive guy handed you a little brown card, you couldn’t help but call the number on the back.

You knew the games were too good to be true. And you realized you were right after the first one. It took you 30 minutes to wash the blood off your face and out of your hair.

Now you were standing next to a girl with the number “222” written on her tracksuit, watching as an older lady and her son begged the guards to let them go. You fiddled with your hands, flinching at the rawness after scrubbing them relentlessly. Your attention was grabbed when another person stepped through the crowd.

“Clause three of the consent form!” Your eyes trained on him as he spoke angrily, “The games may be terminated upon a majority vote.”

Your heart stopped. You could go home and be safe. But you would still be drowning in debt. You bit your lip, remembering about the share of money you would receive. Would you have enough to cover it?

As if the guards could read your mind, a large piggy bank lowered from the ceiling, “The number of players eliminated in the first game is 91. Therefore, a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated.” Every eye watched as the piggy bank began to fill, “If you quit the games now, the 365 of you can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share.”

Another man shoves past the crowd, “And how much is that?”

“Each person’s share would be 24,931,500 won.”

Exasperated sighs and annoyed words broke out amongst the crowd. But your eyes stayed trained on the man who first spoke, “456” written on his chest.

The pink guard spoke loudly, “The rule is that a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player. If you choose to play the next game, the prize amount will increase accordingly.”

The crowd stayed silent, “The total amount of prize money for all 456 players is 45.6 billion won.”

The crowd erupted again, full of enthusiastic words and motivated cheers. The girl next to you placed her hands over her stomach, almost cradling it closer to her body.

If you went home now, you wouldn’t even have enough to cover a third of your debt. But if you stay and continue the games, you could die.

The doors opened and two guards wheeled out a metal podium with two buttons, a red X and a blue O. “Now, let’s begin the vote. If you wish to continue the games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers.”

“Player 456.”

The same man from before stepped forward without hesitation. As he walked to the podium his stride was filled with wrath and as he slammed his palm against the X, his eye contact didn’t break with the guard.

The voting continued, each person stepping forward to decide whether to live or die. Each time either button was pressed you silently celebrated, still not sure if you should stay or go.

“Player number two.”

Your face fell as your eyes centered on the podium. And with each slow step you took, you became more sure of your decision. And as you reached the podium, you had made up your mind entirely.

A high beep rang through the room as your face reflected the blue button. You decided to continue. Flinching at the sound of defeated sighs from behind, you took the patch embroidered with an O and joined the other voters.

“Player number one.”

You hadn’t cared to look at the man when he was standing next to you earlier. But now that he was about to break a tie, your eyes were locked on him. You didn’t catch his face but you studied his figure. He had a tall frame and dark brown hair that seemed to be styled perfectly. He walked with a thick sense of confidence and you hadn’t failed to notice how his tracksuit clung to his biceps.

You watched intensely as he lifted his hand and hovered between the two buttons. The room held suspension and your eyes were locked on his hand. He hesitated for a few more moments before pressing his hand down. Blue light illuminated his face and the surrounding crowd cheered as he walked from the podium.

He had selected to stay. To play another game where you, or him, could die. You voted for that too. So why aren’t you happy about winning?

Because he’s turned around now and you’ve seen his face. And you would recognize that face anywhere.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

“I don't understand, you’re moving?” He grasped the sides of your face, afraid to let go.

You looked at the boy in front of you who’ve you known your whole life. You went to private schools together, fancy parties together, and you shared your first time together. And now you’re leaving.

You placed your hands over his, “I don’t understand either In-ho. I want to stay, I don’t want to leave you.” Tears fell down your rosy cheeks as In-ho placed his forehead gently against yours.

You ignored your mother’s frantic yells for you to come and pack your things. You didn’t want to leave him. You loved him, and you knew if you left now you wouldn’t just be leaving your house. You’d be leaving your life behind. Your father would be arrested and your mother would have to work while taking care of you herself. You would move from Gangnam to Daegu. And you would have to start a new life. You just didn’t understand why In-ho couldn’t be a part of it.

That was the last time you saw him.

Well, until now.

You kept your distance, watching him talk to player 456. You recognize him from before as the man who’s already played.

You observed intensely, not bothering with your food. You watched how he exchanged words with 456. How his hair moved slightly as he used his hands to talk. You didn’t understand why he was here. The last you heard about him, he was married and his wife was expecting.

What could’ve gone so wrong for him to be here?

The girl next to you shuffled in her seat, setting her empty dosirak-tong on the ground. You knew she was pregnant just from how she walked uncomfortably with her hands supporting her back.

“Here, take mine. I don’t like dosirak.” It was a lie, dosirak is one of your favorite meals. But she was eating for two, and you didn’t have an appetite.

She looked up at you before gently taking the metal box from your hands, “Thank you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and you smiled in return.

Your eyes searched for In-ho again to find him walking towards a fight you hadn't noticed had broken out. His frame was large and towered over the boys as he approached them, “Boys, what are you doing in the middle of mealtime There are elders present, mind your manners. Aren’t you embarrassed?”

“You’re lecturing me when you ended up in this shithole too?” In-ho’s jaw clenched as he tilted his head at the boy, “Dude, stop running your mouth and take care of your own damn kids.”

You knew where this was heading, In-ho always knew how to fight. You smirked as he grabbed the boy, turning him around and twisting his arm behind him.

Forcing him to the ground with a thud as he whined, “Wait! I’m sorry! Please, let me go!”

He let go of his arm and stood up straight, adjusting his tracksuit. As he looked around the room while walking back toward player 456, his eyes suddenly met with yours. And he froze as he scanned your face. He was so caught up in Gi-huns plan that he had failed to realize you had entered the game. The girl he fell in love with. Who he shared his first kiss with, who he has thought about every day for 20 years since you were 17.

Your heart ached as old feelings rushed over you, watching as his eyes softened slightly before player 390 dragged him over.

You couldn’t sleep that night. You were too busy trying to figure out why he was here. Plus, you caught word of the next game being Dalgona. Which worried you because you had always sucked at cutting out the tiny shape, always giving in and eating the cookie whole.

You spent the night staring tiredly at the piggy bank, the soft yellow light casting across your face. What you didn't know is that 50 feet away, In-ho watched you. His mind also trying to understand why you were here. He stared at you, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, remembering when he would trail kisses on your pretty little face.

When he met your eyes earlier, he froze. Not because he didn't expect to see you, which he didn't, he froze because his heart did. He marveled at your beauty, and you took his breath away. Just like the first time he saw you all those years ago.

And now as he lays in his bed, his pillow propped up on the opposite end so he can see you, he can't help but address the elephant in the room. You know his name. You know his identity. You could ruin everything, his plan that he had focused solely on for the past three years.

As the lights turned on and classical music rang out from the speakers, his eyes stayed on you and only you.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Welcome to your second game. This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of six in the next ten minutes. Let me repeat."

Sand kicked behind you as you walked into the room. The speakers repeated the instructions as you whispered to the girl next to you, "Is Dalgona played in teams?" She shook her head and her hand caressed her belly. You've grown somewhat protective over the girl, whose name you learned is Kim Jun-hee.

You take her hand as you look to find a team and your eyes try to pick out In-ho from the crowd. You think you spot the back of his head and start to pull Jun-hee towards him when she makes a be-line to a group. Your protests go ignored as she reaches them. Your eyes still search for In-ho as she inquires about joining their group.

"Of course, you can join." The voice snaps you from your search as you meet familiar piercing brown eyes with your own. Your breath hitches in your throat as he doesn't break eye contact.

"Time for team selection is up." The PA system breaks your stare, but In-ho holds his. You look around the room, scanning over the tall blue walls and the rainbows painted on the floor, "The game you will be playing is Six-Legged Pentathlon. You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a minigame at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the minigames: Number one, the Ddakji. Number two, Flying Stone. Number three, Gonggi. Number four, Kendama. Number five, Spinning Top. Number six, Jegi. Your goal is to win all the minigames and cross the finish line in five minutes. Please decide on players for each minigame."

Your team divides the games between you. You get stuck with Kendama, a game that is played by tossing a ball into the air and attempting to catch it on a wooden stick point. You're fairly confident in yourself. You and In-ho grew up playing games like these.

You sit with your group as each team competes. You sat at the end next to Jun-Hee, checking on her every once and a while. You flinched every time a gunshot rang out, anxiety bubbling with every elimination.

In-ho could not stop looking at you. It was as if you had a magnetic pull, and he couldn't look away. You were a piece of art, crafted with the hands of God himself. And he was jealous of God's hands, wishing it had been his very own that created such beauty. Every time you looked his way, he looked elsewhere.

"Final two teams, please get ready." You help Jun-hee stand up, 390 stepping in place next to her. Standing on the other side of 388 as you all line up at the start. You lower your gaze as In-ho steps in line next to you. He's always been intimidating, especially with his large frame towering over yours.

390 chuckles, "It's weird to be the only ones who don't get an audience, isn't it?" His attempt to lighten the mood works a little, a small smile forming on your lips.

"I think it will help us focus more!" You rub 388's shoulder in comfort while he repeats the motions of throwing and catching the Gonggi.

The guard finishes locking In-ho's and 456's shackles before you feel an arm snake around yours. In-ho's bicep compresses your own as your face heats up. You glance up daringly meeting In-hos sharp gaze. You should say something. Anything. Ask him why he's here, or where his wife is. But before you can speak, 456 starts the chant and steps forward.

"Hana dul! Hana dul! Hana dul!" You chant as you approach the first game. Jun-hee slams the red ddakji down, successfully flipping the blue one on the first try.

As you chant and walk to the next game, 388 breaks the pace and steps forward quickly. Without hesitation In-ho's hand moves from your arm to your waist, effortlessly steadying you "Hey! Keep the pace!"

388 steps back into pace as we reach the next game, "Back when I used to pitch, I never threw very fast, but the ball always went where I wanted." 390 steps one foot back before aiming and throwing the stone precisely, hitting the target on the first try!

You all cheer before continuing forward, quickly approaching three minutes. As you sit on the ground you feel In-ho steadying you again, allowing you to lean slightly against him to give 388 more room to play his game.

"Okay, just take your time. You got this." I reassure 388 as he grabs the gonggi. With a quick hand, he tosses one in the air before collecting them one at a time. Then two at a time, Then three and one. Then all. He flips them on the back of his hand before catching them effortlessly.

Your cheers were quick as you stood up and rushed towards the fourth game. The guard hands you the Kendama and you can feel In-ho's gaze on you intensely. You held the Kendama out in front of you, tossing the ball up, quickly moving your hand to catch it. You close your eyes as you feel the ball land on the spike.

"Yes! You did it Y/N!" In-ho grabs your shoulders and shakes you, you shake his back as he beams a smile at you. And for a second, you forget about the timer and you're both 17 again, in love.

He wraps his arm around your waist again as you move to his game. He takes the spinning top in his hand and begins to wrap the rope around it, confidence radiating from him. We have this in the bag! -oh.

The rope fell off.

You feel his body tighten as stress began to build. He wraps the rope around once more before tossing it, praying that the top spins. It falls to its side and In-ho curses under his breath. You remember him using his left hand when growing up to play this game. You wondered why he was using his right, but you didn't ask him. You could tell he was getting annoyed at himself.

"It's okay! Just try again!" You let go of In-ho's arm to give him more room. He flings the spinning top with too much power and it flings backwards.

In-ho freezes, too embarrassed to move. The man next to him, 456, grabs his shoulder firmly, "It's okay, we'll get it. All right, backwards. Ready, set."

In-ho holds my waist tightly as we walk backwards in step, "It'd be boring to win everything fast." The group nods in agreement at 390's words, " 'Cause if you're ever gonna grow, you need to fail first, right?"

In-ho picks up the spinning top and we trek back to the line. He wraps the rope around successfully, "Okay now take it slow, wait- no don't rush it!"

In-ho interrupted 388's instructions by quickly, and messily, throwing the top. It falls to the side and you feel In-ho throw his head back and laugh. You quickly remove your hand from his waist, knowing what's about to happen.

"You piece of fucking shit! You ruin everything! You're worthless!" In-ho drops the piece of rope in his hand as he hits his head against his hands. "You're so pathetic!"

The group stands shocked as he hits himself angrily, stomping in the dried blood below him. You bend down and pick up the rope, glancing at the clock.

50 seconds.

"Hey!" You slam the rope against his chest and pull his face to look at you, "No one's blaming any of this on you! Now, take a deep breath, okay?"

In-ho nodded slowly, the feeling of your touch burning on his face as he placed his right hand over his chest, something he would do when you were younger. As the group shuffles to pick up the top, you place one of your hands over his and slow his breathing, "You can do this In-ho. Use your left hand like you did when we were kids. And if I die because of this I will kill you myself."

In-ho gave a small smile at your sarcasm as he wraps the rope around the axel, then the top. He places it in his left hand and looks at you quickly before throwing the top.

It spins.

You erupt in cheers as In-ho succeeds! He gives a quick hug to you, that you wished had lasted longer, and your group moves to 456's turn. In-ho's gaze darkened as he focused on 456, and you failed to notice it, still flustered from the quick hug.

"One! Two! Three! Four!" You all counted as 456 bounced the jegi on his foot, watching him and the clock as it counts down. For a split moment it seemed that he wouldn't be able to get the last hit in, but suddenly In-ho swoops in and reaches with his foot. "Five!"

You all cheer as you practically run to the end, crossing right as the timer hit zero. The heavy shackles get removed and you are immediately engulfed in a bear hug from In-ho. His arms wrap around the small of your back as he pulls you closer to his frame, if possible. He buries his head in the crook of your neck and you stay frozen. Not from the near- death- experience you just had, but because you realized you had forgotten what his hugs had felt like. You threw your arms around him in return, deepening the hug you have longed for every day for 20 years.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

You sat closely next to In-ho as the group chatted and complemented each others moves from the game. You were looking forward to catching up with In-ho, but you were too engrossed in 388's retelling of 390's stone toss, "And, sir, you were incredible at Flying Stone!" He proudly stood up and pretended to throw a stone, "You just lined it up and... Boom! First try!"

You giggled as 390 proudly shaked his head, and In-ho turned to look at you. God, that laugh. He had forgotten what it sounded like, and he frowned when you stopped, "I was thinking, what if we go around and say what our real names are? I'll go first, my name is Kang Dae-ho. Dae as in 'huge' and ho as in 'tiger'!"

390 laughed as Dae-ho gave himself tiger fangs with his fingers, "Now that's a cool name. My name is Park Jung-bae. It means 'righteous' and 'double.' So, I should be living twice as righteously."

"My name is Kim Jun-hee. I don't think I know what it stands for." Jun-hee smiles as she pushes a stray hair from her face.

"Jun means 'talented' and hee means 'star'. You are a talented star Jun-hee!" You ruffle her hair as she beams at you, "My name is Y/N. L/N, Y/N."

You can feel In-ho's stare as he watches your lips move, "My name is Young-il. You know, like 'yeong il.' 'Zero one' in Korean." You whipped your head towards him. Was there a reason he was hiding his name? Did he not trust anyone? He gave you a reassuring look, you'd just ask him later.

"My full name is Seong Gi-Hun." You looked away from In-ho's gaze as you watched 456 introduce himself.

"Seong Gi-hun. Like our un-'Seong' hero?" Everyone laughed but you. You were still pondering about In-ho. There were so many unanswered questions running through your mind. In-ho must have noticed your distant look, because he gave your hand a squeeze. A promise that he'll explain everything.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

After another failed vote to go home (you had voted to leave this time), Gi-hun warned about the possibility of an ambush. It plagued your mind with worry as you laid on your mattress. Another night of no sleep adding to the eyebags growing under your pretty E/C eyes.

Gi-hun stood from his watch as In-ho took over, and headed to bed. Now was your chance to fully reconnect with In-ho, "Can I sit here?"

In-ho turned to you, "Cant sleep?" He asked as he scooted over a tad, making room for you. He didn't make a whole lot of room though, which you didn't mind.

Your thighs touched as you sat next to him, "No, never could when my mind is running like this." You dusted off your pants as you placed your legs out in front of you, fingers avoiding the blood that plagued your bottoms.

"You shouldn't be anxious about the game tomorrow." He watched your face intently, trying to read you. You were always so easy to read.

You stifle a small laugh, "Oh i'm not anxious, 'Young-il'. " You tilted your head towards him as you dragged out his "name", smirking as he nodded defeatedly.

"Ohhh, okay." He leaned in close, making your heart flutter, "I just don't want anyone to know my name yet. In a game like this there's a lot of... betrayal."

Your spine shivered as his words tickled your ear, "Oh, I guess I didn't think about that..." You turned to look at him but failed to realize how close he was.

Your lips were now inches apart, barely. You could feel his breath fan across your lips and his eyes remained focused on yours, "It can be our little secret? Hmm?" You found yourself nodding before you could even process what he said.

You didn't move, instead, you tested the waters. You leaned in closer, tilting your head slightly, "Last I heard you were married?"

He shook his head no, not caring to explain as he quickly licked his lips, his eyes now focusing on your own. Your breath caught as your heart beat at an unearthly rate, he was so close. If either of you moved your head even a centimeter, his lips would be on yours.

But you weren't able to find out. The small metal door slammed as Jun-hee, Hyun-ju, and Ae-sim walked in, and you pulled back quickly. "I should try and sleep."

In-ho nodded as you walked away, his eyes trailed the curve of your ass and he adjusted his pants slightly before going back to his watch.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Players, welcome to the third game. We will begin momentarily. The game you will be playing today is Mingle." The beady-eyed horses caught your attention first. The black, soulless, painted eyes boring into your own as you followed behind In-ho. "I will now explain the rules of the game. All players will step onto the platform in the center of the arena. Once the game begins, the platform will spin. Shortly after, a number will be called out. You must then form a group that matches this number, enter one of the surrounding rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds, or be eliminated."

You stopped in front of the red platform, In-ho stopped next to you, "The real crucial thing for us to do is to stay calm and don't panic. Trust each other. And we'll all get out of here in once piece." He looked down at you, a need to protect you suddenly clear, "Deal?"

You looked up at him, "Deal." And he took your hand as you both stepped on the platform.

"With that, let the game begin!" The woman over the PA system was replaced with a nursery song, "Round And Round". The platform jolted before starting its spin, and you grasp onto In-ho for support as he steadies you.

"Ten."

