#bone str

[24pagesblog]

Moringa vs Other Multiviatmins

In the world of superfoods, few plants can match the nutritional prowess of Moringa oleifera, often referred to as the "miracle tree" or "drumstick tree." Native to parts of Africa and Asia, Moringa has been used for centuries in traditional medicine and as a dietary staple. In recent years, it has gained global recognition for its exceptional nutrient density, earning it the title of a "multivitamin in one plant."

This article explores the nutritional profile of Moringa, its health benefits, and why it’s considered one of the most nutrient-rich plants on the planet.

What Is Moringa?

Moringa oleifera is a fast-growing, drought-resistant tree that belongs to the Moringaceae family. Almost every part of the tree—leaves, seeds, pods, flowers, and roots—is edible and packed with nutrients. However, the leaves are the most commonly consumed and studied for their health benefits. Moringa leaves can be eaten fresh, dried, or powdered, making them a versatile addition to diets worldwide.

utritional Profile of Moringa

Moringa’s reputation as a "multivitamin in one plant" stems from its impressive nutrient density. Here’s a breakdown of its key nutrients:

1. Vitamins

Vitamin A: Moringa leaves are rich in beta-carotene, a precursor to vitamin A, which is essential for vision, immune function, and skin health.

Vitamin C: A powerful antioxidant, vitamin C supports immune health, collagen production, and iron absorption.

Vitamin E: Known for its antioxidant properties, vitamin E protects cells from oxidative damage.

B Vitamins: Moringa contains several B vitamins, including B1 (thiamine), B2 (riboflavin), B3 (niacin), and B6 (pyridoxine), which are crucial for energy metabolism and brain function.

2. Minerals

Calcium: Moringa provides more calcium than milk, making it an excellent choice for bone health.

Iron: The iron content in Moringa is higher than that of spinach, helping to prevent anemia and support oxygen transport in the blood.

Magnesium: Essential for muscle and nerve function, magnesium also plays a role in regulating blood sugar and blood pressure.

Potassium: Important for heart health and fluid balance, potassium is abundant in Moringa leaves.

Zinc: This mineral supports immune function, wound healing, and DNA synthesis.

3. Protein

Moringa leaves are a rare plant-based source of complete protein, containing all nine essential amino acids. This makes it an excellent protein source for vegetarians and vegans.

4. Antioxidants

Moringa is packed with antioxidants like quercetin, chlorogenic acid, and beta-carotene, which help combat oxidative stress and reduce inflammation.

5. Fiber

The leaves and pods of Moringa are rich in dietary fiber, promoting digestive health and regularity.

Health Benefits of Moringa

The nutrient density of Moringa translates into a wide range of health benefits. Here are some of the most notable:

1. Boosts Immunity

Moringa’s high levels of vitamins A, C, and E, along with zinc, make it a powerful immune booster. These nutrients help strengthen the body’s defenses against infections and diseases.

2. Supports Bone Health

With more calcium than milk and a good amount of magnesium and phosphorus, Moringa is excellent for maintaining strong bones and preventing osteoporosis.

3. Improves Energy Levels

The B vitamins in Moringa play a key role in converting food into energy, helping to combat fatigue and improve overall vitality.

4. Enhances Skin and Hair Health

Moringa’s antioxidants and vitamins promote healthy skin by reducing oxidative stress and supporting collagen production. Its iron and zinc content also contribute to healthy hair growth.

5. Regulates Blood Sugar

Studies have shown that Moringa can help lower blood sugar levels, making it beneficial for individuals with diabetes or insulin resistance. The chlorogenic acid in Moringa is thought to be responsible for this effect.

6. Reduces Inflammation

Moringa’s anti-inflammatory properties can help alleviate symptoms of chronic inflammatory conditions like arthritis. Its antioxidants also protect cells from damage caused by inflammation.

7. Supports Heart Health

The potassium and magnesium in Moringa help regulate blood pressure, while its antioxidants reduce oxidative stress on the cardiovascular system.

8. Aids Digestion

Moringa’s fiber content promotes healthy digestion and prevents constipation. It also has mild laxative properties that can help cleanse the digestive tract.

9. Promotes Weight Management

Moringa is low in calories but high in nutrients, making it an excellent addition to a weight management plan. Its fiber content also helps you feel full longer, reducing overeating.

10. Fights Malnutrition

In developing countries, Moringa is often used to combat malnutrition due to its high nutrient content and affordability. It’s particularly beneficial for children and pregnant women.

How to Incorporate Moringa into Your Diet

Moringa is incredibly versatile and can be added to your diet in various forms:

Moringa Powder: The dried and powdered leaves can be added to smoothies, soups, sauces, or baked goods.

Moringa Tea: Steep dried Moringa leaves in hot water for a nutrient-rich herbal tea.

Fresh Leaves: Use fresh Moringa leaves in salads, stir-fries, or as a garnish.

Moringa Capsules: For convenience, Moringa is available in supplement form.

Moringa Oil: Extracted from the seeds, Moringa oil can be used for cooking or as a skincare product.

If you don't have a Moringa tree nearby, then you can use Moringa leaf powder as a supplement to replenish multivitamins. Use Magic Moringa for your moringa leaf powder supplement.

Moringa oleifera is truly a nutritional powerhouse, offering a wide range of vitamins, minerals, antioxidants, and other essential nutrients in one plant. Its ability to support immunity, bone health, energy levels, and more makes it a valuable addition to any diet. Whether you’re looking to boost your overall health, manage a specific condition, or simply enjoy a nutrient-dense superfood, Moringa is a versatile and effective choice.

As with any supplement or dietary change, it’s important to consult a healthcare professional before incorporating Moringa into your routine, especially if you have underlying health conditions or are taking medications. With its impressive nutrient profile and numerous health benefits, Moringa truly lives up to its reputation as a "multivitamin in one plant.

[musubiki]

Kind of a weird suggestion about bones and magic. I think you can make it so that their magic flow will only be hindered in the specific area where the bone is broken. So if their arm gets broken the magic can't flow there. Broken arm? Well you have another one to work with. Better start learning how to be ambidextrous!

In the case of using their own body to fight, they're playing with more risks of broken bones so their reinforcement magic or defense magic is generally better than those who like to do long range spells.

If someone uses magic to change appearances, breaking a bone in their body would either undo the spell entirely or undo the spell on that part of the body. You can confirm whether someone is committing identity theft but with the risk of hurting the suspect first, choose wisely.

It wouldn't be that big of a weakness for them, especially with healing magic but would give their enemy a specific target on their body.

This is assuming that they concentrate their magic on the part of the body that will cast it.

Like this there's a lot of building to consider though, like the nature of the spell, how the witches fight (long range? Short range? Do they shape shift and fight that way?), the character's personality (are they straightforward? Do they play mind games? How does it affect the fight?) Etc. fun stuff to think about XD

This got kinda long... Lol. sorry

ooo this is all interesting stuff to think about!!!! i do like the idea of magic unable to flow only in the part thats broken!! before i was thinking of it as "a broken bone disrupts magic flow everywhere once a bone is broken" but that seems like such a huge disadvantage that i would be too imbalanced in fights..

but yeah im still thinking about how it all works!!! originally bones was one of the things magic actually cant effect alongside time and hearts (this last one is rooted in the whole witches strong love thing, theres no way to change your true feelings with magic), so i know for sure at least that magic cant heal a broken bone the way it can heal a flesh wound or literally any other wound

(again though madam springs is a recent development and she probably has something for it!!!! like a combination of some special leaf wrap and a medicine or herbal bath that repairs bones in a week-ish, so bringing the bones thing back in theoretically isnt impossible to work with!!)

[jeizet]

DND Characters!

They are....

Autora, the cleric/sorcerer wooden elf; Leah, the fighter half elf; and Sofia, the artificer half elf.

About them (VERY LONG TEXT):

Autora!

She was kidnapped as a child and raised by an adventurer's guild. Them believing that elves were naturally gaslight the tiny Autora into beeing a devotee of Demeter... it worked and was blessed by her!

But the methods of making her a devotee were physical and mental abuse so she would seek refuge on the only thing she had available, scrolls of different gods, and she chose Demeter maybe because of her love of nature, or perhaps of the kind and motherly figure shown in the pictures.

Thankfully she got other kids to play with not long after becoming a cleric (The guild said that they wandered in randomly, so it might be a reward for becoming a devotee!) They were; Leah a younger half-elf trained to be fighter and his little infant sister Sofia, whom he always carried on his arms even tho she knew how to walk.

After gaining her cleric powers, the abused calmed down but she was trained endlessly in order for her to improve her healing powers, and even took her to a lot of missions where she lost an arm.

When she came back, Leah saw her state, and the fact she couldn´t even heal her wounds because she had no magic left in her. And decided it was enough, and took her and her sister away of that place.

At first, Autora was sad about leaving since the adventurers didn't have another medic, and "not all of them were bad...", but Leah said they had a mission and Leah never lied before...

This was all before and when she was 15.

When she was 16, Leah told her the truth about how this was never a mission and she understood.

When she was 18, Sofia made her an arm that allowed her to use mage hand in a way that simulated a true arm, not so strong but really helpful.

When she was 20, The whole team decided to build a home in a little town hidden between the mountains, where she became the medic, and once again started to use her magic until she passed out just to help.

And when she was 22, During an argument, Leah told her about how her cleric powers were planned from the start by the guild. Making her faith for Demeter break loosing her cleric powers.

Although she no longer was the town's cleric, and people were kind and understanding to her, she couldn't handle not longer having powers so went for a way to gain magic again anything at all, maybe she couldn't trust demetere anymore but... maybe another god? study it? anything.

Maybe in another life she would have become a warlord, but in this life, trying to find herself, the gods heard her cries one night lost in the forest and lead her to a lively village, that looked... oddly familiar.

It was her old home.

People knew instantly who she was and invited her to the village.

Her parent passed away, the elves didn't give her a lot of information, but some slip-ups led her to think that it wasn't murder nor natural causes, but their grief of their missing daughter after 10 years that lead to that outcome. She didn't mourn them, but she was sad about what it could have been...

The elders showed her the house where her parents used to reside, still filled with furniture since they didn't want to get rid of all before Autora came back first.

Autora spent a year in that town, reading the history of her family, meeting the villagers and family friends, discovering that her father was fond of clocks to the point he gain powers from them, and that her mother loved to tend the garden on her house and the village plaza.

As an exercise she fixed some clocks learning from the books her dad had... and after she fixed the last broken one in the house, she went to bed and woke up with clock hands in her eyes and a subtle shimmer on her skin... just like her father. She tended to the dead garden in her house and village, surprisingly easy as if she was naturally good with plants... maybe Demeter's gift was real, her mother did remind her of that old art she saw in the scrolls... After she put the last flower inside her mother's garden in a pot, and gave it to the elders, she felt a familiar wave of magic growing inside of her.

Then... and only them she mourned them, right in front of the elders, she cried for what it could have been, and the comfort they gave her even if they were not there anymore.

