#LED Grow Light Reviews

[honeyedmiller]

Mr. Bakery Man

baker!joel miller x f!reader

rating: none

synopsis: it’s not every day you get to move from nyc to austin for your job and relish in a pleasant change of pace. it’s also not every day that you discover a cute family owned bakery in the heart of austin—and it’s definitely not every day that you meet the owner and fall head over heels for him.

warnings: this is pure, innocent tooth-rotting fluff ; fun flirting, we’ll call this one a hallmark type beat lol, sarah and ellie are both in this, joel is down bad in this (but so is reader), no use of y/n.

word count: 3.3k

a/n: this was supposed to be for @punkshort’s au writing challenge but i’m hella late on it. life has been crazy lately, but thanks for sticking with me during my unintentional hiatus 🤍

Moving from New York City to Austin Texas had been an oddity in life’s recent escapades. 

Your job had asked if anyone in your department was willing to do the big move because the office in Austin needed a strong journalist on their growing team. With the rest of your colleagues having kids and spouses, nobody was interested in uprooting their whole life to move to a completely different state. 

You, on the other hand, wanted to get out of New York. You yearned for new opportunities, and when this one arose, you didn’t hesitate to tell your boss you were interested. 

You’d been slowly settling into Austin, getting used to life in another city with a completely different atmosphere. You were grateful your new colleagues were all very nice and welcoming. 

The one thing you’d say you missed dearly back in New York City, though, was this amazing bakery off of Fifth you’d frequent before work. Their coffee and croissants were delicious, which is what led you to go on a Google hunt to see what bakeries were good around here in Austin. 

One caught your eye immediately—Sarah & Ellie’s— with five star reviews and multiple photos of all the sweets they had to offer. It was a cozy little café and bakery mixed into one with a homey, warm vibe and cute decorations. You mapped it to see how long it would take you to get to the place, and to your luck, it was only a ten minute walk from your apartment complex. So, you decided you were going to go first thing in the morning before work. 

And for some reason, you felt excited to try a new place. Maybe it was a sign of finally getting used to living in a completely different state, fifteen hundred miles away from your old life. 

You luckily got used to being an early riser, so once morning had rolled around, you were up n’ at ‘em by six thirty. You left your house around seven, making your way down to Sarah & Ellie’s. 

The shop felt more homey than it looked online. As soon as you stepped in, there was already a short line of customers and a waft of delicious baked goods and coffee that filled your senses. You suddenly yearned for a home you’d never even been to. 

You stood in line and observed the menu, deciding on sticking with a classic chocolate croissant and latte for the time being. You wanted to see if this place held a candle up to the place off of Fifth. 

The older gentleman in front of you greeted the cashier with a bright smile, and she immediately typed in an order. 

“Hey Randy, how’s it going?” 

“Hey sweet pea. Just here for my usual mornin’ coffee and danish,” he says, handing the girl a ten dollar bill. She counts out the change and closes the register with her hip before returning his beaming smile to him. “Tell your old man to stop workin’ so damn hard. Cheryl says I need to lay off the sweets once in a while, but I can’t do that if all his baked goods are too delicious to resist.” Randy pats his stomach with a satisfied hum, and the girl laughs. 

“I’ll be sure to pass on the message. Have a good one!” 

After she waves him off, she locks eyes with you and gives you the same beaming smile as you stepped up to the register. 

“What can I get ya, Miss?” she asks, tone cheery and light. 

“I’ll take a chocolate croissant and a latte, please.” 

She nods and rings in your order, grabbing a cup to write your name on it. 

“Not to intrude or anything, but are you new ‘round here?” Her tone is still light, laced with pure curiosity as the sharpie pen hovers over the latte cup. 

You gave her a smile and nodded meekly, “I am.” 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Sarah.” 

You give her your name and her smile never wavers, scribbling your name on the cup. 

“Let me get that chocolate croissant for you—” she started, but was accidentally cut off by a man opening the door that separated the front of the café from the back. 

“Hey babydoll, do we have anymore—” the man stops abruptly, eyes landing on you. A black apron adorned his clearly thick and strong physique, flour dusted on his hands and arms. He was tall, and had a sweet glint in his brown eyes that made warmth flood your whole body. He had a head full of thick brown curls with grays strewn in here and there, and the mustache along with the stubble on his chin mirrored the streaks in his hair.

He instantly gave off a charming aura, and when he smiled at you, you were a goner. 

“Hello Miss. Don’t think we’ve ever met before,” he says, dusting his hands off on the apron before extending one to you. His Southern accent dripped like thick, pure honey, and it made your skin burn hot. 

You couldn’t hold back your smile when you reached your hand out to shake his. It might’ve sounded cliché as hell, but the sudden surge you got from just touching him made every single cell in your body alert, yearning for more. 

“I’m new in the city,” you explain, “Just moved here not too long ago.” 

“Ah, makes sense. Think I’d remember ya even if you didn’t come in often.” 

You’re taken aback by his words. Was he… flirting? You felt your face heat, and your eyes nervously flit to the glass case full of delicious looking pastries. Well, if he was flirting, there’s no harm in doing it back… right? 

“Me coming in often depends,” you find yourself grinning like a fool, “Do your pastries taste as good as they look and smell?” 

“They’re the best in Austin,” he winks, and with that, murmurs something to Sarah before giving you one last smile before walking to the back again. 

Sarah can’t help but giggle as she hands you your croissant. “It’s on the house,” she waves her hand as you pull out your wallet, and you stop short to give her a confused look. She clocks the expression on your face and grins. “Dad said.” 

“That’s your dad?” You didn’t mean to pry, you were just taken aback. 

“Mhm. Family owned and operated bakery,” you immediately hear the pride in her voice, and you can’t help but smile. “I’ll have your latte out in a minute.” 

You grin and nod, stepping over to the other side of the counter. You decided to take a bite of your croissant while you waited for your latte, and god, it was the best pastry you think you’d ever had. The croissants on Fifth had nothing against these gooey, decadent, flaky treats. 

You nearly had to hold back a moan, and the man—Randy, you think—laughed beside you. 

“Good, ain’t they?” he asks, and you nodded expeditiously. 

“Probably the best croissant I’ve ever had.” 

Randy nods in agreement, “Miller’s the best baker in Austin. Been comin’ here since his girls were little.” 

And you finally figured that Ellie must be his other daughter. It warmed your heart that he’d name his place after his two girls, clearly his pride and joy. 

“That’s so nice,” you say, and give him a quick wave goodbye when his order is called out. 

“Hopefully I’ll see you again soon,” Randy shot you a smile before taking a sip of his drink, and you nod at him with a smile before you turn your attention to your name being called out. Sarah handed you your drink and you thanked her, taking a cautious sip. 

Even the latte was superb. You were one hundred percent sold on this place, and maybe even a little smitten with the owner. 

Yeah, you’d definitely be coming back. 

-

A month passes by before you know it, and you’re now deemed an honorable regular at Sarah & Ellie’s. You’ve met Ellie, who was a total opposite of her sister—but you loved both of their personalities all the same. You learned that Ellie was going to art school and you promised her you’d buy a commissioned piece. 

Sarah was going to school for business, studying to take over the bakery one day, and possibly even expand it as a franchise. You told her you’d be at the grand opening the day that it happens. 

As for the owner, Mr. Miller—or, Mr. Bakery Man, you teasingly called him—kept the flirting subtle but fun. You looked forward to the playful banter you two’d exchange, and it always earned a raised brow and a not-so-subtle smirk from either Sarah or Ellie. 

Unbeknownst to you, they’d tease their father about the ‘crush’ he had on the pretty regular that came in and how he should buck up and ask you on a date. 

And he planned to do just that. When you went in on a Saturday morning, you were surprised to see him working the front counter instead of one of the girls. 

“Well if it isn’t Mr. Bakery Man,” you say, and he runs a hand through his hair. 

“In the flesh,” he says, and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Girls didn’t come in today?” You lean up against the counter as he grabs a latte cup, writing your name out on it. He hesitates for a moment, but continues to write on it before setting it down on the opposite countertop. 

“Nah. Sarah was up late doing homework and it’s Ellie’s turn to have Saturday off.”

You nod in understanding, pulling out your wallet. He stops you and shakes his head, and you scoff. 

“You have to let me pay, Mr. Miller. You can’t keep giving me these discounts.” 

“Don’t worry about it, darlin’,” his smile was shy, and he was fidgety—almost like he was scared. Right when you opened your mouth to ask him if he was okay, he cut you off. 

“Would you wanna go on a date with me?” His words were rushed, and your heart melted at how nervous he sounded. 

You paused your movements completely, meeting those warm brown eyes that made you feel so safe. 

“I’d love to,” you answered, and relief visibly washed over his features. 

“Great. I, uh, wrote my name and number on your cup. Hope you don’t mind,” he says, and you have to bite back a smile. Then you suddenly realized you never even knew this man’s first name. You’d just stuck with calling him the nickname you gave him, or by his last name. 

You took the cup from him gingerly as he finished making your drink a few minutes later, and turned it in your hand to see his name and number scrawled on the side as promised. 

Joel. 

The name fit the gorgeous man in front of you. He nervously rubbed the back of his neck, and your palm landed on his insanely toned bicep with reassurance. 

He stared at you, the warmth in his eyes nearly making you weak in the knees. 

“I promise I’ll call you,” you say, giving his bicep a soft squeeze. Your hand falls to your side again before grabbing the croissant from the counter that you didn’t notice until now, and you eagerly took a bite. 

Joel wanted to laugh at the chocolate on the side of your mouth as you tilted the pastry toward him. He restrained himself from reaching up and wiping it from your mouth, but you beat him to it by using your knuckle to wipe it off. 

“Compliments to the chef.” You tease, wiggling your eyebrows. 

He couldn’t help but admire your playful side, ecstatic that you agreed to go out with him. 

“Anythin’ for you darlin’,” he said, and you left the bakery that day with a smile on your face that you couldn’t wipe. 

That night, you found yourself pacing back and forth in your apartment as you chewed on your bottom lip. Your phone was clutched in your hand, keypad open and ready to dial. Your other hand had the empty coffee cup with his name and number. 

You didn’t know why you were battling this in your head. Is it weird? Is it too late to call him? No—No, it’s not weird. He’s the one who asked you out, after all. 

Fuck it. 

You sighed as you dialed the number on the cup, pressing the phone up to your ear. Within seconds, Joel’s deep voice rang through the other line. 

“Hello?” He sounded a bit tired, voice hoarse from what had to be a long day. 

“Hey Mr. Bakery Man,” you said in hopes of lifting his spirits even in the slightest. 

His deep chuckle that sounded through the receiver had a warmth blooming in your chest. Even his laugh alone made you feel good inside—like a cup of hot cocoa in your hands on a cold night while you’re in your pajamas sitting fireside. 

Did it sound kind of insane? Sure. Did you care? No. 

The feelings you’d felt toward him almost blindsided you, but something in your gut told you that Joel would be a constant in your life from here on out. 

“Hey darlin’. How’s your day been?” He asks. 

“Good, good,” you pause for a moment, “So about that date…” 

“I was thinkin’ some dinner? Friday night at seven?” 

“That’s perfect. I can’t wait.” 

-

Friday night rolled around, and Joel was kicking himself for not exactly having a plan B. For some reason, the reservations he made got mixed up and you couldn’t be seated. 

You assured him that it was okay, and that his presence was enough for you to enjoy yourself. 

You both decided to get some pasta to-go and eat your food at a park nearby. Even though you both were dressed to the nines and didn’t exactly blend in, you couldn’t care less. You were enjoying your time with him and getting to know the amazing man that he is. 

He opened up and talked about how Sarah and Ellie were both his pride and joy, how he had Sarah really young and adopted Ellie later on, how he sometimes helped his brother Tommy in the contracting business, and how he’s loved to bake in the kitchen with his mom ever since he was a young boy. 

“Didn’t really think I’d make a career out of it,” he confesses. 

“Looks like it worked out for you really well though,” you nudge his side gently. You were settled onto a bench with him then, closer to each other than anticipated. Neither of you said a word, though. 

Being by Joel’s side radiated nothing but safety and comfort. It felt natural, like you two were meant to find your way to each other. 

“Guess so. ‘S funny though. I meet new people every day because of the bakery and, forgive me ‘f this is too bold to say, but meeting you has completely thrown me off my game,” he chuckles, and you furrow your brows. 

“What do you mean?” You try not to feign hurt in your tone, but he wraps his arm around your shoulders and brings you into his warm body. You’re engulfed in his scent, and you could stay here forever, you thought to yourself. 

“Don’t mean it as a bad thing, sweetheart. I mean you’ve been on my mind constantly, and truth be told, I didn’t think you’d ever agree to go on this date with me. ‘M not really one to put myself out there and go on dates, but somethin’ about you made me want to get to know ya more,” he explained, and you nodded your head in understanding. 

“I get it. I didn’t know what to expect when I moved out here. I always buried myself in work and didn’t pay much attention to dating someone, but I’d like to say this turn of events has been pleasant.” 

He can’t help but grin foolishly at your words. 

“‘M glad it worked out this way too. Y’know my girls pushed me to ask you out? Not that I didn’t want to in the first place, but ‘m… not very good at this,” he waves his hand to the side.  

You could easily picture Sarah and Ellie giving Joel a hard time, hounding him to ask you out. 

“Your girls know what’s best,” you tease, and he can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. “But you’re doing just fine, Mr. Miller. I promise.” 

“Even if I goofed and our reservation got messed up?” 

“Joel, I wouldn’t care if you took me to Whataburger for a date. It’s the company that matters,” you say, and you could’ve sworn you saw him blush. 

“Where have you been all my life?” His question sounded like it was meant to be directed just to himself, but you leaned in and gave his cheek a kiss. 

“Probably in New York City,” you shrugged. 

“You and your sarcasm,” he said, shoulders shaking from laughing. 

“Hey, you’re the one who asked me out. That’s on you,” and Joel couldn’t help the pride that bloomed within his chest. 

“Sure did. What do ya say? Wanna head back to the bakery for a cup of coffee and croissant?” 

“What, like a nightcap, but sweet?” You grinned, and he nods. 

“Somethin’ like that.” 

“I’d love to.” 

Joel offered you his arm and you wrapped your hand around his bicep, staying close to him as you both walked back to his truck. 

It didn’t take long to get back to the bakery. Joel made you some coffee with creamer and sugar while he drank his black. He made you a croissant too as promised, and you couldn’t help but gush to him about how you loved his baking. You’d tried a few other things off the menu since you started coming into the shop, but the croissants were what stole your heart. 

You and him sat there for what seemed like hours just talking and getting to know each other on a deeper level. You told him about your family, your dreams and aspirations, what made you want to become a journalist, and what drove you to reach your goals. 

He loved that you were so ambitious—he didn’t come across too many people these days that seemed to know exactly what they wanted in life. You impressed him, and as he sat across from you listening to you talk about work, he knew you were the woman for him. 

He would’ve deemed himself crazy not even a few months ago for thinking such a thing, but hell, if you know you know. 

So the months passed by, and you two became inseparable.

Both of you didn’t think you’d meet someone like this, let alone someone you both could see sharing a life with. This man, all kind hearted and selfless and a big teddy bear who treated you like a goddess, was the man that swept you off your feet and made you see that work isn’t everything life had to offer. 

You took that leap of faith to move to Austin, not knowing the outcome it would have. But, you sure as hell were so glad that it happened. That this thing with Joel happened. You were decently happy with your life before you met him and let him in, but now, you felt as if you’d been on cloud nine for months. 

You were helping Joel close up the bakery one Sunday evening when he turned to you and confessed that he loved you, and he couldn’t imagine his life without you. Neither could the girls. You’d changed him for the better, even if it hadn’t even been a year of knowing each other. 

You’d said it right back to him, and with flour still lingering on his hands, he’d grabbed your face and kissed you like you were the air his lungs needed, the blood to keep his heart pumping, and his god-given solace. 

And you thought, this was exactly where you were meant to be—safe in his arms, full of love, with a whole lifetime with him to look forward to. 

He was it for you. You'd won the heart of the charming Southern gentleman—your Mr. Bakery Man. 

dividers by @saradika-graphics

p.s. sorry if this sucked i’m genuinely so rusty w writing rn. thanks for understanding <3

[mikkeneko]

"We already have seen several legal actions against DOGE, with four cases alleging that the entity has violated transparency, conflict of interest and other relevant federal laws. These suits are seeking to kneecap DOGE from even being allowed to operate. We have also seen lawsuits brought by blue state attorneys general (led by Leticia James of New York) and by nonprofits seeking an injunction against the federal government-wide pause on financing and grants. That entire effort by the Trump White House to freeze funds met with such pushback that the original memo implementing the freeze was rescinded, and a federal judge, who reviewed Press Secretary Karoline’s Leavitt’s misleading post on social media claiming that the freeze was still in effect, expanded the injunction beyond the memo to include the entire administration.

That is important, because Musk is currently threatening to halt payments that Congress has already authorized through his control of the federal payment system, deciding on his own that something is “fraud” or “waste.” But Musk doesn’t have that power, and he certainly doesn’t have it in light of the judge’s injunction. If he defies it, as he has shown a willingness to do in the past, he could be held in contempt of court."

"Indivisible and MoveOn have called for daily protests outside of OPM each morning. They have also organized a protest set for Tuesday evening at Treasury demanding Musk and his team be ejected. As a side note, the first organized protests against ICE and its policies, involving thousands of people in Los Angeles, Dallas, and many other cities across the country took place over the weekend.

It’s too early to tell whether protests against the Trump administration will continue to grow in strength or what effect they may have on the situation on the ground. There is some concern that Trump will use any sign of civil unrest as an excuse to invoke the Insurrection Act and turn U.S. military forces against peaceful protestors. But the threat of possible overreach by Trump should not and likely will not deter protestors, and if Trump chooses to escalate in this fashion he may lose further public support."

[ssa-dado]

2 - Early Birds

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader

Genre: fluff, angst if you squint

Summary: Two weeks in, the excitement of your first case had faded, and you found yourself handling simpler cases while learning from senior team members. You aimed to prove yourself, arriving early each day, only to find Hotch always there before you. This sparked a playful rivalry and connection between you two. Hotch recognized your determination to earn your place, and your insights on a cold case led to a field mission together. Through this growing mutual respect, your dynamic evolved into a partnership with unspoken mentorship.

Warnings: Usual CM case stuff described in detail, Hotch being a jokester, Rossi being iconic as always, no Gideon though.

Word Count: 4.4k words

Dado's Corner: Trying my best not to write reader looking at "Hotch's muscles reaping through his tight shirt", and limit the emotional description that both of them feel because stupid me wanted to write a slow burn. They are so cute though, c'mon. Also I wanted to point out that both of them basically know nothing about each other outside of work (their family, their past, if they're dating someone...👀). And yes, that is very deliberate, hihi.

part one ; part three

Two weeks had passed, and the initial rush of excitement that had accompanied your first case with the team was starting to settle. You weren’t paired up with Hotch, Rossi, or Gideon for any of your most recent cases anymore - not that you expected to be.