The lights were replaced with flashing red as In-ho pulled you close. Gi-hun grabbed a group of 3 people as you searched for an open door, "Room 44!" You pointed to the light green door before dragging In-ho and Dae-ho with you. Hyun- ju grabbed a stray woman while running through the green door, barely making it.

In-ho placed his hands on the sides of your arms firmly, "Are you okay?"

"Yes." You breathed out, trying to catch your breath.

He took one hand and cupped your face, "Just stick with me. You'll be okay." You nod as the door unlocks and he grabs your hand, leading you back to the platform.

You spin for another few agonizing seconds with your hand still firmly grasped in In-ho's. "Five."

Your face fell, there were six of you. Who was going to leave? In-ho quickly pushes you into Jung-bae's grasp, "Watch her, i'll go! Hurry!" In-ho takes one more glance towards you as he runs through the crowd.

Jung-bae drags you with the others as you call for In-ho, "Young- il! Young-il!" The door locks behind you and you break from Jung-bae's hold.

"Im sure hes okay. He's smart Y/N." You press your face to the door, peering out of the small window, searching for his tall frame. You know he's smart, but you were so scared of losing him again you couldn't even register the other players getting shot in front of your door.

It unlocks and you push it open, rushing out and onto the platform. You whip your head around as you scanned for In-ho. When you lock eyes with his brown ones you make a beeline towards him, pushing past other players as you jump into his arms, "What ever happened to, "Stick with me"?"

His hand wrapped protectively behind your neck, cradling you in his arms, "I know, im sorry. But i'm okay." He pulled your head away to look at him, a small smile resting on his face.

The platform began to spin as you and In-ho stood next to Jun-hee, "Attention, players. The final round will now begin." The God forsaken nursery rhyme plays again, and this time, your eyes were glued to In-ho.

"What do you think the number will be?" Jun-hee asked curiously while clinging onto Dae-ho.

"It will be two." In-ho looked towards her.

"Wait, why?"

He squeezes your hand, "We're at 126 people, and there are 50 rooms. Even if there's two in every room, then there's still only enough for 100 of us. If you don't find one fast, you're done for."

The platform comes to a halt. "Two." The lights flash again and In-ho pulls you on instinct, running to a yellow door.

In-ho was going to keep you safe, at any cost.

You look back towards the group for a split second when your body meets the ground, you look up in slow motion as the man who pushed you runs to the door. You took a staggered breath before grabbing onto his ankle, slamming him to the ground and buying you enough time to run in behind In-ho and close the door.

Relief washed over you only momentarily as your eyes met with a third person in the room. In-ho steps in front of you, "Out."

"But, we were here first. Why don't you put her out and I stay?" In-ho tilts his head at his last remark before wrapping his biceps around the man's head.

The door behind you shook as the other man tries to push it open, you are quick to press your body weight against it to hold it close, "In-ho, what do we do?" Your voice was frantic as the countdown continued.

In-ho's arms tighten around the mans neck as he pulls and pushes at his grasp, but In-hos eyes never faltered. Not once. They stayed piercing yours, full of determination.

"Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two..." The cracking sound of the mans neck made you flinch, his lifeless body hitting the floor with a thud.

I did say in-ho would keep you safe. At any cost.

"One."

The door locked behind you as you pressed your back against it, In-ho's stare stuck on you as he stepped over the man's body and towards you. He pushed your body against the door, his hand finding the flesh of your waist as his other hand pulled your neck into a desperate kiss. You became putty under his touch as he dug his fingers into your skin, he craved your touch as much as you did. And it was taking every muscle in his body not to take you and fuck you right now.

Your hands traveled from his chest and up to his neck, pulling him closer. A small whine escaped your pretty lips as he slid his hand up and under your shirt, the same hands he just used to kill for you.

For you.

You felt the door unlock with a click behind you. And In-ho pulled away reluctantly as your head fell back against the door, "I need you Y/N." He brushed his thumb over your red and swollen lips before taking your hand, and leading you out of the door.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Attention, all players. Lights-out will be in approximately 30 minutes. With the remaining half hour, please disperse, and prepare to return to your beds for the night."

You sat next to Jung-bae who was excitedly talking about the next vote with Dae-ho as you watched In-ho move your mattress next to his. You hadn't dared to tell a soul about what happened in the yellow room, the kiss or the dead guy.

And you weren't going to tell anyone.

You should be concerned, right? Concerned over how easy it was for him to snap a guys neck without breaking eye contact? He was emotionless, cold, really attractive. You had witnessed many fights between him and other men while growing up, especially when it came to fighting over you.

But he never once killed for you. Until now, at least. Were you wrong to think it was really hot?

"Once the lights go out, the ones who wanna stay are gonna come for us." Gi-huns voice broke you from your thoughts, "Killing us would mean they win the next vote. It would also increase the prize money."

In-ho sat down next to you, his hand immediately finding your back, "We have to attack first then, it's our only chance. Those guys assume we're just waiting it out till the next vote. When the lights go down, we should hit them first since they won't expect it." He looked at you out of the corner of his eye, watching is you nod in agreement.

Gi-hun shook his head and leaned in closer to the group, "No, we can't. We'd be playing right into their hands if we did."

"Who is 'they'?" You tilted your head as you asked, failing to notice In-ho's gaze darken.

"The ones who built this whole place. The ones who created the games and who watch us play." The group listens closely, "If we're gonna try and fight anyone, we should be going after them instead."

"Sure, but where are they?"

Gi-hun looks up, "They're up there. At the top of the staircases. They keep everything here running from up in their central control room." He looks back at the group, "There's a man in a black mask who's the head of the operation. If we can get to him, we finally can end this."

In-ho sighs in disagreement, "It's too risky. Even if we manage to get a few guns they'll outnumber us when we try to get out." You feel his hand slide from your back and wrap around your waist.

"What are you suggesting? That we fight the other group through the whole entire night, and hope that we all make it? Is that it, Young-il? Do you really think that's a good plan?" Gi-huns voice is a little raised and you feel In-ho's grip on you tighten.

"Do we... stand a chance?"

"If we can manage an ambush, yes. Those bastards up there, they'll never expect our side to attack. They'll be focused on other things. This is it." You nodded with Dae-ho, ready to fight, "This is our last chance to put an end to these games and make sure they never happen again."

"Lights out in ten seconds."

"Once the lights are off, we have to get under our beds as quietly as we can. We can't afford to get caught by the other side. And we know they'll be out for blood." Gi-hun whispers as he slides under his bed.

You and In-ho follow suit, laying on your stomachs as you peer out from under your bed. You feel the contrast between your shaky breaths and his own steady breathing, and you can't comprehend how he could be so calm.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one."

"I have a plan." In-ho's voice was barely above a whisper, and a shiver runs down your spine at the sound of a woman yelling.

You look at him, "But, what about Gi-hun's plan?"

You didn't miss the small smirk that played on his lips, "Just stay by my side." Without a word In-ho swiftly moves from out of his bed, pulling you with him.

"Wait! What are you-" His hand came to your mouth as you both hugged the wall while discreetly moving towards the small metal door.

In-ho removed his hand to place a short knock. The small window opened, a guard peering through the flap. Without a single question, the door opened, and In-ho was quick to push you through.

You watched as the guard swiftly opened the bathroom door allowing you and In-ho to enter. You turned to the door as it shut behind you before looking at In-ho, "How did that guard just let you through? I don't understand, we have to go back In-ho."

"Or we can stay. We're safe here- you're safe here." He stood on the opposite wall in front of you, watching as you rested your hand on the doorknob.

He knew you were thinking about going back. But he also knew you weren't going to. He had you wrapped around his finger, just like all those years ago. And you knew it too.

You dropped your hand from the doorknob, biting your lip as you feel him slowly stalk towards you. Need courses through your veins as his hand comes from behind and wraps around your neck, his other hand pulls your waist against him. His lips find your neck and you've melted instantly.

His bulge presses harshly against your ass as he sucks and bites your neck with unhuman desire. This wasn't like when you were younger, when you were flustered and shy. No. You were hungry with want and your eyes were filled with lust.

He whips you around, lips on your own now as he moves you backwards to the counter. Your knees go weak and he lifts you with ease, as if you weighed nothing, and places you on the counter. Your fingers dug into his back, desperate for more. Hungry for him.

In-ho bites your lip roughly, and you give him what he wants, opening your lips wider and letting his tongue fuck your mouth. You were intoxicated, In-ho was the man you thought of each night as you fucked yourself, screaming his name into oblivion. And now here he was, hiking your shirt over your head.

"Y/N." Your name slipped from In-ho's mouth swiftly as he lifts your shirt over your head before his lips find your exposed skin. A small whine escapes your lips as his hot mouth gives your cold skin goosebumps.

It was like that small little noise ignited something animalistic within him, a grunt fell off his tongue as he bit your skin. He loved the way you squirmed as he dipped his tongue into your collarbone, his eyes looking up at you.

Sweat slicked your forehead as your head throws back, your bra falling from your tits, landing on the floor. How did he take it off? His hand didnt even-

oh.

Oh.

You looked at the bra, the back was still clasped.But the straps, the straps were ripped. He had ripped your bra off of you with hunger. But, you couldn't focus on the bra anymore as a moan escaped your mouth, your hands gripping the edge of the counter as In-ho rolls your nipple under his tongue.

He trailed sloppy kisses up to your mouth before stepping back, observing you. He pulls his shirt of with ease, "Take off your pants." It was demanding, and you obeyed. Your fingers trembled as you slipped off your bottoms and panties.

In-ho presses his tongue against his cheek, cocking his head as he takes you in piece by piece. You were sprawled out on the counter, your back resting against the mirror and your chest heaved, "What. What are you looking at In-ho."

"I'm thinking about all the bruises your pretty body is going to have after I fuck you."

He sinks to his knees in front of you, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he delves his tongue into your folds. You gasp, your legs involuntarily locking around his head. His tongue laps as he looks up at you. His nose perfectly brushes your clit, and he knows it as you rock your hips, "Oh, f-fuck. In-ho please."

He smirks against you as you sputter his name. He feels himself growing harder each time you whimper under his mouth. He drinks you up, your taste slicking on his face as you his tongue finds your clit.

One of your hands remove from the edge of the counter and find its way to his hair, "In-ho please," You pull his hair up to make him look at you, "If you stop now, I-I will kill you."

A small chuckle vibrates through your core as his lips latch your clit, rolling it under his tongue. Your legs pull him closer, if possible, and you feel your climax building. You arch your hips, rolling against his mouth as the need to cum grows louder. In-ho roughly laps on your swollen clit, desperate for your release.

And suddenly the earth stops spinning as you dissolve into pleasure, letting yourself unravel under him. Your body jerks as shockwaves move throughout your body, and you let his name roll of your tongue.

"Scoot down." You do as you're told and wiggle your ass until its slightly off the counter. In-ho watches as you still attempt to steady your breathing, smirking as he dips the waist of his pants down.

Your eyes widen as he places one of his hands on the side of your body, letting him tower over you. Your eyes trailed to his other hand that was busy lining his dick up with your core, but his eyes are on you. Waiting to watch your reaction as you take his cock.

He sinks into you, your breath catching and your eyes closing as he doesn't ease you into it, stretching you out. A grunt escapes his mouth at your reaction, you were so beautiful like this.

In-ho leans back and takes a hold of both of your ankles, holding them above you as he sets the pace. Your knuckles turn white as you grip the counter with one hand and cover your mouth with the other.

In-ho quickens the pace with each thrust, pounding into you like a toy. Animalistic grunts escape his mouth, "Y/N, you're so good for me. I've missed this so -fuck- so much."

You whine at his words, desperate attempts to buck your hips failed. He had you pinned down under you, controlling everything. He can feel the way you grip him, lustful tension building in the air, "Atta girl."

Oh fuck, he feels so good. He fits perfectly in you, just like all those years ago. The passion was still there, and god, he made you know it. You're drunk with desire, clenching around him as the pace picks up. His thrusts are sharp, deep, and you can tell he's close.

Your hands find his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes met yours as his cock hit every. right. spot. His eyes softened, a contrast to his pornoraphic thrusts. In the middle of everything, all the death around you, you rekindled a love you never thought you would experience again.

Your eyes stay locked as the grip on your ankles tightened, In-ho's head dropping slightly as he came, time slowing as waves of electricity engulfed him. Warmth flooded over your body as he pulsed inside of you, gently laying your legs back down before leaning forward.

He pulled you close to him, his hands cupping your face and his thumb gently lifting your chin, "I love you Y/N." A smile displayed on his lips as he kissed you softly.

You bit back a sob, "In-ho... I never stopped loving you. You've been my person, even when you weren't mine."

He kissed you again, this time with promise. A promise of making it out of the games, a promise of love, a promise of hope.

In-ho never thought much of a future. He always saw himself living for the games. He expected to die as the front man, he didn't have anything to lose. But now he does. He has a future now, and it's you. He is not living for the games anymore. He is living for you.

Would you still love him when you find out the truth?

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

A/N: Hey pookies!! Tysm for all the love recently it's definitely motivated for me to come out of retirement. Pls lmk who I should write for next! I'm in a squid game mood so maybe Gi-hun?

@tsarinaaaz @flowersbloom8787 @vixtyhu @dottoremybbg @fnl9zer @cdej6 @galadoesart @watasinekoru @icantcryicantstopcrying @seasaltrasp @pepsicolacoochie @lily-ann-b @gurjxxpp11

[ellesreids]

homecoming — s. reid

spencer reunites with his wife, and their baby. (post-prison spencer)

𖡼 ⊹ ˚.

Spencer can feel his spine go rigid once he stands in front of his house's door. It's the exact moment he's fantasized about so many times while trapped inside the four walls of prison; when sleep would evade him and his mind would drift to the day he finally got to see you again.

When he'd get to hold you in his arms once more and smell your shampoo and perfume and feel the way a satisfied breath left your lungs as you clung to him. That moment he's been dreaming about for months on end is finally a reality, yet it still feels like a dream to him.

With bated breath, he turns the knob and the door opens with a small creek. In the back of his mind he wants to chastise you for having the door unlocked, but the bigger part of his brain can't be bothered to make a big deal out of that right now when all he can think about is the prospect of feeling your warmth against his otherwise cold and aching body again.

Quietly, he makes his way through the house, and he realizes with a pained heart that it feels unfamiliar to him. Nothing has actually changed since he'd been gone — all the furniture was still placed where he'd left it and nothing substantially new had been added as far as he can tell — but it feels as if he's stepping into another world, an environment he no longer has a place in.

He walks past the living room when there's no trace of you in it and when he doesn't find you in the kitchen either, he makes his way down the hallway to the first room on his left. The door is open a fraction, and from behind it, he can faintly hear your voice as you softly sing a lullaby that's not familiar to him.

At once, like a bucket of ice water straight to the face, it hits him that he's not only reuniting with you, but for the first time, he's going to be meeting the newest addition to the family. The family he had so abruptly been pulled away from and deprived of some of the most monumental moments in both your lives.

His heart had been shattered when he realized he wasn't going to be present for the birth of his own child, that you would have to spend the last few months of your pregnancy alone and unsure of the fact that you'll ever see your husband again. He owes both Emily and JJ the world and would spend the rest of his life thanking them for looking after you while he was away and providing the support he couldn't physically give you.

He hadn't met them yet, but before the baby was even born, he had promised himself he would be the best father he could be. He promised himself we would never be like his own father, that he'd give his everything to his new family.

Very quietly, he opens the door, and his gaze is immediately drawn to you as you stand in the middle of the freshly finished nursery. You have your back facing him as you softly sing to the baby held within your embrace. Your voice, after he'd been deprived of it for so long, sounds like the most heavenly music to his ears, and he suddenly feels like he wants to cry. He's finally home with both of you, and he gets to listen as you sing to your baby. He gets to see his baby for the first time, and it's all too much for his big brain and even bigger heart to handle.

Finally, as though you could sense his presence, you turn around and look Spencer square in the eyes as he stands in the threshold of the nursery. For the first few moments, you try to convince yourself you're simply seeing things. It wouldn't be the first time, seeing as your mind loved to taunt you at times when you could hear his voice calling to you in the hallways or when his pillow case smelled like he was still sleeping right next to you.

You soon realize that it's not your mind playing tricks on you, though, and that it really is Spencer standing in front of you. With the realization, it felt like all the air had been sucked from your lungs, like a painful punch to the gut. You wanted to scream, to launch yourself into his arms, cling to him, and cry in a way you haven't allowed yourself to since he went away. But you do none of that, and instead, you just stand and look at him as if your feet had been deadbolted to the floor, and your voice had permanently disappeared.

"Hi." Spencer's voice finally fills the seemingly endless silence, sounding unsure and small. "Hi," you return the gesture with a much shakier tone, desperately trying not to burst into tears.

The baby in your embrace suddenly starts fussing, cooing and wiggling around in your steady arms, and both you and Spencer's attention are drawn to the small bundle still wrapped in your embrace.

You whisper a few hushes and move your arms back and forth in a calming rhythm. As the cooing turns to soft breathing once again, your eyes move to Spencer, almost as if you're scared he'd dissappear if he leaves your sight for too long. You see that his attention is still stuck on the baby on your arms, brown eyes tired yet filled with so much emotion you could almost cry just looking at him.

"Would you like to hold her?" you ask softly, and Spencer's attention is once again on you. "Her?" he asks excitedly, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache with an overwhelming amount of love. Oh, how you missed him. "It's a girl?" You nod with a sad smile, looking down at her as she now lays asleep in your arms. "You can hold her, Spencer, it's okay," you say, noting his hesitance seeing as he still stood planted by the entrance, not having taken a single step closer.

Your encouragement fuels him, and he slowly makes his way inside the nursery until he's standing in front of you, looking down into the crook of your arm. From within the swaddle of blankets, he sees the little face; closed eyes, and a mouth that stays in a permanent pout with a button nose that scrunches adorably every now and then.

"Open your arms," you say, getting ready to hand her over, and he feels his heart beat frantically in anticipation. He almost feels lightheaded with anxiety and excitement, but he opens his arms, and carefully, you place her into his embrace. You watch attentively as he holds onto her securely, head bending down slightly so as to get a better look as he peers down at his daughter, still fast asleep in his arms.