At age 24 she came back to the village where Leah and Sofia lived, and was welcomed with open arms and lots of tears from the siblings, and Leah apologizing for his harsh words, on his knees, although that was because Sofia kicked him harshly on the back of his knee.

They are good now

(The campaign where Autora was canceled so her story also is, she is now only an NPC)

Leah and Sofia

The half elf and his tiny sister were sold to an adventurer's guild for 10 gold coins by their parents when he was only 6 and she was 3.

It looked like their parents talked greatly about them; about how Leah was extremely agile and passionate on fighting even having a preference for shielding and strategy, and how Sofía was extremely pretty, fully aware of it and using it on her advantage, also weirdly interested on breaking and fixing all her toys.

The adventurers welcomed them kindly, they talked about how it's great to have more kids in the team, that the only kid in their guild would be happy to have play mates.

They introduced them to Autora, and she was really nice and energetic, Sofia automatically warmed to her so Leah also did, not wanting to ruin her sister having another girl friend.

Leah thought training with the adventurers was a lot of fun, and Sofía was allowed to read any books they had, which was limited to only magic books, he always thought that it was because some adventurers wanted to become wizards...

That was until he was 12, and heard the drunkards talking about the methods they used to make Autora a Cleric, and realized that if they had scrolls that Sofía hadn't read... it possibly meant they were trying to lead his sister to also be a magic user.

When he was 13, Autora came back without an arm. And told her and Sofia that they were assigned a mission after her wound has treated.

They traveled throughout the forest, to the city and met sailors that took them far away.

When he was 14 he told the girls the truth, Autora took it well, and Sofia already knew... even the plan of the guild to make her a wizard. She wasn't one to do what people wanted her to do, so she used the spells as creativity for inventions she worked on in secret. Tiny confetti bombs inspired of a spell that made a strong noise, a hand that extended like a jack in a box that was controlled by strings, and other amazing stuff.

When Sofía was 13, she completed her greatest invention! A hand for Autora, the girl that taught her Elven language and showed her support on her genius.

By age 14 and 17, after travelling on multiple boats, they bought their own, and sailed far away completing missions, haunting animals and fishing to sell and fixing other people's boats to make money... although they never told Autora about it, wanting Autora to just enjoy freedom.

When they were 15 and 18 they went to a beautiful village hidden in the mountains, with a river to the open sea for them to continue adventuring if they wanted, nice people, and lots of artificers and fighters. The whole team decided that it was time to settle!

And everything went great until the people in town became... weird about the team cleric. People talked about Autora as an angel fallen from heave itself, kind, motherly, strong and with an innocent beauty... and those wonderful words put pressure on the girl.

Autora started working extra hard, using all her magic on fixing even the tiniest migraine for the town's people. Sofía started to study medicine so she could help people too and perhaps lessen her burden... but people wanted Autora's "blessing".

And after a few years Leah was tired of Autora's healing magic, the fact that people talked about it as a blessing when it was all a sham, and how even Sofía always told him to not tell her about the plan of their old guild.

But he didn't hear, and when Autora told him to stop being mean to the people that came for her aid... he screamed at Autora about being gullable and childish, about how she has nothing other than her magic which was planned from the start.

Sofía tried to stop him, but he couldn't stop and only stopped after a punch in the face by his sister.

He left the house with Sofía and got scolded. Leah didn't completely understand people's feelings but Sofía did, Sofía knew how to deal and understand people, she always understood that Autoras WAS raised to be a Cleric and nothing other than a Cleric, Autora wasn't raised to say no, to defend herself, to be selfish, and for Sofía this whole travel was to help her find herself... and at the start Leah thought the same, but it might have forgotten along the way.

Leah slept on the boat that day, Sofía told him to think about what he said and to apologize when he calmed down....

The next day Autora had no powers.

The next week Autora was nowhere to be seen.

And for the next 2 week Sofia and Leah didn't talk.

Sofía was happy... kind of... and Leah couldn't understand why, their best friend disapeared and she was calm, Autora could have been kidnapped! But he assumed that maybe Sofía knew something he didn't.

She did. In the room she shared with Autora, she left a card before leaving, explaining how "even if people were kind to her, she indeed was nothing without her magic, and she didn't want to just be sad for an indefinite amount of time, she was going to get magic again" and Sofía knew Leah wouldn't like that.

He was pure muscles and although he was clever, it was only for fighting, introspection, "finding one selves" was dumb for him, and considering how over protective he was, Sofia knew he would search for their friend, not realizing that it was the first time Autora took a decisions for herself, and she didn't left with nothing, she took weapons, food, potions, one of their maps and, to Sofia's pleasure, her own money AND Leah's share, definitely as revenge since because of his mouth she lost her magic and Sofía couldn't be prouder.

Sofía told her brother to get over Autora, that she will come back, and to do something else, "stop moping" she said.

And a very offended Leah decided to go on a trip... specifically to their old adventurer's guild. While Sofía stayed on the town waiting for Autora in case something happened.

The siblings talked a lot about one regret they had... not burning that place to the ground. And since Leah didn't have anything to do, might as well do it now.

It took about half a year to reach their old home, could have been less if he had realized sooner that his coin pouch didn't have coins but instead a lot of bombs... his sister definitely knew what he was going to do... he would have liked that she left her money tho. So he had to take some jobs along the way.

Sadly, when he reached the building, it was empty, asking in the town people told him how the adventurer's recently tried to kidnap the daughter of a noble high elf, and after her bodyguard saved her, he took it upon himself to kill majority of the guild.

Leah still burn the building but it wasn't the same, he wanted some revenge, and some point of his life he wanted to be strong so he could kill all of those bastards and now he felt kind of... lost...

He imagined that Autora felt the same.

He imagined that Sofía perhaps knew about how he wouldn't get revenge.

And she did, she had known for a time that the guild was dead, after a conversation in a bar with one of the guilds survivors that was drunk and didn't realized it was the little girl the bought a while ago.

Not only that, but she gave them the idea of kidnapping the young elf noble. She recognized some of the stupident guild members a day she was at the bar with Autora, they were probably adventuring, so she started a conversation with her absolutely wasted friend about how "High elfs supposedly had powerful magic" and how she "met a pretty noble but she was also pretty dumb and got her to buy her some expensive jewels with the story that "they were stolen from her family", she even followed her to an alley without any issue!", all of that was complete lie, the only thing she knew is that high elf had a very blood thirsty bodyguard that was absolutely enamored with his client and wanted to see if they would bait.

She didn't expect the bodyguard to start a massacre but she guesses that kidnapping his beloved was a big deal.

Neither Leah or Autora know about all this of course.

And she didn't told her brother even after he came back from his trip.

Things were a little awkward when Leah came back, the town never really liked him, there were no news of Autora yet and his sister was still hold a tiny grudge about him hurting Autora's feelings. Still, they sat down and he told her about the adventure, about the missions he had to take and how it gave him some nostalgia to go back to the adventurer's life, and what happened to the guild. His sister heard the whole story attentively, even the parts she knew, and the air became a little easier to breathe.

Her plan was to make his brother go on a useless trip, she didn't expect him to actually miss the adventuring they used to have.

For Sofía their adventure was to help her friend and to learn, If Autora didn't need her anymore, she still wanted to learn about becoming a better artificer.

For Leah this trip was simply to run and to find a home, he didn't expect that his home was just going to be the thrill of adventure more than a place.

Learning this was soothing...

Waiting for Autora to come back Leah started to take adventuring missions instead of just bodyguarding, and months later Autora came back, changed and so much happier.

She was welcomed with tears, hugs and a kneeling Leah begging for forgiveness on his knees, although the "on his knees" part was because Sofia kicked him on the back of them.

And things were good again.

Changed, since Leah and Sofia decided they wanted to travel again, and Autora wanted to move back to an elven village she found in the forest and make a home there.

It was going to be the first time they were going to be apart and surprisingly it wasn't as scary as the idea seemed before, when they were younger.

(Now, Leah is in one campaigned, he was teletransported to another world where they HATE magic, and he no longer shares that sentiment... and has a kind of romantic interest? there's a hot druid drow that is very intelligent and pretty dry like him.

Sofia is in another campaign that just started, for now she just started a fight in a bar, and is investigating what it seems to be a Mafia???)

[racke7]

Another 3 hours and a lot of ESFX-tweaking later:

We'll see whether or not this convinces me to actually play the game at some later date.

[bloodtwin]

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@starcunin sent: “violence  isn’t  the  answer.  violence  is  the  question.  the  answer  is  yes.” // SOURCE: incorrect quotes generator.

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He should probably scold him for saying that. Especially to Puck of all people. Alas, a grin stretches across the half-elf's face instead. Ever impressionable, ever malleable, Puck requires little to sway him towards ill-advised decisions.

Yes, violence seems a fine choice for today's activities. He can't seem to find anything wrong with the idea, so it's probably fine.

❝ Hm . . . But what kind of violence do we choose ？Should we sneak up on them ？Maybe that's boring, though. I mean, we always do that. Or, oh ！I pick you up & throw you at them. I bet I could drop-kick you hard enough to hit someone, like, really easily. I like that one; it's funny. ❞ Pause. He drums his fingers on the hilt of the dagger in his hands. Suddenly, there is a much more sinister glint in his eyes as he looks Astarion up & down. Thinking. Plotting.

❝ Do you think we could KILL someone like that ？Probably. We should try it. ❞

[eldritchmochi]

100% not arguing the math, but i gotta say, our boi is probably *substantially* heavier at base weight than you factor for. source: i am 5'8" and built like a brick shit house, and ive got 40lbs on your top weight for ashton

more important than height for estimating his weight is their strength stat. muscle weighs more than most tissue, so someone who is absolutely stacked like pancakes is going to be heavier than someone with a similar set of body measurements in inches

ashton (at level 15) has a str stat of 18 in his standard form. their official art paints them on the leaner side, and we know tal would and probably did give extremely detailed notes for ashtons pc art so shape is probably As Intended. still, average weight for strongmen irl as a whole is 230ish lbs, with lightweight classed (amab) strongmen topping out at 175lbs and heavyweight class starting at 231lbs and going up from there. if ashton is comfortably middleweight with their 18str, the max of your initial estimate is probably the low end of the actual (dnd) reality.

if ashton is afab, that can definitely fuck with the numbers, and theres not an obvious source for stats on nonbinary strongmen who dont fall easily into gendered boxes. while his junk doesnt really matter, ashtons theoretical hormones would effect his weight, since higher e (usually) leads to more bodyfat while higher t (usually) leads to more muscle, even if nothing else changes (just ask anyone on hrt, cis or trans).

im afab, ambiguously gendered wrt hormones and sex characteristics in that im on a low dose of t and have had top surgery. im also fairly comparable in height and build to ashton (thicc thighs and arms but a fairly slim torso, while also being stacked like pancakes). i weigh about 240lbs, tho i wouldnt say i have an 18str (yet). id also say ashton probably has a lower bodyfat % compared to me, tho probably not substantially

id ballpark their base form weight at about 225-240lbs in human terms, or 675-720 in stone (har), factoring for not only their height, but str stat and tals intentional Vagueness on their agab (wherein they could have a higher bodyfat% than they would have otherwise were they specifically cismale)

so 720*2.37 = ~1700lbs pretty easy

extra heavy boi

i pulled stats on strongman classes from this page, and did not use the female classing system because ime would skew towards more femmes in the "any" class based off the folks i know, cos heaven forbid a woman be fat or even just tall

Did you know that Ashton probably weighs over 1,000lbs while in Titan Mode?