The more straightforward cases were often left to the younger or less experienced agents, which included you, as frustrating as it sometimes felt. Still, you were learning, absorbing everything you could from your new other colleagues, even though part of you itched to be working on the more complex cases that the senior team members handled, mostly because they were the ones who were allowed to travel all across the country.

You wandered how they expected you to go back to work after the big rush you felt after that first case, although it was probably intentional – an unspoken invite - if you continued to keep up with your works, maybe you would be allowed to join the big boys club again. The placement of your desk, didn’t help you at all to keep those thoughts out of your head, as it was situated right in front of Hotch’s, and constantly gave you an unobstructed view of his work.

It was yet another reminder of what you 'could have been doing' disguised as a neatly arranged workspace with case files that seemed far more complicated and intriguing than the ones you were currently dealing with. Every now and then, you’d catch a glimpse of him leaning over one of his meticulous reports or reviewing photos, his focus so intense it was hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy.

But you immediately learnt Hotch was nothing if not organized, and despite your best efforts to sneak a peek at the cases he was working on, he always kept his desk so perfectly neat that you could never quite make out any of the details… which only made you even more curious.

So you started coming to the office earlier each day, driven by a fierce determination to prove yourself and earn a spot on the senior team. You knew your skills were valuable, but without more field experience, you needed to find other ways to stand out. Arriving early became your way of showing commitment, a quiet but persistent demonstration that you were ready whenever the team needed you.

However, your plans to impress were unknowingly thwarted by one person: Hotch himself.

No matter how early you arrived, he was always there before you, settled at his desk with a steaming cup of the bitter government-office coffee in hand, already absorbed in his work.

His calm presence, bathed in the soft glow of the early morning light, became a familiar sight. It almost felt like he was deliberately keeping the upper hand, showing you that no matter how early you came in, he would always beat you to it. This routine repeated so frequently that it turned into a sort of unspoken ritual: arriving to find Hotch already deep in thought, sharing those first moments of the day completely in silence. Sometimes, you'd exchange a nod, and if you were feeling particularly bold, a brief smile of acknowledgment to him. Those quiet mornings became the closest thing you would ever have to connecting with someone from the senior team.

One particular morning, you arrived earlier than ever, determined that this would finally be the day you beat Hotch to the office. You slipped into your chair, a triumphant smile spreading across your face at the sight of his empty desk. For once, you were ready to enjoy the small victory of being there first. But before you could even settle into your morning routine, Hotch strolled in with an infuriatingly composed air, as if this were all part of some game only he knew the rules to.

"Early again, I see," Hotch said, setting his bag down with a casualness that suggested he wasn’t bothered in the slightest by your efforts.

You smirked, trying to hide the disappointment of losing yet again, and fired back, "What can I say? I like to get a head start on the day."

Hotch gave a small nod as he took his seat, already opening a case file. "I noticed," he replied in his dry, signature tone. "Maybe next time you’ll actually beat me to the office."

Your eyes widened slightly; it was embarrassing how easily he had read your unspoken intentions, as if your competitive spirit was as obvious as the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Still, you couldn’t let him have the last word. Leaning back in your chair, you matched his teasing tone. "Is that a challenge?"

Hotch didn’t look up from his file, but you caught the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, as though he was fighting back a smile. "If it were a challenge, you'd know it."

The next day, determined to prove a point, you arrived even earlier, practically at the crack of dawn. You felt a surge of pride when you saw Hotch’s empty desk. You sat down, arranging your papers with a satisfied grin when you heard the door creak open. Hotch strolled in, holding his coffee and glancing at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Did you sleep here?" Hotch asked, his voice edged with amusement as he took in your determined expression.

"Thought I’d enjoy the office without the competition," you quipped, not missing a beat. "But I guess I was wrong."

Hotch set his coffee down, glancing at his watch pointedly. "Maybe try five minutes earlier tomorrow."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. If it weren’t for the pile of files on top of your desk you would probably search down the office looking for the secret bunker he had to use to hide in. "Maybe I will."

As the days passed, this playful rivalry grew, turning your early arrivals into a daily test of wills. You found yourself not just trying to beat Hotch to the office but eagerly anticipating your quiet battle of wits, moments where the two of you just coexisted in a space of mutual respect and silent competition. You found yourself noticing the little things, like the way he meticulously organized his desk, his unspoken but obvious disdain for the office coffee, and the way his focus never wavered, even when he knew you were watching. And though Hotch rarely let anything slip, you could tell he was enjoying it too.

One morning, you brought in coffee from a nearby café, one of the good ones, and set it on your desk with a pointed look at Hotch’s usual cup of the bitter office brew.

"Upgrading already?" Hotch asked, eyeing the cup with faint interest.

"Figured if I’m going to keep coming in early, I might as well treat myself," you said, lifting the cup slightly in a mock toast.

Hotch nodded thoughtfully. "Smart. Too bad I didn’t think of it first."

You raised an eyebrow, your tone playful. "I’ll grab you one next time. Wouldn’t want you to lose your edge."

Hotch smirked, his expression a rare mix of humor and challenge. "I’ll hold you to that."

Rossi, who often strolled in a bit later with his own cup of coffee, couldn’t help but notice the budding rivalry. One morning, as you and Hotch exchanged your usual nods, Rossi ambled by with a bemused smile tugging at his lips.

"I’ve gotta say," Rossi began, glancing between you and Hotch, "this little routine of yours is the most entertaining part of my mornings. Hotch, are you ever going to let her win?"

Hotch glanced up, his face the picture of neutrality, but his eyes held a glimmer of amusement. "I’m just here to work, Dave," he replied smoothly, as if your ongoing game wasn’t the highlight of his mornings too.

"Sure you are," Rossi said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He turned to you with a knowing wink. "Keep at it, Y/N. Sooner or later, you might get him to crack."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin that tugged at your lips. "I’m working on it."

Rossi leaned closer to you with a knowing grin. “I’ve seen people try to get through to him for years. Don’t lose hope. You might be the one to break the streak.”

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," you said with a chuckle, but his words resonated more than you let on.

The rivalry wasn’t just about who got to the office first anymore; it was about pushing each other in subtle ways. Hotch would occasionally leave a file slightly more open than usual, tempting you to sneak a glance. Sometimes, you’d leave your notes on display, knowing he’d catch something you were working on. These little tests became part of your dynamic, an unspoken way of challenging each other to be sharper, to think more critically.

One morning, you arrived to find a sticky note on your desk, written in Hotch’s neat handwriting: “Nice try. Better luck tomorrow.”

You laughed, shaking your head and scribbling a quick reply, sticking it to his coffee mug: “Don’t get too comfortable.”

As the day progressed, you found yourself lost in your work, occasionally sneaking glances at Hotch as he meticulously reviewed a series of photographs from his latest case. It was during one of these moments, late in the morning when the bullpen was nearly empty, as most of the other agents had just left for their lunch break, that you caught sight of a specific photograph that Hotch had been studying. It was upside down from your perspective, but something about the positioning of the victim caught your eye. You glanced at Hotch, who was fully absorbed in his work, before you shifted your gaze back to the image.

You couldn’t help yourself. "Hotch?" you called out tentatively, trying to sound casual.

He didn’t look up from the file, his voice as calm and collected as always. "Yes?"

"That case you’re working on... the one with the body positioned against the wall?" You gestured subtly toward the photo.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, a hint of curiosity in them now. "What about it?" Thankfully he was so desperate he didn’t even call out on you snooping on his files.

You leaned forward a little, glancing between him and the photo. "Well... I couldn’t help but notice something about the victim’s posture. It looks deliberate, almost ritualistic, but there’s a subtle tension in the arms. It feels like... he wasn’t posed post-mortem. What if he was still alive when the unsub placed him in that position?"

Hotch’s brows furrowed slightly as he considered your words. He leaned back in his chair and studied the photograph again, his focus intensifying. After a moment, he glanced back at you. "Go on."

Feeling a little more confident now, you continued. "If the unsub posed him while he was still alive, it means he’s not just seeking control after death, he’s enjoying the power he holds over his victims while they’re still conscious. That could point to a different kind of psychological profile. It’s not just about domination or display; it’s about interaction. He needs to see their fear."

Hotch’s lips pressed into a thin line as he processed your theory, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head, coming unstuck for the first time. Then, to your surprise, he gave a slow nod. "You might be onto something."

You blinked, not expecting such an immediate acknowledgment. "Really?"

He leaned forward, quickly scribbling a note in the margin of his case file. "It changes how we look at his escalation pattern. If he’s interacting with them before death, it suggests a different type of compulsion." His gaze flicked back to you, and there was a hint of admiration in his eyes, though it was still masked by his usual stoic demeanor. "Good catch."

You felt a small surge of pride at his words, then you caught Rossi, who had been hovering nearby with his coffee, heard the exchange and couldn’t help but smirk. "Looks like you’ve got some competition, Hotch."

Hotch glanced at Rossi, his expression barely changing. "I’m always up for a challenge."

Rossi chuckled, clearly amused by the dynamic between you two. "This ought to be fun to watch."

Later that day, while you were both in the kitchenette grabbing some burnt bitter coffee, Hotch broke the silence. "You know, Rossi’s not wrong. I’ve worked with a lot of people, and not many would speak up the way you do."

You looked up, surprised by his sudden candor. "I guess I’m just stubborn."

"That’s not always a bad thing," Hotch said, his voice softer than usual. "It’s how you learn."

You shared a quiet smile before the moment passed, and you both returned to your desks. But it lingered, this newfound sense of mutual respect.

As the day drew to a close, you were working through your own case files, reviewing behavioral patterns for a consultation you’d been asked to give. It wasn’t as high-stakes as Hotch’s case, but it still somehow puzzled you. You were working through the details when you heard Hotch’s chair scrape against the floor as he stood up.

"You’ve been staring at that file for hours," he observed, walking around his desk to stand beside yours. "Something bothering you about it?"

You glanced up, caught slightly off-guard by his sudden attention. "It’s just... I’m having trouble piecing together the unsub’s motivations. The crime scenes are chaotic, impulsive. But then there are these little moments of control. It’s not adding up." You blurt out

Hotch studied the pages you had spread across your desk, his eyes scanning over the crime scene photos and notes. After a moment, he pointed at one of the reports. "The pattern of escalation doesn’t match with someone who lacks control. Look here." He tapped the page. "The victims all lived within a few miles of each other, but the attacks are spaced out by months. He’s controlling his impulses, waiting for the right moment."

You leaned forward, following his train of thought. "So he’s picking his moments carefully, but when he acts, it’s chaotic."

"Exactly," Hotch confirmed. "The chaos is part of his release. But the periods of waiting, of planning - that’s where his real control lies. He’s not impulsive, he’s deliberate. You’re dealing with someone who needs the build-up almost as much as the act itself."

A lightbulb went off in your head. "Which means the chaos at the crime scenes isn’t a lack of control: it’s the goal. It’s what he’s been working up to."

Hotch nodded, clearly satisfied with where the conversation had led, finally making you become unstuck. "Now you’re thinking like a profiler."

You smiled at his words, "Thanks for the help. I guess I owe you one”

Hotch’s expression remained neutral, but there was a twinkle in his eye. "I’ll remember that."

The rest of the evening passed in a comfortable silence, both of you working on your respective cases. But every now and then, your eyes would meet across the desks, and you couldn’t help but feel that there was now starting to be an unspoken understanding between you now, built by your small moments of banter.

Suddenly, as the clock neared midnight, Hotch spoke up again. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be another long day."

You chuckled softly, packing up your files. "You always say that, but you never seem to take your own advice."

He gave you a rare, brief smile. "Someone has to keep an eye on you."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Is that what this is? You’re secretly just keeping tabs on me?”

"Something like that," Hotch replied, his tone dry but not unkind. "Besides, you’ve been sneaking glances at my case files all day."

You bit back a laugh. "Caught red-handed."

Hotch crossed his arms, though there was no real accusation in his voice. "Next time, just ask. I might let you take a look."

You smirked. "I’ll hold you to that."

As you both gathered your things and headed for the door, you glanced at him one last time. "See you tomorrow, early bird."

Hotch gave you a knowing look. "We’ll see who gets here first."

The next morning, when you arrived at the office, Hotch was already there, of course. But this time, as you approached your desk, you noticed something new. A fresh file, placed neatly on top of your papers, with a small note attached.

"For your curiosity. - Hotch"

You couldn’t help but grin as you opened the file and began to read.

You opened the file carefully, half-expecting it to be another mundane consultation, but no. The more you read, the more it drew you in: it was a cold case, one with a string of victims found in seemingly random locations but with similar grim injuries. Each one had been reported missing for weeks before their bodies were found posed in open fields. There was something about the methodical yet personal nature of the kills that stood out.

The file indicated that the team hadn’t cracked this one yet, and the investigation had stalled. Hotch was likely trying to see if you could spot something they hadn’t. You glanced across the bullpen at him, just coming back from the kitchenette holding a cup of coffee. His face was unreadable, but you could sense that this was a test, not in a malicious way, but in his own way of pushing you to think bigger, to trust your instincts.

You spent the rest of the morning poring over the details, making notes, and jotting down ideas. Something wasn’t clicking, there was no clear pattern in the victim’s personal lives. They weren’t all the same age, gender, or background. But then something Hotch had said to you while yesterday helping you on your consultation echoed in your mind.

"The chaos is part of his release. The periods of waiting, of planning, that’s where his real control lies."

You took another long look at the victims, and then it clicked. They weren’t random. The locations, the way the bodies were posed, they weren’t haphazard at all. It was a pattern, but not one based on the victims themselves. It was based on where they were found.

Without realizing it, you stood up from your chair and made your way over to Hotch’s desk. He looked up at you, raising an eyebrow as you approached.

"Got something?" he asked, setting his pen down.

You handed him the file, unable to hide the excitement in your voice. "It’s not about the victims. It’s about the locations. They’re all near bodies of water—rivers, lakes, even a man-made pond. I think the unsub’s been using these locations as part of his ritual."

Hotch’s eyes narrowed as he flipped through the file, his expression becoming more focused. "Bodies of water... it’s symbolic. Cleansing, rebirth."

"Exactly," you said, feeling the pieces fall into place. "He’s not just dumping the bodies. He’s placing them there, almost like he’s trying to wash away something. Maybe guilt, maybe some twisted idea of purification."

Hotch leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "That changes things. If he’s choosing these locations deliberately, we can use that to predict where he might strike next."

You nodded, excitement building. "There are three other bodies of water in the same radius where the previous victims were found. If we stake those out, we might catch him before he strikes again."

Hotch studied you for a moment, and for a brief second, you felt a flicker of self-doubt. Had you jumped the gun? But then, his lips curved ever so slightly into a small, approving smile.

"Good work," he said simply, and that was all you needed to hear.

Little did you know that the next day, you surprisingly found yourself riding in the SUV with Hotch, heading toward one of the potential strike zones you’d identified. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the landscape as the two of you drove in comfortable silence.

"I didn’t expect to be heading into the field this soon," you admitted after a while, breaking the silence. "Especially not with you."

Hotch glanced at you from the driver’s seat, his expression as calm as ever. "Let’s say your early mornings finally paid off. Besides, you saw something we didn’t, that’s exactly why you’re here."

The compliment caught you off guard, and you weren’t sure how to respond. Instead, you focused on the task at hand. "I just hope we’re right about the unsub coming back here."

"We are," Hotch said with a certainty that made you feel more confident. "He’ll be back. It’s part of his pattern now."

You spent the next few hours staking out the area, watching as the quiet evening slowly turned into night. The stillness of the surroundings, combined with the anticipation of the chase, made every small sound feel 10 times louder than it actually was. You and Hotch barely spoke, but the tension in the air wasn’t uncomfortable, it was rather a focused kind of tension, the kind that comes with knowing you’re close to a breakthrough.

Hotch glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his usual stoic demeanor softening just a bit. “You know,” he started all of a sudden, a hint of amusement in his voice, “I’ve been meaning to ask, did all those philosophy books you read in college inspire you to show up so early every morning? Is that where your existential rivalry with me started?”

Of course he had to poke fun at you again for your philosophy degree just when all the rest of your coworkers recently found out it wasn’t your only personality trait. “Philosophy books? Really? That’s where you’re going with this?”

“I mean, you’ve got that whole ‘deep thinker, rise-before-the-sun’ vibe going." He said with a deeper than usual mocking tone trying to simulate a hippie "I just assumed you were contemplating the meaning of life every morning before anyone else got to the office.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, that’s it. All those Nietzsche and Sartre quotes really got me fired up to beat you to the office every day. And here I thought you just couldn’t get enough of the terrible coffee.”

Hotch chuckled, his eyes briefly meeting yours before returning to scan the darkening landscape. “That’s part of it. But I have to admit, I didn’t expect you to keep at it for this long. Most people would’ve given up.”

You shrugged, playing it cool. “Maybe I just like a challenge. And it’s not every day you get to try and beat the infamous Aaron Hotchner at something.”

Hotch almost sounded surprised as soon as his full name escaped your lips but then his tone shifted slightly, more serious now, though still laced with that dry humor. “I know why you started showing up early.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden change in tone. “Oh? Enlighten me, then.”

He leaned back in his seat, his gaze still fixed ahead, but his voice softened. “You wanted to prove yourself - to show that you were ready for more, especially to us senior profilers. You’ve got that drive, that need to show that you belong, and you wanted to earn your place, not just be handed it.” He glanced at you then, his expression more open than usual. “And I noticed it from the first time you walked in early, thinking you’d catch me off guard.”

You felt a mix of surprise and embarrassment; you hadn’t expected him to see through you so easily. “I… well, yeah. I guess I didn’t hide it as well as I thought.”

Hotch’s smile was small but genuine. “You didn’t have to hide it. You’ve got the skill; you just needed the chance to show it. And you’ve been doing that every day since.”

You nodded, feeling a strange mix of validation and warmth from his words. “Thanks, Hotch. I guess I just… didn’t want to be the newbie forever.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “You’re not. And you’ve more than earned your place here, I wouldn’t have escorted you here to sit in my car for 4 hours straight otherwise.” He paused, his eyes returning to the scene outside. “But don’t think I’m going to let you win the next morning race.”

You grinned, the familiar competitive spark reigniting. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

It wasn’t until the early hours of the evening, just when you were beginning to wonder if you’d missed something, that Hotch’s hand suddenly shot up, motioning for you to stay still. You followed his gaze, and there - just barely visible through the trees - was a figure moving toward the water’s edge, dragging something behind them.

The adrenaline surged through you as you and Hotch exchanged a quick glance, silently confirming what you both knew. This was it.

Moving as quietly as possible, the two of you approached, your hearts pounding in sync as you drew closer to the unsub. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too focused on his ritual as he began positioning the body at the water’s edge.

"FBI!" Hotch’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding.

The unsub froze, and for a split second, you thought he might run. But instead, he dropped to his knees, hands raised, as if surrendering to the inevitable.

You and Hotch moved in quickly, securing him before he had a chance to change his mind. As you handcuffed the unsub, you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of triumph and exhaustion.

Back at the office, the energy was different. You felt you weren’t just the youngest on the team anymore. You’d proven yourself, and even though Hotch didn’t say much, you could feel the shift in how he treated you. There was more trust, more recognition of your abilities.