He doesn't even register he's crying until he can feel your hand gently wiping at the stray tears on his cheeks. He looks over at you, brand new tears sitting idle in his waterline as everything finally sinks in for him. He was finally home with you and his daughter, his family, and he finally got to see you and hold you close to him.

In reality, he knew there was still so much left unsaid, and both of you had a long way to go from here, but right now, nothing else mattered. He was finally home, and in that moment, everything felt perfect.

[norrisainz33]

the call || platonic grid & gr63

☆ summary: y/n y/l/n gets a call up to race for alpine with 6 races left in the 2024 season and she’s got something to prove.

☆ pairing: platonic!grid x crush!george russell x rookie!female!reader

☆ fc & warnings: no fc. some hate comments and poor grammar on my end

☆ a/n: i was inspired by franco and liam getting called up to race for the remainder of the season and here we are. no hate to este bestie, just pretending dw. this is not supposed to be accurate to exactly how things have been playing out. smau mixed with writing!!

part 2 | part 3

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

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f1: 🚨 breaking: y/n y/l/n will be racing under the number 95 for alpine for the remainder of the 2024 season alongside pierre gasly. y/n’s first race will be the united states grand prix. this is the first time since 1992 that a woman has raced in a grand prix format - this will be a historic weekend.

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user1: this is the best thing to ever happen to me you don’t understand

pierregasly: ready to attack the rest of the season with you ynuser!!

ynuser: here’s to a strong finish 💪🏻

alpinef1team: we can’t wait to have our girl on track!

user12: they really think a woman is going to be any better than what they had??? please….

user1: oh you are miserable. get out of here

georgerussell63: epic! ynuser i am so proud of you

ynuser: 🤍 see you in austin

user2: i can’t believe im witnessing a woman f1 driver in my life time. i am crying real tears of joy

landonorris: from our karting days to f1. you are amazing ynuser! looking forward to being on track with you

ynuser: so glad to be racing with you again lando 🤍

user3: this is monumental

user6: we got a woman in f1 before gta6

��

you sat in silence staring down at the paperwork in front of you. everyone had long since left returning to their duties, allowing you to process what you had just been told. “it’s really happening,” you whispered feeling tears welling in your eyes. you were about to become an f1 driver - a real life f1 driver!! and no, not just a reserve driver who did nothing but the sim all day every day. your shoulders sagged as you blew out a sigh. “it was all worth it,” you thought back to the years of blood, sweat and tears put into racing — from leaving the comfort of your childhood home to go karting in europe, to watching your parents give up everything to make sure your dreams came true, to finding yourself in f1 academy where you won the championship, to fighting for a chance to race in f2 and becoming the only woman to finish in the points - you had given everything to this sport and you were finally getting your chance.

you picked up your phone and dialed your best friend. “y/n? hi! did you have your meeting yet?!”

“i’m going to drive the rest of the season,” you said softly.

“WHAT?!” your best friend practically screamed into the other end of the phone.

“i’m taking the second alpine seat!!! im going to be starting in austin.” the tears of happiness started falling now.

“oh my god y/n/n!!!! YOU DID IT BABY YOU DID IT!” you could hear your best friend jumping up and down in excitement.

“i did it.”

✿

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user1: i can't explain to you how excited i am to see you on track this weekend y/n

pierregasly: jealous you got the media duties with the horses and not the american football team like i did.....

ynuser: HAHA idk why they didnt send us together

pierregasly: they knew our joint slay would be too much to handle

user7: as a young woman in a male dominated field... thank you for representing us. i love you and i am so proud of you

yourbff: my flight lands in exactly 1 hour and i am shaking with excitement

ynuser: if you think you're shaking with excitement you should see me... just got word im in the pre race press conference with george and max v......... pray for me girl

yourbff: okok we knew this was going to happen. of course they'll want to talk to you!! you're the new face on the grid

ynuser: is it bad to admit im afraid?

yourbff: admitting you’re afraid just means you’re human y/n. you're allowed to feel

ynuser: idk what i'd do with out you

yourbff: you'll never have to know! now go get ready!! i'll be there just in enough time to make the conference start.

yourbff: p.s your media day fit absolutely ate that dress and the cowgirl hat was lethal. f1 should be thanking you for being such a baddie

georgerussell63: howdy ms y/n

ynuser: howdy georgie --- see you at the press conference 🙂‍↔️

georgerussell63: looking forward to it

landonorris: NEIGHHHH

ynuser: lando?

landonorris: sorry was pretending to be one of those horses so you'd pay attention to me

ynuser: hahahahaha you muppet. ive missed you

landonorris: i missed you too y/n/n! believe it or not i miss fighting it out on track with you too. ready to smoke ya just like i did in our karting days

ynuser: i mean you are in a mclaren and have a lot of practice so id certainly hope you were faster than me

landonorris: well when you put it like that its not as fun.......

user9: bought an alpine hat and am bedazzling a shirt with your name on it as we speak

✿

the alpine pr team had wasted no time sitting you down as soon as you got to austin. they ran through what to expect from your media duties, how to respond to any and all questions that might be thrown your way and how to save face if needed but somehow as you sat down on the iconic white couch and looked out at the crowd of reporters forming in front of you, you felt all of that training start to fail you. the nerves were taking over as george and max took their spots to your right. you were thankful when the british driver gave you a reassuring smile and a slight nod letting you know it was ok.

"good afternoon and welcome to the 2024 united states grand prix!" the interviewer beamed at the camera before turning his attention to the three of you. "today we are joined by max verstappen, george russell and formula 1's newest driver, y/n y/l/n."

the interviewer started by asking max about the championship and how he was feeling about lando continuing to close the gap. you used that time to steady your breathing, knowing a question was headed your way at any moment. "y/n, first of all, i want to say congratulations!" the interviewer grinned and you smiled back. "you are coming into this season with only 6 races left and a rather tall order to get up to speed quickly for some points and fight for a seat on the grid in 2025. how are you feeling about it all?"

you sighed, relieved at an easy first question, "thank you! i'm trying to take it all in stride. it's definitely a tall order because these guys have had 19 races to get a feel for their cars, work with their teams, and solidify their standings… i'm going to have exactly one free practice to learn everything before heading into sprint qualifying and i think that puts me a little bit on the back foot. though, i am more confident than ever that i can pull out some points and finish this season strong for alpine."

the interviewer nodded along intently as you spoke, "do you think being the first female in formula 1 since 1992 also puts you a bit on the back foot?"

this. this was the type of question you were dreading. you knew what it was like to be questioned about your skills purely because you were a woman, it had been happening throughout your entire life but that didn't mean it still didn't get to you. you picked your mic back up but before you could say anything into it, george was already speaking, "i don't think thats a fair question to ask. her being a woman has nothing to do with her racing, let us not forget that she is here for a reason. y/n has an incredibly impressive resume and i'd be happy to recite it for you if you need the reminder."

*george fcking russell. the man that you are* you thought as a smirk formed on your face. "thank you george," you said managing to keep your voice steady as you continued, "i don't think being a woman puts me on the back foot at all. it's 2024 - i think we're past the point of asking questions like this. I may be the first woman in way too long to race in a grand prix but i certainly will not be the last." you put the microphone down, daring the interviewer to say something in return but instead he turned his attention back to max and kept it there for the remainder of the session which you weren't mad about at all.

✿

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ynuser: p9 baby!!!!!! i scored two points!!!! cota - thank you for the love and for an incredible first weekend in formula 1. i will never forget you 🤍

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user9: best weekend of my life!!!! first gp i’ve ever been to and i got to meet you at the fan zone!! i couldn’t have asked for more

alpinef1team: try not to say goat challenge failed

ynuser: 🤍🩷

user10: i sobbed watching you cross the line

pierregasly: points points points points

ynuser: you next bestie!!

pierregasly: we’re going to both score big this triple header i just know it

user13: i love how these two have become instant friends. i hope alpine doesn’t split my family up in abu dhabi

user44: history - we’re watching you make history

francisca.cgomes: i don’t think you understand how attached i am to you now y/n

ynuser: and i don’t think you understand how much i love you kika. legally you have to come to all the rest of the races please and thank you

francisca.cgomes: for you? done!

pierregasly: um? hello?

ynuser: im sorry p.. look away

yourbff: i have no words. i love you more than life itself

ynuser: i love you - thank you for being there

landonorris: statement MADE

ynuser: 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

georgerussell63: i’m so proud of you im about to openly weep

ynuser: we can openly weep together

carlossainz55: congrats y/n!

ynuser: thank you carlos 🤍

francolapinto: viva y/n!

ynuser: viva franco!

lewishamilton: 🤍🤍

ynuser: 🩷🩷

user15: noticing so many of the drivers here supporting her is everything

user4: and the fact that so many of them are praising her efforts and talking so highly of her in interviews 🥹

user15: everyone loves her (except for the rbr duo, did you see her and checo having words after that race?)

user4: omg yeah grandpa was pissed but honestly he’s probably just worried she’s going to take his seat

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user9: pretty, talented, smart … you’re the whole package

landonorris: hell yeah it does. the car will be here in about an hour! meet us in the lobby?

ynuser: yes!! assuming we shouldn’t come down too early since we run the risk of people being down there?

landonorris: yeah, no more than 5 mins before

user10: hottest person on the grid no doubt

georgerussell63: blimey i’m excited

ynuser: me too! i need a drink after this weekend

georgerussell63: you better get used to it y/n! this is your life now

ynuser: and i’m glad it is 🤍

user14: i think i have a crush on you

oscarpiastri: hi

ynuser: hi oscar!! did lando send you the details for tonight?

oscarpiastri: yes he did!

pierregasly: me and kika are ready to GO

ynuser: me and y/bff are too! let’s get this party started

user11: keep this momentum going into mexico y/n!!

user4: we needed a chronically online it girl in this sport so bad im so glad you’re here

✿

george poured you another glass of champagne as you giggled, "i should really be sick of champagne by now but i don't know that i ever will be."

"well thats good y/n/n! you're going to be drinking a lot more of it soon enough," george said loud enough that you could hear him over the music. the club was packed with more people than you would've expected for sunday evening especially a sunday evening in texas but here you were in a packed club chugging champagne with old and new friends. oscar, lily, carlos, rebecca, lando, george, pierre, kika, franco, charles and alex all came out with you and y/bff and you were honestly a bit shocked by the turn out. though you should've known that lando and george were not going to let you celebrate by yourself.

you had grown up with the two of them on the karting track and you even managed to be in f2 in the same year george won the championship. they meant a lot to you -- you looked up to them since the start so to have their unwavering support now that you made it to f1 meant more than you could express. none of this was going to be easy but being surrounded by a strong support system would make it a lot less painful.

you smiled up at george as he downed the last bit of his cocktail, intently watching as the last little bit dripped from the side of his mouth. you took a big gulp reminding yourself of the room of people around you. that was another thing that was around since your karting days... your massive crush on george. while you both had seen other people between now and then, there was no doubt that it was still alive and well. but as far as that was concerned, it was a bit of a one sided crush. it's not that george had ever told you outright that he wasn't interested, you just never had the guts to tell him and he only ever made one move and has been ignoring that it happened since. the closest you two ever got to something more than friends was the night after he won the f2 championship. you two were inseparable during that season so when he asked you to come with him back to his hotel room after his massive party, you didn't think twice about it. you two flopped down onto the bed with your takeaway meal fresh in front of you and the tv turned on to some animated movie you couldn't remember the name of. george was sitting close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off of his body from where he gently was resting against yours. "y/n/n," he whispered causing you to look up at him, "i love you." you smiled, having heard him say this many times.. he was your best friend after all. "I love you too!" you responded and before you could process what happened, his lips were on yours. and unfortunately for you, thats about where that ended. george realized what he was doing and absolutely panicked, begged you to forgive him and to not talk about it again so thats what you did. but on nights like this one, where he was looking fine as ever... it was hard not to long for him.

"helllooooooo earth to y/n!!!" lando almost shouted pulling you out of your thoughts.

"yes, yes! hi!" you rolled your eyes taking the drink out of his hand.

the rest of the night passed in a blur of celebrations, laughs and champagne. things were looking up and you couldn't be more excited for what the future held for you. you had done it. your dream had come true.

✿

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alpinef1team: 1 down. 2 to go. mexico city, here we come!

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

a/n: omg if you made it this far... thank you for reading!!! likes and reblogs are massively appreciated. i'm thinking of making this a series with y/n racing in the last few races of the season. if you liked this, let me know so i can judge if this will get a part 2!! much love 🫶🏻

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[baepsays]

MONA LISA ⋆˚࿔⸻ Nanami Kento

THE WAY YOU LOOK I UNDERSTAND THE HYPE, YOU KNOW YOU'RE JUST MY TYPE꩜ .ᐟ Gotta, gotta, get ya, 'cause you know just what I like.

cw ꩜ .ᐟ nothing, just fluff, but there is a dumbass ex, whirlwind romance sort of cliche, some suggestive stuff, but just me being a poetic dumbass mostly, i heard the song and i was like yes, so just enjoy.

a/n: fully inspired by mona lisa by jhope

Nanami Kento is a connoisseur of art. He is the greatest opponent of the philosophy presented by Plato, that art is an imitation of an imitation, and therefore not a true representation of reality. He believed that art has always been and will always be the direct and indirect reflection of reality. And if Plato were alive today, he would not hesitate to blurt it out in his face. 

So after saving up for a while and doing an insane amount of overtime, when he found himself in Paris, all by himself, he knew exactly where he wanted to explore first and foremost.

The Louvre museum was somewhere he always wanted to explore, not vicariously through a digital screen or how Gojo flew out his girlfriend there for her art history project—he wanted to see everything with his own two eyes, and just get lost in there if possible.

He expected the crowd. Even when he scheduled his visit at an odd time, to enjoy some serenity in those masterful pieces from the past. He wanted to find the Venus de milo, the coronation of Napoleon, and of course, the Mona Lisa.

But instead he found you, standing opposite to the Mona Lisa herself, just staring at Veronese's wedding feast at Cana.

Even when he came on a weekday, during downtime, there was still a crowd in front of the mona Lisa. But honestly, he would get in a queue to watch you instead. Maybe frame you in his eyes forever, if it is possible. He never really got the hype about Mona Lisa anyway, of course it has its own significance with how the colors and techniques were so sophisticated for its time that it was thought to be irreplicable. But Nanami was not fascinated by the, now, dull colors of the painting. But he is sure if it was you that Vinci decided to immortalize in his painting, the crowd would have to be bigger, and the queue has to be longer. And the colors have to be more vibrant and acute. And even then he could not have captured your beauty. 

But then again, you do not need such empty validations.

He never thought of himself as a person to think his type was a pretty face, if you asked him, he would say personality. Yet here he is walking up to the gorgeous woman of his dreams, and asking her if she wanted to stroll around the museum with him. 

If only your, now ex, boyfriend took a second too long before saying he wants to break up with you to get with the younger hotter girl at his office; he would not have been backtracking from that statement in a panic when you told him right after that you got two tickets to Paris for your anniversary. And he would have probably been here standing next to you. But thankfully you threw him out of your apartment, threw everything of his in your home, on the street. And got a considerable amount of refund on his ticket, and made your way to Paris. Fortunately instead of your ex, this gorgeous stranger, who looked really dazed when he came up to you, and gave you company through the rest of your trip. All he said was a simple, 

“Hello.” a gorgeous voice to match a gorgeous voice. 

And suddenly it was as if you two were in a movie, about two strangers falling in love, in the city of love. You did every cliche tourist thing with him, to your heart’s content. From going to the Pont des Arts to the Eiffel tower. And doing things out of visiting historical monuments, like struggling to order a croissant and coffee. The days you spent with Nanami in Paris, became some of the most cherished memories you have created in your life. And you can only hope you get to have him around for more memories to create. 

While you were too busy wallowing in your own head about never possibly seeing him ever again after this—Kento was becoming borderline obsessed with you.

The amount of time you occupied in his thoughts and his journal, was getting concerning. You simply have him bad. And he is ready to submit himself, nay, devote himself to you. Frame you in a picture, make a shrine out of it and call you his religion, his one and only. 

By the third day of knowing Nanami Kento, you somehow ended up in the same hotel as him. With different room numbers to your name, you still somehow always ended up in each other’s rooms. At first it was petty excuses like the bed is better in your room, then it was the shower not working well, the lights in your room were too fluorescent. These were things easily solved by calling the front desk, but then it would mean these were real problems and not made up excuses. 

And everytime your horrible ex tried to call you and ruin your mood, he was there for you with some bottle of wine he found at the grocery store down the street. Along with some variety of cheese and fruits, to make you a charcuterie board of sorts.

And you appreciated it all. The cheap wine, cheap ‘i heart Paris’ t-shirts, wild little flowers from some random park you two stumbled upon, to the diamond earrings he insisted on buying you. Something about them matching your smile too perfectly to let them be bought out by someone else. And you have never felt so at ease to be spoiled like so. Never with your parents, nor with any ex, or even friends. And it was all too much and too easy to get used to. 

“Will I ever see you again, after this?” you were in his bed, fully clothed and in his arms, but never in your life have you ever felt so naked. 

“You are asking the wrong questions sweetheart.” he moved his head just enough to take it off the top of your head, and came eye to eye with you. His one hand steady as ever on your waist, slightly bunching up the satin of your nightdress. While the other held your own hand in comfort, with the most delicate touch. As if you were some exquisite work of art that would crumble with just one thoughtless touch.

“What should I be asking then?”

“How can I look at you for the rest of my life instead?”

FIND MORE OF MY WORKS HERE

a/n: dividers by @/cafekitsune. header is Monalisa by Leonardo da Vinci.

big Plato disliker here. you can say i loathe him even. fuck Plato. first Nanami work woooo!!! also shit i made up from my own trip to paris like when i was a wee baby so it is def not accurate i think.

I LIKE MY GIRLS PRETTY IN THE FACE ART PIECE TO FRAME MONA MONA LISA YEAH I NEED YA

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @gojao @cuntphoric @nanamiskentos @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @fushitoru @rriwyu @alygator77 @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @indiewritesxoxo @gojosconsort @soupicidesquad @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | "single mom" au | masterlist

5: veil

tw: medical talk, morning sickness, light drugging, non-con

The only food your stomach allows you to keep down these days is buttered pasta—this child (this creature) allows nothing else. 

A large pot of penne boils in front of you, pasta dancing through the turbulent water, swirling as if enticing you to join for a bath. To stick your hand into the superheated liquid, to allow it to gnaw your skin off to the very bone. Instead, you stand and stare at it, arms crossed and eyes heavy as the timer on the stove slowly counts down. 