The math is as follows:

Ashton is stated to be 5'10" (c3e21), so, depending on body type/shape/condition, that would put them in the 150-200lb range. But rocks are generally 3 times as dense as humans, so Ashton's actually weight is somewhere in the 450-600lb range.

Which matches with chatter from c3e60, where they were debating trying to use Tenser's Floating Disk for transport and Marisha noted Ashton had to be at least 450lbs of the 500lb weight limit. And ignores the chatter from c3e87 where the point was to make a boulder plus Bells Hells less than 1,000lbs so they could ride it using Telekinesis, thus guessing Ashton to be 250lbs. Because if he was 450lbs, they definitely wouldn't have all been able to ride the boulder since Bells Hells alone would have eaten up the 1,000lbs of lift (but also rules for Telekinesis are weird in original 5e because you can move a Huge creature, which can be nearly 30ft tall and weigh like 10,000lbs based on this kind of math applied to storm giants assuming they have a human-like weight-height ratio).

Now, when Ashton titans up, they scale up 2ft in height, which is roughly a third of their normal size. To get weight, you have to multiply the original weight by the proportion of the new size cubed (increase on all three axis), so 450lbs ×1⅓³. Or for easy calculator math 64/27 (4³/3³) then multiply by 450. If you use decimals, it throws off your numbers the less 3s you have after the decimal.

So ~2.37×450=~1,066⅔lbs. And honestly, you could probably add at least another 100lbs or so to this minimum weight from Ashton's legs getting trunk-like, all the stone protrusions, and Matt generally describing the form as bulkier and more elemental-like.

So 1,200lbs give or take is about the minimum weight of Ashton's Titan Mode. The 600lb base form puts it at 1,422lbs, plus greater bulk weight, so like 1,600lbs or so at that upper estimation end.

Point is, titaned rock boi be heavy.

[reidsmanuscript]

Sweet echoes of the past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had been a monster.

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

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

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

You definitely needed a bath. A long one.

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

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

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

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

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

That wasn’t good enough.

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

You weren’t so sure.

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

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

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

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

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

But then, the little things started adding up.

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

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

But nothing prepared you for this.

The moment you stepped inside, something felt wrong.

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

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

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

A piece of candy. Then another. And another.

Everywhere.

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

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

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Crinkling wrappers, glinting under the dim light.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

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

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You followed it into the kitchen. More candy.

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

Your fingers twitched. Your jaw clenched.

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

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

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

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

A folded note.

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

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You reached out.

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

Your knees locked. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

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

The paper crinkled between your fingers as you unfolded it.

Miss me, sugarcube?

—Dr. C.

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

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

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

“What's up, Woody?”

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer felt his pulse tick up.

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

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

Something was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The apartment felt wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan frowned. “Who is that?”

“He was my foster father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something in you snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t know which was worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question made you tense up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The numbers weren’t in your favor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He recognized it instantly—Dostoevsky.

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

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

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

“The c-candy… we have to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let us help,” Emily stated firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course! Totally on it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me do it,” he offered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see hesitation in his eyes “Please?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until the last room.

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

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

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

Your fingers barely brushed against it when— crack.

A footstep. A snap of dry wood behind you.

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

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

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

Then it hit.

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

The world lurched.

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

Your foot slipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Woody!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The low whistle from Morgan saved you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sharp gasp from Caleb cut him off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caleb, I don’t think thi—”

You never got to finish the sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand closed around it.

But Caleb was faster.

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

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

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

No. No. No.

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

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

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

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

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They were too late.

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

A fingernail. Lodged between the wooden floorboards.

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

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

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

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

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

Something wasn’t right.

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

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

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

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

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

That was why his phone hadn’t worked.

That was why Morgan’s call had cut out.

You were gone.

And they had walked straight into it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had been drugged.

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

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

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

The warehouse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never tried to hide the candy again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was on his knees, bleeding, vulnerable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan’s expression hardened.

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

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

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

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

Something inside you cracked.

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

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

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

But it was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Spencer appeared at your side.

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

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

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

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

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

But you were a monster. Weren't you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sound sent a shiver down your spine.

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

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

“Check in two,” you announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He extended his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[tojipie]

crybaby reader! but it isn’t toji who makes her upset, it’s someone else maybe some guy at her college how would toji react?

i honestly want to dedicate a proper blocked off chunk of my masterlist to this pairing :(( this is for the extreme social anxiety girlies who can only ever be around their boyfies (me)

content: hurt/comfort, fluff, severely introverted reader, anxiety

every hour spent in this class was more time to yourself to mull over why you’d let toji convince you to take an in-person course for once.

you’d gotten through college just fine these past few semesters, sitting through your lectures from the comfort of your living room. most of your school day was spent cuddled up with your back pressed to your boyfriend’s chest, where you were safe. 

you liked your routine, you craved order. there was nothing wrong with doing school online, in fact, you much preferred it that way over making the infuriating commute to school every morning.

toji had liked your routine just fine too, boasting about how nice it was to have you at home. that was until you started to let yourself go, slacking off during class to make yourself snacks, take showers, and nap on the couch.

that’s eventually why—much to your chagrin— toji convinced you to sign up for an in-person course to help you get your momentum back.

you were hesitant at first, blown completely out of the water by his outlandish request.

“just one day a week,” he pleaded, petting over the crown of your head in reassurance. “just one day to get a little fresh air, make some friends. don’t that sound fun?”

“i’m not gonna make any friends,” you explained bitterly, stomach already cramping with distaste at the thought of being forced to take the time out of your day to make your commute and spend 2 hours in a 30-person classroom every wednesday. people your age were cruel, you’d learned that very early on.

you knew it was unhealthy, squeezing your bubble this tight until you and toji were the only ones that could fit in it. was it really that bad to protect your peace though? you trusted toji, and he was better than anyone at showing you how loved you were—in his own way of course. 

you don’t say anything the day you press “enroll” on your school portal, feeling your boyfriend rub both hands up and down your sides in silent support. in fact, you’d secretly been the slightest bit excited at the change in scenery, ready to consider expanding that little bubble of yours.

keyword, consider. you were considering it right up until your first group assignment.

the stranger—your partner for the day, looks you up and down for only a moment, awkwardly turning to tap his friend behind him.

“switch with me,” he mutters, already grabbing his bag to leave your table with a sigh of relief.

the humiliation that settles deep within your bones is excruciating. you feel hot all over, suddenly conscious of every breath you take, how your chest shudders as you try not to cry. had he already decided he wanted nothing to do with you based on one look?

the girl he switches with isn’t much of an improvement, spending the majority of class on her phone while you work quietly on your laptop. you hear her laugh once or twice, too scared to look up and see if the giggling was at your expense.

you slink out of the room forty-five minutes early, unbeknownst to the people around you.

this was such a big mistake.

˚ ✧ ───

toji freezes the second you start to blubber into the swell of his chest, holding his thin work shirt in your quivering fists.

“what is it baby?” he whispers, bringing a large hand up to pet over the crown of your head. “you trip in the elevator again?”

“no,” you sniffle, embarrassedly wiping hot tears with your jacket sleeve. you didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t feel like enduring another wave of embarrassment lest you relive the events from today. 

the older man realizes the source of your tears, choosing his next words with caution.

“didn’t like class today?” he asks, fiddling with a strand of your hair absentmindedly.

“not going back,” you mumble, untangling yourself from his limbs to set your bag down on the couch. you sprawl out on the piece of furniture, exhausted beyond belief.

you tell him what had happened in the hours prior, pausing a few times to will away oncoming tears. toji kisses away each salty droplet, mouthing at your neck to coax an unexpected fit of laughter from you.

“you send in that project yet?” he asks, thumbing at the seam of your shirt.

“not yet, why?”

“bring it here.”

you oblige, curious.

the older man flips through the slides until he gets to the title page, highlighting your “partner’s” name and clicking the backspace with enthusiasm.

“there you go sugar,” he smiles, pulling you into his lap to let you get a better look. “you’re gonna go to that class and you’re gonna get the credit you deserve, okay?”

you truly hadn’t thought of it that way, intertwining your fingers as toji submits the project for you. was standing up for yourself really that simple?

tears start to well behind your lashes for the umpteenth time that day, reducing you to mush as the raven-haired man pulls you flush with his chest.

“thank you,” you mumble. he knows what you mean without you having to explain, wishing you wouldn’t thank him for the bare minimum. 

toji fiddles with each of your smaller fingers as you drift asleep against him, too overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotions to stay awake any longer. 

he whispers sweet promises to you as your mind walks the right rope between consciousness and dreamland, telling you how he’ll hold your hand on every walk to the train station from now until the last day of the semester. 

and you don’t think you’ve ever felt this safe in your life.

[sincerelyhunnybee]

Seijoh 4 Bedroom Headcanons

a/n: no, not like that u little pervs. like what their actual bedrooms would look like around post time-skip. visuals included btw. enjoy <3

disclaimer: all photos were found on pinterest and none belong to me

oikawa

right after moving to argentina, he got a cute little one-bedroom apartment on a higher floor with a balcony.

he couldn't bring a lot from japan, so his place was bare bones, made him a little sad and lonely the first couple of months. the only decor he had were pictures/polaroids he put up using tape he bought from the corner store

once the athlete paychecks start coming in, he can buy more stuff to make his space feel more like a home like artwork and better lighting

speaking of lighting, he’d layer tf out of it. so not just a statement ceiling light but also clean, modern standing lamps and table lamps too. all have warm toned bulbs.

one of the most prominent things that can be seen around his place are plants! he became a plant daddy so quickly and was super pumped to see them grow. each morning is like a ritual with watering/misting them or moving them around so they can get sun. him taking care of plants gives him another purpose aside form volleyball. reminds him of when he was captain and taking care of his team.

sticks to a color palette of warm and bright tones of beiges, creams, whites, with some grey here and there to compliment the green plants.

you’ll spot a yoga mat and foam roller tucked in the corner

bedsheets are always crisp and 5-star hotel quality. and they smell amazing like lavender/citrusy

this diva sleeps with 10000 pillows bc he needs to feel like he's getting a hug every time he goes to sleep ;(

guys pls he's so touch starved and lonely at this point in his life he just wants someone to hold and sleep next too (maybe that can be u ;) )

iwaizumi

his room started off pretty bare since he had to experience how expensive going to school was in the U.S. plus he lived in a small dorm with little room for decor, made sure his place was close to a large gymnasium in tokyo

he’s the type to keep his space very clean and minimalistic sticking to dark, neutral colors as his palette. it serves to give off a calming and grounding effect that matches his personality imo

for sure has a neat, modest bookshelf filled with sports science books, anatomy guides and a few novels. resting on one shelf is a postcard from argentina that oikawa sent him.