The next morning, when you arrived at the office, Hotch was already there, of course. But this time, as you approached your desk, you noticed another file waiting for you, along with a familiar note.

"For your next challenge. - Hotch"

You couldn’t help but grin as you picked up the file, feeling the anticipation build once more. The friendly rivalry between you was still there, but now it felt like something more - a mentorship? Partnership? Definitely there was a shared respect.

As you glanced over at Hotch, already deep in thought at his desk, you felt a sense of belonging settle over you. Even if you weren’t part of the dreaded senior team just yet as you were still earning your place every day. Although you felt that with Hotch’s guidance, you knew you’d only get better.

"Let’s see what you’ve got for me this time," you muttered to yourself with a smile, flipping open the new file and diving back into the world of profiling.

And maybe, just maybe, Hotch was enjoying this as much as you were.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Bridges to Belonging

Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Summary: Y/n needed a new gig to bring in a little extra cash while she finished her PhD research at the hospital. The Hotchners are looking for a nanny for their infant son, Jack.

Spencer is not in this part, just introducing Y/n to the team!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: Backstory

Warnings/Includes: none!

Word count: 1.3k

a/n: hi!! i am so back in my spencer reid shit it is insane. here goes me writing a self indulgent fanfic because i can't get this idea out of my head. let me know what you think!!

main masterlist

Washington, D.C. - Spring 2005

The small conference room at the hospital was dimly lit, the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Y/n L/n sat at the long table, reviewing her notes for her dissertation on child psychology. The hospital had been her second home for the past few years, a place where she could immerse herself in her research while pursuing her passion for helping children. 

As she packed up her things, her phone buzzed with a text message from a friend, forwarding a job listing. 

*Nanny needed for newborn. Reliable, experienced, and patient. Contact Haley Hotchner at [xxx-xxx-xxxx].*

Y/n considered the opportunity, her mind calculating the benefits of having some extra income while she completed her PhD. Besides, she loved working with children. After a moment’s thought, she dialed the number.

“Hello, this is Haley Hotchner,” a warm voice answered.

“Hi, Haley, my name is Y/n L/n. I’m calling about the nanny position. I’m currently finishing my PhD in psychology and have experience working with children,” Y/n explained, her voice steady but hopeful.

“Wonderful! We’re looking for someone who can become part of our family, especially with Aaron’s demanding job. Can we meet for an interview?” Haley asked, her tone inviting and sincere.

“Of course, I’d love to,” Y/n replied, feeling a flutter of excitement at the prospect.

---

Y/n arrived at the Hotchner residence a week later, it was a quaint home in a quiet neighborhood. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door, smoothing her hair as she waited. The door opened to reveal a smiling Haley Hotchner, holding a sleeping baby in her arms.

“You must be Y/n! Come in, please,” Haley greeted her warmly.

As Y/n stepped inside, she felt an immediate sense of comfort and belonging. The home was cozy, filled with family photos and the soft scent of baby powder. 

Haley led Y/n to the living room, where Aaron Hotchner sat, looking relaxed in casual clothes, a stark contrast to his usual suits. He stood to shake her hand, his demeanor polite and welcoming.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/n,” Aaron said, his handshake firm but friendly. “Haley has told me good things about you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hotchner. It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Y/n replied, smiling as she sat down.

“Please, call me Aaron,” he insisted, exchanging a glance with Haley.

The interview was less formal than Y/n had anticipated. Aaron and Haley asked her about her studies, her experience with children, and her aspirations. She, in turn, learned about their lives, Aaron’s work with the FBI, and their hopes for raising Jack in a loving environment.

“We’re really looking for someone who can be a part of Jack’s life as he grows,” Haley explained, gently rocking Jack in her arms. “Someone we can trust.”

Y/n nodded, feeling a connection with the couple. “I’d love to be that person. Working with children is my passion, and I think I could learn a lot from Jack, too.”

Aaron smiled, looking at Haley before turning back to Y/n. “We’d like to offer you the position, Y/n. If you will take it, we want to welcome you to the family.”

Y/n beamed, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “Thank you, Aaron, Haley. I promise to do my best for Jack and your family.”

---

Over the next two years, Y/n became an integral part of the Hotchner household. She cared for Jack with a dedication that went beyond her job description, forming a bond with the infant that was almost maternal. She found herself spending evenings with Haley, talking about life, love, and dreams. Aaron, despite his demanding job, always made time to catch up with Y/n, appreciating her insight into Jack’s development and her ability to connect with people. As Jack neared his second birthday, Y/n knew her time as his nanny was coming to an end. He was ready to start preschool, and she had secured a position at the hospital as a child psychologist. Yet, leaving the Hotchners felt like leaving a part of her own family. 

On her last day as Jack’s nanny, Y/n sat in the backyard with Haley, watching Jack play in the autumn leaves.

“We’re going to miss you, Y/n,” Haley said, her voice tinged with sadness. “You’re like a sister to us.”

Y/n smiled, touched by Haley’s words. “I’m going to miss you all too. You’ve been my family here.”

Haley nodded, tears in her eyes. “Promise you’ll visit? Jack will need his Aunt Y/n around.”

“Always,” Y/n promised, her heart full. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

---

Life moved on, but Y/n never lost touch with the Hotchners. She visited often, spending time with Jack as he grew into a lively toddler. Her work at the hospital kept her busy, but she cherished the moments she could steal away to see them.

One evening, as she was leaving the hospital, her phone buzzed with a text from Aaron.

We’re going out for drinks to celebrate a closed case. Care to join us?

Y/n smiled at the invitation, feeling a warmth at the thought of seeing Aaron and meeting his team. She quickly replied.

I’d love to! Where should I meet you?

---

Y/n walked into the bar, scanning the room for a familiar face. She spotted Aaron standing with a group of people, all engaged in animated conversation. 

As she approached, Aaron waved her over, a rare smile on his usually serious face.

“Y/n! Glad you could make it,” Aaron greeted, introducing her to the team. “Everyone, this is Y/n L/n. She used to be Jack’s nanny and is basically family.”

Y/n smiled and waved, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. “Hi, everyone! It’s great to meet you all.”

Penelope Garcia, the team’s tech-savvy and flamboyant analyst, immediately stepped forward, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Oh my gosh, I love your outfit! Finally, someone who appreciates the art of pink as much as I do!”

Y/n laughed, relieved by Penelope’s enthusiasm and excited to have her brand new top appreciated. “Thank you! I knew I’d find a kindred spirit.”

Jennifer “JJ” Jareau, the team’s communications liaison, offered a warm handshake. “Aaron’s told us a lot about you. It’s nice to finally meet the woman who kept him sane during those early days.”

“Glad to be here,” Y/n replied, feeling welcomed.

Emily Prentiss, with her confident and approachable demeanor, chimed in. “So, you survived being a Hotchner family member? You deserve a medal.”

Y/n grinned, appreciating the camaraderie. “It wasn’t so bad. I’m just glad I didn’t have to deal with any of Aaron’s work stress.”

Derek Morgan, the charming and confident agent, leaned back with a smirk. “If you ever want to switch from psychology to profiling, we could use someone with your skills.”

Y/n laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll leave the profiling to you guys. I’m happy helping kids find their way.”

David Rossi, the seasoned agent with a love for fine wine and stories, raised his glass in a toast. “To new friends and old family.”

Y/n joined in the toast, feeling a sense of belonging with this eclectic group. As the night wore on, she found herself bonding with each team member, sharing stories and laughter. They talked about everything from childhood dreams to favorite music, forming connections that would last beyond this night.

As the evening wound down, Derek leaned over with a grin. “You’ll have to meet our boy wonder next time. Spencer’s a little shy, but I have a feeling you two would get along.”

Y/n nodded, intrigued by the prospect of another lively team member to add to her seemingly growing list of friends. “I’d like that. I’ve heard a lot about him.”

Emily chimed in, a playful glint in her eyes. “Spencer’s one of a kind. You’ll see what we mean.”

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Seduced By Your Scent (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Summary: Swayed by rave reviews, you purchase a perfume that endeavours to make any man fall for you. But you don’t want just any man; you want your beloved husband.

AN: Based on a perfume review I saw on twitter/from discord, and my friend got me back into Bridgerton so here we are. Potential part two to Subtle-tea but can be read as its own fic. 

Content Warnings: Reader wears a dress, is referred to as “my lady”. Suggestive language and actions, 18+ readers only, minors DNI

Masterlist // AO3

“You must try this elixir! It’s like they’ve bottled Venus and sent her to solve all marital issues!”

Not that you and Benedict needed any kind of aphrodisiac or marital advice. After your glorious wedding and the honeymoon of your dreams, you grew more enamoured with one another with each passing day. But you couldn’t help but become intrigued by your companion’s impassioned declarations.

Here was where that curiosity led you: sitting at your vanity, staring at the bejewelled and beautiful bottle – fitting of its praise and hinting at the power of the perfume it held. It cast rainbow refractions across your room as you rotated it with a scrupulous gaze. The glass stopper released with a delicate pop and you gave the opening a tentative sniff. Sparks of something musky with a hint of whimsy reached your brain. It seemed to caress your sense of smell, lull you into a foggy serenity whilst curving the corners of your mouth into a smile.

A light knock at your bedroom door did very little to pull your from this haze, and your maid stood awkwardly in the doorway as you dragged your eyes away from the bottle and over to her.

“Breakfast is ready, my lady,” The maid bobbed a curtsey.

“Thank you.” And, as she closed the door behind her exit, you gave the bottle one more look.

Well, it couldn’t hurt.

With care, you tipped the bottle then dragged the soaked stopper across one wrist. It pressed together with its partner then paired against your neck to seal the scent in.

The moment you stepped into the dining room – empty besides your beloeved husband - Benedict rose from the head of the table and drew out the chair beside him for you to sit. It was part of your routine, in your home and wherever you went, as was the smile with which he greeted you. Often it was broad and beaming, like today. Sometimes it was more subtle but with his eyes just as bright. On one or two occasions, it arrived with eyelids sunk and a hand to his forehead that pounded with consequences from the previous night’s actions, but still he smiled even though (and these were his own words) it felt like his skin was being melted from his skeleton like candle wax.

“Good morning!” He called to you while you crossed the room, his arm outstretched to clasp you close then guide you into your chair.

Continuing the routine, you kissed his cheek before sitting down, “Good morning.”

Now, this was when Benedict would push your chair in then sit beside you, ready to dine and run over your plans for the day ahead. And he started as normal. However the rate with which he pushed your chair into place was as if he was encased in jelly.

You clocked his new blank expression, “My love, are you alright?”

Instead of speaking, Benedict bent over the back of the chair and kissed your cheek. A short and slight sniff dragged up where his lips had pressed. He withdrew gradually, just a few inches, his brow was creased in thought.

“Hmm.” His jaw twisted and he clicked his tongue. Then he leant back in, this time his nose drew a tickling line down your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Benedict,” You felt your face grow hot as you resisted the urge to tense when he planted a quick kiss on the curve of your shoulder.

But your mild embarrassment only warmed the scent on your skin and spread it further around you until Benedict was encased in it beside you. Just one of your thoughts was spared in thanks to the fact that you and Benedict had stipulated that you dine alone – no butlers, no maids, no interruptions unless someone was dying.

“Have you been bathing in an aphrodisiac?” Benedict mused. Without turning away from you, he dragged his chair loudly across the floor so that he could perch himself beside you. Taking your hand, he kissed your loosely closed fist and breathed deeply in before finishing his question:

“Or are you just naturally this irresistible, and you’ve been hiding from me?”

“I can’t think what’s gotten into you,” You said, your voice wobbling when Benedict raised his eyebrows at you.

“I think you know exactly what’s gotten into me.”

Melting under his sparkling stare, you weakly nodded at his plate and setting, “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

Benedict didn’t look away from you, “I know what I’d rather eat.”

A laugh bubbled up your throat and you found yourself bordering on hysterics as Benedict’s eyes creased and he leant in close to you to titter and teem with joy.

After taking a few deep breaths, your face aching from the grin, you managed to say, “You must be drunk from the alcohol in that perfume.”

With a hand clutching at his cravat, Benedict gasped, appalled, “How dare you? Must I be drunk to show my wife some affection?”

“Nevertheless, you approve?”

“Oh yes, but only when we’re at home. Can’t let anyone else catch a whiff of this. You’ll seduce them, make them all fall in love with you, make them fall to their knees.”

“We absolutely cannot have that. Only you’re allowed to do so.”

Very suddenly, Benedict rose and kicked the seat from beneath him, pulling and pivoting you around so that you faced him. Knelt before you, you let him kiss you whilst you pet through his dark hair. His affections did not distract you from his hands tracing up your legs. The skirts of your dress caught on his wrists and exposed your sensitive skin to him.

He mumbled dreamily, “I could not agree more.” Then, with another deep inhale pressed into the side of your neck and his hands drawing down your undergarments, he drew from you the first of many delighted sighs that mingled with the lingering scent of your new perfume.

[enjoythesilentworld]

2024 fandom review!

thank u for the tag @willesredlights sorry it took me literally ages to get to it

lets pretend we're not almost two weeks into the new year ok? and what a year it has been. holy shit.

~ Fics written ~

I'll be honest I did go a little batshit crazy this past year. 314k words across 19 published works, plus god knows how much more unpublished on tumblr. listen, I was deep in the ??? phase of my master's (still am, lets be honest) and desperately looking for a new creative outlet. I've always been a writer, always loved dreaming up stories, but I have never quite connected to a universe as much as I have to this one. I resonate with so many of the characters, and i just feel like there is so much room to play and explore. i will continue to add in old people OCs to my fics wherever and whenever i get the chance.

First fic: for the tree's sake (M, 48k) aka tree boys inspired by the trip that eventually led to my discover of young royals in late '23, and my darling baby. yes, that airplane ride that seems weird and random is based on truth!

Fav fic: just if for a minute (T, 53k) aka fake married idiots i greatly enjoyed making Wille suffer for just under 53k. that confrontation scene took days off my life and yet i am so proud of how it turned out.

Honorary mention to Growing towards the light, which was a dream to work on and create with my dear sweet friend Lia. there is one braincell between the two of us and it's full of nature facts and dick jokes. and beautiful stories about getting lost in the wilderness and finding yourself along the way. and tent-dick jokes.

Last fic: Wille på Hyllan (T, 13k) aka christmas shenanigans! another collab with my dearest friends which was hilarious to write and so silly and imo an example of one of the greatest perks of being in a fandom: meeting some of the most incredible people ever. also, dick-lights and dick-tomtar and dick-cookies. what more could you want?

~ Fics Read ~

if i tried to go through my history and tell you how many fics i read this year i would never make this post. i'd be here counting and trying to copy links forever. i read hundreds of fics. i enjoyed all of them, thoroughly. i got a lot better at leaving comments (sometimes). i was consistently and repeatedly blown away by the genius brains we have in this little Swedish corner of the internet.

if you are a writer i love you and i give u a kiss on the forehead.

also: i recently made a lil rec list here.

~ Other Stuff? ~

i had two big, busy months this year. three? : May, Wille's month & July, Simon's month i cannot believe i wrote 62 stories in 62 different universes (give or take a few). that's kind of stupid! but oh my god it was so fun!! some of my favs: -> Food, where Wille and Simon meet and embark on a mistakenly booked couples food tour in Barcelona -> Fashion/Style, aka the Met Gala AU aka the thing that turned into something so much bigger than i could have ever imagined. literally i thought people were gonna hate it. so, thank u for not hating it. and for letting it become 15k+ of pwp. -> Secret, friends to lovers RAHHHHHH -> Home (Improvement), aka grumpy home renovator Simon idk i just feel like this should become a full-blown fic one day

and oh boy who can forget about Kinktober from wax kinks in 17th century Italy to desperate love confession in the middle of wildfires to... whatever that was in the confessional (idk, that's between them and God).

2024...

I did some painting: x x I wrote some real weird lil ficlets: x x and I met dozens of incredible people. thank u for liking my stupid rambling posts from 3am and my silly little ficlets and for reading my stories and telling me about your stories and saving me from the Frankfurt airport and yelling with me about stuff thats definitely not in the Bible and sharing your time and space and art and care.

@bigalockwood @hergrandplan @gulliblelemon @saynomorefic @pagegirlintraining @skibasyndrome @sobadbad @impossibleknots @piebingo @theaviatorthatcouldnotfly @misfithive @sillylittleflower @zee-has-commitment-issues @purplehoodiesandclementines @justfriendsbestthings

giving u a big hug. and! this is by no means an exhaustive list. if ur reading this we are bffs. send me a message ok? ok. y'all keep me sane and happy and i am so grateful for you! live love wilmon

[aspenmissing]

Hey this is very specific but could you write viktor + any characters you wish with an reader with ichthyophobia? (Fear of fish)

I know its very uncommon and it sometimes make me feel stupid for fearing this animal, but its the eyes y'know? It makes me panic

ʜᴇʀᴇ ꜰɪꜱʜʏ ꜰɪꜱʜʏ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ|| 6654 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡ��ʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɪᴄʜᴛʜʏᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪꜱʜ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜰᴇᴀʀ! ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴄᴜʀɪᴏᴜꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʏᴇꜱ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇʏ, ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ꜱʜᴀᴍᴇ ɪɴ ɪᴛ!

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ

JAYCE

Y/N had always kept her fears hidden. Most people wouldn't even know she had them. But deep down, there was one thing that haunted her: fish. Not just any fish—large ones, small ones, fish with scales that shimmered, with eyes that seemed too knowing. It was a fear she couldn't explain, a phobia that had plagued her ever since childhood, but she managed to avoid it as best as she could. Until that day.

The sun was setting over Piltover, casting a warm golden hue over the city. Jayce had invited Y/N to join him for dinner at a newly opened restaurant that had been getting rave reviews. It was supposed to be a peaceful evening, a rare moment for the two of them to relax and enjoy a meal together, away from the pressures of their work at the Academy. It was a chance to unwind, to share time away from their responsibilities—just the two of them.

=

As they walked into the elegant dining hall, the scent of fresh seafood wafted through the air. Y/N felt her stomach twist into knots. She looked around the large room, noticing the massive tanks filled with various kinds of fish, their glimmering bodies swimming lazily beneath the water. The sight, the movement, the flickering scales—it all made her heart race.

"Wow, this place looks amazing," Jayce said, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the stunning décor. "I heard their seafood is top-notch. I know you're not picky, but I think you'll really enjoy it."

Y/N forced a smile, trying to ignore the growing unease in her chest. She couldn’t let Jayce know, not yet. She had always been good at hiding things, especially fears that didn’t make sense to anyone else. As they were led to their table, her eyes darted around the room, unable to avoid the fish tanks any longer. She felt her heart rate increase, her breath growing shallow. The sound of water splashing softly in the background only made things worse.

The waiter ushered them to their seats, and Y/N sat down, careful not to let her unease show. But she could feel the coolness of the glass tank against her back, the fish gliding through the water, their eyes seeming to follow her every movement. She tried to focus on the menu, but the flickering shadows of the tanks kept drawing her gaze.

"Is everything okay?" Jayce asked, his voice soft and filled with concern. He was looking at her now, his brow furrowed in that way he always did when he sensed something was off. He reached for his glass of water, but his gaze remained fixed on her, searching for any signs of discomfort.