Morning sickness has been a mighty beast to overcome these last few weeks, though you’ve come to the painful realization that it does not plague you only in the morning like the name would suggest. It’s in the afternoon while you’re at the office when your co-worker walks by you, cologne thick and heavy on their skin, tainting your nose, forcing your stomach to clench and thrash. It’s in the evening when you crave a treat so fervently that your body decides the only good option is to overturn the lunch you hardly choked down in the first place. It’s in the middle of the night when you rouse yourself for a glass of water, only to choke on rancid, unforgiving bile.

You’re not gaining enough weight, your obstetrician says. Far behind the curve—she tells you to eat more. You need more protein, more fibre, more fats; more of everything. Choke it down. Keep it down. Everything you do now is for the baby. For this child. Never for yourself. Never your own health. An incubator, a carrier, a mother by proxy but not by desire. 

You want to tell her that she should live with something growing inside of her—something ripping her apart from the inside out—and see how she fares with such a monumental task. 

Once your pasta has made it to the halfway mark, you sigh and retrieve your kettle. The warped iron dully reflects your disappointed gaze as you fill it at the sink. You place it on the other burner to boil, ready to indulge in your sleepy time tea to knock yourself out after a long day of office bureaucracy and shrouded misogynistic insults. Everyone at work has put two and two together—you’re unwed, you do not speak of any man; simply, you are a sinner. A harlot. Something to scorn. Their whispers bleed through the walls louder than they know. 

A knock sounds at the door. 

Though you are not surprised to hear the blunt percussive melody, you realize you’re not used to it. The way it reverberates through the wood. How sharp it cracks through the air. Humming, you place your stirring soon on the counter before shuffling to the front door, not bothering to look to see who it is when you open it. 

Simon stands on the other side, and he’s just as tall and broad as you remember him being from yesterday. Your car park helper, who loaded your bags into your car and slipped his number into your hand before you could even comprehend the scribbling. His dark eyes flicker to your stomach as you give him a gauche smile, hand still resting on the knob like you’re considering slamming the door in his face and holing up inside your quaint burrow. 

“Hi,” you greet, spine stiffer than a board. “Erm… come on in. I’ve got your stuff here in the kitchen.” 

Head bowed low as if begging for forgiveness in anticipation, you lead Simon into your home as he wordlessly follows behind you. Simon’s items—that had peculiarly found themselves hidden among your groceries—sit in a bag on the counter. You begin to rummage through the items, listing off each thing that you found no belonging to you, but you find your tongue tripping on your words at the looming presence behind you. 

He is a strange man, you realize. Truly strange. Selfless enough to assist you—a stranger—yet so quiet. A gargantuan boulder made of scar tissue and crooked bone, he seems more animal than he does man. Roughened by the wilderness. Fond of the freedom that lies beyond human shackles. Beyond human skin. 

“This ought to be all of it,” you say, tapping the counter. “At least, it was the stuff that I didn’t recognize being mine, but if you-” 

Words catch in your throat when you turn back around to face Simon and find him bent over your stove, spoon in hand, stirring your pasta. The timer goes off, and he shuts it off like he’s done it a million times previously before he kills the burner. You swallow, and your anticipation feels thick in your throat. 

“Oh, Simon, you don’t have to do that.” Your polite tone smothers the confusion you feel you ought to spit at him—a snappy what the hell are you doing? 

“Take a seat.” It’s the first thing he’s said to you since he’s entered your home, and yet he sounds like the host instead of the guest. His edict is firm, and leaves no room for argument. 

Stiff, you waddle over to the living room before sinking down into the sofa. With your flat being too small to house a proper dining room table, you’ve always eaten here, sitting in front of the TV and trying to use it to drown out the lonely silence that’s haunted these walls since you first moved in. Now, there is company to be had here, yet your mind reels as you listen to Simon in the kitchen, flat suddenly haunted by an unknown entity—a large creature with one of the most gentle touches you’ve ever seen. 

The kettle cries, boiling water is poured, china clinks as pasta is mixed—Simon prepares everything the way you had it laid out and presents it to you in the living room when he’s finished. Your gratitude leaves your lips numb as you place your plate in your lap and stare at the meal as he plops himself next to you. 

His weight is heavy on the couch, body sinking into the cushion, threatening to lure you into the gravity of him as he leans forward and places your tea on the coffee table. Simon’s hands are empty, void of any meal for himself, and you find yourself anxiously poking at your penne with the prongs of your fork. 

“How’s your mornin’ sickness?” he asks.

It’s an odd question to hear coming from a man like him, legitimate concern lacing his tone as if he has skin in this wretched game. Avoiding eye contact, you pierce a piece of penne onto your fork before inspecting it. You try to force yourself to focus on anything but Simon. 

“It’s alright,” you murmur. “The medicine helps some but it’s still… not great.” 

You’re transported back to the car park when you first met Simon—large hand obscuring your medicine, his eerie chime about which one he prefers more, his refusal to stand by and let you do anything on your own. Even now you feel the weight of his attention on you, meticulously cutting you apart as he waits for you to eat. There is little reprieve to be found when you finally force something down your throat, but the change in discomfort manifests as a pit in your stomach; angry muscles churn, esophagus expanding, ready to expel. 

“Did you find all your items in your bag? I didn’t miss anything, did I?” you question, anxious to get the attention off of you and onto something else. 

He hums, dark like the amber shade of aged whiskey. “Yeah. All there.” 

“Good.” Sharp. Short. To the point. You swallow. “Must have gotten mixed into mine when you helped me the other day.” 

“Must’ve.” 

You give up on the small talk after his blunt responses prove to be never-ending, and instead focus on eating your meal as quickly as possible. Each time your stomach begins to twist in protest, you reach for your tea and desperately sip away at the liquid, praying that the warmth will urge your abdomen into submission. The nausea is still there, puttering around in your stomach like an unwelcome guest, but now it’s coupled with the weight of slumber that so desperately attempts to pull you into its grasp. 

The room spins. Suddenly stricken with prostration, you find your lungs expelling the last bit of air they hold as you blink away the fog obscuring your vision, only for it to return a moment later. You try to focus on something. Anything. The gossamer sheen of butter that collects in the ridges of your penne, the small bend in the prong of your fork—

—the thick fingers reaching out to grab your plate. 

“Finished?” Simon asks. 

You swallow down the briny aftertaste lingering on your tongue as you allow him to take your plate and place it on the coffee table. Nodding, you swipe at your brow—there is no perspiration, but the thudding of your heart leads you to believe there should be. 

“Yes. I-I—Simon—thank you. Sincerely. But I’m not feeling well. I think it might be best if you-” 

“You should lay down,” Simon interjects, cutting off your fuzzy thoughts from ever leaving the cavern of your mouth. 

A rebuttal bubbles up in the back of your throat the same time your dinner does. Bile and acid sear your vocal cords, fraying them, pulling them too taut to speak. Wordlessly, you watch Simon stand before you with his hand extended and reaching for yours, and though you know you should recoil, you find yourself too dazed to really care that he grabs you and pulls you to your feet. 

Each step toward your bedroom feels like a marathon. Muscles too tight yet unforgivingly malleable, knees nearly buckling, feet swelling and throbbing. Simon aids you in laying down, going as far as to pull the covers up over your melting body. Vision shrouded with your impending repose, you watch him—fingers gripping the blanket, tucking you in, knees colliding with the floor, hand now rubbing against the fat on your cheek—

—his eyes. They’re dark. Voids holding the absence of light and soul. They widen as he looks at you. Fear cuts through your chest as you think they might swallow you whole. Solicitude plagues you as your mind questions why you recognize them. 

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice hardly reaches a susurrus. It whistles between your teeth and along the tip of your tongue as his warmth bleeds into your skin. “Why are you… taking care of me?” 

“Because it’s what’s right.” 

Simon speaks it like an oath—a prophecy unfolding before his very eyes as he beholds you, calloused hands and all. He sees the confusion flicker across your face like a dying bulb, and his lips nearly quirk into a smile. One day, you’ll understand it as he does. This wretched gift of creation. 

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he swears. “Both of you.” 

You’re too far gone to hear it. Mind drowning beneath the waves of nothingness and contorted dreams. Chest rising and falling, eyes fluttering beneath their lids—he watches you. His gaze rakes over your body just like his hands have done so many times in the past, floating over the curve of your breasts until he’s met with the swelling of your stomach. 

His. Both you, and this child. 

Wandering palms traverse from your face to your stomach. He presses. Feels the way your skin stretches around your growing womb, feels the warmth of creation beneath his very fingertips, feels the fluttering in his chest. Simon Riley feels alive. More alive than a gun in his hand could ever instill in him. 

Ardor suddenly swelling in the rotten cavern of his ribcage, he presses his lips to yours. It’s the first time he’s gotten to taste you without the barrier of a mask in the way—unadulterated, and true. You’re just as soft as he imagined you’d be, and when he pulls away, he finds that he can’t wander too far before he speaks again. 

“I’m gonna take care of you, Angel. You, and my child.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | early access to chapters here

[reidmarieprentiss]

Grass is Always Greener

Summary: based on this ask. Reader is in love with Spencer, he moves on while they're dating. Then reader gets kidnapped and Spencer has some monumental realizations.

Pairing: bi!Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: hurt/comfort, angst

Warnings/Includes: kidnapping, typical CM violence, emotional cheating, bi-sexual Spencer, heartbroken reader

Word count: 7.5k

a/n: i really loved this prompt!! thank you for asking :) there will be a part two by the way don't worry heheh

main masterlist

For the past six months, you and Spencer have been inseparable, caught in the kind of love that novels fail to describe adequately. It isn't just affection—devotion, a deep-rooted adoration that feels like it has existed long before you met, as though you were meant to be intertwined from the start.

You love him in the way you always wished to be loved. You show it in every trim, thoughtful act—baking his favorite pastries just because, ensuring that breakfast is warm and waiting for him before he even wakes up, making sure dinner is ready when he returns home, exhausted but comforted by you.

You bring him flowers, because why shouldn't he receive them too? You find books you know will capture his mind, wrapping them in delicate paper just to see the soft wonder in his eyes when he unwraps them. You plan excursions he'll adore—museum dates, guided historical tours, moments where he can lose himself in the past while you stay anchored beside him.

Your love isn't just spoken—it's lived, woven into every gesture, every detail, every careful thought put into making him feel cherished. Because that's what he is to you—irreplaceable, essential, the other half you never realized was missing until he was there, filling every space with something more profound than connection, something that feels like fate.

If only Spencer felt the same way about you.

—

Your heart stopped. Your lungs refused to work, your breath catching somewhere in your throat like a broken sob that refused to form. The room around you blurred at the edges, your vision tunneling in on Spencer—Spencer, the man you had given everything to, the man you had loved so deeply, so purely, that it had consumed every part of your existence.

"What?" The word came out strangled, barely audible, your voice cracking as tears welled in your eyes. You didn't want to cry in front of him, didn't want to give him that power, but your body betrayed you.

Spencer still couldn't look at you. His hands, which you had held so many times, trembled at his sides. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. "I thought it was the right thing to do," he muttered, as though that was supposed to make sense, as if that explained anything.

Your stomach churned with nausea, fury, and disbelief. "The right thing to do?" Your voice wavered between a whisper and a scream. "The right thing to do was to fuck someone else?"

Spencer flinched at your words and their vulgarity, but he didn't immediately deny it. That silence spoke louder than anything.

Finally, he swallowed hard and said, "I did not—" he hesitated, knowing every word he chose would dictate what happened next. "—I did not sleep with him."

Him.

It hit you like a freight train, a new layer of betrayal unfolding before you. You stepped back as if distance would protect you from the shattering of your heart inside your chest.

"Then what, Spencer?" You forced the words out, your entire body trembling. "What did you do?"

Spencer's face twisted in pain, in something that almost looked like guilt but didn't quite feel like enough. Not for what he'd done. Not for the way he was shattering you into pieces so small you weren't sure you'd ever be able to put yourself back together.

"I fell in love," he admitted, his voice quiet, like saying it any louder would break him too.

But it wasn't him breaking. It was you.

Your scream ripped through the room before you could stop it. "Spencer, that is so much worse!" Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms, grounding you against the overwhelming rush of devastation, betrayal, and fury. "How long?"

Spencer blinked at you, thrown off by the question. "How long?" he echoed as if he didn't understand or know what you were asking.

You took a step closer, the force of your heartbreak pushing you forward even as your body begged to run in the opposite direction. "How long have you been in love? How long have you been emotionally cheating on me like a pathetic, scared loser?"

His breath hitched, his mouth opening and closing like he struggled to find the right words, but there were none. There was no correct answer that would make this better.

Then he said it. "Is this because it's a man?"

You froze, stunned by how wildly he had missed the point. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped you, and you could barely recognize the sound of your voice when you spat, "I don't give a shit what mouth you want to put your tongue in, Spencer." Your hands shook, and you hated it, hated how weak you felt when all you wanted was to be furious enough to drown out the pain. "I care that you didn't respect me enough to tell me sooner! I'm not homophobic; I'm heartbroken!"

That finally made him look at you. Really look at you.

His lips parted slightly, his brow furrowing as if he were just now realizing the gravity of what he had done. As if the wreckage he had left in his wake hadn't been evident from the moment he opened his mouth.

"I didn't—" He stopped himself, inhaled sharply, then exhaled as he could barely hold himself up anymore. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

It was a pathetic attempt at an apology.

"Well, congratulations," you choked out, voice thick with unshed tears. "You did."

Spencer nodded, his expression solemn, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a physical force. He swallowed hard, and for the first time, he looked humiliated. "I'll have my things gone by the weekend," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something inside you snapped.

"Fuck you." The words tore from your throat, sharp and unfiltered, dripping with the kind of pain that no amount of time could ever truly erase. "Get it all out tonight and give me the key."

Spencer flinched. His eyes darted up to yours, desperate, pleading, as if something was still left to salvage. "Y/N—"

"Now, Spencer!" you screamed, your voice cracking, breaking under the sheer weight of the moment. Your body was trembling, fists clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms, but you didn't care. You didn't care that tears blurred your vision or that your chest ached like someone had physically reached inside you and torn your heart apart.

Spencer didn't argue.

For once, he didn't try to explain, didn't try to rationalize, didn't try to make this something it wasn't. He simply nodded, defeated, and turned on his heel.

You watched as he moved through the shared space, the home you had built together, now nothing more than a place he needed to evacuate. Every step he took, every moment that passed as he quietly gathered his things, felt like a knife twisting deeper into your already shattered heart.

You wanted to stop him.

You wanted to scream at him to stay, to tell him he could fix this, that you could find a way back to the love you had so freely given him.

But he had already thrown that love away.

And so, instead of begging or breaking any further, you turned your back on him. You wiped your face with shaking hands, steeling yourself against the overwhelming grief threatening to consume you.

When he returned, his bag slung over his shoulder, the key to your apartment sitting in the palm of his hand, you refused to look at him.

Silently, he placed it on the table.

Silently, he turned toward the door.

Silently, he walked out of your life.

And the second the door clicked shut behind him, you collapsed, sobs wracking through your body as you mourned a love lost.

—

It had been an ordinary evening. Spencer had been at the library, fingers trailing along the spines of well-worn books, his mind half-distracted by the text messages you had sent earlier—something sweet, something thoughtful, the way you always were with him. You had made dinner and were waiting for him. He had told you he'd be home soon.

But then he had walked in.

Robert.

It started with a discussion—something about Dostoevsky, of all things. A casual remark Spencer had made under his breath, something about The Brothers Karamazov and moral determinism. He hadn't expected anyone to respond, let alone engage with him in a way that made his brain spark like a live wire.

"You know," Robert had mused, leaning against the bookshelf beside Spencer, "it's funny how people always think Dostoevsky was just arguing for free will. There's a case to be made that he was just as much a determinist as Tolstoy."

Spencer had turned, brows furrowed in curiosity, and he had looked at him for the first time.

Robert had sharp eyes, the kind that saw too much. He was well-dressed but not ostentatiously so—just a crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked like someone who belonged in the pages of the books they discussed.

The conversation had spiraled from there, shifting seamlessly from Russian literature to philosophy to quantum mechanics. It was effortless. Easy in a way Spencer hadn't expected, in a way he hadn't even realized he had been missing.

And then—then there had been the moment.

Spencer had laughed—actually, he had laughed, full and unrestrained. When he glanced up, he found Robert watching him with a warm, unreadable gaze.

"Do you ever have moments when you feel like you were meant to meet someone?" Robert asked suddenly, his voice quieter and more thoughtful.

Spencer's stomach had twisted—not in guilt, not yet, but in something else. Something dangerous.

He should have said no. He should have left then and there and gone home to you, to the person who loved him and was waiting for him with dinner, affection, and unwavering devotion.

But instead, he had stayed.

And that had been the beginning of the end.

—

"Who's Robert Nelson?" you asked absentmindedly, flipping through the stack of mail on the counter. Your fingers lingered on the envelope, the name printed neatly in the return address, unfamiliar but seemingly unimportant—until you felt Spencer tense beside you.

It was subtle, the way his entire body went rigid, but you knew him well enough to notice. The way his breath hitched for just a fraction of a second and his fingers twitched before he suddenly snatched the letter from your hands with an almost defensive speed.

"A friend," he said quickly. Too quickly.

You blinked, startled by his reaction and voice, which sounded too tight or too careful. You tilted your head, studying how his fingers curled around the envelope as if he were trying to shield it from you.

"A friend?" you echoed, your curiosity morphing into something heavier, something uneasy. "Since when have your friends sent you letters?"

Spencer hesitated for just a breath too long.

"Since—uh, since he moved out of state," he said, but his voice lacked its usual certainty, the effortless confidence that usually accompanied his explanations. He wasn't looking at you, his eyes fixed on the paper in his hand as if it held the answer to whatever silent questions you were beginning to form.

You frowned, your heart beating a little faster, that gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach growing. "Why haven't you mentioned him before?"

Spencer finally met your gaze, but something in his eyes unsettled you—a flicker of something unreadable, which looked a lot like guilt.

"You never asked," he said softly.

And just like that, an invisible wall settled between you.