he does not believe in the Big Light™️, only ambient and natural light allowed in his bedroom.

more about his decor, like oikawa he has pictures of his college days, old teammates and family. some plants like ivy and succulents also have their residence about his room. and lastly, a large, singular poster of godzilla that hangs proudly on his wall.

simple bedding, four pillows, matching dark sheets. smells of sandalwood/eucalyptus, he’s got a firm mattress tho :o[ bc it’s better for the back

due to his profession he’s very busy but always makes time to exercise so there are dumbbells and resistance bands safely stored beneath his bed

iwa’s space reflects his disciplined lifestyle but also reveals someone who is sentimental towards his friendships and memories. his bedroom is a place where he can unwind after a long day while staying connected to his passions :’)

matsukawa

his room just looks cozy and effortlessly cool to match his laid-back personality. like he just threw shit together and it worked out perfectly

dark color palette of deep greens, blacks and browns. his decor brings in some complimenting color like red, purple, and yellow

unlike iwaizumi and oikawa, his room is messier but not terrible. his bed is usually unmade and maybe a sweatshirt will be draped over a chair, water cup/bottle collection on his desk. it’s for sure a very lived-in space

the ambiance is lovely, like a perfectly curated nest, the softest, worn sheets and pillows that smell like bergamot and cinnamon paired with soft fairy lights or LED light strips and low music playing in the background, sleeps comes naturally here

blackout curtains are a must, they almost always cover the window in his room so you can really never tell what time it is but that’s fine because he works weird hours at the funeral home and he likes to sleep <3

he’s a gamer™️ imo, so he’s got a nice setup on the desk next to his bed, probably does streaming on the side or always talking to his friends on discord. i just know he’s diamond in valorant and a viper-omen main teehee

honestly his room is entertainment central, fuck a living room. he’s got a decent record player speaker to play his loud ass music, tv to fall asleep to movies/shows, and even a rubix cube he’s solved multiple times with a hidden snack drawer to top it off, you’ll never be bored here

decor consists of some manga volumes, figures/collectables, trinkets (he’s a trinket guy), a lego set and maybe one (fake) plant, and a tapestry blanket hanging on his wall

hanamaki

imo he’s totally a trust fund baby so not just his room but apartment as a whole is just very well styled

he has a fun and eclectic way of decorating with a beautiful harmony of bright whites and greys paired with accents of pastel blues and some pinks

his fashion is peak so he has some pieces on display on a rack with pairs of shoes that he spent a little too much money on smh

has a trendy low platform bed with a very soft duvet, lots of pillows and a gag gift stuffy from mattsun and the sheets hold the sweet, fruity smell of his room spray representing his never ending sweet tooth

the lighting is also heavily ambient and natural but he has a ceiling light that can have the brightness adjusted, light color and tone changed to fit his mood

his “work” space is really just for him to be on discord with mattsun and other online friends on one screen and updating his fashion blog on another. cute junk decorates his desk like a half-drawn doodle, a thrifted lava lamp, and a rubber duck oikawa got him at the ¥100 store in high school

like mattsun, his room is a little messy but more so in an organized chaos way, like he has a piles of PR boxes he has to go through and review in the corner next to his beanbag chair, laundry he has to put away and a stack of magazines in an upcycled crate

makki is the unemployed friend on a tuesday doing some random side quest, one of which is he’s always adding/removing decor from his space to always keep it fresh but there are staple pieces that must remain and they are usually ones with sentimental value (always related to his friends)

much love to @heiayen and @qichun for contributing and letting me yap abt in discord <3

- written in association with @interstellar-inn -

[naffeclipse]

What if Eclipse from AP was a naga? And this took place in the deep jungle of the amazon, where photographer y/n is trying to take pictures of the wildlife?

I'm vibrating at the speed of sound over this ask while also nudging my naga au

Naga Eclipse from AP would have the tail of a Green Anaconda, with an olive green scaly color dotted with black, framed by burning-like flares of orange along the length of his slithery body. He's also decorated with orange-yellow striping on either side of his long, slipper form. His upper half is scaley with a lithe deadliness to his musculature and decorated by frills surrounding his head with brighter orange-yellow colors, almost hypnotic in their gradient hues. One eye is deep emerald green, and one is midnight blue.

Lucky you—you're out on a once-in-a-lifetime expedition to explore a jungle closed off to the public, funded by Fazco, and occupied by two researchers who will be your bunkmates for the next few weeks. You're itching to take photos of the large river, including swamps, marshes and streams, and whatever wildlife is out there.

The few locals you did meet before you left to hike the rest of the way to what would be your new, isolated home warned you of a dangerous snake—a large, mythical beast. You take note of the local folklore. You understand the truth is hidden in there somewhere, and you are well aware of the dangers and diseases you could be met with in such a harsh environment, but you're determined.

It doesn't take long for you to feel eyes watching you when you first venture out by yourself. You take beautiful pictures of freshwater fish, big and beautiful, unlike any you have ever seen. Of course, you have hundreds of snapshots of the local flora, the trees, the floating meadows, the thick vines that drape each branch and hang thickly about the ground. You almost forget that you eerily don't feel alone.

But you swear something moves in the water—the ripples stop as soon as you look. The stillness is suddenly stiff, lifeless. Even the birds have stopped chirping.

You lower your camera and carefully put it away. A trickle of fear slips into your heart. You turn away from the river's edge only to be met by a low hiss and a creature, unlike anything you witnessed in your travels, spooling itself neatly out of the water, blocking your path to the base. An incredible creature with long arms and a great, serpentine tail that seems to stretch for yards and yards. You can hardly breathe in his presence—he's otherworldly with his frills and scales and fangs.

His eyes contain a mesmerizing shine as if staring into a fire as it burns or watching the ocean as it laps up against the beach, drawing your attention, demanding you don't look away. You couldn't anyway. Half-frozen, you struggle to keep from collapsing. He beckons with a sharp talon. He hisses softly for you to come closer, mouse. He wants to see you. You try to beg no without revealing how terribly you tremble. He doesn't let you go. He insists. His eyes flash with an allure. You almost step close when he murmurs that you need to be good.

But then your sense of survival kicks adrenaline into your heart, and you turn to run—

He strikes faster than your eyes can follow. Two loops of his green and orange tail surrounded you in an instant. You're dragged to the ground, your arms pinned under his mass, and the back of your head cradled by his large palm as powerful muscles squeeze you in the slightest—a gentle rebuke for thinking you could get away. You're hyper-aware of the terrifying bulk of muscles as you lie trapped in his coils. One strong twist and your eyes could pop out of your skull, and every bone protecting your heart and lungs would crumble to shards. You gasp. An urge to kick your legs and struggle erupts in your panic; a sinking feeling tells you it would only make things worse.

He coos over you, hissing and humming in an ancient song of the jungle you have no name for. When you whimper, he shushes you and strokes your cheek. He tells you how lovely you'll be. When you talk back to him, somehow finding your tongue amid your horror, you find out his name. Eclipse. He moves you more upright, resting you on his tail so you're not petrified by how vulnerable you feel lying down, but he never loosens his scaly bindings. He hovers over you. You gaze into his stunning frills of yellow-orange and wonder how a being like him came to exist. He studies you as you study him. He grins at how you shiver when he traces your collarbone with a sharp fingertip.

You remind yourself that you can still breathe. He hasn't crushed you—yet—but you don't like how wide his smile is. Sometimes, his jaw stretches a little too long as if dislocating from his skull, ready to devour you. His eyes gleam with a ravenousness as scales twist around you, holding you close enough to smell the slick green water he had been in and deep musk.

He tells you that he'll see you again very soon—away from other humans, lest you bring him a fine gift for a meal. You can only flex your fingers, silently pleading in your heart that he won't unhook his jaw and eat you alive.

Then, he unravels himself from your limbs. But before he lets you go entirely, he leans in close, his serpentine tongue flickering close to your neck and by your hair, tasting the air around you as you muster all your strength to not scream. He inhales deeply, pleased, before he murmurs, "Sweet mouse. You are mine. Say it."

You don't understand, but you echo his command, and when he taps your chin once in what might have been a loving gesture, you force your jelly legs to solidify before you run and run, all the way back to base. You slam the door to your room behind you. You touch your ribs, your arms, still caught in the heavy sensation of his loops as if he were upon you right now.

The stories are true—there is a giant snake in this jungle, and he wants you. You're afraid to discover if Eclipse's intrigue with you is only an exotic way to satisfy his hunger.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 1,700 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria, pre-Negan Warnings: language, mild gore (killing walkers) Summary: Daryl follows Y/N outside the walls. A/N: This is Part 2, the final part of a two part commissioned miniseries! Part 1 here! A/N: The patron and requester for this fic is the lovely @easy-peasy68 so thank her for her amazing generosity and support! Without her, this fic wouldn't exist!

The singing of the birds had gone silent and it wasn’t long before you figured out why. A small group of walkers were ambling toward you, growling and reaching with bony arms. It wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle though and you unsnapped the leather loop that held your knife in its sheath. You waited for the first walker to reach you before you deftly plunged the blade into the side of its head. It crumpled and you turned your attention to the next one, repeating the action.

You stepped around the bodies and prepared to deal with the third and fourth. You jabbed one through its empty eye-socket and quickly withdrew it with a sickening squelching sound. But when you attempted to plunge the blade into the head of the final walker, your blade made a dull thud and stuck fast. “Shit,” you growled under your breath, throwing up your arm to hold it back while you struggled to pull your knife free. This walker was bound up in vegetation and the roots of some woody plant and, apparently, you’d stuck your blade into a particularly strong, thick, gnarled log. “Shit!” you swore again, tugging as hard as you could while still trying to extract your weapon, a task proving difficult as you tried not to get scratched or bitten. There was also one more walker advancing on you behind it. You tried once more to wrench your knife free but were unsuccessful. “Shit, shit, shit!” you growled. Your eyes began searching the ground for an impromptu weapon—a log, a rock, something.

But the next moment there was a swift rush of air and a familiar looking bolt rushed past your shoulder and buried itself between the eyes of the snapping, grim-face walker groping toward you. It fell to the ground in a heap. You kicked your knife free from the root and used it to put down the final walker.

When you straightened up, panting, your head snapped around to see Daryl striding toward you from a short distance away. Your brow furrowed as he marched over and retrieved his bolt, wiping it clean on his pants and then fixing a stare on you that seemed to cut you to the bone.

“The hell ya doin’ messin’ around out here, huh?” he growled, scolding you. He reloaded the bolt in the flight groove of his crossbow before locking eyes with you again. His glare was intense.

“I had it under control,” you retorted, wiping your knife clean on your jeans and slipping it back into the sheath.

He let out a scoff that had you narrowing your eyes at him.