Y/N swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. Her throat felt dry, and she had to remind herself to breathe. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She tried to focus on the menu in front of her, but her mind kept drifting back to the tanks, to the fish... their eyes.

Jayce was quiet for a moment, his gaze never leaving her. He wasn’t convinced. The silence between them stretched, but it was a warm kind of silence—like the pause before a storm, a stillness full of unspoken understanding.

"You’re not fine," he finally said, his voice gentle but firm. "I can tell. You’ve been quiet since we sat down, and your hands—" He looked at her hands on the table. They were trembling ever so slightly, but it didn’t go unnoticed. "Y/N, what’s going on?"

Y/N froze. She had been trying to push the fear down, to keep it buried where it belonged, but the weight of Jayce’s gaze and his words made it harder to ignore. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a shaky breath. "I... I have a fear of fish," she admitted, the words coming out in a rush. "Ichthyophobia. I know it sounds silly, but... I can't help it. I can't even look at them for too long without feeling like I’m suffocating."

Jayce’s expression softened, the lines of worry smoothing out as he processed her words. His hand moved across the table slowly, gently reaching for hers. He took her hand in his, his touch grounding, warm. He squeezed it reassuringly. "It's not silly," he said softly, his voice filled with understanding. "It makes sense, really. I should’ve realized sooner. You’ve always been so strong, and I guess I missed the signs." He lowered his gaze for a second, regret creeping into his voice. "I’m sorry for not noticing before."

Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. It was such a simple thing—his understanding, his care—but it meant more to her than she could express. Most people would have laughed, brushed it off, or even worse, dismissed her fear as trivial. But Jayce... he didn’t. He didn’t make her feel small for something so deeply ingrained in her, something that she had struggled with her entire life.

"You don't have to stay here," Jayce continued, his voice warm and steady. "If you’re not comfortable, we can go somewhere else. We can grab something to eat at my place if you'd prefer that. I don’t want you to feel trapped. I just want you to feel okay."

Y/N looked at him, her heart swelling with gratitude. The tenderness in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she mattered—it made everything feel a little easier. She blinked away the sudden rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.

“I didn’t want to ruin the evening,” she said, her voice small.

Jayce shook his head, his gaze unwavering. "You haven’t ruined anything, Y/N. It’s just dinner, and we can make it better. We’ll figure something out, together." His words held a promise, and his hand on hers felt like an anchor.

With a soft sigh, Y/N managed a small smile. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

He smiled back, his eyes warm. "I’m glad I’m here too." He signaled to the waiter, who was still waiting nearby, and gave a brief apology as they prepared to leave. Jayce’s hand never left hers as they stood up, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel the weight of his support, as though she wasn’t carrying this burden alone anymore.

As they stepped out into the cool evening air, the city lights flickered around them, and Y/N let out a deep breath, feeling lighter than she had in hours. She had always thought that facing her fears alone was the only way, but with Jayce beside her, she realized that she didn’t have to.

They didn’t need fancy dinners or luxurious restaurants to enjoy themselves. They just needed each other. And in that moment, Y/N knew that, no matter what happened, as long as Jayce was by her side, she could face anything—even the deepest fears.

VIKTOR

The sun had barely risen, casting a soft, golden hue over Piltover's bustling streets. You and Viktor had just finished a meeting at the Academy, and now, you were walking down one of the many avenues toward the market. Viktor leaned on his cane, his leg brace clicking faintly with each step. Despite the visible signs of the difficulty in his gait, he moved with a quiet grace, always steady, always precise. Over the years, you had come to admire the way Viktor handled his struggles, never letting them define him, always pushing forward.

“I think I may have found something for your next project,” Viktor said with a spark of excitement in his voice. “A new component for the energy converter—more efficient than what we’re currently using. It should help reduce the power fluctuations we’ve been experiencing.”

You smiled up at him, appreciating his eagerness. Viktor’s mind was always racing, his thoughts constantly moving forward, thinking of ways to make the world around him better. It was something you admired deeply, the way his passion for progress never wavered.

“You’re always thinking ahead, aren’t you?” you teased, nudging him gently with your shoulder.

He chuckled softly, though there was a hint of pride in his eyes. “I have to keep the world moving forward. It’s the only way we can truly make a difference.”

As the two of you rounded a corner, the familiar scent of the fish market hit you. At first, it was just a faint trace in the air, but as you drew closer, the pungent odor of salt and seaweed filled your senses. It was overwhelming.

Your stomach churned, the sensation crawling up your throat. The smell—sharp, musky—was enough to send your heart into a frantic beat. You had never liked the market, but today, it was different. The fear seemed more intense, the anxiety more suffocating. Every time you passed by, it was like the fish stared at you—darting in their tanks, their eyes glossy, their gills fluttering in a grotesque dance.

You felt your pulse quicken, and the edges of your vision began to blur. The market loomed before you like a wall, a deep, suffocating fog surrounding you.

"Y/N?" Viktor’s voice cut through the rising panic in your chest. His tone was soft, but there was an underlying concern that you couldn't ignore. You hadn’t realized how tense you had become, your hands tightening around the straps of your bag, your body frozen in place.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to calm down. But the fear wouldn’t dissipate. “I... I can’t do it, Viktor,” you whispered, barely able to control the tremor in your voice.

He studied you for a long moment, his brow furrowing in quiet understanding. Viktor had never pushed you to confront your phobia. He had seen how it affected you, how it made your world shrink when you were near fish, and he always respected your space, your boundaries. He never treated it as a trivial fear.

Without a word, Viktor reached out, his hand gently resting on your shoulder. He was slower than usual, his leg brace clicking as he shifted his weight, but his touch was steady, grounding. “It’s alright,” he said softly, his voice like a warm balm against your anxiety. “We don’t have to go through there.”

You swallowed, trying to hold back the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm you. You had learned to manage your fear over the years, but moments like this made you feel helpless, exposed.

Viktor gave a small nod and began to lead you away from the market, guiding you down a quieter, less crowded path. The further you moved from the source of your panic, the more your breathing slowed, though your heart still pounded in your chest.

“Thank you,” you said in a barely audible voice. Your words were quiet, but they carried a weight of gratitude you couldn’t express fully. Viktor had seen you at your worst—had seen your fear take hold of you—and yet, he never treated you as if you were broken or weak.

Viktor gave you a slight smile, his eyes softening. “There’s no need to thank me,” he replied. “You’re important to me. I never want you to feel uncomfortable, not with me.”

You smiled faintly, glancing up at him. The years spent with Viktor had only deepened your admiration for him. He was never loud, never overbearing. His presence was quiet, constant, and his understanding of you—of your fears, your vulnerabilities—was something you had come to rely on.

“I know,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “It’s just... I don’t want to seem childish. I should be able to handle it. I’m not a child anymore.”

Viktor’s expression softened further, and he gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Fear is not childish, Y/N. It is part of being human. We all have our fears, our burdens. They don’t define us, but they shape us. And sometimes, it’s okay to be afraid.”

You looked at him, your chest still tight, but his words eased the weight just a little. Viktor’s calm presence had a way of making you feel less alone in your struggles. He didn’t belittle them, didn’t try to force you to be something you weren’t.

A soft laugh escaped your lips, lightening the mood between you. “Maybe one day I’ll get over it,” you mused.

Viktor chuckled, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. “Perhaps. But until then, I’m happy to be your guide through the difficult parts.” His voice held a quiet confidence, a promise that he would always be there, no matter what.

You smiled up at him, grateful for the comfort his words brought. “And I’m happy to have you with me.”

The rest of the walk passed in comfortable silence, the weight of your phobia slowly lifting as you put more distance between yourself and the market. Viktor, though still dependent on his cane and leg brace, moved with purpose and grace, his presence beside you a steady anchor.

The streets of Piltover were alive with the sounds of the early morning—horse-drawn carriages, the chatter of vendors setting up their stalls, the distant clatter of a forge—but for you, it was Viktor’s quiet presence that filled the space, making the world seem less overwhelming. With each step, you knew you were not facing the world alone.

JAYVIK

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, the soft light from the morning sun trickling through the blinds. It was early—too early for anything to feel like a disturbance. She stretched, letting out a quiet yawn as she swung her legs off the side of the bed and made her way towards the kitchen.

The apartment was still quiet, save for the soft clink of cups and the occasional rustling sound coming from the kitchen. She padded across the floor, still groggy, and rubbed at her eyes.

As she reached the kitchen doorway, her yawn caught in her throat.

Her gaze drifted to the far corner of the room, where she stopped in her tracks. A fish tank. Sitting there. Cold, alien, filled with swimming fish. Her eyes widened, her breath caught, and suddenly, the air felt far too thick. The sound of water, the flicker of their darting movements—it all hit her like a ton of bricks.

Y/N’s chest tightened, and she gasped, choking on the remainder of her yawn.

Jayce, who had been sitting at the kitchen table with Viktor, immediately looked up, startled by the sound. “Y/N?” he called, concern flooding his voice. “What’s wrong?”

Viktor turned his head at the same time, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Y/N?” he echoed, his cane tapping lightly against the floor as he pushed himself to his feet.

She didn’t respond right away. She couldn’t. Her body had frozen, locked in place as her eyes stayed glued to the tank. Fish. Why?

Jayce stood up, quickly walking over to her with a worried frown. “Hey, you okay?” His hand gently touched her arm, but she didn’t move.

Viktor reached them a moment later, his gaze flicking from Y/N’s stiff posture to the tank in the corner. His sharp eyes observed the situation, understanding flickering in his expression.

Y/N finally managed to tear her eyes away from the fish, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “I... I can’t... I can’t—” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper, the words tangled in her throat. Her body was still locked in place, frozen in terror.

Viktor’s voice, soft and filled with curiosity, cut through the tension. “Fish?” He raised an eyebrow, offering Jayce a questioning glance.

Jayce, who had been sitting at the kitchen table and watching the exchange with a slight smile, now looked from Y/N’s rigid form to the tank, his expression shifting from amusement to shock. “Yeah, I thought I’d get some fish for Viktor,” Jayce explained, scratching the back of his neck. “You know, so when we get tired of hearing him ramble, he can talk to them instead.” He chuckled, but then his smile faltered as he took in the sight of Y/N’s fearful expression. His face drained of color as realization dawned on him. “Wait, you’re... scared of fish?” he asked softly, his voice full of surprise.

Y/N nodded, her wide eyes still fixed on the tank, her body stiff with dread. The thought of the fish—their darting eyes, the slickness of their bodies as they swam in unpredictable patterns—made her feel suffocated. She couldn’t bear it, couldn’t make herself move.

Jayce’s expression softened instantly, his shock turning to concern. “Oh, Y/N... I had no idea. I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice full of remorse. "I’ll get rid of them, Y/N. You don’t have to worry. I’ll make sure they’re gone.”

“Hey, we’ll take care of it,” Viktor added, stepping closer and placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. His touch was warm and steady, grounding her. “You’re safe.”

Y/N’s eyes were wide as she looked from Jayce, who was already moving to pull the tank away, to Viktor, who was trying his best to calm her with his quiet presence. The tension in her chest slowly began to ease.

“I... I don’t want to ruin things. I know you thought it’d be nice,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jayce quickly shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips as he tossed a reassuring glance at Viktor. “Hey, it’s okay. We didn’t know. We’ll make it right.”

Viktor’s gaze softened even further as he squeezed her shoulder gently. “We’ll fix it together, love. You never have to face this alone.”

Y/N’s breath finally began to slow, her body unwinding just slightly as the weight of her fear began to lift. She was still anxious, still unsettled by the presence of the fish, but with Jayce and Viktor by her side, she felt like she could breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N said again, more firmly this time.

Jayce smiled, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “You don’t have to apologize. We’ll handle it.”

Viktor, ever the calming presence, leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Always together, Y/N. Always.”

And just like that, with them there, Y/N felt a little lighter, knowing that whatever the world threw at her, she didn’t have to face it alone.

VANDER

It was one of those blistering hot days in Zaun when the sun seemed to burn through every layer of clothing. The kids—Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—were playing around, splashing in the shallows of the lake, their laughter echoing through the quiet air. Vander had decided to take them out of the hustle of the streets and let them cool off in the peaceful water. Y/N, however, had her reservations. She stood at the shore, arms folded, watching the kids with a smile but keeping a safe distance from the water.

She had always been wary of fish—an odd, irrational fear that seemed to freeze her up anytime she was too close. It wasn’t something she often talked about, not even with Vander, but it was a part of her. So, while the others dived and swam, she stayed back, her gaze flicking nervously toward the ripples in the lake.

Vander caught sight of her hesitation, a playful glint in his eyes as he looked toward the kids. He made a decision then, a decision that would come with consequences, but he couldn't resist.

“Hey, love! You’re missing out on the fun!” Vander called out, grinning. The kids paused in their swimming to look at her.

Y/N gave a nervous smile, shaking her head. “I’m good here, really.”

Vi pouted, “Aw, come on, Y/N! The water’s fine!”

Vander's grin widened as he stood up, taking slow, purposeful steps toward Y/N, who was now trying to retreat further from the water. “You’re no fun, Y/N. You should really give it a try,” he said with a wink. Before she could react, he scooped her up, effortlessly lifting her into the air.

“What are you—” Y/N started, but it was too late. With a chuckle, Vander tossed her into the lake.

Y/N let out a surprised laugh as she splashed into the cool water, the shock of the plunge making her momentarily forget her fear. She surfaced quickly, coughing and laughing, her heart still racing from the unexpected drop. The kids laughed and cheered, watching her splash around in the water.

“See? Not so bad!” Vander called out, his voice full of pride.

But Y/N’s laughter faltered as she felt something brush against her foot. Her eyes widened in panic, and she looked down. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the slimy, wriggling form of a fish dart past her feet. She froze, her breath catching in her throat as her fear washed over her like a tidal wave.

“Vander! Vander!” she screamed, her voice high-pitched and filled with genuine terror. Her panic took over, and before she knew it, she was scrambling out of the water with wild, frantic movements, heart pounding in her chest. She found a nearby rock to scramble onto, her legs shaking as she stood there, breathless.

Vander’s playful grin instantly dropped, his face turning to one of deep concern. “Y/N?! What happened?” he called, rushing toward her with a furrowed brow, his voice filled with worry. “Are you hurt?”

Y/N was panting, still unable to steady her breath as she looked down at the water, her body trembling as if she expected the fish to leap out after her. “Fish!” she managed to stammer, her voice shaky. “There was—there was a fish!”

Vander’s face softened with concern, his heart sinking at the sight of her panic. He quickly approached her, kneeling down in front of her with an urgency that made his usually calm demeanor falter. “You’re not hurt, right?” he asked gently, his hand reaching out but hesitating just before it touched her shoulder.

Y/N shook her head quickly, though she was still visibly shaken. “I’m fine... I just—” She took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. “I just don’t like them, Vander. I—I can’t...”

Vander’s heart ached as he processed the depth of her fear. He’d known she was wary of water, but he hadn’t realized it was so intense. Gently, he reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder, offering her a comforting squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Y/N gave him a small, forced smile, though it was clear she was still recovering. “It’s alright... I just need a minute,” she said, trying to calm her racing heart.

Vander carefully helped guide her away from the water's edge, his hand never leaving her back. He could feel the weight of what had happened, knowing it was supposed to be a fun outing for the whole family—but now, he only wanted to make sure Y/N was okay. The kids had stopped playing, sensing the change in atmosphere, and stood at a distance, unsure of what to do.

“I should’ve been more careful,” Vander muttered under his breath, his brows knitted in guilt. “I didn’t realize it would be this bad.”

Y/N, taking a few steadying breaths, looked up at him, her expression softening. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice more controlled now, though it still held a trace of unease. “I just... I really don’t like fish. It’s nothing personal, I swear.”

Vander exhaled, a sigh of relief, though his worry still lingered. “Next time, I’ll stick to more... fish-free activities, I promise.”

The kids, realizing it wasn’t serious but still wanting to comfort Y/N, gathered around her. Mylo, always the troublemaker, flashed a mischievous grin. “Guess we’ll just have to keep you out of the water next time, huh?”

Y/N laughed, though it was a little shaky at first. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” she agreed, her hand resting on Mylo’s shoulder.

Vander chuckled softly as he stood by her, watching the kids return to their playful antics. His heart was lighter, but he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of his earlier mistake. He had meant to bring some joy, but now he just wanted to make sure Y/N knew she was safe and that he’d never do something like that again.

“Maybe next time,” Vander suggested with a warm, reassuring smile, “we’ll just take a walk around the lake. No fish involved.”

Y/N nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Next time, I think I’ll stay dry. For everyone’s sake.”

Vander chuckled, the sound full of warmth. He pulled her a little closer, his arm resting around her shoulder. They both watched as the kids continued to splash in the water, their laughter filling the air once more. The day wasn’t ruined—it had just become another reminder of the bond they shared, and how important it was to care for each other.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow across the lake, Vander and Y/N stood at the edge together, silently enjoying the peaceful moment. The kids had returned to their fun, but Vander and Y/N had a quiet understanding.

SILCO

The night was thick with tension, the distant hum of Zaun's machinery blending with the occasional clank of metal, a reminder of the industrial heart of the city. The alleys of Zaun felt familiar to Y/N, the familiar scent of oil and rust in the air, yet tonight, there was something off about the air. A strange unease had settled over her as she walked, her footsteps echoing off the damp walls.

"You're not feeling it, are you?" Silco’s voice cut through the silence, as smooth as ever, but with an edge that made Y/N pause.

She turned to find him leaning casually against a wall, his usual calm demeanour concealing the storm that brewed behind his eyes. He was always a mystery to her, a man who ruled Zaun with cold precision, but there was something comforting about his presence. He was different with her—less guarded, even if he rarely showed it.

"Feeling what?" she asked, her voice betraying the slightest hint of hesitation.

"The pressure," Silco replied cryptically. "You're tense. Uncomfortable."

She looked away, focusing on a flickering streetlamp as her unease deepened. The truth was, she hated being near the water. Ever since she was a child, she'd been haunted by a fear she couldn’t shake, the irrational terror of fish. The sight of their glistening scales and sharp teeth paralyzed her with anxiety.

"I remember the first time I saw you like this," Silco continued, stepping closer but keeping a careful distance, his gaze sharp yet warm. "You froze when we passed by that vendor with the tanks of fish. I never took you for one to freeze at something so trivial."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, the memory of the last time she'd been near water flooding her mind. She had tried to be brave, to push through the dread when a fish tank in a shop window had caught her eye, but her heart had raced, and her body had frozen. She had felt trapped in the moment, her breath shallow and her limbs heavy, unwilling to move, to breathe. Silco had been there, watching from a distance, but she hadn't been able to stop the panic.

She remembered the way he had approached her after, his presence like a quiet anchor, his steady eyes never judging, only waiting. His silence had been the only thing that kept her from breaking down in that moment.

"I don’t know how you do it," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "I can’t even look at a fish without freezing. It’s like they’re watching me. Waiting for me to slip."