—

"Spencer?" you called out from the living room, glancing at his buzzing phone. The name flashing on the screen sent a strange feeling through your chest. Robert Nelson. Again.

Your fingers hovered over the device before instinct took over, and you answered. "Hello?"

There was a brief silence. Then, a smooth, unfamiliar voice. "Oh—uh, hi. Is Spencer there?"

Before you could respond, Spencer was there. He practically ripped the phone from your hand, his grip too aggressive. His fingers nearly fumbled as he clutched it like a lifeline.

"Why are you answering my phone?" His voice was sharp, defensive, almost panicked.

Your breath caught in your throat, stunned by the hostility in his tone. "I—It was ringing. I thought it might be work," you said, your voice quieter now, weaker.

But Spencer wasn't paying attention anymore.

His entire demeanor shifted in an instant.

"Hi, Robert!" His tone was bright and warm in a way that you hadn't heard from him in weeks. His body relaxed, his posture unwinding as he turned away from you slightly as if shielding the conversation from your ears.

And that was when it happened.

The slow, aching fracture of your heart.

You didn't need to hear the conversation. You didn't need to piece together the puzzle. It was already evident.

Whoever Robert Nelson was, he had already taken something from you.

—

"Hey, Reid," Derek called out as he stepped out of JJ's office, stretching his arms over his head. The bullpen was winding down for the day, the usual chatter filling the air. "You gonna invite that little number of yours to 'team bonding' at O'Kieffe's?"

Spencer looked up from his paperwork, brow furrowing slightly. "Robert?"

Derek's expression flickered with confusion, his head tilting. "Who's Robert?"

Before Spencer could answer, Elle interjected, her curiosity piqued. "Wait—who's Robert?"

Spencer adjusted his tie absentmindedly, utterly oblivious to the way both of his coworkers were staring at him now. "My boyfriend…"

A beat of silence.

Derek blinked, his mouth slightly open as if he'd misheard. "What?" His tone was a mixture of shock and something else—concern, maybe. "Since when? What happened to Y/N?"

At that, Spencer finally hesitated, his fingers tightening around his pen.

There it was—that fleeting look of guilt, so quick that anyone who wasn't trained to notice microexpressions might have missed it.

Elle's eyebrows shot up, catching on to the shift instantly. "Yeah, what did happen to Y/N?" she echoed, crossing her arms, her sharp gaze locked on him.

Spencer opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He hadn't prepared for this conversation and hadn't thought about how it would sound when he finally said it out loud.

That he had left someone who loved him more than anything.

He said that he had fallen for someone else while still wrapped in the warmth of Y/N's love.

Her name, which Spencer used to say with so much affection, now felt like a reminder of what he had destroyed.

His silence lingered just a little too long.

And that was all the answer they needed.

—

"Round table. Five minutes." Hotch's voice carried across the bullpen, his usual no-nonsense tone making it clear there was no room for delay.

The team exchanged glances, some groaning about Monday morning's abruptness, others silently gathering their things and making their way toward the conference room. Spencer followed, clutching his coffee; the bitter taste ground him in the early morning haze.

Once they were seated, JJ took her usual spot at the front, but something about her demeanor was off. Her shoulders were tense, her expression pinched in a way that wasn't just professional concern—it was personal.

She clicked on the projector, and the screen illuminated with a digital map of Virginia. Red markers pinpointed locations across the state—too many markers.

"A string of kidnappings has taken place here in Virginia," JJ began, her voice steady but strained. "All within the last two months. The victims all match the same victimology."

As she spoke, she clicked on the next slide.

A series of photos appeared on the screen. The faces were of women in their twenties with similar features and build. This pattern should have been just another set of behavioral data points in the grander scheme of the case.

But Spencer's stomach plummeted.

His grip on his coffee tightened involuntarily, his breath hitching in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs in recognition, dread coiling in his gut like a living thing.

The victims—they all looked like you.

It's the same hair color. Same facial structure. They have the same soft smile in some photos and the same sharp glint in their eyes in others. They weren't you, but they might as well have been.

His pulse pounded as JJ continued speaking, words blurring together as the room suddenly felt too small.

"The unsub is abducting women who fit this profile, holding them for an unknown period, and then—"

Spencer barely heard the rest.

All he could think about was you.

You—who had barely spoken to him since he left. You—who he had destroyed. You—who he no longer had the right to check in on, to protect.

But as his vision swam, his chest tightening painfully, only one thought cut through the noise.

Were you safe?

…

The answer came quicker than Spencer could have ever prepared for.

No. You weren't safe.

Once the team broke off into their assigned pairs, the case had already begun unraveling alarmingly fast. The latest victim's body had been recovered, their time of death recent—too recent. It meant the unsub was either already hunting for a new woman… or they already had one.

By the time Spencer and Elle arrived back at the BAU, the tension in the air was palpable. The office's usual controlled chaos had been replaced with something far heavier. He could feel the urgency with which agents moved in the hushed voices and sharp exchanges. Something had shifted.

Then he saw it.

His first clue was the woman sitting at JJ's desk, shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed. It took him a second to recognize her—your best friend.

His second clue was even worse.

His entire body locked up as his gaze landed on the case board. The details of the investigation had changed.

And there you were.

Your picture.

Your face.

Pinned in the center of the board, more significant than any other victim's. A fresh missing persons report was tacked beside it, and the timestamp was barely hours old.

The breath left Spencer's lungs like he'd been punched in the gut.

His vision blurred at the edges, the words and numbers on the board becoming nothing more than meaningless static.

His hands clenched, the phantom memory of holding you flashing through his mind. His brain, the same brain that could recall statistics, equations, and case files with perfect clarity, was failing him now, drowning him in nothing but cold, raw terror.

You were missing.

And Spencer had never felt more helpless.

The room around him faded into a blur of voices, movement, and urgency—but none mattered. Only you mattered. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, pushing him toward JJ's desk, toward your best friend who was still crying into her hands.

"When?" The word tore from Spencer's throat, rough and desperate. "When was the last time anyone heard from her?"

Your best friend lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes red and swollen. "L-last night. We were supposed to meet for brunch this morning, but she never showed up. She—she wouldn't just disappear. She wouldn't—" Her voice broke, fresh sobs wracking through her as JJ placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Her phone's off," JJ said, her face tight with emotion, her voice barely steady. "Local PD found her car still parked outside her apartment. No sign of forced entry. Her purse was left behind."

Spencer clenched his jaw, his stomach twisting painfully. He knew what that meant. She was taken from inside. The unsub had been watching you, had known your routines, and had waited for the perfect moment to strike.

And he hadn't been there to stop it.

A hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Reid." It was Hotch. His voice was firm, grounding, pulling Spencer back into reality. "I need you to focus. We will find her, but we need to move fast."

Elle spoke up, flipping through the case file. "Unsub's pattern suggests he holds victims anywhere from 48 to 72 hours before…" She didn't finish the sentence, but they knew how it ended.

Before he killed them.

Spencer had 48 hours to save you.

He swallowed hard, forcing his mind to snap into place, to work past the terror and focus on finding you.

"Where was her last known location?" he demanded, stepping toward the board, his eyes locking onto your picture, committing every last detail of your presence to memory. He knew he would never forgive himself if he failed and lost you.

JJ pointed at the map. "Er, apartment. The surveillance cameras didn't catch anything obvious, but we're combing through traffic cams now. We need to figure out where he took her."

Spencer's hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white.

"Then let's start there," he said, his voice steady now, ice-cold determination replacing the panic.

He had failed you once.

He wasn't going to fail you again.

The search was relentless. The entire team moved unyieldingly, combing through evidence, footage, and witness statements with the desperation that came when one of their own was in danger.

But for Spencer, it was different.

It was you.

He felt it in his bones, a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest, an overwhelming tide of guilt that gnawed at him with every passing second. He should have never left you. He should have never chosen something else, someone else.

Because now, as he stared at the grainy traffic cam footage of your last known whereabouts, he realized the truth.

Robert was never going to replace you.

He had been a distraction, a fleeting novelty, someone new and engaging in a way that had tricked Spencer into thinking he was feeling something more. But what was new had worn off, and emptiness had remained.

You were never dull.

You were home.

And he had walked away from it—walked away from you.

And now, he might never get to tell you how wrong he was.

"Reid," Hotch's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Spencer turned sharply, his eyes burning, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

"We have something," JJ said, her face tight with restrained emotion. She motioned to the screen. "Traffic cams picked up an unfamiliar van near Y/N's apartment. No plates, but it made three passes before stopping."

Spencer's pulse hammered as he stared.

There.

In the grainy footage, a dark-colored van sat idling just across from your apartment, a shadow behind the wheel. And then—a figure.

You.

You stepped out of your building, completely unaware. His breath caught in his throat as he watched the scene unfold, knowing precisely what was coming next but unable to look away.

The van door slid open. A person—the unsub—moved fast, grabbing you before you could react. You fought, your body twisting, struggling—but you were outmatched.

Then, just like that, you were gone.

Spencer's hands curled into fists.

"We need to identify that van," Hotch ordered. "Garcia, get into the city's surveillance system—track that route. Find me where he took her."

"I'm already on it, sir." Garcia's quick and focused voice came through the speaker.

Spencer barely heard them. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, on you, on the last moment before you had disappeared.

He had spent so much time thinking you would always be there, that there would always be time to fix things and make things right.

But time was running out.

And if he lost you—if he never got the chance to tell you how much he still loved you, how you were the only person who ever truly mattered to him—

He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live with himself.

Garcia worked fast—she always did—but this time, Spencer could hear the urgency in her voice, the rapid clicking of her keyboard through the speaker, and the barely restrained panic beneath her usual rapid-fire delivery.

"Okay, sugarplums, I got something,” she announced, voice tense. "That creepy, unmarked van? It popped up on a traffic camera near an abandoned industrial site about fifteen miles from Y/N's apartment. There are no stops between the two locations. I'm sending you the coordinates now."

Spencer barely waited for Hotch to give the order before he was moving, grabbing his bag and gun and shoving past the concerned glances of his teammates.

This was it.

This had to be it.

The drive was agonizing. His fingers twitched on his knee as he stared out the window, mind racing with every possible outcome. If you were there—if they got to you in time—he could still fix this. He could still tell you the truth.

He had made the biggest mistake of his life, confused comfort with monotony, and was a fool to think there was something better than the love you had given him so freely, so wholly.

That you were the only one he had ever truly wanted.

The convoy of SUVs screeched to a halt outside the factory, tires kicking up dust and gravel. Guns were drawn, and orders exchanged in hushed, precise tones. Spencer's pulse hammered as he fell into formation with Morgan and Hotch, his grip on his weapon too tight, his breathing too shallow.

They breached the building in seconds.

The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of rust and decay. Spencer's stomach twisted as they moved swiftly through the darkened corridors, his ears straining for any sound—any sign of you.

But there was nothing.

No muffled cries, no scuffling footsteps, no you.

Then—

"Clear!" Morgan's voice rang out from another room, frustration cutting through the tension.

"Clear," Elle echoed from the opposite side.

Spencer's heart plummeted.

The space was empty.

Empty.

No unsub. No van. No, you.

They only discarded debris, a few rusted chairs, and the lingering, suffocating feeling they had just lost time they didn't have to spare.

Spencer stood frozen in the center of the room, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The futility of it all hit him like a brick wall.

His knees felt weak.

"No, no, no," he murmured under his breath, his gun lowering as his vision blurred. "She was supposed to be here! He took her here. She—she was supposed to be here!"

"Reid." Morgan's voice was cautious, but Spencer barely heard it.

He couldn't—not over the deafening roar of panic, regret, guilt.

His hands were shaking. His chest was tight. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to breathe, to focus, but all he could see was your face, your picture pinned to the board, the footage of you being taken—

And the realization that he might never see you again.

"Reid." This time, Hotch's voice was sharper, more commanding. Spencer snapped his head up, his breath ragged.

"We'll find her," Hotch said firmly. "But we need you to keep it together."

Spencer's breath hitched, his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear anything else. They were wasting time. Every second spent standing here, every moment spent catching their breath, was another second you were still out there, terrified and alone, waiting for someone to save you.

And he had promised to love you.

And he had failed.

"Oh, you need me to keep it together?" Spencer snapped, his voice shaking, his entire body shaking. His vision was blurring at the edges, rage and fear coiling so tightly in his chest that he could barely contain it. He turned on Hotch, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild, desperate thing. "Well, Y/N needs me to find her! She needs not to die!"

The words tore from his throat, raw and broken.

Morgan's eyes widened slightly, JJ flinched, Elle turned away—but Hotch didn't waver. He stood firm, unyielding, his sharp gaze locked on Spencer with a kind of patience Spencer didn't deserve right now.

"And we will find her," Hotch said, voice calm but edged with authority. "But not if you lose control."

"Lose control?" Spencer let out a short, bitter laugh, his fingers digging into his arms as if to ground himself and keep from completely unraveling. His throat burned, his head spun, and all he could see was you. You, you, you. "She's out there, and we don't even know if she's alive! We don't know if we have hours or minutes before she—before—"

His breath caught.

Before you died.

The word sat there, a looming specter he couldn't bring himself to say out loud.

Morgan stepped forward, voice softer this time. "Reid, listen, man—"

"No!" Spencer cut him off, wild-eyed, frantic. "You don't get it! None of you get it! I—” His voice cracked, his body swaying slightly, the weight of his guilt pressing so heavily on his chest it felt like it was crushing him. He tried to steady himself, but he felt like he was drowning. "I—this is my fault."

A thick silence settled over the room.

Spencer's vision blurred with unshed tears, and his breath ragged.

"She loved me." His voice was quieter now, almost hollow. He clenched his jaw, blinking rapidly, his nails digging into his palm. "And I—I walked away. I left her for someone who meant nothing." He let out a shuddering breath, his chest tightening so hard it physically hurt. "And now I might never get to tell her that she was—is—the only person I've ever truly loved."

A lump formed in his throat.

"I don't—I don't deserve to find her," he whispered, the truth burning as it left his lips. "But I need to. I have to. Or I'll never—I can't—"

He couldn't finish.

If he didn't find you and fix this, nothing else would ever matter.

Elle had been watching Spencer unravel since they returned from the failed lead, her sharp gaze tracking every minute detail of his breakdown—the frantic pacing, the erratic breathing, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. And now, after his outburst at Hotch and how he looked like he was about to self-destruct right in front of them, she had had enough.

She moved fast.

Before Spencer could react, Elle's palm cracked across his face.

The sharp smack echoed through the room, cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. Spencer's head snapped to the side, his breath hitching in shock as pain bloomed hot and fast across his cheek.

For a second, no one moved.

Elle wasn't finished.

She grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward, forcing him to look at her. "Get your shit together, Reid!" she hissed, her eyes burning with something more than anger—something more profound.

Spencer froze.

His chest heaved, his mind scrambling to catch up, to process what had just happened. His cheek stung, but it was nothing compared to the tidal wave of rage, frustration, and unrelenting guilt that had been crushing him from the inside out.

"What the hell was that?" he gasped, staggering back, touching his face like he wasn't sure the pain was real.

"That," Elle said, voice low and dangerous, "was me snapping you the fuck out of it." She jabbed a finger into his chest, stepping closer, invading his space, making sure he couldn't look away.

"You're losing it, Reid. And you cannot afford to lose it right now."

Spencer opened his mouth, but she wasn't done.

"You think you're the only one who's scared?" Elle seethed. "You think you're the only one who wants to tear this city apart to find her? We all do. But guess what? You spiraling like this? It's not helping. It's making it worse."

Spencer's breath hitched, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I—"

"No, shut up," Elle snapped, cutting him off, her voice sharp enough to wound. "I don't want to hear you start whining about how guilty you feel, about how this is all your fault, about how you were an idiot for letting her go."

Spencer's throat closed up.

"You screwed up," she stated, flat and brutal. "You got bored. You wanted something new. And now you've realized you had something irreplaceable and threw it away."

His eyes widened slightly—because, fuck, she knew.

Elle saw right through him.

"But guess what, genius?" Elle leaned in, her voice dropping just enough that the words hit like a punch to the ribs.

"None of that fucking matters if you don't find her."

His stomach dropped.

Elle's gaze was unrelenting, her expression hard as steel. "You want to feel sorry for yourself? Fine. Do it after we bring her home." She stepped back, releasing her grip on his collar. "But right now, Spencer? You need to be the smartest damn person in this room."

Spencer exhaled sharply, still reeling, his cheek throbbing, his pulse raging.

But he understood.

Elle wasn't slapping him because she was angry. She was slapping him because she refused to lose another teammate. Because she refused to lose you.

Because she knew that he was the best chance you had.

Spencer straightened, inhaling deeply, forcing his mind to clear. His face still burned, his chest still ached with remorse, but for the first time since seeing your picture on that board, he wasn't drowning in it.

Elle watched him closely, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she saw the shift.

"Good," she said, giving him one last firm look. "Now, let's go find her."

Spencer nodded, jaw tight, mind finally sharpening into focus.

Because Elle was right. None of his regrets, self-loathing, orlizations meant anything if he didn't bring you home.

"Damn, Greenaway," Derek mumbled, rubbing his jaw as he shot Elle an amused glance. "What's a guy gotta do to get a little love tap?" His smirk was wide, teasing, attempting to lighten the crushing weight pressing down on all of them.

Elle, still standing firm after knocking some sense into Spencer, turned her head slightly, giving Derek a slow, deliberate once-over. "Keep talking, and it'll be a lot more than a tap," she shot back, a smirk of her forming. Then, with a playful wink, she turned back to the case, already flipping through files as if she hadn't just physically assaulted a coworker for his good.

Spencer barely registered the exchange, his brain already re-firing on all cylinders. The sting in his cheek was nothing compared to the fresh surge of determination flooding through him. And so, the team buried themselves back into the investigation, working with precision, intensity, and the desperate, unyielding need to bring you back.

Morgan and Hotch went back through the victimology, looking for any deviation in the unsub's pattern that could hint at where he had taken you.

JJ and Elle were in the batcave, working with Garcia, pushing for more footage, leads, and anything else to tighten the search radius.

Spencer was at the board, staring at your photo, the location pins, and the scattered details. His mind ran every scenario, analyzing every variable. His hand hovered over the map, tracing each route the unsub could have taken.

Think, Spencer. Think.

He had 72 hours.

Time was running out.

And he wasn't about to lose you.

And then he heard it.