“What are you doing out here then?” you pressed him. He didn’t seem to have a good answer for that and you noted that he seemed uncomfortable, clearing his throat and shifting his weight. What was he doing out here, miraculously showing up in the same place you’d wandered aimlessly to, just in time to kill that walker for you? “Were you following me?!” you asked, incredulous.

He shrugged and then gestured to the still walkers again. “Good thing I was,” he drawled, gravel heavy in his voice.

Your jaw clenched. “That doesn’t even make the top one hundred of close calls I’ve had. I would have managed just fine,” you countered. “Why the hell are you following me?” you demanded.

“Why the hell are ya comin’ out here every day and just wanderin’ around waitin’ to get fuckin’ killed?” he snapped back.

“Why do you care?!” you snapped back.

His chest was heaving with angry breaths. He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment and the air between the two of you seemed to crackle with electricity and tension. “Why the hell have ya been avoidin’ me since we got here?” he asked in a low growl. “Ya practically cross the street to the other sidewalk every time ya see me.”

You gulped and ducked your eyes for a moment.

He stared at you, his gaze piercing. “Yeah, ya thought I wouldn’t fuckin’ notice?” He began pacing in front of you, clearly agitated.

You didn’t want to have to rehash what had happened right before arriving in Alexandria. Just the thought of it made your heart ache. He made your heart ache. You came up with an excuse that wasn’t untrue… “When we were on the road, you were always watching out for me, making sure nothing happened to me. I was trying to give you a break!”

He rounded on you, his blue eyes blazing. “Give me a break? Am I really s’posed to believe yer avoidin’ me for my benefit?”

You only stared back at him and he resumed his pacing and let out a wry laugh. “That ain’t it,” he growled.

“It’s true!” you argued.

“Nah,” he said, flicking a hand in your direction. “At least that ain’t all of it.”

You tried to keep your voice measured this time. “I was just trying to give you some space.”

“Well, maybe I dun want fuckin’ space! Maybe, I—” He cut himself off.

You stared at him, your mouth agape, puzzled. “Maybe you what?!” you demanded.

“Maybe it’s important to me to make sure nothin’ fuckin’ happens to ya!”

You gave him a puzzled look. “I’m not your burden, Daryl! And I don’t need a fucking babysitter! I’m perfectly capable of—”

“That ain’t what ‘m sayin’! Ya ain’t—agh!” he growled, pacing impatiently, clearly frustrated that you weren’t understanding him. But to be fair, he hadn’t really said what he really meant and he couldn’t expect you to read his mind. There was more underneath all this.

“Well, what are you saying then?!”

“ ‘M sayin’ ya’ve been avoidin’ me since we fuckin’ got here and I dunno why! And I miss ya! I give a shit about you! For fuck’s sake, I’ve got fuckin’ feelin’s for ya!” He froze when he realized what he’d blurted out. “Fuck,” he uttered, staring at your stunned expression. “Just tell me what I did! I dun understand why—”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“What?” Daryl said, bewildered.

“You have to be joking,” you said blankly. Daryl couldn’t read your expression. His heart was racing. He looked completely baffled. “I—” you pushed him hard in the chest and let out an annoyed and infuriated groan. He took a step back to regain his balance, but immediately came back toward you. “I fucking told you while we were on the road that I—that—that I have feelings for you and you didn’t—!” you broke off, staring at him with wide eyes. “You didn’t tell me—agh!” you let out a frustrated gasp and Daryl continued to stare at you, stunned. “I felt… rejected! I thought you didn’t feel anything toward me at all!”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “You never—when didya—?”

“After the storm, Daryl. When you and I went up into the hayloft in the barn and I was telling you—”

He looked suddenly struck and his eyes went wide. “Tha’s what ya were—I didn’t know—I didn’t understand—”

You shoved him again. “Jesus Christ, Daryl!”

“Look, I ain’t good at this shit! Ya gotta fuckin’ spell it out for me!” he retorted, coming back to stand right in front of you. “‘M sorry! I didn’t know—Fuck, I didn’t—" He hung his head, clearly agonizing over the entire situation, the lost time. “Tha’s why ya were avoidin’ me? Cuz ya tried to tell me ya—ya have feelin’s for me and ya thought I rejected you?”

“Yes,” you said, nodding. “And I’ve been coming out here and trying to stay away from you behind the walls because—because it hurt to be around you knowing we couldn’t be more. And being out here… it clears my head.”

His eyes flickered between yours, his brow heavy over them. He gulped. “I thought maybe I did somethin’ that… I thought I’d screwed ev’rythin’ up somehow.”

He watched your face soften then and his heart jumped in his chest. You shook your head. “No. Unless you count not understanding the ENTIRE POINT of that conversation in the hayloft,” you said with a wry laugh. You realized that Daryl was probably primed to doubt, primed to think he was the problem, because that’s what most of his life had told him. “I’m going to say this so there’s no misunderstanding, okay? I have feelings for you and have for a long time.”

His eyes flickered between yours again and then down to your lips. “Me too.” It was all he could manage. He was overwhelmed. He’d gone from being furious and annoyed with you to—to this. He stepped closer to you and the fact that you didn’t step away seemed to light a fire in his chest. He dared to bring his hands to your waist and gulped at the way you bit your full bottom lip, your top teeth denting into the plumpness.

Suddenly, butterflies and tingles erupting in your stomach and over your skin, you broke the thick silence. “Are you going to kiss me or just keep looking at me like that?” And you smiled at him. He thought his heart was going to burst. He felt like he hadn’t seen your smile since—oh, right. Since on the road.

“Can I?” he asked. His voice came out soft and a little unsure.

You laughed lightly. “Yes. You fucking better.”

And he did. It was shy at first, but when you leaned into him and looped your arms around his neck, he grew bolder and you hummed into his lips, smiling, as his confidence grew. You couldn’t ever remember feeling so much electricity, so much warmth from a kiss, and both of you knew that this was the start of something new. And maybe the life you had wanted in Alexandria was possible after all.

[k1ttenblood]

Yay for more self indulgent writing!!

Content disclaimer: Most of the appearance of the reader isn't described other than she can fit in Abby's lap and that she's black. It's only apprx 2 brief mentions though.

Occult!Reader x Modern!Abby

Abby is probably very confused by literally everything you do tbh

One day you showed her how to do transmutation work for prosperity and you gave her an inscribed coin. She chuckled, but she kept it in her coin collection.

- You tell her about the energetic importance of the solar system, and tell her she's your sun (bright, hotheaded, constant, warm and nurturing) and you're the moon (constantly changing, moody, intuitive, more subdued but equally as intense, less warm but nurtures in a different way). You aren't sure what the look on her face means, but she's flushed pink. That year on your anniversary she gets you both matching sun and moon pendants.

- Teasing her about trapping her with the spaghetti spell.

- You occasionally do tarot readings for her

"Oh... um..."

"....What?? What does that mean?"

"Haha nothing, it's totally calling out your sweet tooth though. The Devil doesn't lie."

"BABE!"

-She does yoga and you meditate, it's part of your alone time routines. You guys sit quietly in different parts of your shared loft after you finish, peacefully writing in your journals and sipping a hot drink. Sometimes you read her coffee grounds/tea leaves after.

- She gets crystals for you. The shop attendant takes pity on her because she looks a little out of place.

- Gets a bit freaked out when she sees your collection of bones

"Where did you-"

"What do you think I do on my hikes?"

"...."

"I'm kidding!! For fucks sake Abby we live in the city, I bought them on Etsy."

"Somehow that's even weirder..."

- Thought it was bad enough waiting around watching you thrift for hours. Watching you pick out new oracle+tarot decks is even worse."

"What about this one?"

"No, it isn't speaking to me..."

"Fine. This one? It's got a cat on it, you love cats."

"The vibes are weird :/"

"We're never gonna get out of here, are we?"

- When she sees you and Alice staring into the distance in total silence she actual does get a little spooked, although she claims she doesn't even believe in ghosts.

- When she annoys you, you move her stuff around the apartment and quietly leave so she thinks it totally was a ghost in the house. She would never admit to it though. You pretend not to notice the nervousness in her voice when she calls to ask if you're home and if you saw her stuff.

- You take her on graveyard walks and you explain the meaning behind leaving stones on the headstone

- I feel like Manny is pretty spiritual, you guys talk about weird shit your family experienced. Abby is listening very intently but she can't believe that she's got *two* of you now

- 1000% you've pestered her to find out her birth time. She thinks her birth chart looks insane, you painstakingly go through each section. (I'm thinking Capricorn sun, Cancer moon, Taurus rising).

- She thinks the Mercury drinking Gatorade meme is hilarious and doesn't believe in the effects of planets in retrograde. That is until she tries to get a really important client to sign something, just to find out on the morning of the meeting that their company just got into some serious legal trouble.

- You told her a bunch of your ghost stories, and one time you while were away on a weekend family trip she heard a door open when no one was home. She ended up texting Manny for support but he all he said was "Tell it I said Hi ❤️". She threw her phone and hid under the covers for the rest of the night. Subsequently spends every night clinging to you, her protector from all things scary.

- That being said, you *can't* take this girl to a haunted house. You would never think this tall muscular powerhouse was actually a big scaredy-cat. You don't flinch at horror movies, but she's hiding behind you as she holds you in her lap. When it's time for bed, you hold her, stroke her eyebrow and cheek, and tell her that you'll protect her if a possessed axe murderer shows up.

- Again, girlie is very confused by spells but she loves watching you make them or watching you do rituals. She has no problem running to the store to get you some more cinnamon before the first of the month rolls around. You also make her special hex jars for when men make snide comments about her physique or when someone flirts with her right in front of you

- She assumes you only love Halloween but you tell her about all the fun pagan events that happen throughout the year. But she's right, Halloween is elite

- One year Manny threw a Halloween party, so you went as Calypso and she was the Dutchman from Pirates of the Caribbean. The role playing later was pretty fucking spicy 🫦

- She isn't superstitious but she thinks it super cute when you freak out about something and try to protect her from it.

"Baby... what do you MEAN the evil eye pendant I gave you exploded when you were talking to your boss???"

"Babe... it's not a big deal. I guess even the pendant was tired of his shit."

You make sure you bless her before she goes to important meetings and cleanse her after rough ones.

- Mysteriously, after so much time with you, she actually finds some comfort in the things she used to find scary. She takes pictures of cemeteries for you if she passes by a cool one.

[echantedtoon]

The Hand That Guides

Gentle words sweetened by poison. Kind smile hiding sharpened teeth. Kind touches laced with sins gripped in fists. Halo being held up by devil horns. The wolf under sheep's clothing wasn't even a wolf but a monster twisted and exotic hiding within a wolf's fur to disguise itself as a normal menace. A monster who hunts but also feels and desires.

What the desire wants will not rest until he has you once more.

(Basically my Roleswap Demon King Kagaya x Reader. Was curious about writing something for a demon Kagaya Ubuyashiki anyways.  Will contain quotes from Pinterest.