Silco studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if considering his next words carefully. He was a man of few words, but when he did speak, it was never without purpose. "You think I don’t have fears, too?" he asked, his voice low and filled with something deeper than just the question. "I’ve seen the depths of this city, the monsters that lurk beneath the surface. I’ve learned to live with them, control them. But I never forget they’re there."

His words struck her harder than she expected. For a long time, Y/N had thought of Silco as invincible, a man who was beyond the reach of ordinary fears and weaknesses. But hearing him speak so candidly about his own struggles—his own demons—made him seem more human, more real. It made her wonder if the fears that bound her could ever be understood by someone like him.

Y/N shifted uneasily, the tension palpable between them. She had never shared this part of herself with anyone—not even Viktor or Jayce, who knew most of her other vulnerabilities. To let someone in this far was frightening, but Silco wasn’t just anyone. He was the man who had seen her at her weakest, and yet, never once had he shown pity. It was his strength in that silence that had kept her steady.

"You think I’m weak because of it?" she asked, her voice edged with self-doubt. She was afraid that in confessing her deepest fear, she might lose the respect she had fought so hard to keep.

Silco’s expression softened, but only for a moment. “No. In fact, it’s your strength to confront your fear that fascinates me. Most run from it."

There was a strange intensity to his gaze, the way he saw right through her, peeling back layers she had worked so hard to keep hidden. For a brief moment, Y/N forgot about the fear that had held her captive for so long, and all that was left was the way Silco made her feel: seen, understood, and somehow, not so alone.

"You don’t have to face it alone," Silco added, his voice low, almost a growl. His words carried a promise, a subtle invitation. "The world has a way of throwing things at us. Things we fear. But we can fight them together, if you want."

His offer was like a lifeline, something she hadn’t expected from a man like Silco. She had always seen him as distant, hardened by the brutality of his world, but in this moment, there was something softer, a side of him that she wasn’t sure he even knew he had. It was tempting. More than tempting—it was everything she had ever wanted in a world that had often felt too cold to be vulnerable in.

Y/N nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. It was terrifying to face her fears, but there was something oddly reassuring in the idea that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to do it on her own. With Silco by her side, the thought of confronting her fear didn’t seem quite as impossible.

"I’m not asking you to fix me," Y/N said quietly, her voice filled with resolve. "I just… I just want to try. I want to be stronger than this."

Silco’s lips twitched in a rare, fleeting smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to let her know that her words had meant something to him. "Then try. You’ll find that when you face the things that haunt you, they lose their power."

The air between them shifted, and for the first time that night, the tension seemed to ease. In that moment, Y/N realized that beneath the surface of their lives, full of fear and uncertainty, was something far stronger—a bond she hadn’t expected to find, but now couldn't imagine living without.

"Thanks," she said softly, the words hanging in the air like a promise, a weight they both understood.

"Anytime," Silco replied, his gaze still lingering on her, knowing that their path forward would not be without its trials. But with him, at least, she wouldn’t have to face it alone. And that, in itself, was a form of victory. Together, they would face whatever came, whether it be the monsters beneath the surface or the fears that threatened to drown them. With Silco at her side, Y/N felt a strange sense of peace, as if, for the first time, she could breathe without the suffocating weight of her fear.

POWDER/JINX

It was late in the evening, and the glow of Zaun’s ever-present industrial lights cast long shadows against the grimy walls. Y/N had grown accustomed to the chaotic, buzzing city over the years. The constant hum of machinery, the clattering of metal against metal, and the sharp stench of burning oils and chemicals had become background noise. But there was something else about Zaun that still unsettled her—something that had been with her for as long as she could remember.

It wasn’t the noise or the smell. No, for Y/N, the thing that haunted her the most was the gnawing fear of fish.

Her ichthyophobia had started when she was younger, back in Zaun’s deep, grimy canals where the water was never clear and the fish were twisted things—scavengers that fed on the waste of the city. She had never been fond of the water, but the sight of those strange, flickering creatures swimming in the muck was enough to make her heart race. It wasn’t just the appearance of them—it was the way they slithered, the way they moved, and the way their eyes always seemed to follow her.

As much as she tried to block out the occasional fishy odor that lingered in the air from time to time, it still managed to creep up on her. The stench that came from the damp alleys or through the cracks in the walls would twist her stomach in knots, and no amount of distractions could make it go away. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d told anyone about her fear, and honestly, she didn’t think it was something she’d ever admit. In a city like Zaun, showing weakness could get you killed, and she wasn’t about to risk that for something as silly as fish.

=

Today, though, she'd ventured deeper into the heart of Zaun, looking for materials she needed to continue her work. Jayce had warned her to be careful, but Y/N was beyond taking it easy. She’d spent enough time hiding in Piltover or in the Academy, and today she just needed to get her hands dirty. So, she navigated the maze of streets, past the smoky factories and underground markets, until she found herself in an area that still felt wild, untamed, and full of danger.

It was there that she encountered Jinx, the whirlwind of chaos and mischief that had become an unexpected, yet oddly fitting, part of her life. Jinx was always unpredictable, always bouncing from one extreme to the next. She wasn’t someone Y/N had ever really expected to be friends with, but over the years, they’d grown to know each other. Jinx’s chaotic nature seemed to balance out Y/N’s more grounded demeanor, and despite everything, there was a strange understanding between them.

“Boom! Surprise!” Jinx shouted from behind, and before Y/N could turn around, a loud pop echoed through the air, followed by a strange squelching sound.

Y/N spun around, her heart leaping into her throat, only to find Jinx holding a fish—big, slimy, and wriggling like it was a prize she’d just won.

“Whoa! You scared the heck out of me!” Y/N gasped, pressing her hand to her chest as her mind raced to calm itself.

Jinx stood in front of her, grinning wildly, her usual manic energy unmistakable. “Oops! My bad!” she said with a giggle. “But hey, you’re looking a little tense! I thought you’d love a little bit of fun!”

Y/N, her eyes still wide, quickly looked at the wriggling creature in Jinx’s arms. Her stomach dropped, and her hands shook slightly as her throat tightened. The fish's scales shimmered under the dim light, its tail flicking in the air like it could leap at her any second. It was exactly the kind of fish she hated—the ones that looked like they could crawl out of the water and into her world.

Instinctively, Y/N took a few steps back, her eyes never leaving the writhing creature.

Jinx tilted her head, noticing the subtle shift in Y/N’s posture. The grin on her face faltered, replaced with curiosity. “Hey, what’s up with you? You look like you saw a ghost or something.” She wiggled the fish in front of Y/N as if it were some sort of prize. “You don’t like my new friend?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt dry. “Uh... no, it’s not that,” she said quickly, forcing out the words. “I just... I don’t really like fish.”

Jinx’s grin grew wider, but there was something else in her eyes now—a little flicker of understanding. “Ohh, I see! Fishy-wishy got you all freaked out!” she teased, but her tone wasn’t mocking. There was no laughter in it, just a light-hearted curiosity.

Y/N’s breath hitched, and she could feel herself retreating inward. “Yeah, something like that…” Her voice trailed off, unwilling to admit how much it actually terrified her.

For a long moment, there was silence between them. Y/N couldn’t bring herself to look away from the fish, which seemed to mock her by wriggling closer to her feet. The smell of the creature wasn’t helping her nausea.

But then, to her surprise, Jinx paused. The manic energy that always seemed to buzz around her flickered just for a moment. Jinx lowered the fish to the ground, watching it flop around uselessly on the dirt and grime of the alley.

“Okay, okay, no fish for you,” Jinx said, her voice softer than usual, though still with that edge of mischief. “I get it. No fishy-wishy today.”

Y/N exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just a little. The tension that had been gripping her was starting to ease, but she still couldn’t shake the lingering discomfort in her chest. She’d never told anyone about her fear before. It always felt so... ridiculous. But there was Jinx, someone she knew to be unpredictable, not always kind, and still, she had been more considerate than Y/N expected.

“Thanks, Jinx,” Y/N said, her voice quiet but sincere. “I really appreciate it.”

Jinx’s grin returned, broader and more mischievous than ever. “No problem, Y/N! You’re safe with me. No fish gonna hurt you. You’re my friend, after all!” she said, giving Y/N a playful shove.

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head, feeling the last bit of tension slide away. “Yeah, I’ll take your word for it. And, uh, maybe something a little less... explosive next time?”

Jinx made a dramatic pout, crossing her arms over her chest, but it was all an act. “Lame!” she exclaimed, bouncing on her heels. “Fine, I’ll keep it low-key. But I can’t promise no bangs in the future!”

Y/N shook her head, laughing softly as Jinx took off down the street, skipping like a child, her infectious energy carrying her away.

As Y/N continued her walk through the streets of Zaun, the weight of the encounter stayed with her. Jinx had shown her a side of herself that Y/N hadn’t expected—a surprising kindness buried underneath all the chaos. It wasn’t much, but for the first time in a long while, Y/N felt a little less alone in Zaun. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for now, she could breathe a little easier, knowing that not everything in this city was as harsh as it seemed.

In a world where survival meant toughness, Y/N had learned something new: sometimes, kindness came from the most unexpected places—and maybe, just maybe, that could be enough to change things.

[livfastdieyoung69]

(the girl across the street pt.2)

January sucks. Everyone and their damn mothers does their dumb New Year’s Resolutions, and decides they want to lose weight. In turn, no one eats out, and every restaurant you could possibly think of gets no business. Dead, completely empty. Including The Beef.

Mikey had taken to the office to pretend to do paperwork, but after a couple games of Candy Crush, he’d grown bored again. With a big sigh, he pulled himself out of the chair in the way every man who’s either above 30 or works too much does. The office door opens, and the rest of the staff are sitting around, grumbling and staring at the clock. There wasn’t even anything left to clean, The Beef hadn’t been this spotless since last January.

Mikey mumbles, goin’ for a smoke, while he leaves, just loud enough so that hopefully someone caught it. Wasn’t like they’d need him anyways, but he heard at least one grumble of acknowledgment before the door closed behind him.

He took his usual spot, on the milk crates stacked up right on the corner- it let you see down the creepy alley behind every restaurant on this side of the street, and down the even creepier alley just between The Beef and its neighboring building that led towards the road.

He should’ve wore a coat, but the breeze was sorta nice and it wasn’t snowing anymore. A lot nicer than sitting inside the office, he always got a headache if he stayed in there for two long (that was probably the mold in the ceiling). The silence was nice too, calming for the usual rush hours.

A whistle, sharp and high-pitched, but quiet in the pushing wind travels to Mikey’s ears. He perks up in his seat- looking down creepy alley one, to find nothing. Another whistle, telling him, practically speaking to him, in her silky, smooth voice and he can picture her little smirk while it whispers from her lips- wrong way.

He stands, tries to hide the grin that grows on his face by holding his head downwards as he starts walking towards her silhouette. She’s leaning against the light pole right in front of the pizza place, a cigarette in her hand too. Mikey remembers the one in his hand at the sight of hers, and has to drop it in the middle of the road before it burns him.

She just stares at him while he approaches- taking a drag and letting the smoke flow from her teeth. He wouldn’t have noticed the small black piece in her ear, but something was playing loud enough that it just sounded like muffled drums to him. She takes Mikey in, looking up and down while offering the cigarette.

Little cold for no coat, hm? God, she fucking kills him. Her and that playful little tone, it kills him. He shrugged, handing the cigarette back. Wasn’t very often he found himself speechless, but here she had him, with no words. Silence comes by again, and they listen to the wind while it passes along. Wanna pizza? She could see he was pretending like he wasn’t cold, and had nothing better to do than bring him inside.

Mikey follows her back to the pizza place, and watches as she grabs a dough from the fridge, coating it in flour and tossing it around. She lets him pick the toppings and he asks if she owns the place. Hell no, she scoffs, but family does.

While the pizza cooks she sits on the metal culinary table, and Mikey wags a finger at her and tells her, thats unsanitary, ma’am, with his big grin. She scoffs at him, yeah, okay, and pushes his shoulder just a little, and tells him how she just saw Richie standing on the front counter yesterday. She hops off anyways, and stands hip to hip with him instead.

They stay in the back when it’s done, and eat it on an unfolded pizza box off of the metal table she’d been sitting on earlier. Mikey teases, and pretends to write her a bad review, and she shoves his shoulder again and walks off with the promises of a soda.

She comes back with a bottle, liquid swinging in its plastic while she sways to the song that started playing over the radio while she was gone. His grin grows when he notices she’s humming the guitar solo under her breath.

“Got some skills, there.” He tries his hand at teasing, but she just keeps going, and her humming turns into lip syncing, and suddenly she’s dancing over in front of him. He’s laughing, and now she’s singing, and taking his hands in hers, and leaning back so he has no choice but to steady her with a hand to the hips and the other splaying across her lower back.

If she don’t her way, she’ll slice you apart,she grins, a finger pulling him closer by the shirt, moves like a cat, her shoulders shimmy just a little and her feet shuffle, taking him with her until her backs to the other counter feet away, if you don’t get her game, you might not make it back.

Mikey finds himself speechless again, and hopes to god no one sees what this women does to him. He knows one thing though, that song was sure as hell made for her.

She’s got the looks that kill, she finally finishes with the song, swaying back over to her seat, and he can’t find anything else in himself to do but shake his head and finish his slice.

An hour later he opens the back door to The Beef back up, trying to contain his grin, and hiding the leftover plastic wrapped pizza under his shirt. Before he can run back into the office, Richie is glaring at him, arms crossed like a scored mother.

She’s got you bad man. He shakes his head before Mikey can even defend himself. Bad.

[billie-black]

Thread of odd connections between Ikora, Elsie and Eris

I was scrolling through concept art when I noticed that, despite not being so in-game, The Stranger's rifle is Branded as a Cassoid weapon. This wouldn't mean much, bungie tends to use decals at random, except-

The curse of osiris variant, The Machina Dei 4, is also branded with a slightly altered version of the Cassoid logo, which I think proves that it has been upgraded with components from the foundry.

But let's put a pin on that and talk about another Cassoid weapon, The Invective shotgun, Ikora's signature weapon. The Invective has an ornament called Iconoclast, a word which here means "Destroyer of images used in religious worship." This nomenclature is very similar to-

The Vex Mythoclast, a weapon which, thanks to its sister weapon, The Worldline Zero (which coincidentally also has a prophecy variant), we know to be made by Elsie Bray. Canonically, we earn the Mythoclast as part of-

the "Not forged in light" quest, which ends with Elsie gifting us the No time to explain. A weapon which eventually ends back up in her hands and she gifts to us again earlier in the timeline as-

The stranger's rifle, which hangs around until it becomes the Machina Dei 4 (later Adhortative). And the prophecy attached to the Machina Dei 4 desribes Eris Morn and the events of Shadowkeep, when Eris discovers stasis and starts using the darkness.

A charnel but effulgent orb.

beacon in a loathsome dark.

Fêted, fetid corpses rise.

a too-long-absent gibbous spark.

Now, it's generally accepted that No time to explain (and all it's variants by proxy) was created at some future point in a distant timeline, this is incorrect. Ghost specifically points out that "parts" of it shouldn't exist, because the rifle itself is a common suros frame.

Going back to The Invective, you're probably more familiar with its legendary sister, The Comedian, and its D2 counterpart, Deadpan Delivery. The Comedian's flavor text reads "A. A ha. A ha ha ha. A ha ha ha ha ha ha ha" In D1 the joke wasn't really clear, but with the addition of a lore tab in D2, the joke has become the vanguard's falling victim to a hive god's deceit. Now, let's take a little trip to The dark future.

In The dark future, Beyond light never happened, Eramis was allowed to grow her armies and master stasis, which led to a massive attack on the city by Cabal remnants, Savathûn, and the glorious House Salvation, all masterminded by Eris Morn, who up to that point was believed to be an ally, but had been corrupted by stasis and the darkness.

Coming back to our timeline, let's look at differences between our case exotics and their variants. Elsie's rifle has undergone many more modifications than Invective. Matter of fact, Invective has barely undergone any changes from its default. It's painted red, AND It has tape wrapped the handle and the grip, just like No time to explain. (I know I'm talking about grip tape right now but please don't go, it gets better, I promise)

It's a weak link, many weapons have grip tape, but I think many of these small details add up and point to The Iconoclast being one of Elsie's gifts. Let's review the similarities between Iconoclast and other gifts from Elsie.

>It's sourced from one of the city foundries and later received Cassoid upgrades (Invective and it's variants are nadir products)

>It has grip tape where the original does not.

>Mythoclast and Iconoclast are very similar terms and could point to a connection.

>It has a perpetual ammo function, like No time to explain and The Mythoclast.

But we should also look at Iconoclast within it's own context. Invective being her weapon, what does it mean for Ikora? She's never been been known to combat or really oppose any sort of religion, at least that I can find. And let's make it clear, the gun is not the Iconoclast. Just like the Mythoclast is not The Mythoclast. The weapons, in this case, are named for the wielder. You kill Atheon and so you become the Mythoclast, the gun is more of symbol. So, what religious figure is Ikora supposed to kill in order to become the Iconoclast?

Well, just this season, the hive have come out with a brand spanking new god, one very close to Ikora. Now I don't think Ikora is going to kill Eris. Eris would need to do something completely heinous for her to even consider that. Like, idk, bombarding the last city with House Salvation and the shadow legion... i. e., what happens in the dark timeline.

Look, I really don't believe Eris is going to turn evil all the sudden, that would be character assasination of the highest magnitude. But from Ikora's point of view? She has a supposed time traveller yelling at her that she's letting everything go sideways.

So my theory is that Elsie took Ikora's Invective from some other failed timeline (possibly the one where they smooch) and gave it to Ikora as the Iconoclast, along with the idea that alternate Ikora ruined everything because she failed to act and put Eris down when she could.

And this is where Deadpan Delivery comes in. You see, Ikora doesn't use invective anymore, and she doesn't use the Comedian. She exclusively wields Deadpan Delivery. Now, I know this was probably just the animators being faithful to her character, seeing how she prefers shotguns-

But the retroactive additions to the Comedian's lore, outside my crazed theories, implies a statement from Ikora. The Comedian's joke is the vanguard falling victim to a hive god's deceit, and in the dark timeline that god, the Savathûn figure, is Eris morn. And so-

By maining Deadpan delivery Ikora is subtextually saying "It's not funny. I'm not laughing. I don't subscribe to the narrative put forward by the comedian or Elsie. I trust Eris". And by rejecting the Comedian she's additionally disavowing it's older sister, The Invective, which is a symbol of the gung ho attitude which defined her in her youth. And wether my Iconoclast theory is correct or not, we can definitively say: Ikora is against what it represents , she is a guardian, and she will make a new fate no matter what.

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #12 – What Moves The Dead by T. Kingfisher

I initially meant to read this back last year when it was up for a Hugo nomination, but well – honestly I forgot my copy in an airport waiting room and it’s presumably now living a good life somewhere in a New Jersey compose heap. But a friend had a copy and said they enjoyed it, so! Stole it for a few days, and very glad I did. It’s a quick, fun shot fungal gothic, great for stormy nights.