Garcia's sharp victory cry rang through the speaker, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Oh, hell yes! Gotcha, you sick son of a—"

Spencer's head snapped up, his heart slamming against his ribs as the bullpen erupted into movement.

"Garcia?" Hotch demanded, already reaching for his earpiece. "What do you have?"

"I have him, sir; I freaking have him!" Garcia's voice was a mixture of triumph and pure adrenaline. "Okay, listen up because I found this guy's most incriminating, unsub-like, foolish mistake—his utility bills."

Spencer's pulse skyrocketed.

Garcia barely took a breath before launching into explanation mode.

"So, I was cross-referencing every possible known location the previous victims were held in—warehouses, abandoned buildings, private properties, all that jazz—but something wasn't adding up. All of those places had been searched already, right? So, I started looking at nearby structures that weren't in use but still had active utilities. Gas, electricity, even just running water, because let's face it—no creepy serial kidnapper is taking sponge baths in a rusty bucket."

"Garcia," Hotch cut in, his patience thin, "where is he?"

Garcia let out an excited, breathless laugh.

"There's an abandoned farmhouse thirty miles outside town, just off an old service road. It's been off the radar for years, but someone's been paying the bills—sporadically, inconsistently, just enough not to raise alarms. And guess what, my sweet crime fighters?"

Spencer gripped the edge of the table.

"The latest bill?" Garcia continued, triumphant. "It was paid yesterday."

Spencer inhaled sharply.

That meant he was still there.

That meant you were still there.

Morgan was already reaching for his gear, his movements quick and efficient. "That's it. That's our guy. Let's move."

Hotch didn't hesitate. "Gear up. Now."

—

"Can you shut up for the love of God?!" the unsub snapped, his voice cutting through the cold, damp air of the farmhouse basement. His patience had worn thin, and the roughness in his tone carried more frustration than malice.

You hiccupped through your tears, your body trembling—not from fear, but from overwhelming exhaustion. Your wrists ached where they were bound, your face was sticky with dried tears, and yet, despite everything, you couldn't stop talking.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed, sniffling dramatically. "It's just—" Another sniffle, another watery gasp for air. "He left me, and then I get kidnapped, and now he's probably gonna save me, and then I'll go home to an empty house, and he'll go home to his stupid boyfriend."

Your captor's eye twitched.

"For the last fucking time," he growled, turning toward you with visible irritation, "they're not going to find you!"

You barely reacted, too caught up in your despair.

"You don't know that," you muttered, your voice wobbly but oddly conversational. "I mean, he's like a genius or whatever. And his team is good at their jobs. They always catch the bad guy." You sighed dramatically, tilting your head back against the wooden beam. "So, yeah, I'd say the odds aren't exactly in your favor."

The unsub's jaw clenched. He paced in frustration, his hands raking through his unkempt hair.

"You should be scared," he spat, though there was less conviction now.

You sniffled again. "I'm too heartbroken to be scared."

Your voice cracked on the last word; it wasn't just for show this time.

The unsub laughed, a cruel, condescending chuckle that grated against your nerves. "You're pathetic," he sneered, shaking his head.

You let out a soft, bitter huff, your fingers twitching where they were bound. "And you aren't?" Your voice was steady now, sharper than before. "You have to kidnap women just to get one to talk to you."

The unsub's face twisted with rage. His hand shot out, grabbing the back of your head roughly, yanking it back so you were forced to look up at him.

Then, cold metal pressed against your temple.

"I could fucking kill you right now," he snarled, his breath hot against your skin, his fingers digging into your scalp.

You blinked up at him. Not flinching and not pleading.

Just looking.

"Okay," you said simply.

For a long, tense moment, he didn't move.

Your heartbeat was steady, even as the seconds stretched between you. His grip was tight, his breathing heavy, the gun unwavering against your skin.

But you didn't break.

Because, honestly? You didn't care.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. It could be the sheer emotional devastation of everything leading up to this moment. Or maybe it was the painful, gut-wrenching realization that even if Spencer saved you, he wouldn't stay.

That hurt more than anything else.

The unsub groaned, exasperated, and after a few lingering moments, jerked back, lowering the gun.

He paced, rolling his neck like trying to shake off whatever he had just felt.

"You don't fear death, do you?" he muttered, more to himself than you.

You let out a small breath, watching him, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Not really."

—

The farmhouse was empty.

It was abandoned.

And that realization hit like a freight train.

As the team swept through the decrepit structure, their boots crunching against the dust-covered floorboards, the air grew heavier with every room they cleared. The farmhouse was utterly vacant—there was no sign of you, no sign of the unsub, no proof of where you had been taken next.

And then Spencer's world crashed down. Again. He didn't know how much more he could take.

His knees hit the ground before he could stop them, his whole body wracked with sobs. The grief that had been building inside him for hours, days, weeks—since the moment he walked away from you—exploded all at once.

Morgan was there instantly, his strong arms steadying Spencer, pulling him into a solid, grounding hold as Spencer fisted his hands into his vest.

"No, no, no," Spencer choked out, shaking violently. "We're too late, we're too late."

"Hey, hey—stop that." Morgan's grip tightened, his expression strained with worry. "We don’t know that."

But Spencer's mind wasn't listening.

Because the only explanation for an empty farmhouse was that the unsub had already killed you.

That he had already moved your body.

And Spencer would never get to tell you.

I never got to say he was sorry. Never get to tell you that he loved you, was a fool for leaving, and would have spent his entire life making it up to you if he could.

That you were his heart.

And now you were gone.

The team stood frozen, the weight of failure settling over them like a suffocating fog.

And then Spencer's phone rang.

His breath hitched, and his fingers clumsily fumbled for the device. His whole body felt numb, and the ringing pierced his grief. It was JJ.

He barely had time to answer before her voice rang through the line, breathless, disbelieving, urgent.

"Spencer—she's here."

His heart stopped.

"What?"

"Y/N just—she just walked into the precinct." JJ sounded just as stunned as he felt. "She's unharmed. She's safe."

Spencer felt his entire world tilt so violently that he nearly collapsed again.

He was on his feet in seconds, his head spinning, his chest heaving.

"She's alive?" The words tumbled out of him wild and frantic, like he feared saying them out loud would make them untrue.

JJ exhaled sharply. "She's alive, Spence. She's okay."

Spencer's legs nearly gave out.

Morgan caught him before he could crumble.

The team exchanged stunned glances, their exhaustion, and devastation shifting into something else entirely.

Hope.

Relief.

Victory.

Hotch's voice cut through the moment, commanding but urgent.

"Let's go. Now."

Spencer was already running.

—

Practically stumbling into the precinct, his breath ragged, Spencer's heart slamming against his ribs as he scanned the room in a frenzy. His eyes darted wildly, looking for you.

And then he saw you. Alive. Standing near JJ's desk, your arms crossed, your expression completely unreadable as you answered one of the officer's questions with a nod. No visible injuries. No signs of distress. Just… there.

Breathing.

Existing.

He felt like he was going to collapse.

The relief hit him so hard that he nearly forgot how to move, breathe, and function. His vision blurred, his pulse roared in his ears, and for a second, he could only process that you were here and safe.

Then you turned, and your gaze met his.

And everything inside Spencer froze.

Because there was no relief in your eyes.

No joy.

No desperation, no tears, no emotion at all.

It's just tired indifference.

His lips parted, and his feet moved toward you instinctively. His hands itched to touch you, feel you, hold you, apologize, beg, and break at your feet if he had to.

But before he could say anything, you exhaled deeply, turning back to JJ, dismissing him entirely without a second glance.

Like he was just… some guy.

Some stranger.

Someone who meant nothing.

The rejection was like a blade to the throat.

Spencer finally found his voice, but it was weak and hoarse. It was filled with exhaustion, guilt, and everything he had wanted to say to you but had never had the chance.

“Y/N—”

You barely spared him a glance.

"I just want to go home," you said flatly, your voice drained, emotionless, like you had nothing left to give—not to the case, Spencer, or any of it.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because he had prepared himself for your tears, he had braced himself for anger, for screaming, for you shoving him away, slapping him, hating him outright.

But this? This emptiness? This indifference? This was worse.

This was so much worse.

Spencer stood there, stunned, feeling himself shatter in real-time as you sighed, rubbing at your tired eyes, before quietly saying to JJ,

"Can someone take me home?"

And just like that—

You were gone.

And Spencer had never felt more alone.

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tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 @asobeeee

[rafedarling]

cause Rustyn is first child in Starkey household, i would love to see 5 first things with him (ex: first comes homes, first smile, first word, first walking, first christmas, etc) i know every time Drew and wife see it they always cry of joy cause they also first time parents 🥹

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭

pairing: dad!drew starkey x mom!reader

summary: rustyn is your and drew first baby, making every moment with him monumental. from labor pains to first smiles, words, and celebrations, every “first” becomes an emotional milestone for the starkey household. as first-time parents, you and drew navigate the overwhelming love, joy, and challenges of parenthood, cherishing every step of the way.

warning(s): fluff, mentions of childbirth and postpartum recovery, and some mild language.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora @watercolorskyy @kravitzwhore

The first time you feel the labor pains, you have to admit it’s unbearable. It starts slow, a dull ache in your lower back that you brush off as Braxton Hicks, but within hours, it grows into something that has you gripping Drew’s hand like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

Drew stays by your side through it all, wide-eyed but calm, whispering reassurances as the nurses coach you through each contraction.

When Rustyn finally comes into the world, all the pain melts away the moment you hear his cry. Drew, who’s been nothing but strong, openly cries when the nurse places Rustyn on your chest for the first time.

“He’s perfect.”

Drew whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his forehead pressing gently against yours as you both marvel at the tiny life you created.

The drive home is surreal. Drew drives cautiously, you can’t help but glance back at him every few seconds, your heart swelling at how small and peaceful he looks.

“Home sweet home.”

Drew murmurs as he unlocks the front door, stepping aside to let you walk in first. The house feels different now cleaner, quieter, and somehow brimming with the promise of new beginnings.

You settle onto the couch, Rustyn snug in your arms, his tiny fists balled up as he sleeps. Drew kneels beside you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Why don’t we get some rest while he’s still sound asleep? You’ve had a long few days.”

He suggests gently.

You nod, exhaustion tugging at your eyelids, and let Drew guide you to the bedroom. He carefully places Rustyn in his bassinet, lingering for a moment to watch him sleep.

“Drew,” you whisper, your voice heavy with fatigue,

“Come to bed. I need you to lay with me.”

With a soft chuckle, Drew tears his gaze from Rustyn and joins you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“First night home.”

He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your soft hair as you drift off to sleep.

Rustyn’s first smiles, it’s pure magic.

You’re sitting on the floor of the nursery, playing peekaboo while Drew fiddles with his camera, determined to capture every milestone. Rustyn’s little lips curl upward, and his whole face lights up in a way that takes your breath away.

“Oh my god, he’s smiling!”

You exclaim, your voice full of excitement.

Drew scrambles to snap a picture, but he’s laughing so hard that the camera shakes.

“Did you see that? He smiled at you first,”

Drew says, his pride evident in his voice.

You scoop Rustyn into your arms, nuzzling his chubby cheek.

“You’re such a charmer already,” you coo

That night, Drew uploads the blurry picture of Rustyn’s first smile to a private album labeled Rustyn’s Firsts. It’s not perfect, but to you and Drew, it’s everything.

Rustyn’s first word takes you both by surprise to be honest. It’s just a lazy Sunday morning, and the three of you are cuddled up on the couch, watching cartoons.

Rustyn is perched on Drew’s lap, babbling away as usual when suddenly, he says it clear as day.

“Dada.”

Drew freezes, his eyes wide as he looks at you for confirmation.

“Did he just…”

“Yes! He did!”

You squeal, clapping your hands in excitement.

Rustyn giggles at your reaction, completely unaware of the monumental moment he’s just created. Drew pulls him close, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“You’re going to make me cry, little man,”

He says, his voice thick with emotion.

Of course that night when you and Drew are getting to bed, Drew can’t stop replaying the moment in his head.

“Dada,”

He whispers to himself, grinning like an idiot.

“Best word ever.”

But Rustyn’s first steps are a bits of chaos.

You’re in the living room, encouraging him to walk toward you while Drew hovers nervously behind him, ready to catch him if he falls.

“Come on, baby, you can do it,”

You urge, holding out your arms.

Rustyn wobbles, his chubby legs unsteady, but then he takes one tentative step, then another.

By the time he reaches you, Drew is cheering louder than a sports fan at a championship game.

“You did it! You walked!”

Drew exclaims, scooping Rustyn into his arms and spinning him around.

You laugh, a single happy tears streaming down your face.

“He’s growing up so fast,”

You say, your voice tinged with bittersweet pride.

Drew kisses your forehead, Rustyn nestled between you.

“We’re doing a good job, aren’t we?”

The first time Rustyn got to experience of sit on grass is an unexpectedly hilarious moment. It’s a sunny afternoon, so you and Drew decide to take Rustyn to the park for a picnic.

You’re excited to let him experience the outdoors, imagining him giggling and crawling around in the soft grass.

Rustyn, however, has other plans.

As you set him down on the grass, his chubby legs tucked under him, he pauses. His tiny hands pat the ground tentatively, his face scrunching up in confusion.

Then comes the big reaction a deep frown, followed by a whimper as he looks at you with wide, questioning eyes.

“Oh no, what’s wrong, buddy?”

Drew asks, crouching down beside him.

Rustyn lifts one hand and shakes it, clearly unimpressed by the damp, poky grass sticking to his fingers. Then he lets out a little huff, as if to say, What is this nonsense, and why did you put me here?

You can’t help but laugh at the dramatic expression on his face.

“I think he doesn’t like it.” You say, trying to stifle your giggles.

Drew shakes his head, grinning.

“Come on, Rustyn, it’s just grass! Look, Dada’s sitting on it too.”

He plops down beside him, patting the grass with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“See? It’s not so bad.”

Rustyn isn’t convinced. He lets out a squeaky protest, lifting his feet one by one as if the grass might suddenly disappear.

When Drew tries to encourage him by rolling a ball his way, Rustyn leans forward, reaches for it, and then freezes, looking down at the grass beneath him like it’s a trap.

“His face, oh my god,”

You laugh, pulling out your phone to snap a picture of Rustyn’s pouty expression.

“This is going in the album.”

Drew chuckles, scooping Rustyn up into his arms.

“Alright, alright, we’ll try again another day,”

He says, pressing a kiss to Rustyn’s forehead.

“You’re going to have to get used to it eventually, little man.”

Before you leave, you try one last time, sitting cross-legged on the grass and placing Rustyn on your lap. With you holding him, he seems to relax a little, his tiny hands gripping your shirt as he looks around.

You pick a soft blade of grass and gently tickle his palm with it, and though he gives you a skeptical look, his lips curl into a small smile.

“There we go,” Drew says, snapping a picture.

“Your first encounter with grass, a love-hate relationship.”

Later, when you head home, Rustyn babbles in Drew’s arms, clearly content now that he’s no longer sitting on the offending grass.

“Well,” you say, leaning into Drew’s side, “at least we know one thing: he’s got a lot of personality.”

Drew laughs, kissing the top of your head.

“That he does. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

[prozach27]

.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

1922 "Hobbit House" is a 9 unit apt. complex in Culver City, CA. The 10bd, 9ba, 10, 980 sq ft residence was designed by 1940s Disney artist Lawrence Joseph. There are 5 buildings and current leases are lower than market value so there's the opportunity to increase them when they expire. $1.95m.

It's also an historical monument. So the original owners did live here, according to the plaque.

Another of the 5 buildings on the property. There's also a water feature and it looks like this building needs work.

It's nice, but the water looks green. Looks like it needs some refreshing and landscaping.

Johnson's granddaughter lived here and is selling it. It's cute. Look at the floor. A Google search suggests that it was once a restaurant. This looks like a bar, but it's probably a kitchen now.

So, I would imagine that the new owner could live in one of the units, if they're not all rented. This is a nice big bedroom with lots of built-ins.

Wow, it hasn't been well-cared for. What's happening here? So, it definitely needs work.

This bedroom is in good condition. It must be freshly painted.

One of the other units. Gee, the roof is in need of replacing. They probably all do.

This is nice, though. So many built-ins and those floors.

Interesting dining room.

I found photos of the units when they were for rent. This one has a tiny kitchen.

But, it has a cute little built-in table and benches.

This is the bedroom. If you live here you don't need much furniture, b/c it's already here, and you can't move it.

It even has a built-in bed and nightstands.

This bathroom is in better condition than the one in the other unit.

This is the largest home on the property.

The living room facing the windows out front. It even has built-in sofas and tons of shelving and storage.

This must be the dining area of the main room.

It has a large galley kitchen.

Someone painted over the upper cabinet, put some sort of metal on the doors, and it's all been propped up by a stick.

This bedroom also has a built-in bed, dresser, and nightstands. Looks like a large closet in the wall.

This unit has 2 bedrooms. Look at the big built-in bureau and vanity table.

Small bath.

Here you can see the 5 buildings and it looks out of place in the surrounding area. There's parking for 9 cars and it's on a .25 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/3819-Dunn-Dr-Culver-City-CA-90232/20432038_zpid/

[elysianightsss]

Mouth watering sundress

Summary: John gives you a ride home from work, and his phone number…

It was the car ride from hell.

John drove with one hand on the steering wheel and one on the clutch, his truck smelled just like him. Oak wood, cigars and spiced oranges. It had a musky undertone that made you shift in your seat, thighs clenching uncomfortably. The Chevy he drove somehow didn’t surprise you and the country music quietly playing from the radio didn’t surprise you either. 

His plaid button up shirt and loose blue jeans had you staring. You could see where the muscles were too big for his shirt when he changed gears it looked like it was going to rip. You wondered what it would feel like to have those muscular arms wrapped around your body.

You played with the hem of your floral sundress, tracing the little flowers while you scolded yourself for thinking such things about your gorgeous neighbour. 

“How was work?” John asked with gentle curiosity, his big hand moving the clutch to change gear.

“It was okay.” You shrugged glancing out of the window only to look back at him and see a frown on his face.

“Just okay?” His eyebrows rose as he watched little old Doris pull out in front of him in her mini with no indication whatsoever.

“Yeah. I mean my job consists of listening to people complain on the phone and trying to fix their issues. It was pretty boring, only gets good when you get the screamers.” You laugh, watching the forest trees pass by as he drives.