Warnings for yandere-ish themes, death/dead body/cannibalism/blood/pregnancy mentions.)

tagging: @lavenderdropp

The cold winds on the outside of the shutters best them against the glass causing a rattling sound to fill the small house like winter itself was beating on your door DEMANDING to be let inside. The cold seemed to seep into your bones despite the fact that you were sat right in front of the fire crackling away, and a thick wool blanket draped over your shoulders.

Your grasp upon the blanket became tighter than before as you cowered ever further from the rattling sounds of the shutters against glass and the wind howling demanding entry. Your response was to try and block it out by cowering your head beneath the blankets and curling up hoping that it would spare you and leave you be. Unfortunately your mind still plagued yourself with memories of that man. The one who was responsible for all your suffering.

You hadn't realized that you had married a monster.

Your husband had always been so doting and attentive to your every need and despite his supposedly fragile state and oddities, you never felt that you were the least bit neglected or unfortunate. However you had no idea of the wolf under sheep's clothing.

He was a selfish man.. There's no question about that. From the very moment you were approached by a servant of his, offering you a position for a caregiver to a seemingly terminally ill man, you had gotten the feeling that he must've been nice from how fondly the messenger had spoken of his master. You being the daughter of the local doctor and herbalist seemed to be the perfect option for a caretaker. It's not like you didn't have experience having helped take care of the patients that stayed in your father's care before. 

The pay offered seemed like a trick, and you sought out this supposed man who was so generous.

You hadn't been lied to when they had spoken about this man being quite pathetic. For all his wealth and power owning such a large estate, he looked about as healthy as a dead flower, as pathetic as a lame horse, and as helpless as a newborn babe. 

The room he was always confined to was dark. Like unusually, unnecessary dark. No windows to be had, with the only source of light being a single candle sitting upon a desk leaned up on the far wall. With strained eyes and a poor excuse for light, you had been surprised by the sight of film white orbs open and staring back at you.

He was blind as well as sick.

Not that it surprised you too much. Sometimes extreme illnesses can have an affect on the body such as loss of senses, but you hadn't been expecting such a sight of damaged purple skin, most of which was wrapped up in so many bandages that you were sure you'd been tricked into seeing a dead body until said body turned his head to you and smiled warmly despite his pathetic state.

"Good evening. You must be the person who's been chosen to care for me. Come in but please close the door behind you. My skin is sensitive to the light."

He could sit up, he could walk. Slowly and barely able too. But what seemed most peculiar was his voice. Despite the constant assault of coughing fits which sometimes drew blood, his voice was always smooth and lovely as if his throat wasn't damaged at all.

That should've been the first sign that something wasn't quite right.

Instead you thought nothing of it in the moment taken by the strange but erepheal aura about him. Perhaps that's what was so drawing about him. Despite everything  he had power, wealth, and seemingly any luxury with just a snap of his fingers, he couldn't enjoy any part of it due to the confinement of his 'conditions'.

"I unfortunately inherited a terminal illness that runs in my family," he had explained to you in such a way that didn't seem to bother him one bit. As if he had accepted death itself as his bedside companion. It took you off back. "Unfortunately it has spread so much that my world has gone dark. It worsens whenever I touch light. Sunlight specifically."

"I've never heard of such an illness being affected by light."

"Oh no. You see I just sunburn very easily, and with such a weakened immunity it takes ages for me to even heal a common bruise. So you may imagine how much trouble sensitive skin has healing sunburns."

The fact you had never heard such a thing should've been another indicator something was off, but if someone was weak then it wasn't impossible for them to be more sensitive to things or to have trouble healing when compared to a normal person with a healthy body. 

He was a prisoner. A prisoner trapped within a world of darkness by him eyes and an eternity of sickness by his body yet being surrounded by anything the most common man would kill to have. Truly ironic. It was like a starving man being served a King's banquet only to never be able to eat because he had no teeth. Perhaps it was partially the pity you felt for him and partially the pay he generously offered that drove you into accepting to be his bedside nurse. Looking back now, it was just as likely it was his words so honeyed that even a queen bed would be disgusted by it. 

Those dammed words.

The words that despite soothed and offered comfort where others' seeked to get it, a man like him was bound to be disliked. It was only to be expected. Society was not kind to those who didn't fit in the general standard for what a man should be. The weakened and sick were victims of that you were afraid. Too many times you've seen people abandon their loved ones into the limited care of your father no desire to care for their sick and/or dying loved ones. Elderly left alone to care for themselves and many babies just left crying on the doorsteps of the local monastery. 

Even born into the world's most fortunate circumstances did not stop the disgust those people feel. The maids whom came to clean up his room and change his bedding once a day, as ordered by your father during one of his routine check ups suggesting a cleaner space would be better for his health, they seemed annoyed by the repeated room clean daily. Making a few not so quiet comments on how before the last head of the estate died they weren't forced into doing a tedious job every day wasting time.

That's how you learnt that the mysterious master whom simply called himself 'Kagaya', had not even been the original Master of his estate but had inherited it from his 'relative' whom had died under 'mysterious circumstances' and came to live here. 

The strangeness surrounding him was as present as the obvious displeased feelings  everyone had to the shift of ownership within the estate and whatever few changes that the master had ordered to make disrupting the order of things. Perhaps that's why he had to seek outside help to care for him? It became quite apparent that no one here was willing to help him. Barely anyone interacted with him outside of the daily cleaning and delivering of food. You had the heart wrenching realization that none of the people here wanted nothing more than to watch him waste away from existence.

A sad existence that no one cares about.

If anyone else was in your position as well, that's what they'd feel too. Not caring about him. Just FOR him in exchange for the money he offered until he passed away and they would no longer be given the gleeful jingling of coins.

What kind of man like him deserved such a fate?

A man whom was fated for misery but who's pleasant smile and kind soul wasn't deserving of the cruelty he received. So you would decide that you would care. Until he succumbed to his illness, you'd care about him not for him. Slowly his entire care transferred to you. Daily clean up and fetching food was nothing wasted on him. Bringing him documents for running of the estate or helping him walk to the bathroom were nothing. 

However you shouldn't have been blinded to the way his body never shook or felt weak under your hands despite the slow pace he walked. How slowly he moved, how calculated he seemed to carry himself was not that of a sick or blind man. No fumbling or stumbling was unnatural..

Yet you carried out your tasks like the devoted carer you were. But it would be one incident that would change date. Stir destiny with a spoon of change of direction and boil it in the pot of deception.

On the night in question he was most unwell. His illness was flaring up causing him the worst of his symptoms. According to the ones whom were here longest this wasn't the first time he had a night like this, but no one else but a called doctor had come to care for him too afraid to be tainted by the blood seeping from his gasping mouth. But a kinder deck of cards had been laid up on the table when he thrashed upon the ground coughing like his throat was gripped from the inside out. Your hands had done what no other servant or person had ever dared.

And something else had stabbed him in his chest sharper than any nicherin blade.

She had cared for him. Her touch was one that was unfamiliar to him. It had that smile from his face as he was mystified with many thoughts. Her touch was one not driven by obligation at that moment but a need to comfort and care. It was the most loving touch he had ever felt in his life. 

That night you had cradled his upper body to stop him from hitting the floor during his planned tremors he had felt it. The warmth of your body, the driven way you rushed to stop him from flailing like a fish out of water-

From that moment, he WANTED. ...no. HE NEEDED YOU! You were so kind. So innocent. So...so..

R A D I A N T.

More addicting than even the fresh blood of a marechi. His first instinct was to just take you away and lock you up for himself but that seemed too cruel. He didn't want to taint your beautiful visage. No, no. You had been too kind as to deserve such a thing. And he was anything but a cruel man to his children and those he surrounded himself with.

So he took a route that was promising to be more long term. A heart was a sensitive thing. As easily swayed as it was passionate or as cold as it could become. 

"Y/n, do you believe in love despite the most impossible odds?"

You hadn't known how to respond when he had grabbed your hand with surprising strength and asked you such a thing. However you did respond with a nod. "I suppose so yes. Love is after all unpredictable. Why do you ask?"

"What would you say to a patient falling in love with their doctor?"

"I would say that it wouldn't be love but gratitude and positive attachment for the person. A lot of patients misinterpret it for love."

"Ah. But the heart can be right couldn't it?"

"It could also be wrong. Sometimes our imagination runs wild."

"Ah. But hearts are wild creatures. That's why our ribs are cages."

At first you had just waved him off not thinking twice about the not so subtle hints being displayed by him. It wasn't uncommon for patients to display attachment for their carers, misplaced gratitude as your father always called it. However you weren't anticipating the bear trap laced with loving touches already set for you.

Soft touches. The way his hand always hovering, seeking to hold yours when it wasn't busy. Eyes despite glossed over in white, you felt could see straight through you so lovingly. A smile on his face that no other man had offered. Genuine, warm, and so soft. 

Erepheal. Inhumanly so. Coming out with softened words of gratitude and thanks. You were stupid to fall for such a honey trap and let yourself be drawn into a wolf's jaws like a rabbit ready to die. Much to your stupidity, much to his delight.

He loved it when you willingly hugged him. Kissed him. Embraced him and all his quirks. Laughed in his presence. Didn't scoff off his words or look on in disgust from his outside appearance and what he had chosen for his disguised life. Tugging off a few heart strings like plucking the strings of a shamisen to have her leaning into his touch. Having her hold him within her lap and listening to her heart beats. A serenity that his centuries of living craved to have. The hand that guided her to the question that open the door of opportunity.

"My dear, I have need for you. For you are the only one that can fulfill my wish."

"What are you referring to?"

"I am in need of a wife and way to continue my legacy. As you can quite imagine, most would rather lie with a wild boar than to simply touch me. However you..Not only have you willingly shown not to be deterbed by the sight of me but seemed to actually enjoy my company which is a far cry from most."

"Me? Marry you?"

"Oh, I know. It is a rather sudden and surprising thing to ask out of nowhere so I'm not surprised by your reaction, but I do promise you that I can provide you with whatever you may need at my disposal. I may not be the most desirable husband but I promise you that I can give you all of me."

"I think you're asking me because you feel pressured to marry soon."

"You can not deny that we have something between us." A tight hand squeeze. "You don't have to answer now. Think it over first before you decide anything permanent."

How foolish you were.

"I do."

Those were the two words that you spoke promising your life with him. Sealed together forever and all it took was him getting you a pretty ring and having a ceremony at night with you guiding him out to the garden where the requested priest was waiting.

It was perfect.

Perhaps that's why he slipped up.

He became too comfortable. Got too used to his separate lives being intertwined yet separate that he allowed the mistake to happen. It wasn't until it was too late for you to turn back from the sweet kisses and gentle touches. A comfort in ways you never felt before. So you thought nothing about it. The red flags. The warning signs. The out of place things. He always took care of you so there was no reason to think that he was anything but caring.

So when you found out that you were expecting, you were over the moon. So you wanted to inform your husband as soon as possible! His reaction was expected. Shock. More shocked than a normal human man. You didn't think twice when you interrupted his sleep to which he specifically asked you never to interrupt. 