The basic plot is, well, it’s very explicitly Fall of the House of Usher with a slight admixture of Ruritanian Romance. The Ushers are a genteely impoverished family of minor aristocracy in Ruravia, a less than impressive principality in Eastern Europe. Alex Easton, Roderick Usher’s former commanding officer in some recent war (the Gallacian Army they served in having a habit of getting into these quite habitually) receives a letter from Roderick’s sister Madeline begging company and help, as she is deathly ill. Of course by the time Easton arrives the pair of them look like they’re one stiff wind away from dying, and the estate and the lands around it are both decaying and full of unnerving strangeness. The only person who seems happy to be there is Eugenia Potter, an Englishwoman and amateur mycologist studying the great variety of mushrooms and fungus to be found in the area.

So yes this is very much aiming to be Gothic Classic, at least in aesthetics and trappings. An overgrown and decaying estate several times too large for the last remnants of the family who now occupy it. Genteel madness and disease, hidden behind polite euphemisms and high walls. A deep, atavistic horror at parasitism and the desecration of the human (especially the well-bred, young and female) body by an alien presence. There’s even a cowboy for some reason. It definitely all works for me, but then my exposure to the genre is all a bit second hand.

Speaking of parasitism – mushrooms! The book expresses decay and desecration basically entirely through the idiom of fungal infections, both in terms of metaphor and imagery in descriptions and just in the actual source of the horror here. The lights in the tarn are fungal blooms, Madeline’s disease and her reanimation are both the result of almost drowning and inhaling that fungus into her lungs, and so on. There are two really effective horror beats in the book for me – the image of an infected hare which had just had its head shot off slowly jerking back to its feet as a dozen others placidly stood there and watched it be shot, and the moment of realization that Madeline’s oddly long and wispy body hair is in fact mycelia growing out of her skin – and both play off of this pretty directly.

I very awkwardly didn’t use any pronouns for Easton when giving the plot synopsis because the book actually plays around a bit with gender and pronouns in a way I’ve always loved and wish I saw more of. Easton is Gallacian (unrelated to the actually existing Galicia, I think), and the Gallacian language has a variety of pronoun sets beyond just he and she – one for children, one for God, and one (ka/kan) particularly for soldiers. Which, due to the exigencies of early modern warefare’s manpower requirements, eventually led to both men and women being perfectly eligible to become ‘sworn soldiers’. So y’know, Enlist today! Service guarantees citizen-transition!

(But actually I enjoy the thought and at least superficial sociological plausibility/consideration of what gender means in Gallacian society a lot more than how a lot of modern spec fic just kind of assues that every culture in the world has the perspective on gender of a well-educated 21st century progressive, material conditions be damned).

Anyway yeah, overall very entertaining read. Though Goodreads tells me it’s now the first in the series, which given how cleanly this one ended is not something that fills me with an abundance of faith.

[themuseumofwitchcraftandpaganism]

This isn't about witchcraft or paganism but here's a short essay/exhibit review I wrote yesterday in the car (TW: RAPE)

A New Light on an Old Master: A Feminist Interpretation of Artemisia Gentileschi

Artemisia was a 2020 exhibition in London’s National Gallery. Praised by art critics, it took a new approach to analyzing Artemisia Gentileschi’s work. Instead of looking at Artemisia’s life through the rape she suffered at the hands of Agostino Tassi as the art world historically has, curator Letizia Treves chooses to focus on Artemisia as a person. This new lens highlights the influence of Artemisia and her work as well as a new feminist telling of her life; she wasn’t an eternal victim fighting to stay afloat in a man’s world, she was a survivor and powerful in her own right. 

Historians have long interpreted Artemisia's work in reference to her rape and subsequent torture as a teenager. The violence women in her paintings inflict on men, such as her gruesome series of four paintings about Judith beheading Holofernes (below), led to a theory that she found emotional revenge in imagining the male victim as Agostino Tassi.

It’s also not hard to see the connections to her own life in her two imaginings of Susanna and the Elders. She painted the first rendition of a young Susanna being prayed upon by the much older men in 1610, a year or less after her rape and only a few months after the trial ended (left). Susanna is distraught and is trying to tuck herself into the corner of the composition to get away. However, when Artemisia revisited this subject in 1652 (right), Susanna is meeting her attackers’ gaze and is holding an arm up to defend herself; she’s no longer helpless. 

While there is weight to those Interpretations, it has become the only way historians interact with Artemisia’s work, trying to relate every painting back to that event. Through Artemisia, Letizia Treves explores who Artemisia was beyond her assault. She showcases how Artemisia put herself into her paintings, not just physically as in Self-Portrait as Saint Catherine of Alexandria (left), but also mentally as in Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting (right). Treves also draws attention to letters written by Artemisia where she’s acting as her own manager by interacting with clients, valuing commissions, and networking. This competency was what ultimately got her employed by both the Florentine and the British courts, something that is not as frequently discussed with her work. Instead of following the same path of Artemisia continuing to paint but constantly dwelling on her trauma through her art, Treves focuses on Artemisia flourishing and growing despite her trauma, highlighting often overlooked aspects of her personality and life. 

Artemisia was the largest exhibition of Artemisia Gentileshi’s work and helped redefine how the art world interacts with and remembers her art. Acknowledging but not lingering on her rape, Treves finally lets Artemisia free from being defined through her relationships with men, even traumatic ones, and puts her in the spotlight she deserves. 

Further reading:

Artemisia | Past exhibitions | National Gallery, London

New online Curator’s Tour of 'Artemisia' launched | Press releases | National Gallery, London

Artemisia. Letizia Treves, ed. Exh. Cat. London: National Gallery Company, 2020. 256 pp. £35. | Renaissance Quarterly | Cambridge Core

Susanna and the Elders (Gentileschi, Bologna) - Wikipedia

The artist who triumphed over her shocking rape and torture

Self-Portrait as Saint Catherine of Alexandria - Wikipedia

[seiueina]

I couldn’t help but think what it would be like for the significant other of Ego Jinpachi…and how married life and parenting life would change drastically while he took more of his responsibility to the Blue Lock Project.

unfinished, not proofread, i’ve had this in the drafts for so long so i am deciding to just post it now :3

“Where is the stupid pass?” You utter as you scramble through your backpack, the backpack that was filled with a lot of things..things that are needed for the kiddos and needed for you. You always noted that you have to clean the backpack out at some point but with raising two children at the age of 4 almost entirely by yourself…is exhausting and you always forget to clean the bag out.

“Mommy I need to pee!!!” Your daughter, shouts just as you found the pass in order to enter the Blue Lock building. “Give me one second! Let me scan this real quick!” You exclaim as you hurriedly put the pass against the scanner, the scanner stays a red LED color, you gasph. Repeatedly putting the pass against the scanner.

‘Entry Denied’

At this point in the day, you we’re already overwhelmed. Taking your son to his soccer game early in the morning and then running home quickly because you forgot to pack your daughters ballet shoes…rushing then over to the dance studio and now ended up here. Unable to get through the door and to a bathroom in which your daughter (for some reason) needed so urgently all of a sudden. You stood there, the tears lining your waterline.

You wanted to let everything out. Cry, scream, shout, curse your husband out the moment you saw him. Years before this…it wasn’t like this. You wouldn’t have imagined your life to become of this. He promised you that he will split his attention from this Blue Lock Project and his family. But he didn’t live up to the promise.

You would go days without hearing a single thing from Jinpachi. Any and everything that you were updated about your husband was given from Anri. The woman who is working with your husband on this “stupid” project. You didn’t feel any remorse for her, you couldn’t bring yourself to even though at this point she’d seen and been in his presence longer than you have in 3 months. And including now…even more so you couldn’t hate Anri, especially when you hear her calling your name.

“y/N-sama!!!” She screams and your ear perks up. “I can’t get in!” You shout back, and she runs up to the door and puts her pass onto the scanner, it quickly lights up green and the door opens. “Mommy I need to go!” Yumi, your four year old daughter utterd again and you swiftly grab her from the ground and rush towards the sign with the restroom sign. Your son, Yuri, quickly following behind you. Luckily, you were able to get to the restroom and Yumi was able to go to the bathroom just in time before an accident occurred.

“Let’s go see your father.” You huffed before leaving the restroom and finding his office. The moment you got there, his eyes were glued on the many of many screens plastered on the wall. He didn’t bat an eye at the supposedly three important things in his life. “What did I say about knocking. Anri- I am”

“Jinpachi.” You exhaled, he turned his head around to see you standing near the door. Your children running around his office as you couldn’t care less about what they were up to in this moment. “Oh. y/N.” He breaths out before returning his head back to the many of many screens, all displaying each individual clips of the players.

“That’s all? Is this really what we mean to you?” You grumbled, walking closer and closer to your husbands desk chair. “Look at me Jinpachi.” You say as you turn his desk chair around. He now faced you.

“Why are you even here? Can’t you see, I am busy reviewing match clips of my unpolished gems.” He replies with a growing urge of annoyance. “So your more interested in these “unpolished gems” then those gems?” You shout, pointing over to the two children the both of you created, he looks over in the same direction then back at you.

“Watch your attitude when you’re talking to me. You’re the one who came here unannounced.” He scoffs standing up from his seat. The two of you were almost the exact same height, Ego only being one inch taller than you, he just barely towered over you, but with just enough space for him to sinisterly smile down at you. “Let’s get a divorce then.” You say, leaving him in utter shock as you go and grab the kiddos from the couch. “I am sorry for yelling.” You apologize to your children as you saw them with hands over their ears. “-C’mon, papa is busy with work…maybe one day he’ll want to see you!” Staying as optimistic as you could.

You were over it to say the least. Ego Jinpachi wasn’t the same man you fell in love with 10 years ago. He’s changed drastically and you can’t help but blame the JFU and this whole Blue Lock Project. With each kid holding your respective hands, you walk past your soon to be ex husband.

“Bye daddy!” Both kids cheerfully smiled and waved at him as the door to his office opened. There you startled Anri who was holding a laundry basket. “Ah! y/N! Leaving already?” She awkwardly laughs before looking up at you. “-No she isn’t.” Your husband blurts out. “Errand girl. Take Yuri and Yumi somewhere…I have an important conversation with my wife.” Jinpachi continues as Anri raises an eyebrow. Looking at your face.

“I guess I can take them to meet the players!” Anri whispers, you wanted to hear your husband speak to you…you didn’t know why. He could have given you his time a day a few seconds ago, so why now does he want to give it? You hand your kids over to Anri. “Okay babies, go with Anri-chan, she’s gonna show you guys all over while daddy and I have a talk!” You say cheerfully before sending them off on their way.

Once the doors to his office closed he quickly started, “You’re not divorcing me.” He speaks and you walk closer to him. “What if I am?” You reply, arms crossed over your chest.

“y/N. I am still in love with you.” He says looking at your face, seeing any type of reaction that’ll perform. “Really? Well it sure don’t look like it!” You exhaled, shuddering your shoulders he steps back, exhales a breath.

He stays quiet, standing in the same position. You rub your temples, "Exactly what I was thinking...am' gonna pack me and the kids stuff and stay at my parents until further notice. I'll contact the lawyer and they'll give you call." You speak aloud, hesitating to turn around and walk to the door just in case, maybe, he'll say something. But he doesn't.

“That’s what I thought…” Whispers came from your mouth as your waterline brimmed with tears as you turn around to exit Jinpachis' office.

© satoberrie 2023 | let me know if i should make a continuation!

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

A Court of Fire & Masks

Eris x OC Fic

Chapter 11

Summary Penelope enters the glamorous yet treacherous world of Autumn Court life, where appearances are everything, and even the slightest misstep could ruin her families reputation. As the youngest daughter of a noble family, she's expected to smile, nod, and blend in - just like her older sister. But when Penelope's curiosity about inter-court politics leads to a forbidden mention of unrest, she quickly realizes she may not have the weaponry for the brutal battle of social court, especially when she runs up against heir to the court, Eris Vanserra.

Content Warnings:

Emotional manipulation

Verbal and emotional abuse

Power imbalances

Anxiety and panic

Mentions of sexism & misogyny

Dark themes of cruelty

Word Count: 5,780

Master List: A Court of Fire and Masks Master List

Tagged: @mrsjna @lilah-asteria @ambivalence-is-me @rcarbo1 @aaliyahmorielle  @feyrfly

The days that followed passed in a blur of monotony, marked by endless hours spent poring over documents that seemed to serve no discernible purpose. That is, if Penelope had been given any real purpose to begin with. The vague directive to review the papers strewn across Eris’s impossibly large desk had offered little more than a way to occupy her time. Most mornings were spent hunched over the desk, convoluted writing of males who seemed to use twenty words where she could summarize in five. Dust-covered books, untouched for half a century, added to her frustrations as she flipped through their brittle, yellowed pages in search of anything actually useful. 

By the afternoons, her momentum had waned. The words blurred together as her eyes grew heavy, and she found herself staring at the same sentences without the slightest notion of comprehension. The stillness of the manor pressed in around her, seeming to grow tighter each day. 

The Autumn Manor itself, vast and wholly unfamiliar, felt less like a home and more like a gilded cage. Seeking some semblance of relief, Penelope had taken to wandering the servants’ quarters. The narrower, utilitarian hallways lacked the opulence of the High Family’s living quarters, and yet she found the simplicity of it to be a strange comfort. Stone corridor after stone corridor often led to doors opening into gardens–or to dead ends, where solid walls marked the abrupt conclusion of her explorations. It was odd, she thought, for a house to have hallways that lead nowhere. Then again, the seeming purposelessness of it all mirrored the seeming purposelessness of the opulence of the Manor altogether. 

The labyrinthine layout did at times disorient her, and more than once, Penelope found herself retracing her steps, certain she’d passed the same ornate portrait at least three times. She often wandered until she felt she might never find her way back, lost in the belly of the Manor, only to be startled by a familiar corridor or landmark that guided her back to her chambers. 

Nights brought little solace. Sleep eluded her more often than not, and she spent countless hours tossing and turning in the too-firm bed, the scratchy woolen blankets offering more discomfort than warmth. The chill of the room settled deeply in her bones despite her efforts to burrow deeply, and she began wearing her heaviest gowns to bed in the futile effort to remain warm.

The wind continued its restless murmuring, slipping through the windows with a persistent hiss. Though she no longer startled at the sound it left her with a deep unease. And then there were the footsteps.

She told herself they were nothing. The house settling, perhaps, or rodents scratching within the ancient walls. But the sound came–faint, deliberate, unmistakably like footsteps–she dared not look at the light beneath her door. The memory of seeing shadows there, unmoving and impossible, was too fresh, too vivid. She wasn’t sure she could bear the sight of them again, the weight of knowing someone–or something–might be right outside the door. 

It was all silly, of course. Mere childish illusions brought on my exhaustion and the unsettling adjustment to a new environment. Foolish. Right?

And yet, the unease lingered in her belly. 

The other advisors remained no more welcoming than they had been during her initial introduction. Penelope had learned their names and roles not through any formal introductions, but through the fragmented pieces of conversation she had overheard and the context she had gleaned from observing them at meals. Gregor, the rotund male whose every word and action seemed designed to provoke disgust, advised the High Lord on military strategy. His manner was as brutish as his appearance, his opinions delivered with a bluntness that left little room for nuance. 

Elias, with his chestnut hair and the faint arrogance of youth, handled economic matters. His purview extended both internally and externally, overseeing trade routes, resource allocation, and financial strategies for court prosperity. Of the three present advisors, he was the least openly hostile, though his sharp remarks and veiled condescension carried their own weight of disdain. 

Alaric, was no less unwelcoming. Tall and spare with silver streaked hair pulled back neatly, he gave the general tone of being perpetually unimpressed and barely seemed to acknowledge Penelope at all. Through snippets of conversation, Alraric was the Autumn Court’s expert in historical affairs, with his knowledge spanning centuries of Prythian’s history. He ensured legacy and tradition remained upheld and advised on everything from diplomatic ceremonies to the proper handling of disputes steeped in ancient precedents.

Then there was Vanderguard, the oldest and most imposing of all three. His hawk-like gaze rarely left her when they were in the same room, and his words–when he chose to speak–cut through the air with the authority of one who had advised Beron Vanserra personally since the beginning of his High Lordship. Vanderguard’s loyalty was clear, his every move calculated to maintain the power and order of the Autumn Court, regardless of who might fall by the wayside. 

The fifth advisor, Pollard, was absent–sent away on what Penelope had pieced together to be a matter of grave importance. Pollard had been Eris’s personal advisor, tasked with guiding the heir into his future role, should he take on the High Lordship. It was no secret that Beron favored Eris as his successor, though his younger brothers vied bitterly for the title, their antics described in tones of disdain during hushed conversations among the staff. The Vanserra family, it seemed, was a storm barely contained within the walls of the manor. Baron’s decision to appoint Pollard as Eris’s mentor had been seen by some as a sign of confidence in his eldest son, though Penelope wondered the truth of that. Beron seemed to care little for anyone but himself and she hazarded a guess that Beron didn’t consider what would happen to his court after his death. Perhaps he didn’t fully believe he could die.

Penelope had heard the rumblings of a rather sinister nature as being the reason for Pollard’s absence–a growing threat beyond Prythian’s borders that required immediate, discreet attention. Whatever Pollard had been sent to address, it was clear from the advisors’ cryptic discussions that the matter was far from trivial. And yet, no one seemed willing to elaborate on what, exactly, was unfolding beyond the Autumn Court’s gilded halls. 

Nearly a week had passed since Madame Alba had informed Penelope of Lord Eris’s delay, and she was beginning to wonder if he would ever return–or if this was all some cruel and unusual plan to humiliate her. The thought gnawed at the edges of her mind. Regardless of her doubts, she kept to her duties, performing them with a quiet diligence that felt more like survival than purpose. 

On the seventh day of her solitude, as the golden light of the late morning filtered weakly through the high windows of Eris’s study, she heard footsteps echoing down the corridor outside. The sound startled her–it had been days since she’d heard anything other than the rustle of pages or the occasional creak of the old manor settling. She froze for a moment, her hand still resting on the edge of a book filled with yellowed, brittle trade maps. Her legs were curled beneath her in the oversized chair behind Eris’s desk, her posture more casual than she would have dared if he were present. 

The footsteps grew closer and stopped outside the study door. A light knock followed. ‘

Penelope glanced up from the faded lines of borders and rivers she hadn’t truly been studying. Her heart gave a faint flutter–of apprehension or relief. She cleared her throat, the sound rasping in the quiet. “Come in,” she called out. 

The brass doorknob turned with a soft click, and the door creaked open just a crack before swinging wider. Standing in the doorway was one of the maids Penelope recognized from the servants’ quarters. The girl’s eyes were wide and youthful, but her rough, calloused hands bore the unmistakable marks of years of hard labor. 

“My apologies for interrupting you, my lady,” the maid said, her voice light and inviting–a stark contrast to the cold formality Penelope had grown accustomed to the last seven days. It was the warmest voice she had heard since her arrival. “But Lord Beron has requested your presence in the council room immediately.” 

Penelope froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Lord Beron? She stared at the maid, her mind scrambling to process the words. The High Lord of the Autumn Court–Beron Vanserra himself–was summoning her? The mere thought sent a jolt of icy panic through her veins. Why? What could he possibly want with her? Did he even know who she was?

The knot in her stomach tightened, but she forced herself to remain calm. “Thank you,” she said, her voice measured. 