“Screamers?” He asks, a small laugh coming out himself, though you picked up the concern dithering there. Tricks of the trade.

“People who start shouting or screaming down the phone as soon as you answer. Mostly cause they haven’t got they wanted from the company yet.” You explain, saying it so casually.

“That doesn’t sound too fun.”

“Maybe not fun but definitely an interesting change. Gives me something to think about on the weekends too. Maybe if I should have responded differently. How can I better my answers for next time it happens.” Your brows furrow slightly realising how pathetic you just sounded.

“No friends to make your weekends interesting?”he cleared his throat hoping he wasn’t too obvious here, “or boyfriend.” He glanced quickly at you out of the corner of his eyes to catch you cracking a small smile making one grow on his face too. So infectious.

“Some friends but they work on the weekends. And I don’t have a boyfriend.” That had John shifting into the wrong gear the car making a loud scraping noise, he scrambled to quickly rectify the situation before the car stalled.

“Fiance? Husband?” He grimaced saying it, if felt like a dirty word on his tongue, leaving a bitter after taste that quickly disappeared when he spotted no ring on your finger.

“Nope. Completely and pathetically single.” You sighed, not dramatic, but simply a deep breath that showed how tired you were from everything. And boy you were tired. Exhausted from the emotional stress of life.

“Oh?” His interest clear, just as much as his curiosity was.

“Every time I like a guy or even think about entering into a relationship, it always fucks up in a monumental way and I always end up hurt. Every single time.” You let out another tired sigh. It was hard to be single when both your friends had partners, always the third wheel. It made you really hate life at the moment. Though you suppose you’d been in worse positions than in a Chevy with your large, handsome neighbour.

You pulled up to a traffic light, John pulling up the hand break before turning to look at you with a deep seriousness gleaming not only in his eyes but on his face, his body language, his entire demeanour had become the embodiment of seriousness.

“I would never hurt you. Ever.” He was so earnest. It made your heart ache, yearn for the kind of man you’d always wanted but never had. Always boys, never men.

The light turned green just as you let out a shaky breath, fingers lacing together in your lap picking at your nails in nervousness. Heat rising on your cheeks when his hand reached over to lay itself on top of yours for a few moments before pulling your hands apart, “Don’t do that. You’ll ruin those pretty hands.” He lets go just as he looks deep into your eyes, “and we can’t have that can we.”

You didn’t know what to say, the glint in his eyes, the way he tipped his head to the side a bit. Fuck, he looked wonderful. You steeled yourself and consumed every bit of self confidence you had, “You think my hands are pretty?” You stared at him, blinking a few times, definitely not fluttering your lashes. Your eyes flickered to where his jaw seemed to clench tightly for a few moments.

The intensity was building as he leaned in closer to you, it had a burning feeling building in your stomach, a fluttering you’d never experienced before the longer he stared into your eyes

Before he could even open his mouth in reply the beeping of horns from the cars behind started going off. You cleared your throat turning to face the front of the car, “The lights green John.”

“Mhm.” It’s short. Sweet. And so fucking sexy. His voice gravely and low, rumbling in his chest as he hums. Prolonging his gaze upon you just a few more moments before he turns back to the steering wheel and begins driving off.

You quietly let out a breath you hadn’t realised had built up, it did nothing however to ease the fluttering in your stomach. Only seemed to make the nausea worsen. You made a point of not picking at your nails, instead you lay your hands over your thighs, the feeling of your skin and the material of your sundress distracting you enough to not see smirk that graced John’s lips.

John lips, those luscious kissable lips that seemed almost hidden away by the full beard that had grown around his mouth. Like some forbidden fruit hidden just enough in the garden of Eden. He seemed like some forbidden fruit.

He stopped the car just outside your house, getting out to open the car door for you to get out. “Thank you for the ride home.”

“Anytime sweetheart.” He gazed down at you, his height even more daunting now that he was standing. His whole being was just large. That was the best way to describe him.

-

Honestly, you thought about him for the rest of the evening and all night. You thought about his muscles, the way they stretched the fabric of his shirt over the skin. The way his hands seemed to dwarf everything, you wondered how big they would look holding yours. You thought about the way he smirked after calling your hands pretty. You thought about the way his blue eyes glistened when he gave you his phone number.

It was all you thought about. All that was on your mind with no way to get rid of it, no sign that the brazen thoughts would ever leave you. It was like your own personal brand of torture.

Even when you finally managed to drift off, you dreamed of him. Dreamed that he would touch you the way you wanted him to. That he would kiss you desperately, achingly. You were hungry to be touched by him, so hungry that even the very thought of tasting him made you feel nauseous. It had been so long since anything had touched you, that your body had grown accustom to the emptiness that gnawed at you day in, day out.

But maybe it was just what you needed, to push past the sickness. To hold on tight to the warmth that wanted to cover you, that wanted to wrap itself around you. But you couldn’t help but push it away, say no in cruel anticipation of the inevitable. Love is a tender kiss for most people. For you she saves her sharpest axe.

Waking up was humbling, how groggy and unhinged you felt after a night of thinking and dreaming of John. Rolling over in bed you unplugged your phone and began to scroll through your notifications. Your heart jumping in your chest at the sight of a new text; from John.

John: Hey pretty girl. 7:36am. read.

Holy shit, he’d text you this morning. Was it when he first woke up? He was he thinking about you all night too? This man is something else.

John: No reply already? I thought I would’ve had to say something stupid first before you ignored me sweetheart. ;) 9:41am. read.

You: Sorry, got distracted. How’d you sleep? 9:42am. read.

John: Like a log. You? 9:42am. read.

You: Could use a couple more hours honestly. 9:43am. read.

John: What do you have planned today sweetheart? 9:45am. read.

What did you have planned today? Rolling around in bed thinking about a well built beast with thick mutton chops. So enthralled with the simple idea of John.

Fuck you’d never met a man so….well manly. His big muscles and his thick musky scent that screamed masculine in the most primal way possible. In every circumstance, in every part of the world and every century, he would be the ideal mate. To protect and provide-

The ringing makes you jump, the phone vibrating in your hand as you see the unfamiliar number only just added to your phone. You breathe in sharply for a moment, blowing out shakily, hands beginning to sweat. And it’s not even him in person, it’s just a phone call.

“It’s just a phone call. You can press the end button at any time.” You tell yourself, reassuring yourself before sliding your thumb along the screen, the answer swipe turning green. You put the cold screen to your ear. “John?”

“I got impatient.” His voice sounded so low and deep, must be that its first thing in the morning.

“Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts.” You mumble picking at the sheets surrounding you.

“Anything you wanna share? Or is it too soon to be prying into that pretty head of yours.”

“God you’re forward.” You breathe out a little laugh, a hot feeling fluttering in your stomach.

He laughed, heartily. “I’m just wired that way love.”

“I’m not sure if I like it.”

“Oh?” John voice was light and soft, if you were really leaning into it you’d notice the tinge of disappointment in the sound.

“It’s catching me off guard. I like to keep my cards close to my chest.” You swirled your finger along the pattern of the crocheted pillow in front of you.

“I’d happily let you play me.”

“John.” You breathe out another laugh, your heart skipping a beat.

“Like that,” he huffed low and wild, “like when you say my name. Sounds so nice coming from you.”

“It does?”

“Well with a pretty voice like that, I’m sure you can make anything sound nice.” He chuckled. And fuck you had to mute with how you giggled, kicking your feet with giddiness.

“So you want to go for lunch?” The rumbly bearish throaty sexy voice melted your knees until they felt like jelly.

“Again with the forwardness.” Your flushed cheeks hurt, couldn’t wipe the grin off your face, and he could hear it.

“I’m a man who knows what he wants and goes for it.” John answered without so much as a thought, the answer coming so naturally.

“I’ll consider it.” You pressed the red button and jumped in the shower, cold and brisk. It was the only way to bring your burning body temperature down.

John was unlike anybody you’d ever met, definitely better than an of your exs and you hadn’t even gotten to the deep stuff yet.

You wrapped a towel around your body and began to dry your hair with your other towel when you noticed your phone light up, a nervous grin tugging at your lips as you picked up the device and read the text.

John: Considered it yet? 10:02. read.

You shook your head, teeth biting into your smile. He was so unashamed and so bold. It made you question yourself, made you want more than you had once had. Made you want him.

You: I’d love to have lunch with you. 10:04am. read.

John: I’ll pick you up in an hour, wear that mouth watering sundress again ;) 10:04am. delivered.

Mouth watering sundress? Fuck, no one had ever said that to you before. Hell no one had ever offered so many compliments in one conversation before. He was truly a man of different breed. You giggled again falling into your bed and kicking your feet in the air, he was such a flirt. You loved it.

[meazalykov]

friend to wife

ingrid engen x reader

summary: to your family, she was just a friend until she became your wife

warnings: coming out, mentions of comphet, angst but comforting overall!

it’s quiet when you and ingrid step out of the car, the crisp december air nipping at your cheeks as you glance toward the familiar silhouette of your childhood home. 

christmas lights twinkle along the roofline, a warm glow spilling from the windows, and for a brief moment, you hesitate. your heart pounds in your chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation coursing through you. 

ingrid steps closer, her gloved hand finding yours, squeezing gently.

“you okay?” she asks, her voice soft, her norwegian accent wrapping around you like a comfort blanket. her eyes, steady and calm, meet yours, and you nod despite the tightness in your throat.

“yeah,” you murmur, although the weight of what you’re about to do feels monumental. this is your family. your parents, who have always pictured a version of you that you’ve long since outgrown. 

your younger siblings, who probably suspect more than you’ve let on. and now, you’re about to introduce them to ingrid—not as your best friend, not as your teammate, but as your wife.

your wife.

the word still feels surreal, even though it’s been three weeks since the day you and ingrid exchanged vows in a small, intimate ceremony at a courthouse in barcelona. it had been perfect, just the two of you with alexia, fridolina, marta, and caroline as witnesses, the simplicity of it feeling right for who you both are. 

ingrid hadn’t wanted to wait until next summer, and you, always understanding, had agreed. the euros would come and go, but this—your love, your commitment—couldn’t wait.

“we’ll be okay,” ingrid reassures you, leaning in to kiss your temple. 

“your family loves you. they’ll love us.”

you take a deep breath, letting her words ground you, and together, you walk toward the front door.

the inside of the house smells like pine and cinnamon, the comforting scent wrapping around you as soon as you step inside. your mom appears from the kitchen, a warm smile lighting up her face as she pulls you into a tight hug.

“there’s my oldest girl,” she says, holding you close before turning to ingrid. “and ingrid! it’s so good to see you again.”

you exchange pleasantries, your dad appearing from the living room to join in the greetings. your younger siblings peek around the corner, grinning as they call out your name and wave at ingrid. 

it’s all so familiar, so normal, and for a brief moment, you wonder if you should keep the truth tucked away a little longer. but then ingrid’s hand brushes yours, a silent reminder of why you’re here, and you steel yourself.

“actually,” you start, your voice a little shaky. you clear your throat, glancing at ingrid before looking back at your parents. 

“we have something to tell you.”

your mom raises an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in her eyes, while your dad leans against the counter, his arms crossed. your siblings exchange glances, their expressions a mix of intrigue and anticipation.

“ingrid is here with me because– well– she isn’t just my best friend,” you say, the words tumbling out faster than you intended. 

“she’s now my wife.”

silence.

for a moment, the only sound is the faint hum of christmas music playing from the living room. your mom blinks, her smile faltering slightly as she processes your words. your dad’s eyebrows shoot up, his mouth opening as if to speak, but no words come out. 

your siblings, on the other hand, seem less shocked. one of them—your youngest sister—lets out a quiet “i knew it,” earning a nudge from your brother.

“your wife?” your mom finally says, her voice tinged with surprise but not unkind. she looks between you and ingrid, her gaze settling on the norwegian. 

“you two got married?”

“we did,” ingrid confirms, her tone calm and steady. she steps closer, her hand finding yours again, and you draw strength from her presence. 

“three weeks ago, in barcelona. it was a small ceremony, just the two of us and a couple of friends.”

your dad exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair as he looks at the rings placed on the ring finger of your hand. 

“why didn’t you tell us sooner?” he asks, his tone more bewildered than upset.

you swallow hard, your grip on ingrid’s hand tightening. “it wasn’t easy for me to accept who i was, for not being what I thought was ‘normal’,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“for so long, i thought i was... someone else. someone straight. and it wasn’t until i met ingrid in wolfsburg that i started to understand myself and everything else.”

your mom’s expression softens, her eyes filling with something you can’t quite place—understanding, maybe, or compassion. she steps closer, reaching out to touch your arm.

“sweetheart,” she says gently, “you could’ve told us. we love you, no matter what.”

“i know,” you say quickly, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

“but i was scared. scared of disappointing you guys,.”

your dad steps forward then, placing a hand on your shoulder. “you’re our daughter,” he says firmly. 

“that’s never going to change. and if ingrid makes you happy, then we’re happy for you and our new daughter-in-law.”

the relief that washes over you is almost overwhelming, and you feel the tears spill over as you nod, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. ingrid squeezes your hand, her own eyes glistening with emotion.

“thank you,” she says softly, her voice directed at your parents. 

“that means a lot to both of us.”

your mom smiles, wiping at her own eyes before pulling ingrid into a hug. “welcome to the family,” she says, her voice warm and sincere. 

“we already loved you, but now you’re officially one of us.”

your siblings chime in then, teasing you about keeping such a big secret while also expressing their excitement. your youngest sister, always the bold one, asks if she can call ingrid her sister-in-law now, and you can’t help but laugh.

“you’ll have to wait for the ceremony in 2026,” ingrid jokes, earning a round of groans and laughter.

“2026?” your mom repeats, her brow furrowing. “why so far away?”

“the euros,” you explain. 

“ingrid will be playing for norway, and i’ll be with our country. it’s going to take up most of next year, so we figured 2026 would give us time to plan something special.”

“well,” your dad says, clapping his hands together, “we’ll be there, no matter when or where it is.”

the rest of the evening is filled with laughter and stories, the initial tension melting away as your family embraces the news. sitting at the kitchen island later, you watch as ingrid chats with your mom, their voices low and easy, as if they’ve known each other forever. 

your dad is in the living room with your siblings, showing them old photo albums, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a deep sense of peace.

this is what you’ve always wanted—acceptance, not just from your family, but from yourself. and now, with ingrid by your side, you finally have it.

masterlist

[mimikyuno]

now that the pope is dead and everyone in the world seems to care for some reason even though they are neither catholic nor italian i want to share one the most lesbian raised catholic in italy story from my childhood.

picture this. it’s 2005. im an incredibly autistic, androgynous 8-9 year old who has a new special interest they are keeping secret: winx club. keeping secret bc id sooner throw myself out of a window than be seen as girly. anyway season 2 is about to drop, ads everywhere for months. lil lesbian me has a horrific crush on the new girl (aisha) and is shaking in their boots in class all day at the idea of seeing what this new hot girl is like. i run home after school. get my lil desk (i had a teeny tiny mini school desk i ate my merenda on bc again. autism) and i drag it in front of the tv in my mom’s bedroom bc this is Monumental, and i need the door shut so i can scream about magical girls in peace. i have a jar full of the current autism cookies i would have meltdowns if they were finished. i turn the tv on. the episode starts. i can barely contain my enthusiasm. aisha is climbing a rocky wall and im Riveted im Locked In and suddenly, the episode disappears. they show the vatican as a voice keeps repeating “papa giovanni paolo II is dead.” after the initial shock, i realise i genuinely couldn’t care less. winx is on. i grab the remote and flip through all the channels. they are all showing the same special announcement. my mom bursts into the room. “did you see?” she asks. i cry. autistic meltdown incoming bc how dare they disrupt my winx time. my mother glares at me, says it’s rude to care about cartoons when the Holy Father is dead. that it’s sinful. i feel like i’ll go to hell and all day bite back my tears bc they skipped winx completely. the saturday after i sit in front of the priest and confess my Sin (caring more about cartoon girls than the pope dying) and he tells me god forgives me but i have to recite i dont remember how many ave maria’s and padre nostro’s.

eventually they showed the episode again (the next day iirc) and everything was fine and i Did fall for aisha. i secretely bought her doll without telling anyone (lest ruining my tough, tomboy, “is that a boy or a girl” reputation) and i kissed her hair and i still didn’t realise i was a girl kisser till i was 19. anyway rip papa francy

[steddielations]

Upstaged | Part 2 | Part 1

It all makes sense.

When Eddie comes back from taking photos with the fans, he looks a little sheepish for the first time. Steve has about a million things to ask, mostly he just wants to laugh about the fucking odds, but he remembers the grace Eddie extended to him about the press ordeal.

Instead, he settles back with his lime soda and a simple question, “So, what kind of music are you into?”

A grateful smile breaks out across Eddie’s face, ecstatic to dive into that with Steve. Their lunch extends into dinner. Steve doesn’t have anywhere to be these days and Eddie practically jumps up and down when the meeting he was in the area for gets canceled. They stay there for a couple more hours, just talking. 

Their music taste overlaps at certain points, Eddie talks about how getting his first guitar from the pawn shop pretty much saved him, Steve recounts a little league story that makes Eddie laugh so hard he chokes on his soda.

It’s the most monumentally casual time Steve’s ever had with a new friend in public and he’s not ready for it to end. Even after exchanging numbers and promising to meet up again, they still linger together outside.

“So uh, I remember where I know you from now."

Eddie leans against the side of the building. It’s getting dark, they’re tucked away from any eyes so Steve freely scoots closer to Eddie, waiting for him to explain. He does after a moment, seeming nervous and fiddling with his rings.

“I hate to ask, but my Uncle is huge into baseball, especially you and your general all-around-awesome thing. There weren’t players like you to look up to when he was young, all that. I’ve seen you on his tv so many times, you’re basically part of the family— ah shit, that’s weird, sorry,” he cringes a little, scrunching his nose in a way that makes Steve’s chest clench with affection, “But he’s getting old and like I said earlier, he’s my rock, he raised me and I won’t forgive myself if I don’t at least ask you to come see him sometime.”

The way he rambles is pretty endearing, looking at Steve with a wide-eyed hopeful expression, as if there was even a chance Steve would say no.

He reaches out, gently takes Eddie’s hand to stop his restless fidgeting, “You want me to meet your folks already, hm?”