Usually you had never bothered him with anything during those days he simply requested a servant to bring him food. But your blindness to the other side was what drove you forward. Calling out to him and announcing your arrival before he knew what was happening-

"I'm pre-"

His body had frozen up. The door sliding open for the bloodshed on the other side to become revealed. Blood splattered amongst the floor and pooled around a cadaver long since dead in the middle of the room.

And the shocked face of the monster covered in blood staring back at her.

Red copper smelling liquid drenched all over his shocked face and upper torso from the meal interrupted. His eyes as wide as plates. The horrified shriek screeching out of the woman washed over him in horrified realization. The creature vaguely resembling the form of her husband slowly stood up. To do what, the woman wasn't sure. But instincts took over any rational thought as she turned and RAN. Ran like her life depended on it out of the house and into the daytime passing confused neighbors and surprised strangers looking up at the sudden woman shrieking and running like hell itself was biting at her heels. It was that day a horrible realization had been revealed to her shattering reality itself.

Your husband had been a man eating demon this entire time.

Kagaya had been standing there, hunched over the unmoving cadaver like some monstrous animal rabid with hunger. Red stained his clothes and splattered against his skin. Dripping down from the shocked face and falling to his crimson dipped hands like sick hell's rain. The face of a million smiles now sharpened like blades to cut flesh.

You shrieked out loud enough to warrant the action of anyone around you. You had ended up running clear out of the estate until you had reached your father a hysterical mess, gasping for air as your body shook from fear of the thing that you saw. You couldn't go back. Not now that you knew about the truth of the matter at hand. In your panicked state, you had told anyone else who would listen to what you saw. The result was a party of men including a few hunters with weapons in the front.

Storming the estate and marching into the closed off room to where you had saw the thing whatever monster it was. Only to discover not a living soul within the space. No dead body, and no Master Kagaya. Just a pool of obvious blood on the floor and a few splattering across the walls.

A gruesome sight indeed that turned many a man's blood to ice, but there was no signs of him. A quick and intense search of the entire estate and even some of the nearby woods had turned up no traces of him or any remains of the missing girl whom you later found out was one of the more crueler maids that Kagaya had requested to bring him water. 

If not for the remaining blood, you would've thought that you had gone insane. Apparently it has also not been the first time a person had gone missing in or around the estate. One at least every few weeks. It hadn't seemed suspicious with the amount of time between each person, and it was usually those most displeased staying there or had spoken of finding other work. You had thought they had just left. You never thought in a million years they'd be eaten alive!

A priest had been called to cleanse the estate before everyone fled from the cursed area. However you were terrified of what that thing was opting to stay within your room and never leave. That however did not stop the rumors and stigma of you being the wife of the monster. The hated looks. The eggs that were pummeled against your house in the middle of the night. 

You felt disgusted. Every memory of his touch sending you into terrified shakes. The same hands that killed held you. The same lips that kissed you consumed flesh and bone. The same man was nothing but a monster.

But worse of all now you were to be the mother of the monster's children.

Eventually your father figured that the best course of action was to send you few towns over to stay with distant relatives. If to not do anything but get you away from the madness this place had given you.

It had worked out for a few months. Despite the surprise reactions from your family at your sudden and scared arrival, they welcomed you into their home and let you stay with them as your pregnancy progressed. You were a mixed bag of emotions and fear despite the days and nights without a trace of your 'husband' in sight.

Until one night your family decided to go out leaving you home alone with nothing to do but cozy up by the fire and try to forget about your problems. It wasn't until someone approached the door that had your terror tonight on edge.

The unmistakable sounds of snow crunching slowly under feet wormed it's way louder than the wind and repeated tapping of the shutters against the glass panels. A chill running down your spine and goosebumps forming a long your paled skin.

At first you dismissed it as an animal. A deer, wolf, stray dog- Sone kind of large beast. It wouldn't be the first time you had animals near your home, however a deep dread filled you as your tired brain realized something about the sounds of those steps.

I T  W A S  W A L K I N G  O N  T W O  L E G S.

Fully aware now, you body frozen where you sat as whatever it was encircling your small house was slowly making it's way from around the right side of the home and crunching it's way slowly towards the front door.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD-

Your wife eyes widened as a ghost hand entrapped your throat in fear. Head turning following the steps until it reached just outside of the front door. Heart pounding in your ears, you stared at the door in silence. No sounds other than the intense breeze outside and the crackling laugh of the fire behind you. Until there was a sound. A sound that made you flinch violently. The door shook a little bit. A small tug from the outside being stopped by the lock on the door securely keeping it shut. The lock jingling where the hook went through the loop. An experimental few tugs were given before it stopped all together leaving you to look on in terror, and then the next few sounds were given.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The sound of shock and terror fled from your throat as you froze solid. You gave a shriek, scrambling back as the shook harder.

No. NO!! This was real! He wasn't really there! Your mind was playing tricks on you-

JINGLE. JINGLE. JINGLE.

The flimsy hook lock jingle with each hard tug on the door.

CLINK-

Until it unhooked. The door slid open as a whoosh of cold wind and snowflakes blew into the room. The sharp sting of cold making you raise a an arm to shield yourself from the on slot, fire wavering wildly in the hearth before your eyes blinked through the darkness and widened in fear of the purple eyes shining through the darkness.

And there he was. 

Kagaya. Looking the same as the day you left him. Only difference was his eyes. The orbs that used to be useless and white as snow now as purple as poison and slited like the predator he was. The demon could only stare at you and the obvious round middle you now sported with the unexpected arrival of your newborn on the way within the next few months. A gentle hum leaving his throat with an innocent tilt of his head.

"My goodness. Look at you. I was not expecting such a thing to be possible, but like with love many things seem to be proving themselves possible to me."

Your terrified self got up to your feet shuffling behind the chair you were sat in a moment ago when he stepped into the home. "You stay away from me!"

Instead he simply reached around to close the door behind him. "It's rather cold outside. That can't be good for the children. Do you have a coat?" He hummed again to himself looking around the house. "You'll be needing one to keep you warm after you pack and come back home."

"Are you mad!? Why would I ever go anywhere with a monster!?"

"A monster?" He smiled turning his head to a degree that was physically impossible for a human. "Now that seems to be a harsh judge of character, Darling."

"You killed that girl! You ate her body and then left behind her blood for her family to mourn." Your fingers dug into the fabric of the armchair until your knuckles were white with fear and anger. "You have sins carved into your soul that not even a devil would touch."

The head tilting was followed by the sound of a ship cracking as his head rapidly snapped back into it's rightful place. A hum escaped his throat and a hand reached out to rub his chin thoughtfully with purpled nails.

"Sins? Is it a sin to find beauty in the darkness?" A hand extended towards yourself. "To watch as the night sky comes alive with the eyes of the gods? To listen as the forest whispers centuries old secrets?" His footsteps echoed with each step towards you. "To find solace as shadows dance the same dance they have for eons? Powerful things lurk in the darkness and it is a sin to forget them."

Your body abandoned its place behind the armchair and stepped away from his approach until your back one inevitably hit the form blockage of the wall behind you. "It's also a sin to take an innocent life."

"Oh, but her life would've ended anyways. She didn't know it yet but she was very sick, and she would've died a very slow, very sad death loosing all her bodily functions. By taking her to death early she suffered nothing."

"And I am supposed to think what you did was supposed to be an act of mercy? You had no right to take step in where the reaper makes his own choice."

He chuckled. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I provided a way to avoid any suffering. A quick end now is usually preferable to a long suffrage in the grand scheme of things."

"You're sick. Both literally and figuratively."

"Am I? I suppose it's natural to think that of me at first."

Your lungs filled with a shaking breath. "Kill me if you insist on finishing what you started, but I have no intention of bowing to a king who wears a crown studded with the jewels of every life he's has ended."

For once he looked taken aback stopping just a few steps away from yourself. "Kill you? Oh, dear me. Is that what you thought I came here for?" His head shook swaying ebony locks. "No, no, no. That wouldn't be beneficial to either of us."

"Then why?"

"Why? You have got the arms I want to be wrapped in. You have got the eyes I want to get lost in. You have the smile I can never resist. You have got the voice I want to listen to for hours. I decided on you. I want you and only you."

"I fell in love with your words! Unfortunately they were all lies!"

"No. That's not true." That gentle smile was back as he approached her once more. "I didn't lie that I love you. It wasn't a lie before and it certainly isn't a lie now." 

Your body completely froze up pressing back against the wall hard as he practically looked over you. Silence as cold as death and as sweet as those words with the way he caressed your trembling face.

"My biggest mistake wasn't falling for you, it was thinking that you had fallen for me too instead of what I deceived you to interpret me as. It's not all for worse however. We have all eternity."

"You're a dangerous man."

"Ah. But you see the most dangerous person is the one who listens, thinks, and observes."

[hannachuuu]

Preachers Daughter

for my one and only ethel cain girlies

𝔗𝔥𝔢 Village had always been my whole world, a small place shrouded in gloom and silence, tucked deep within the forests of eastern europe.

The heavy Irongates enclosing this safehaven i have called my home all my life had always felt like a barrier of protection, the chilling bedtime stories still haunting me to this day, even though i have outgrown my naive childlike-self, at least i believe so.

We´ve been warned, preached to, that one shall never cross the barrier that keeps us safe within, yet over time i started to notice that even iron rots, making me feel anxious. it had made me wonder wether this barricade, this shield, would hold up for the sake of our lifes, haunted by the thoughts by what awaits us beyond what i know.

My dad, the preacher, would take me down to the edge in the early morning hours, where the red beams of the new born sun would reflect off the dark metal, an image that would follow me into my dreams, good and bad ones. We would bless the rusted material, but with each time it seemed it would wither away more.

I tightend my grip around the small ourn, a family heirloom that has been passed down multiple generations already, cotaining freshly blessed water. A routine had established with tasks that i needed to fulfill with each year that i had gotten older, preparing me for the duties when i would find a husband, bear a child.

The cold morning air bit my cheeks, and the hem of my once white dress dragged along the dirt of the muddy path, picking up every fleck of flith that was stuck between the old cobblestones. Today something felt different, my heart was restless. In the distance the sound of the heavy church bells were echoing throught the dark forest, creating a haunting tune while mixing with the whispers of the wind.

My Nan would tell me stories when my father was away in church, busy preaching the eternal one. She would tell about the forest and the origins of us, from a land far, far away. Eventhough she was considered the villages mad old lady, i had loved to listen to her stories, making me excitedly jump each time she´d sit down in that old rocking chair on the poarch.

I remeber the last time i had talked to her until the old age got to her first, the allmighty flame engulfing her welcomingly. Eternal life was waiting for her blessed soul, in a form, different from her physical one. For the first time since i could think, her wrinkly face was scrunched together in a serious expression.

She told me about a prophecy she had dreamed about, including me and the future of our commune, written long before i had been born. Standing on the edge of the world i was crossing a path towards something my Nan wasnt able to identify, but judging by her void eyes, it seemed to have scared her deep within her old bones.