The maid bobbed her head in acknowledgement and turned quickly on her heel, leaving the door ajar as she disappeared down the corridor. Her footsteps echoed faintly, fading into the silence of the manor. 

Penelope stood motionless for a moment, staring at the open door as if expecting one of the maids to return and clarify that there had been some sort of mistake. But no one came, and the weight of the summons settled heavily on her shoulders. Lord Beron–the figure whose shadow loomed over every corner of the Autumn court–had called upon her. It wasn’t an honor; it felt like a threat. 

She swallowed hard and set the book she’d been holding onto the desk, her hands trembling slightly as she smoothed her skirts. With a deep, shaking breath, she stepped out of the study and into the dimly lit hall. Of course Beron knows who I am, she told herself firmly. His son–his heir–asked me to come to the manor as an advisor. This is expected. 

But the reasoning felt hollow. The idea of standing before Beron Vanserra himself, without Eris or anyone else present to mediate and provide context, gnawed at her nerves. It felt…wrong. And yet, it couldn’t be wrong. Not when it came from the direct command of the High Lord.

This is fine, she repeated inwardly, her pace steady as she descended the back staircase leading out of the servants’ quarters. I’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no reason to think otherwise. 

The words should have provided some comfort, but the coiling unease in her chest told a very different story. As she stepped into the grand main hall, the walls of the manor began to press down onto her again, the vaulted ceilings amplifying every sound of her quickening footsteps. The polished tile echoed sharply beneath her heels as if the house was announcing her arrival, loudly and rudely. 

The grand doors were slightly ajar, their dark wood towering above her. From within, voices echoed faintly. All male. Her stomach twisted as she recognized the distinct and almost smoky voice of Vanderguard’s voice alongside Beron’s. The realization sent a fresh wave of fear and apprehension crashing over her as she grew ever closer.

This is worse than just Beron himself, she thought, her hands brushing her skirts again in a futile attempt to calm her trembling fingers. If Beron’s command was a fire, Vanderguard’s scrutiny was the blade that followed. 

As the grand double doors swung open, pushed forth by two attending footmen, Penelope stepped into the council room–a space that she had only heard mentions of in passing but had never actually stepped foot in until now. The sight of it struck her immediately. The room was built to intimidate. Its vaulted ceilings stretched high above, the dark wooden beams intricately carved with knotwork that seemed almost alive in the flickering faelight. Massive iron chandeliers, spiked and foreboding, hung from the beams, their candles casting uneven shadows that danced across the vast expanse of the ceiling. 

In the center of the room sat a table of commanding presence–an immense piece of dark oak polished to a mirror-like gleam. Its surface was starkly bare, save for a few scattered documents, an inkwell, and a quill resting near Vanderguard’s place. Ten heavy chairs with high carved backs sat around the edge of the table. All but one was occupied. 

Penelope bit the inside of her cheek, her pulse quickened as her eyes flicked to Vanderguard. He was speaking, his voice sharp and deliberate, though she couldn’t quite make out the words. She hovered in the entryway, uncertain whether to move forward or wait to be acknowledged. Gregor, Elias and Alaric also sat at the table, clearly having also been summoned, but it felt improper to her to approach the table without being beckoned. Her gaze shifted to Beron, seated at the far end of the table, the High Lord’s presence was nearly impossible to ignore. 

Beron Vanserra sat back in his chair, his posture casual yet commanding. He leaned onto the armrest, his sharp, angular face partially obscured by his long fingers as he rested his face against them. His eyes, assessing and unrelenting, remained fixed on Vanderguard as the advisor spoke. Though his demeanor seemed relaxed, there was a tension in the room, and Penelope felt it the moment she stepped foot inside. 

To her right, nearly camouflaged among the towering, thirty-foot tapestries lining the walls, a footman stepped forward. The deep reds and golds of the woven images cast him in muted hues and she barely had noticed he was there. He moved to the single empty chair near the end of the table, pulling it out with a faint scrape of wood against stone. Turning toward Penelope, he gestured silently for her to take her seat. 

Her chest tightened as she forced her feet to move. As she neared the table, Vanderguard’s voice paused mid-sentence, and she felt weight of every gaze around the table shift toward her. Sharp, assessing eyes bore into her. 

She prayed no one noticed as she swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that had collected in the back of her throat. The footman stepped back as she eased into the empty chair, her hands smoothing her skirts beneath the table in a vain attempt to steady herself. Still, the eyes lingered, watching, waiting. 

After what felt like an eternity, Vanderguard’s voice resumed. Apparently, she thought, I’m supposed to be at this table. 

She glanced around the table, her gaze flitting over the faces surrounding her. Four advisors, each one stoic and sharp, Beron at the head of the table, two of his sons seated beside him–faces she had only recognized in passing. And then, directly across from her, Eris. 

He was almost lounging in his chair. When their eyes met, a faint, amused grin curved his lips and he let out a soft, almost noiseless chuckle. Penelope furrowed her brows as she tried to decipher the source of his amusement. But Eris offered nothing, merely pressing his bottom lip between his teeth as though to stifle further laughter. His amber eyes seemed to dance briefly before he turned his attention back to the conversation at the head of the table. 

Penelope’s ears still rang faintly from the rush of the blood pounding in them, but as the voices of Vanderguard and Beron filled the room once more, the tension in her chest began to ease.

“My lord,” Vanderguard continued as Penelope finally managed to pick up the thread in the conversation, “she was at one time an enemy to our court. And now, simply because the bloodshed has ended, there’s no reason to start letting those who were enemies back within our borders.” 

Beron Vanserra shifted slightly in his seat, lifting his brows. With a small sigh, his hand dropped to the table, his fingertips tracing the intricate carved patterns in the polished oak absentmindedly. “But would it not be detrimental to lose out on an opportunity such as this one?” he countered. “Imports from other courts have been lacking, and it seems that outsourcing to further lands would be strategic.” His amber eyes, the same as his sons flicked to Elias, his expression expectant. 

Elias, caught in the debilitating gaze of the High Lord, straightened in his seat, his hands flattening against the table as he gathered himself. He stammered slightly before finding the right words. “I will admit,” he began cautiously, “that trade within Prythian has not been as prosperous as it once was. Biodiversity from other continents could–potentially–bring new economic growth.” 

Beron inclined his head slightly and gestured back to Vanderguard. “So it seems as though this isn’t something we should simply dismiss.” 

Before Vangerguard could respond, Gregor cleared his throat, the grating sound making Penelope cringe. Everything about the male–his mannerisms, his tone, his mere presence–seemed to have that effect on her. “The war we fought has long since passed,” he said. “And from everything I’ve gathered, their armies are disbanded, their ranks in shambles.” He paused, his eyes scanning the table. “At this point, if they’re looking to make amends, I’d wager it’s because they’re struggling to rebuild after the war’s end.” 

Penelope noticed Vanderguard’s expression hardened as he turned his gaze toward Gregor, skeptical. The two locked eyes. Gregor might have held authority in matters of war and military, but Vanderguard’s influence wasn’t far behind.

The stalemate was broken by Eris–his voice calm and measured. “From the little communication I’ve received from Pollard,” he said, “they’ve been more than accommodating. From what I can tell, they seem genuine in their desire to restart trade.” 

Penelope turned to him, watching as his amber eyes remained focused on his father. She had imagined Eris sitting quietly in these meetings, meant to observe his fathers machinations, perhaps offering a question here or there to learn. But now, hearing him speak with such confidence, caught her off guard. He wasn’t a mere student–he was a participant.

Beron nodded at his son’s comment, then turned toward Alaric, seated further down the table. “And what of the other courts? Are they opening their borders?” 

Alaric responded quickly. “I believe they are engaging in the same conversations we are. The Spring Court, however, has been notably accommodating. Their High Lord has even gone so far as to bring his son to court events hosted by them.”

Beron scoffed, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t put much stock in the decisions of a brute as large and unsubtle as he,” he muttered, his words dripping with disdain.

A ripple of low chuckling worked its way around the table, the faintest smiles breaking through some of the advisors' more composed expressions. Penelope noticed, however, that Eris remained mostly silent, his focus still fixed on his father. 

“So it’s decided, then. We reopen trade,” Beron stated, carrying an air of finality. 

Alaric shifted in his seat, his mouth opening slightly as though he were about to protest, but he quickly thought better of it and held his tongue. Elias offered a tight-lipped smile, though the incredulity of it was unmistakable. Strange, Penelope thought. For the advisor in charge of trade, he didn’t look particularly enthusiastic about the new opportunities this decision would bring. 

It was Vanderguard who seemed the most perturbed. His long fingers rubbed together slowly, and his shoulders sagged as if he were releasing a silent, reluctant sight. Beron, oblivious–or perhaps uncaring–clapping his large hand down on the table, the sound echoing through the chamber like a thunderclap. The reverberation made Penelope flinch slightly in her chair. 

“I expect to see a drawing of trade routes and actionable plans before the end of the week,” Beron bellowed. “And send word to their trade masters that we will set up a formal meeting to discuss next steps.”

Vanderguard bent over the parchment in front of him, his quill scratching hastily across the surface. Penelope guessed he was making a detailed list of tasks, likely to assign to the others. The sound of the quill’s movements was oddly loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Hazarding a glance toward Eris, Penelope noted his outward composure, calm and collected as always. But her eyes lingered on his hands. His knuckles were growing paler with each passing moment as his thumb rubbed slowly over them, as though he was restraining himself. 

Beron scanned the room, his gaze sweeping across the table. “Is this going to be an issue for anyone?” he asked. It wasn’t a question–it was a challenge. 

No one spoke. No one dared. 

Penelope found it peculiar, unsettling even, that this group of advisors–assembled to guide the High Lord, to make decisions in the best interest of the Autumn Court–seemed to fall into silence so easily when faced with his preconceived notions. For all their supposed expertise, their collective deference to Beron’s dominance struck her as both troubling and calculating. 

The silence lingered a beat longer, punctuated only by the faint scratching of Vanderguard’s quill. Penelope kept her gaze steady, careful not to draw attention to herself as Beron’s eyes finally hit her. They lingered, and it seemed as though he locked his jaw slightly before moving on from her. She felt herself breathe relief.

“Well,” Beron said, his eyes widening, “I’m not sure what you all are sitting around for. It seems you have plenty to do.” 

The words were laced with hint of amusement, but the underlying command was unmistakable. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as the advisors scrambled to rise, their movements bordering on desperation. Vanderguard was the first to gather his parchment, tucking it neatly under one arm as he strode briskly toward the door. Gregor followed close behind, his boots clunking heavily as he muttered something under his breath. Elias and Alaric both seemed to hesitate for a second, catching each other's eye from across the table before casting a glance at Beron before hurrying after the others. 

Penelope rose more slowly, encumbered by her skirts. Her gaze drifted across the table, landing on Eris. Unlike the others, he hadn’t made a move to leave. He remained seated, his posture unchanged, leaning back slightly in his chair with one arm perched on the table. His eyes were still fixed on his father as though dissecting him. 

For a moment, Penelope hesitated, unsure whether to follow the exodus of other advisors or remain behind. The room felt heavier now, as if the departure of the others had left a vacuum that pressed down on her. She cleared her throat softly, but Eris didn’t seem to notice at first. 

Beron had turned away, leaning slightly toward one of his sons as he spoke in low tones that Penelope couldn’t quite catch. Whatever was being said was clearly not for the ears of the room. She shifted her gaze back to Eris, who still hadn’t moved, his attention locked on his father. 

Clearing her throat slightly, Penelope tried again, the sound barely audible over the faint murmur of Beron’s conversation. This time, it seemed to pull Eris from whatever trance he’d fallen into. His attention snapped to her, his amber eyes narrowing slightly as though he’d forgotten she was still there. After a beat, his lips curved into a faint smile–a polite gesture more than anything else, entirely devoid of warmth. 

“Lady Penelope,” he said at last in his low, smooth voice. 

“My lord,” she replied, dipping into a small curtsey. 

Eris rose from the table then, the scrape of his chair loud in the cavernous room and he buttoned his jacket. There was something unreadable in his expression as he cast one final glance towards his father, who was still enveloped in the quiet conversation at the end fo the table. 

Then, Eris turned to her fully, straightening, though his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than expected. “Let’s chat,” she said simply. 

Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the door. Penelope hesitated for a fraction of a second before following, her footsteps quickening to match his as they passed through the grand doors of the advising hall. 

The two walked in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly against the stones as they ascended the steps and made their way down the corridor to Eris’s study. Penelope waited for Eris to say anything, though he remained silent. 

Once they were inside the confines of his study, Eris let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping as his hands curled over the edge of the doors. He leaned against them for a moment before shutting them with a soft click. 

Penelope stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure whether to sit or remain standing. Eris turned to face her, clapping his hands together with a smile that was surprisingly warm. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he remarked, crossing the room before settling into the chair behind his desk. As he settled in, he immediately began shuffling through the scattered documents on his desk, seemingly mildly confused. Without hesitation, he picked up a few and tossed them unceremoniously into the wastebasket at his side. 

Penelope’s heart sank as she recognized the parchment–maps and records she had painstakingly reviewed for days, trying to make sense of their contents. Her mouth opened slightly, the beginning of a protest forming on her lips before she swallowed them, the words dying in her throat. 

Eris picked up another piece of paper, glanced at it briefly, and made a similar judgement, his hand moving towards the wastebasket. Just as Penelope was resummoning the courage to say something, his eyes flicked up to meet hers, a faint, annoying smug tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You can sit down, you know,” he said. 

Penelope hesitated for a moment before stepping forwards and easing into the chair opposite Eris. 

The heir continued rifling through documents, his attention flicking briefly to each page before discarding them into the wastebasket without a second thought. Each sound of crumbled paper hitting the bin caused the rage simmering in Penelope’s stomach to churn higher. It was like the discarded pages were stoking the fire. 

Eris peeked up at her then. He raised a brow. “Are you going to say anything? Or are we going to just sit in silence?” 

Penelope’s jaw tightened as the pang of frustration and anger rose, traveling from her chest to her throat. “What would you like me to say?” She asked, her voice laced with restrained irritation. 

Eris paused, curling the edge of the paper in his hand to see her better over it, his expression shifted as he studied her. “What?” he asked.

Penelope shrugged, her voice more pointed now. “What would you like me to say, my lord?”

Eris exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a groan as he leaned back in his chair, the paper dangling loosely from his fingers. His head tilted slightly as he regarded her with a look of mild annoyance. “Come now, Penelope,” he said, “Let’s not start all of this.” 

“All of what, my lord?” she shot back, her brows furrowing. Her anger bubbled right beneath the surface. His title, though delivered politely, came out with barbs. 

Eris lowered the paper, gesturing vaguely toward her with a flick of his hand. “All of this,” he said. “All this formality.” He paused, searching for the right word. “It’s exhausting.” 

Penelope’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at him. The audacity. 

“Then tell me how you would like me to be, my lord,” she shot back. 

Eris let out a louder, more theatrical groan this time, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop it with the ‘my lord’ shit,” he said bluntly. 

The unexpected profanity caught her off guard, her brows lifting slightly as the word hung in the air. 

“It’s pandering,” he continued, leaning forward slightly in his chair, narrowing his eyes at her. “Annoying, even. I’ve been hearing it all week–every second of every damn day. If you address me with ‘my lord’ every time you open your mouth, it’s taking at least a century off both my life and yours.” 

He was clearly annoyed, his patience fraying, though Penelope couldn’t begin to guess the length of rope he was at the end of. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. 

Eris rolled his eyes slightly. The irritation in his expression didn’t waver. “What now?” he asked.

Penelope peered up at him from beneath her brows, her fingers tightening slightly against her skirts. “Nothing,” she replied, her words clipped. 

Eris leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he fixed her with a pointed stare. “Why are you acting like a brat?” 

Her mouth dropped open, her shock and offence immediately flaring to life. “Excuse me?” she demanded, her voice sharper now, her hands going to grip the arm leans of the chair. 

“You heard me,” he said bluntly. “You’re acting like a brat and I have no idea why.” 

Penelope’s pulse thundered in her ears, the audacity of his words igniting something in her. “Brat?” She repeated, the word was almost a hiss. “I don’t believe I’ve done or said anything to warrant being called that, my lord.” 

Eris didn’t flinch and he met her glare head on. “We’ve seen each other for, what? Five minutes? And you’re already acting like I’ve done something wrong. So what is it?” His voice remained calm, but there was a notable sharpness in it that sent Penelope into a rage. 

“Maybe I’m acting like this because I’ve been sitting in this house for a week with no direction, no support, and no idea why I’m here in the first place,” she snapped. “And now you show up and toss aside the only work I’ve done like it’s nothing. So forgive me, my lord, if I’m not brimming with joy.” 

Her words hung in the air. Eris blinked slightly and glanced down to the table strewn with papers and books, his expression shifting slightly, though it was hard to tell if it was surprise, guilt, or annoyance that flickered across his face. 

“Well,” he said finally, leaning back in his chair. “At least we’re being honest with one another.” 

Penelope wasn’t finished. “And I think brat was completely uncalled for,” she said. “Frankly, it was immature.”

Eris chuckled low, and faintly mocking. “I’m being immature?” he said, raising a brow. “You’re the one pouting.” 

Her hands shot up in frustration. “What am I doing?” she asked with exasperation. “I’m just sitting here! I haven’t done anything!” 

Eris leaned back in his chair, gesturing vaguely toward her with a flick of his hand. “Your face is pouty,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. 

Penelope’s jaw dropped, her hands clenching in her lap. “My face is–what?!” she sputtered. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not pouting, I’m–” She cut herself off, realizing how defensive she was being, which only made her cheeks burn hotter. 

Eris shrugged nonchalantly, though the mischievous glint still sat in his eyes. “You don’t have to admit it,” she said smoothly, tilting his head slightly as if assessing her. “But it’s written all over you. Sulking, sighing, your quiet glare.” 

Penelope huffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t walked in here acting like everything I’ve done is worthless, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation and I would have acted like a ‘brat.’”

Eris’s smile faltered and he blinked at her. “What?” 

She gestured sharply to the documents strewn about the table. “All the things you left me to read over and review?” 

Eris’s brow furrowed, genuine confusion flickering across his face as he glanced at the pages. “What documents?” he asked in disbelief. 

Penelope leaned forwards, her hands pressing against the desk as her sharp gaze pinned him in place. “The documents you left me to look over,” she said deliberately.

“I didn’t leave you anything,” Eris shot back, his voice rising slightly, though the confusion in his expression seemed genuine. 

Her mouth opened, but she closed it quickly, her mind scrambling. “Madame Alba told me they were from you,” she said after a beat, her voice firmer now, as if stating it aloud might make it irrefutable. “She said you wanted me to review them while you were away.” 

Eris shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he examined the documents again. “I didn’t leave anything,” he repeated firmly, his tone laced with disbelief. He gestured toward the papers with a faint scoff. “I haven’t seen half of these before, and most of them are useless—worthless documents that aren’t worth the ink they’re written with.”

The knot in Penelope’s stomach tightened, unease curling in her chest as confusion morphed into something sharper. “Then… whose idea was it for me to waste a week of my time going through all of this?” she demanded, her voice rising slightly as her frustration seeped through.