Eddie lets out an amused scoff, looking down at their hands and back at Steve like he can’t believe it. “You’re not as funny as you think you are, Steve.” 

Steve knits his brows, “Why’s that?”

“C’mon man. Y’know how hard it is to find someone who can handle this lifestyle, let alone all the shit that comes with me,” shaking his head a little, Eddie smiles but there’s something aching in it, “Then the nicest looking guy I’ve ever seen comes outta nowhere and saves my life, agrees to go to lunch, happens too know as well as me that life in the limelight ain’t always pretty and turns out to be one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

His fingers thread through Steve’s, holding tight like he’s not sure it’s real. “Even if I never see you again, I’m gonna write songs about you. I’d take you home and keep you right now if I could, but that’s not happening.”

There’s a part of Steve he’s kept shut down for years that comes pumping through his veins then, hot and alive. He realizes that he’s been trying so hard to keep his life as normal as possible that he’s been missing out on actually living it. Now he has this wonderful, crazy, wonderful man spontaneously in front of him and he’s not letting him slip away. 

Steve moves in, slowly crowding Eddie against the wall. Eddie’s eyes go a little wide with surprise then darken with desire. Steve watches his face shift through so many emotions, his mouth parting with a soft gasp, wanting this just as badly as Steve.

“Wanna bet?” Steve asks before he crashes into Eddie again. 

This time it’s a hot press of lips instead of a full-body collision, but it’s just as breathtaking.

Steve deepens the kiss, thrill prickling all across his skin when Eddie opens up for him right away. Steve licks passed the bright hint of lime on their tongues to get to Eddie. The heady taste of him makes Steve’s world spin, all the desperate noises between them going straight to his head.

“Want you so bad, Eddie, wanna keep you too,” he threads his fingers into all that hair, reveling in the shiver it elicits from Eddie, “God, just wanna have you.”

Eddie chases his lips, “You can, Steve, you can have me— please do.”  

Steve loves the sound of that, going in for a longer, more indulgent kiss before pulling back.

“You can’t take me home tonight,” he professes hotly against Eddie’s lips, “My place is closer, you’re coming with me.”

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 11 (Rafe Cameron x reader x John B SMAU)

TW: mentions of eating disorder

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

You were hunched over your laptop in the library, the glow of the screen doing little to cut through the fog in your brain. Barely a hundred words of your assignment stared back at you, each one a monumental effort. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic rhythm that echoed the ringing in your ears. A sheen of sweat slicked your palms, even in the cool library air. The impending date with Rafe – just the thought of it sent a shiver of dread down your spine.

“Hey,” a voice, laced with concern, cut through the buzzing in your head. “You good?”

You blinked, your focus snapping back to the present. A hand waved gently in front of your face, and you finally registered John B sitting beside you, his brow furrowed in worry.

“Huh?” You looked up. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just… trying to get this shit done.” You gestured vaguely at the screen.

His eyes followed your hand, “You’re shaking,” he pointed out gently, his voice soft as he watched your fingers tremble above the keyboard. “Have you eaten anything today?”

A wave of dizziness washed over you. The memory of the black coffee and monster you’d chugged down that morning, hoping to kickstart your focus, felt like a cruel joke now. The caffeine was a jittery current beneath your skin, amplified by the gnawing emptiness in your stomach. “Uh, just coffee,” you mumbled.

His eyes softened with understanding. “You don’t look so well,” he said, his voice laced with genuine worry. He reached out and placed a warm hand on your shoulder, “Come on, let’s get you out of here. I’ll take you home.” He was already efficiently packing up your laptop and notebooks, slinging your bag over his shoulder.

“What about the others?” you asked. Normally, the Twinkie was the designated transport, and John B the unofficial chauffeur for your crew.

“Nah, they all… uh, went to get some grub,” he said, his tone casual.

You nodded, too preoccupied to question it. You let him gently guide you towards the car park, his hand a steadying presence on your back. Your legs felt like jelly, and you leaned into his support. In the passenger seat of the Twinkie, you instinctively curled into a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, head resting heavily.

Why were you so anxious? Why did the thought of this date with Rafe make you feel so sick? Because it was Rafe. The Rafe you’d heard countless warnings about, the one your friends practically spat venom at. You were willingly walking into an evening with him. But beneath the surface of that obvious dread, something else churned – a potent, unsettling mix of nerves and… vile attraction.

Your fingers twitched, a phantom sensation of reaching for your phone. You’d caught yourself doing it all day – a quick check to see if he’d viewed your story, a nervous refresh of his Twitter, the small sting of disappointment when his messages took longer than you expected. A shameful part of you even wondered if, subconsciously, you’d pushed things with Topper to create this very scenario. A disgusting, thrill-seeking part of you craved the danger, the wrongness of it all. You knew he wasn’t good for you. Yet…

Your breath hitched as a vivid image of his stupid smirk flashed in your mind. Those eyes, usually so vacant, held a strange intensity when he looked at you, a brief flash of something that reminded you of the ocean’s depths. What the fuck was wrong with you? This had to be some kind of self-destructive streak, a twisted form of self-harm disguised as attraction. 

The click of the front door latch echoed in the sudden silence. You stepped inside, the familiar scent of home usually a comfort, today it felt suffocating. And then you saw them.

Your mother, her face already crumpled with worry, sat on the edge of the sofa. Your grandfather, usually stoic, had a rare look of concern etched onto his weathered features. JJ, Pope, and Kiara sat in a row of dining chairs, their expressions a mixture of awkwardness and genuine care. And then there was your aunt, her kind eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored your own growing dread. It hit you like a physical blow. This wasn't just a casual gathering.

“Is this an intervention?” The question ripped from your throat, sharp and laced with a panic that threatened to overwhelm you. Every head in the room snapped towards you, their expressions confirming your worst fears.

“Honey, we just want to talk to you,” your aunt said softly, her voice gentle as she started to move towards you.

“Uh-huh, yeah. Just one sec, I think I left something… in the car.” You started to backpedal, your eyes darting towards the door, a desperate escape route forming in your mind. But just as you thought you might make it, your back collided with a solid chest. John B. Of course it was John B, the final, insurmountable obstacle.

You whipped around, your eyes locking with his. “Just sit down,” he pleaded, his voice low and earnest. “Let’s just talk.” 

It felt like a punch to the gut, a cruel twist of a knife you thought you could trust. He knew. He had to have known. This was his idea, wasn't it? The thought solidified in your mind, a heavy weight of hurt settling in your chest. “We just want to talk, please?” His voice held an underlying desperation that, under different circumstances, might have swayed you. But right now, all you felt was the sting of his perceived betrayal.

With a heavy sigh that felt like surrendering a battle you hadn't even started. You avoided everyone's gaze, your eyes fixed on a loose thread in the rug.

Your mom, as expected, was already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, her silent tears adding another layer of guilt to the already thick air. Your aunt reached over and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze before standing up, her gaze steady as she began to speak.

She took a deep breath, “Honey,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “we want you to know that we all care about you, so deeply. We all love you. And please, please don’t think of this as anything other than that. This is a judgement-free zone. We are all here because we want the absolute best for you… We really do.” Her eyes, filled with a genuine warmth that usually offered so much comfort, now felt like an accusation.

She then reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a folded piece of paper, her hands shaking slightly as she unfolded it. She took another deep breath and began to read, her voice thick with emotion:

My darling niece, I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday. Your tiny hand wrapped around my finger, and in that moment, you became like my own daughter. The world felt brighter, full of possibility, the day you came into it. And I have had the absolute joy of watching you grow, of seeing you blossom into the intelligent, witty, and beautiful woman that you are today. You have a light inside you, a spark that can illuminate any room

I know you have had a difficult relationship with food, my sweet girl. I’ve seen you struggle for so long, the battles you’ve fought in silence. But you are so incredibly brave. Three years ago, you took that monumental first step and sought help, and I have never, ever been prouder of you than I was that day. You faced your demons head-on, and that takes a strength that most people can’t even imagine.

But we also know that recovery isn’t a straight line. Every day is a challenge, every day a new battle. And while I may not fully understand the intricacies of what you are going through, the weight you carry, I know this much: you are not doing okay right now. And that’s alright. Relapsing is a part of the journey, a stumble on a long and winding path. It doesn’t diminish the progress you’ve made, it doesn’t make you any less strong, it only makes you human. We all falter, my love.

I want you to get better for yourself, not for us, but for you. I want you to live a long, healthy life, filled with joy and laughter and all the things that make your eyes sparkle. I want you to be able to achieve all of your goals, to chase every single one of your dreams without this holding you back. I want my niece – my bright, fierce, incredible niece – to be strong and healthy and vibrantly alive. You deserve that, more than you know.

I love you more than words can say, my darling. We all do. And we are here for you, every single step of the way.

The fragile sense of connection you’d momentarily felt shattered as your mom dramatically tossed the crumpled tissue onto the coffee table, her eyes red and puffy. She stood up, her posture stiff, and unfolded a piece of paper with a sharp, rustling sound. Her voice, when she began to speak, was tight with suppressed anger and a raw, self-pitying edge.

Writing this letter is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but frankly, I don’t know what else to try. I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, consumed by worry. It’s a constant ache in my chest, this fear of what’s happening to you. And honestly, it’s starting to take a serious toll on me.

I just wish you could be honest with me, just once. When I ask you how you are, I’m not just making polite conversation. I’m your mother! It’s my job to worry, but you make it impossible when you constantly lie. You have no idea the anxiety I feel every time you walk out that door. Is this the day…? That’s what runs through my head constantly. It’s exhausting.

You lie to me every single day, and it’s getting harder and harder to pretend I don’t notice. I thought maybe a skipped meal here and there was just a phase, something teenage girls do. But it’s so much more than that, isn’t it? You tell me you eat a full lunch at college, but John B, bless his heart, felt he had to tell me the truth. You apparently tell them that you eat a big dinner here at home! What am I supposed to think? It makes me look like a fool.

And why the secrecy? If you’re struggling so much, why can’t you just confide in me? Why won’t you just get the help you so desperately need? We went through this before, remember? Three years ago. It was incredibly difficult for all of us, but we got through it. You got better! So why are you doing this again? Don’t you remember how hard that was on everyone? Especially me?

Honestly, if you can’t even do it for yourself, then please, just do it for me. I can’t keep living like this, walking on eggshells, constantly wondering if I’m going to get a phone call. I can’t stand by and watch you disappear like this. You’re a shadow of the vibrant, happy person you used to be. Sometimes I look at you, and I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. It breaks my heart.

I feel like such a failure as a mother. What did I do wrong? How did I let this happen again? It’s a constant weight on my shoulders, this feeling that I can’t even help my own daughter. And it’s so frustrating because you won’t let me in. You push me away, you refuse to talk. You are making me feel like I’ve failed you, and that’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone–

At that point, your aunt, her face etched with concern and a hint of disapproval, she placed a hand on your mother’s arm. “Why don’t you sit back down for a moment?” She gave your mother a pointed look, a silent reprimand for the letter’s overwhelmingly self-centered tone. Your mother, still sniffling, reluctantly sank back into her seat, her gaze fixed on you with a mixture of accusation and wounded pride.

JJ unfolded the crumpled paper, and along with Pope and Kiara, the three of them took turns reading short sections, their voices a blend of concern and earnestness. Their joint letter expressed how worried they all were about you. They emphasized that what they were witnessing wasn't healthy, and it was impacting their friend in a way that was deeply concerning. They reiterated their unwavering support and pleaded with you to consider getting help, stressing that they missed the old you and simply wanted their friend to be healthy and happy again.

Your grandfather, a man whose silence often spoke volumes, stood up slowly. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a familiar warmth that had always been a source of quiet comfort. He didn't read from a letter, didn't offer any lengthy speeches. He simply said, his voice a low rumble, "I love you, angel." It was his nickname for you, a term of endearment he'd used since you were a little girl with scraped knees and boundless energy.

He then walked over and enveloped you in a hug. His arms, strong and familiar, felt like a safe harbor in the storm of emotions swirling inside you. It was a hug that spoke of years of unspoken love and understanding, and in that moment, it was exactly what you desperately needed. 

A lump formed in your throat, and you had to fight back the tears that threatened to spill over. Emotions were a messy, unwelcome guest in your carefully constructed inner world. You had always viewed them as a weakness, something ugly that should remain locked away, buried deep inside. This intervention, this forced exposure of your vulnerabilities, was your absolute worst nightmare. Having to sit there, under the scrutiny of everyone you knew, listening to their worried words and seeing their pitying glances, made you want to disappear. You wished the earth would just open up and swallow you whole, offering a swift and silent escape from this agonizing reality.

And then it was John B's turn. The silence in the room seemed to thicken, becoming heavy and suffocating. You kept your gaze fixed on the worn pattern of the rug, your vision blurring slightly at the edges. You couldn't bring yourself to look at him. Not yet, maybe not ever. This betrayal felt different, deeper than any other you had experienced. It burrowed under your skin, a cold, hard knot in your stomach.

He knew. That was the thought that kept repeating in your mind, a relentless accusation. He knew you. He knew how much you valued your privacy, how much you despised being the center of attention, especially like this. He knew how fiercely you guarded your inner world and how much you would resent this forced exposure. So for him to go to your mother, behind your back, to orchestrate this… it felt like a fundamental violation. A tearing of the trust you had placed in him, a trust you had believed was unbreakable.

You couldn't reconcile it. You couldn't understand his reasoning, even if he had the best intentions. It felt like a betrayal of your friendship, a disregard for your feelings. A mental wall had slammed down in your mind, a solid barrier that prevented you from separating the act from the person. It wasn't just something he did; it felt like a revelation of who he was – someone who, despite your closeness, ultimately didn't respect your boundaries or your wishes.

Did he care about you? A small, reluctant voice whispered in the back of your mind that he probably did. But right now, that didn't matter. The hurt, the sense of being ambushed by someone you considered a safe person, was too raw, too overwhelming. Could you ever look at him the same way again? Could you ever truly trust him after this? The answer, echoing in the hollow chambers of your heart, was a resounding and painful no.

I’m so sorry. I know this is probably the last thing you wanted, and believe me, it wasn’t easy for any of us. But I didn’t know what else to do. Watching you… watching someone I care so deeply about struggle like this, all by yourself, it felt like I was drowning too. I kept thinking about all the times… all the times we’ve been there for each other. Remember that pie-eating contest at the county fair when we were kids? You were so determined to beat Topper, and you did, even with blueberry all over your face. I was laughing so hard I almost choked on my apple pie. You were always so competitive, so full of life.

And remember when you used to spend hours in the kitchen, experimenting with all those crazy recipes? You were only ten, but you were already talking about becoming a chef, opening your own restaurant. You’d make these incredible, elaborate meals for all of us, even if it was just a Tuesday night. You had this passion, this fire in you. And lately… lately that fire has been dimming, and it scares me.

I knew I could never forgive myself if anything were to ever happen to you, if I just stood by and watched you disappear. I had to try something, anything. I want you to know that I love you, every version of you. Whether you’re the life of the party or hiding away, whether you’re feeling strong or just a tiny fragment of yourself. I love your laugh, your stubbornness, even your eye-rolls when Pope gets too nerdy. I just want you to get better. I want you to be whole again, because that’s what you deserve. You deserve to feel that fire again, to chase those dreams you had. And I really, truly hope that one day, you’ll understand why I did this, and maybe… maybe one day you’ll even forgive me.

Your aunt stepped forward again, her expression gentle but firm. “Honey,” she said softly, “there’s a car waiting outside to take you to a rehabilitation facility. We’ve already arranged everything.”

Panic flared in your chest, a desperate urge to bolt. “No,” you said quickly, your voice rising. “No, you don’t understand. I can do this. I promise. I’ll make a meal plan, I’ll stick to it–” It was a lie, and you knew it even as the words left your mouth, but the thought of going away, of being confined in some strange place, was terrifying.

Your mother cut in, her voice sharp and devoid of the earlier tears. “I can’t listen to any more lies,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “You need professional help. You need to be in a place where people know how to deal with this. This isn’t something you can just promise your way out of anymore.”

A strange sense of resignation washed over you. You were tired of fighting, tired of the constant tension and the worried looks. And honestly, a break from your mother sounded… almost appealing. You made a decision, right then and there. Not because you suddenly had a burning desire to get better, not because you were ready to confront the gnawing voice of your eating disorder, but because you needed an escape. You needed to get away from all of them, from the weight of their concern and the suffocating atmosphere of this intervention. The sheer embarrassment of having your vulnerability laid bare in front of everyone you knew was unbearable. You couldn't face them, not right now.

“Okay,” you said, the word feeling heavy and foreign on your tongue. “Okay, I’ll go.” You avoided making eye contact with anyone, the shame burning in your cheeks. You just wanted to disappear.

The goodbyes were a blur, each hug a bittersweet farewell to a life you were momentarily leaving behind. Pope squeezed your hand tightly, his usual cheerful demeanor clouded with worry. Kiara pulled you into a fierce embrace, whispering, "We'll be here when you get back. Promise."

Then it was JJ. He wrapped his arms around you, his hug a comforting, familiar pressure. He swayed you gently, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "Hey," he mumbled into your hair, "don't go making any new friends in there now! None of them will ever be as crazy as me! I probably got, like, schizophrenia too, let me come with you." Even in this mess, JJ could make you crack a small involuntary smile.

You finally turned to John B, who stood awkwardly by the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and you could see the faint outline of his fingers fiddling with something small – probably a quarter. You walked towards him, each step feeling heavy and final. When you reached him, you didn't say anything, you just wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close. His arms, stiff with surprise for a moment, slowly circled your waist, his face burying itself in the crook of your neck. You could feel the faint tremor in his shoulders.

"I'm gonna go to rehab," you choked out, the words thick with unshed tears. "And I'm gonna get better." You sniffled, the disgusting emotions you usually kept locked away spilling out in a messy torrent. You pulled away slightly, just enough to look him in the eye, though you couldn't quite meet his gaze. "Don't call me, don't text me, don't contact me ever again." The words were sharp, meant to cut, to create a clean break.

You finally looked up at his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, brimming with unshed tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. His mouth was slightly ajar, a silent testament to the shock that rippled through him. "Goodbye, John B," you whispered, the words laced with a pain. You reached out a trembling hand and pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheek, a final, bittersweet gesture before turning and walking out the door.

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