Eris leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking faintly as he relaxed into it. He chuckled softly, his gaze drifting downward to his hands, where he rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the amusement in his tone grating against Penelope’s nerves. “But it’s clear someone wanted to keep you busy.”

Penelope’s chest tightened at his words, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks. “To keep me busy?” she echoed, her tone edged with incredulity. “Why? Why waste my time like that?”

Eris stifled another laugh, though his smirk remained intact. “Maybe to test you,” he said with a casual shrug, as if the thought were inconsequential. “Or maybe to humiliate you.”

His chuckle came again, light and irritatingly unaffected, until Penelope shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. His laughter died in his throat, though the smirk lingered faintly at the corner of his mouth.

“Either way,” he said, his tone softening slightly, “it wasn’t me.”

Penelope stared at him, her anger and embarrassment simmering dangerously close to the surface. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” she snapped. “That it wasn’t you? That someone deliberately set me up to look like an idiot?”

“Look Penelope,” Eris offered, “What’s done is done. It’s no harm.” 

Penelope fell back in her chair, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she attempted to temper the growing irritation. She tilted her head slightly onto Eris. “And where have you been the last few days?” she demanded. 

Eris’s faint smirk vanished instantly, his expression hardening into something more serious. His jaw tightened briefly, and the easy, almost teasing feeling between the two of them dissipated entirely. 

“That,” he said, his voice steady and low, “is what we need to talk about.”

A Court of Fire and Masks Master List

[foxfables]

The Space Between Hearts

A/N: This is Just the Plot Bunnies I Couldn’t Shake. Please Don’t Expect Any Kind of Medical Accuracy. This is inspired by House MD & a Film Called Fathers & Daughter (Loosely).

The Space Between Us.

Warnings: Migraines, Medical Talk.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Aubrey Hurst.

Spencer Reid had one persistent, insidious problem: migraines. But his real frustration ran deeper than the searing pain. It was the half-dozen doctors who had repeatedly dismissed his symptoms, each one claiming he was wrong, that grated on him the most.

That’s how he found himself sitting stiffly across from Dr. Edwards at St. Charles Medical and Research Hospital. As soon as Spencer stepped into the stark, sterile office, he had already pegged the man as dismissive. He didn’t need his finely honed profiling skills to see it—the doctor’s disinterest was plain in the way he barely glanced up from his files, his fingers absentmindedly drumming on the desk.

“Are you having one of your headaches right now?” Dr. Edwards asked flatly, as if the answer didn’t particularly matter.

“Not at the moment,” Spencer replied, his irritation barely concealed.

“And when was the last one?”

“Two days ago.”

The doctor scribbled a note with an almost robotic detachment before glancing up, his eyebrows raised in a half-hearted show of interest. “You don’t think your headaches are psychosomatic?”

Spencer’s jaw clenched. “No,” he said firmly.

Dr. Edwards barely reacted, his expression remaining passive as he began to close the file in front of him. “Honestly, I think your migraines are stress-related,” he said with an air of finality. “But I’ll arrange for a consult with the diagnostics team. Stay here.”

Spencer bit back the urge to argue, frustration simmering beneath the surface. It wasn’t just that his headache—the one that had been steadily building since he stepped off the jet—was growing more pronounced. The bright, clinical lights overhead felt like needles pressing into his skull, amplifying the pain.

Twenty agonizing minutes passed, and the tension in the room seemed to grow with each passing second. Finally, the door creaked open. But instead of Dr. Edwards returning, two younger doctors entered the room.

The first was a man in his late twenties, with dark hair and a welcoming, unassuming presence. He was of average height, but the ease with which he carried himself gave him an air of quiet confidence. His eyes were observant, yet kind, and he wore a small smile as he stepped forward.

“I’m Dr. Daniel Rhodes,” he said, his voice calm but engaging. “I’m a diagnostic fellow here.” He gestured toward the woman standing beside him.

She was much shorter, standing at barely 5’3”, with striking features that Spencer noted immediately. Dr. Rebecca Langford, a 27-year-old neurology resident, had rich, dark skin and wore her curly hair tied back in a neat high ponytail. Despite her youthful appearance, there was a sharpness in her eyes that suggested she took her work very seriously. Still, her smile was gentle and welcoming as she nodded in acknowledgment.

“We’re with the Diagnostics Team,” Dr. Rhodes continued, his tone professional yet reassuring. “We’ve reviewed your case, and we’d like to take a closer look at what’s going on. If you’re ready, we can start now.”

Spencer slowly rose from his seat, his head pounding in rhythm with his quickening heartbeat. There was a flicker of hope in the air, mingled with his frustration. Perhaps, finally, someone would take his pain seriously and stop brushing him off.

Spencer was led to an office that was much bigger and brighter than Dr. Edwards’—which felt like it had been stuck in the 70s with its dark wood paneling and outdated decor. This new office, however, was modern and sprawling, technically three rooms separated by glass walls. In the central room, a large table was placed in the middle, surrounded by whiteboards and bookshelves. A young woman sat at the table, surrounded by a clutter of files and medical textbooks. She glanced up briefly when they entered, but quickly returned to her work. Spencer’s eyes wandered toward the back room, which was dim and empty except for the outline of a desk, a computer, and an upright piano that was tucked beneath the window.

Dr. Rhodes led him into the final room, which had a more comfortable, welcoming feel. The walls were a warm cream colour, and the space felt modern and fresh. A patient bed stood at the centre of the room, with a chair and monitoring equipment neatly arranged around it.

“Go ahead and take off your shoes and sit on the bed,” Dr. Rhodes suggested, gently pulling Spencer out of his daze.

“Sure,” Spencer replied, slipping out of his shoes and climbing onto the bed.

“I’m going to take some blood while we talk through your medical history,” Dr. Langford added, her voice calm but focused as she prepped the necessary equipment.

For the second time that day, Spencer recounted his medical history. His mother’s condition, the paranoid schizophrenia that had plagued her for as long as he could remember. His own brushes with danger—the gunshot wound, the anthrax exposure, and his brief but difficult stint with dilaudid, which made him extremely reluctant to rely on strong painkillers now.

His migraines had started about six months ago, and they had only been getting worse. Initially, he could manage them with over-the-counter pain relievers, but by Christmas, they had stopped working altogether. He had tried to push through the pain, but now it was becoming unbearable.

As Spencer spoke, he noticed that Dr. Rhodes and Dr. Langford were asking far more detailed questions than any of his previous doctors. They didn’t just focus on the surface-level details. Instead, they delved deeper—into his caffeine intake, how much sugar he consumed daily and weekly, his sleeping patterns, and where he lived. They even asked about the type of building he resided in, where he had been over the past year, and, more specifically, where he had been when he first noticed the migraines beginning.

They wanted to know what his headaches had been like before the migraines had evolved, and they didn’t shy away from the mental health side of things either. Spencer could feel himself growing defensive, even though he knew it was illogical. He had been building this defence mechanism ever since his father left him in the care of his mother—a woman whose paranoid schizophrenia had defined much of his childhood. And now, here he was, at the perfect age to potentially develop symptoms himself. Spencer was acutely aware of the statistics, the genetic predisposition, and the trauma he had endured throughout his life. He knew the risks better than most, and the thought of it all worried him far more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

Dr. Langford finished drawing Spencer’s blood and called out to the young woman in the other room. That’s when Spencer learned that she was a medical student. As the doors slid open, he noticed for the first time that the office at the far end of the room now had its light on.

“Thanks,” Dr. Langford said as the medical student quickly took the vials of blood from her and exited the room, following Dr. Rhodes.

Then, Dr. Langford turned back to Spencer and resumed her questioning.

“Any hallucinations?” she asked, her tone even and professional.

“No,” Spencer replied, shaking his head.

“Are you just saying no because of your history?” she probed.

“No,” he said again, a little more firmly.

“No visual or audible hallucinations?” she pressed.

“No,” he answered, his patience holding.

“Any colours or auras?”

“No,” he said, and this time, she seemed satisfied.

“Okay,” she nodded. She paused for a moment before asking, “You don’t think your headaches are psychosomatic?”

Spencer exhaled, barely managing to keep his frustration at bay. “No,” he answered, the word clipped.

“Okay,” she said, offering a small, understanding smile.

Just then, the door creaked open again, and a new presence entered the room.

“Hi,” the newcomer said, her voice warm and inviting.

Spencer turned his gaze toward her. “Hello,” he replied.

“I’m Dr. Hurst, the head of diagnostics here,” she introduced herself with a soft smile. Dr. Hurst was a 29-year-old woman with a naturally friendly expression, framed by shoulder-length brown hair that was parted neatly down the middle. She wore a black coat layered over a simple black dress. Her demeanour was professional, yet approachable, and though she smiled warmly at Spencer, he couldn’t help but notice a faint sadness lingering in her eyes, as if something weighed on her despite the smile she presented.

Even as Spencer observed her, she radiated an aura of confidence and care, putting him slightly more at ease. Still, the sadness in her gaze intrigued him, almost as much as her curiosity about his condition. He wondered silently what she had seen to put that sadness there, but quickly reminded himself that this wasn’t about her—this was about his migraines, his pain, and the answers he so desperately sought.

[yourreddancer]

We know exactly who’s behind “Project 25”. 6 Billionaire Fortunes Bankrolling Project 2025

More than $120 million from a few ultra-wealthy families has powered the Heritage Foundation and other groups that created the plan to remake American government.

Aug 14, 2024

More than 100 nonprofits led by the Heritage Foundation, a right-wing think tank that has engaged in climate change denial and obstruction for decades, have signed on as advisors to the Project 2025’s 900-page “Mandate for Leadership” document — a plan to rapidly “reform,” or radically alter, the U.S. government by shuttering bureaus and offices, overturning regulations, and replacing thousands of public sector employees with hand-picked political allies.

An analysis of financial disclosure forms shows the same small group of donors supporting Project 2025’s advisors again and again — hardly a sign of ideological diversity. Of the 110 nonprofits formally supporting Project 2025, almost 50 received major donations from the same six sources of wealth since 2020.

Many of the organizations the six families funded also have close ties to Donald Trump and his running mate, Ohio Senator JD Vance, DeSmog found. Trump has repeatedly denied involvement in or knowledge of Project 2025, though that position conflicts with a growing number of news reports — a disavowal made more awkward by the fact that Vance wrote the forward to Dawn’s Early Light, a forthcoming book by Heritage Foundation president Kevin D. Roberts that describes his Project 2025 vision. DeSmog’s review of Project 2025’s financial backers found additional links to Trump, Vance, and key figures in their orbit that had not been previously known.

These six donor networks, linked to the family fortunes of a handful of wealthy industrialists, have spent years working to loosen environmental regulations and promote climate change denial. Though Heritage describes Project 2025 as a mainstream effort to “return government to the people,” its funding sources suggest something far less populist: a vehicle for the obsessions of ultra-rich donors on the far-right fringe, pushing an agenda to reshape American democracy and overturn regulations needed to maintain a livable climate.

To learn more about the people behind “Project 25” Read “The Scheme” How The Right used Dark Money to Capture the Supreme Court. By Sheldon Whitehouse

[doctorkinktraveller]

The sign over the door said “Associated Industries”, but @little-bred-riding-slut knew better. As she pressed the doorbell, she remembered the names people had used for the place online: “The baby factory”, “Pussy Pounding Inc” and some had even referred to it in glowing terms as “The Rape Room”. The thought of those reviews made her pussy leak, it was all so naughty.

She had absorbed every word of the 5 star reviews and glowing testimonials on the website, she was going to have a lot of fun here.

The door opened and a handsome older man in a well tailored suit greeted her with an enquiring “@little-bred-riding-slut ?” She replied with a simple “yes”. He gestured for her to come in as he stepped behind a reception desk.

He pulled a form with her name on it from a folder on the desk and read it in front of her.

“So you have booked for 2 full days & nights”

She nodded

“No specific limits, just safewords if needed”

She smiled, “I couldn’t think of anything I didn’t want to try”- He smiled back, “OK, we will try a lot, but if any of it is too much just use the safe word or shake your head and I will stop immediately”.

He turned back to the form, “No Contraception at all, you want us to breed you?” he said with a raised eyebrow. “Well I can see why I got this gig,” he continued “I’m Steve by the way. I will be your partner for the next 2 days”. - “Oh yes”, she enthused “I want the risk, I might ask you to pull out if I get scared though”.

Taking her hand he kissed it in an old fashioned way and then said “That is your prerogative, but I hope you don’t, putting a baby in you would be a real privilege. Now if you could just sign the disclaimer, here and here.” As she did he asked her “The safe word you were given?”.

“Angel Juice,” she replied immediately. He laughed, “it seems the computer has a sense of humor because we are going to get a lot of juice out of you angel”. She laughed with him as her pussy pulsed from the thoughts it conjured up. “Now where to start…mmm I think The Rape Rack would be perfect”.

He took her by the hand and led her to a door halfway along the corridor behind reception. The whole thing was turning her on so much she was glad she had decided against the thong or going commando. She needed something with a proper gusset to stop the juice running down her legs, as it were they were already soaked through and nothing had happened.

Fuck she was horny! She followed him into the room which looked very bare with bright lights and white walls. “It’s not very homely,” he said, noticing her reaction, “but the light is for video and the rest is wiped clean because sluts like you tend to squirt everywhere”.

“Video?” she asked with surprise in her voice.

“Oh yes, we record everything for everyone’s security. Though we can live stream you to the internet if you like”. Her clit pulsed at the thought of people watching her degradation. “I would like that” she whispered, ashamed of her own perversion.

He took his phone from his pocket, worked the screen and a few seconds later said “There we are, already got 30 regulars watching. I expect we shall get up to around 30,000. Curvy girls are always so popular.”

“Now strip you little @little-bred-riding-slutt”, there was an air of command in his voice and she complied immediately, draping the clothes over a chair in the corner. He stood watching her as she slowly removed her clothes. She noticed the bulge growing in his trousers. “I fucking love my job” he said with a smile.

Once she was completely naked he walked up to her. Grabbed a handful of her hair, pulled her head back and kissed her deeply, the passion and intensity of the kiss flooded through her. The fingers of his other hand immediately invaded her cunt, slipping easily into her wetness.

He broke the kiss and held her head back as he finger fucked her hard and fast. She was overcome with emotions. Kirsten couldn’t believe the way he treated her, like she was his property, an object he owned, a plaything.

This was how she needed to be treated, it was exactly what she had wanted for a very long time indeed. In less than a minute her body was convulsing and cumming on his skilled fingers. Each shudder through her body causing her hair to be pulled and the pain caused her to cum harder and harder. She screamed with the climax. He kept going though, even after a hard cum there was to be no respite. No sooner had her legs stopped shaking from one orgasm than her next climax was approaching. “Squirt you fucking filthy whore”, he said in her ear.

That was enough to cause her to convulse with excitement and her cunt juice to squirt all over the floor like the dirty slags she had watched on porn hub. He let her collapse into his arms and lowered her to the chair. He wandered over and checked his phone.

“Ohh 27,000 already. You are popular”, he said with a smile. She liked his smile.

“Let's check the comments:”

“She needs breeding” -- “you lucky bastard, wish I could knock up a girl like that”

“Wish I could be her” -- “Her tits look great, will look better full of milk”

“Bring her back at nine months, she is going to look so sexy full of baby” -- He smiled at her, “Seems they really do like you, I can’t blame them”.

He slid open a panel in the wall and pulled out a strange contraption. It was a metal frame with leather pads on arms that could be moved around independently. “This”, he said theatrically “is the breeding bench. Though I like to think of it as the Rape Rack, because once you are on here you are going to be helpless and I can do what I want with you”. He adjusted two pads and told her to kneel on them.

Then moved a larger pad for her tummy and got her to lay across that. Two for her elbows and a final one under her chin. It was as though she was kneeling on all fours but suspended off the floor by the rape rack.

Rape Rack, why did that name turn her on? It shouldn’t if she was a nice girl but somehow the thought of being helpless and used by this older man made her cunt drip again. He strapped her down in place she was completely helpless. Unable to move, she started to wonder if this was such a good idea.

He moved in front of her and adjusted her position so that her face was level with the bulge in his trousers. He rubbed his covered cock across her lips and she groaned. She could feel it, smell it but she needed to taste it.

He moved behind her and adjusted her position so his cock would line up with her cunt hole. Whilst he was there he forced a finger into her tight little arsehole “looks tight, I’m going to have fun stretching that” he said as though she were a brainless fuckdoll, which was really all she was now. He walked around in front of her and checked his phone again.

“Oh 85,000 that's a record, more comments”

“breed the bitch”

“cream her cunt”

“Can I eat her out after?”

“Lets see your cock”

“Oh well best not disappoint your audience” he said as he removed his clothes. As his cock sprung free she gasped. It was a good size, 6 or 7 inches but it was thick - really thick. She loved the look of the shiny head popping out from his foreskin. God it looked delicious. “Open wide”, he commanded and she immediately complied.

His thick cock slid down her throat in one move. He held it deep down her throat as she gagged and choked on it, her throat convulsing on his cock in a way that clearly pleased him.

She looked up with her eyes pleading for breath but a cruel smile passed across his face and he reached down and held her nose shut. She struggled for breath, pulling at her restraints. She felt her consciousness ebbing away and her eyes rolled back into her head.

Finally he released her nose and pulled his cock out letting her gasp frantically for breath, her face a total mess of spit & dribble.

He grabbed the phone “A quarter of a million viewers”. He showed her the screen with all the comments on it.

“What a great cock sucker”

“Now knock her up”

“Breed the bitch”

He smiled “Well a quarter of a million people can’t be wrong. It’s time I made you a mom”. Walking round behind her, she lost sight of him for a minute but then she felt the warmth of his cock head against her pussy lips.

She expected him to go slow at first but it was not to be, he slammed into her, his thick hot flesh driving deep into her cunt. He pulled out and then slammed back in, she winced slightly as his cock head banged against her cervix. “Oh god yes” she cried. Something primeval inside her was being awakened, it was the need to breed. His pounding makes the desire for her impregnation stronger.

Every time his cock slammed inside her she craved his seed deep in her womb, this was what she wanted more than anything. She found herself screaming. “Do it you bastard, knock me up”

“Fill my cunt”

“Breed me”

This drove him on, slamming faster and harder into her fuck hole. Her words just became moans and groans as she lost control of her higher functions all she could manage was a “nuurrrgghh” as the most intense climax she had ever felt crashed over her like a tsunami of pleasure.

She begged for his seed. His cock swelled inside her, he plowed in deep and held his cock right against her cervix.

She felt the pulses as wave after wave of potent sperm splashed her insides and he roared with pleasure.

As his cock exploded inside her she just knew her defenseless egg would soon be fertilized. They stayed coupled together for a minute or two as he made sure all his seed was delivered to her receptive womb.

Finally he pulled out and she watched him walk over to his phone, his perfect cock still hard and shiny with their combined juices. “Ohh a 4.995 out of 5 rating, looks like you are very popular amongst our ... .wow..625,000 viewers. You are... internet famous girl”.

He absent mindedly stroked his cock.

“Looks like they want anal next” he said with a smile.

“That’s good because so do I,” she said as she smiled back at him.

It was going to be a perfect weekend.