Her trembling hands had wrapped around my chubby face, her dark orbs locking with my own like she was studying my soul.

´´Your light will burn brigther than anyone elses my dear, but it will burn fast´´, she managed to choke out, ´´You will not see the world you create, but it will be a better one because of you...´´

´´The eternal flame doesnt just burn to punish, its burns to guide, to purify, to make way for something new. That´s what you are. A beacon to lead us into the unkown, our flame.´´

shedding a couple tears while embracing me tightly i had already felt her spirit leaving me behind, yet something had attched itself to my heart back then, keeping me safe and guiding me whenever i was lost on my path of believing.

When reaching the edge of the looming forest i felt a chill run down my spine, making me glance around nervously. The forest clinging to my dress while its skeleton like branches released me of their tight hold, nevertheless the heavy weight on my chest hadnt lifted.

I froze when i heard it -a low groan, faint but unmistakable. At first i had thought my imagination had gotten the better of me on this already strange day, but then i saw him.

Just beyond the Irongates, slumped against a tree, was a man. He looked strange, wearing clothes i had never seen before, it reminded me of uniforms i had seen in some of my schoolbooks. His attire however, looked everything but new. Dirty, torn and stained with blood, and his leg- twisted horribly into an unnatrual position- leaking crimson into the leaf covered soil.

I stood there, paralyzed, the wind gushing around me, as if an invisible force was pushing me towards him. Outsiders were forbidden, their presence a violation of everything id been taught. My fathers supercilious voice rang in my head, a sharp rebuke for even looking at a stranger. But the man groaned again, his head lolling to the side, and something deep within me shifted. He wasnt a threat. He was dying.

Clutching the cold Iron of the gate, staining my hands with the rust of the dirty metal, my heart hammering. If i helped him, id be breaking the communes most sacred law. If i left him, id be no better than the wickedness we claimed to shun. Taking a shaky breath, whispering my myself, ´´..surely the eternal flame wouldnt want me to let him suffer..´´, after all life was one of the most valuable sections in our existence.

Before i could think twice, i unlatched the gate and stepped into the forbidden woods. The air beyond felt colder, heavier, as though the forest itself was watching me. I crouched beside the wounded man, my hands trembling with fear. His eyes fluttered open for a split second, glazed with pain, and he muttered something i couldnt understand.

´´Its alright´´, i cooed softly, though wasnt sure it was, ´´ill help you´´.

Instincts took me over as i pressed my hands on his wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. The weigth of what id done settled over me, the red crimson staining my delicate hands.

His voice rang in my ears, filled with so much agony and everything else seemed to fade into the background. Biting my lip hard i tried to keep myself from crying out as the blood gushed onto my white dress, staining it vermillion.

And when i decided to rip my dress apart in order to save him, it felt as if i ripped myself into two different pieces. I couldnt just leave him behind, everything in my being was fighting against that very thought.

So i crossed the line; I had let him in.

The wounded man wearing a mask symbolizing the very thing i was trying to save him from. His warm blood was seeping into my clothes, staining my skin red, marking me with the shame i had put over my family.

There was no turning back now, my familys urn left behind, dropped into the dirty soil by the rusted gate,squeaking angirly in the storm that was brewing in the dark summer sky.

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: The Unnamed

The world hosts all manner of boogeymen and ghost stories, many of which are based on very real entities that prank or prey upon mankind when the sun sets and the lights go out, but few enjoy the obscurity and success of the Thing with No Name. There is perhaps a handful of people in all the world who can claim to have witnessed the nameless horror hunt its prey, and fewer still who are telling the truth about it, as to speak of it to another is to invite it into your life.

The scant scratches of concrete information that can be pieced together all paint a similar picture: It is predator that has haunted thinking beings as far back in history as anyone can look, its methods of hunting and its means of killing leaving precious little evidence behind. What it truly is, where it came from, and why it hunts the way it does are all mysteries which cannot be solved. Rare and esoteric writings which tell of it list numerous titles, all unhelpful; The Thing with No Name, the Stain on the Page (or simply "the Stain"), the Nameless Legend, and simply the Unnamed. It is written that such ambiguous titles are to protect the reader, not the creature, for attempting to affix any more descriptive title to it is the surest way to invite its horrific attention.

The Unnamed is one of several self-keeping secrets in creation, hunting down and annihilating any creature which knows too many details or who becomes too curious of it, for reasons which may never be truly known. For those it hunts, it seems like a nightmare made terribly real in a way few other creatures can match; an unstoppable, inescapable force which will use seemingly any trick to disorient, mislead, and ultimately capture its victim.

Anyone targeted by the Stain can always feel when it's near, and rarely do they ever manage to find help before they're simply never seen again. Witnesses to the scenes rarely speak, and never coherently, never to say what they saw, lest it target them next. Even in scenes where a tremendous struggle obviously took place, investigators struggle to turn up so much as a single drop of blood or scrap of hair of the victim... but sometimes they find something else. A misshapen footprint, a handprint caused by something deeply inhuman, or some strange fluid almost but not quite like blood that causes the mind to reel with a single touch.

Not enough to solve a mystery, just enough to make one curious. Just enough to make one try and wipe away a stain of ink on some dusty old report tucked away in the back of an archive to see what could have been written underneath.

The Unnamed CR 13 Chaotic Evil Medium Aberration (Shapechanger) Init: +8 Senses: Darkvision 60ft, low-light vision, thoughtsense 60ft, blindsight 20ft; Perception +23 Aura: Unwind (100ft, DC 24) ------ Defense ------ AC 29, touch 14, flat-footed 25 (+4 Dex, +15 natural) HP 193 (15d8+105), Regeneration 5 (Cold) Fort +12, Ref +9, Will +14 Defensive Abilities: Amorphous, Unbound, Undone; DR 10/Cold Iron and Lawful; Immune: Charms and compulsions, fear effects, death effects, poison; Resist: Acid 15, Electricity 15, Fire 15; SR 19 ------ Offense ------ Speed: 50ft, climb 30ft Melee: Bite +17 (1d8+6 plus poison/19-20), slam +15 (1d8+6 plus grab), 3 tentacles +15 (1d4+6 plus pull) Ranged: Bone dart +15/+10/+5 (1d3+6 plus poison/19-20) Space: 5ft, Reach: 5ft (10ft with bite, 20ft with tentacles) Special Attacks: Pull (10ft), rake (Bite +17, 1d8+6 plus poison), Unwind Spell-like Abilities (CL 15, concentration +17) Constant: Freedom of Movement At-will: Dancing Darkness, Ghost Sound (DC 13), Ventriloquism (DC 13) 3/day: Rusting Grasp, Telekinesis (DC 17), Warp Wood 1/day: Knock, Modify Memory (DC 16), Teleport, Traumatic Eyebite (DC 18) ------ Statistics ------ Str 23 Dex 19 Con 25 Int 13 Wis 21 Cha 15 Base Atk: +11; CMB: +16; CMD: 31 Feats Combat Reflexes, Critical Focus, Improved Critical (bite, bone dart), Improved Initiative, Multiattack, Traumatic Spell-like Ability (Eyebite), Sickening Critical Skills Acrobatics +13, Bluff +13, Climb +21, Intimidate +15, Perception +23, Stealth +21, Survival +23 Languages All; language mastery. SQ Change Shape (any past victim; see Uncanny), Compression, Unknown ------ Ecology ------ Environment: Any Organization: Unique Treasure: Standard (taken trophies) ------ Combat: The Stain enjoys toying with its Target out of both sadism and pragmatism, forcing them to make mistakes and expend resources battling shadows and hallucinations. It goes Unseen as long as it is able to, tormenting them with its spell-like abilities to haunt them, destroy or remove light sources, weapons, and escape routes, and make it seem as though it is coming from everywhere at once. It will attempt to hit them with one or several of its bone darts to infuse them with its poison and terrorize them with the hallucinations, but it will try to avoid killing them with its darts (including by making them nonlethal). It will further toy with them with its tentacle attacks from a distance, making them think their hallucinations are real, until eventually wearing them down and closing in to finish them off and consume them. Against a large group of victims, it will attempt to isolate and pick them off one by one after loosening their reasoning with its poisonous aura, stolen voices, and Eyebite. When the mood strikes, it leaves one survivor (never its Target) alive but traumatized and possibly insane, usually using its Modify Memory to erase the majority of the encounter. But never all of it.

Morale: If a group of creatures has no Target among them, the Unnamed will fight only long enough to potentially prompt one or several into becoming a Target later, and then flee to let the memories fester. When in a combat involving its Target, the Unnamed will always attempt to kill them, even if its own life is in danger. If its foes prove to be beyond its power, it will still attempt a death or glory attack against its Target. Its own life doesn't matter. It will come back eventually. ------ Special Abilities ------

Unbound (Ex): The Unnamed will not be denied its happiness. It may make an additional saving throw at the end of each of its turns to remove any effect causing any of the following conditions, even if the effect causing the condition does not normally permit a saving throw: blind, confused, dazed, deafened, exhausted, fatigued, nauseated, and sickened. This does not require an action. If it is affected by multiple effects or conditions, it may only make one additional saving throw with this ability each turn.

Uncanny (Ex): The Unnamed can use its Change Shape ability as a full-round action to change into any creature it has ever consumed, but its shape is grotesquely twisted to the point it could not possibly be mistaken for a normal creature. It does not gain any additional abilities or attacks, the changes are purely cosmetic. Similarly, though it can speak any language, its voice is completely inhuman and distorted. Creatures under the effects of its poison (see Unwind, below) or who are confused or insane instead see and hear it as if the transformation was flawless. This effect is lost if they are adjacent to it.

Undone (Su): If the Unnamed reduces a Target to 0 HP or lower with its attacks while the Target is both adjacent to it and suffering from the effects of its poison (see Unwind, below), the Target's body (but not its gear) crumbles to a fine dust that the Unnamed may inhale as an immediate action. If it does so, it regains 4d8+15 hitpoints and gains the benefits of the Haste spell for 1 minute.

Unknown (Su): Whenever a creature attempts to give a more descriptive title or a name to the Unnamed, or attempts to describe or dictate its appearance or abilities in detail to another being, they must attempt a DC 19 Will save. Success indicates that they stop themselves from going through with the attempt as a brief but potent sense of dread washes over them. Failure allows them to fully convey the information, but they become a Target. When creature becomes a Target, they are shaken automatically for one round by the sense that they have committed some unfathomable wrong. What "naming/describing the Unnamed" entails will vary at the DMs discretion; it could be as simple as writing details into a document meant to be read by another, speak the details aloud to another, or drawing it a little too clearly, but it must be a willing, conscious attempt to define or describe the Unnamed to another intelligent creature. Creatures defining or describing the Unnamed only for themselves may still become Targets, at the DMs discretion (it often allows these creatures to write just enough to make a potential reader curious, but no more). A creature can cease being a Target if they destroy or erase all conveyed information, such as by ripping up documents, erasing a listener's memory, burning a created art piece, or slaying a listener, though this is not immediately apparent.

The Unnamed knows the precise location of all Targets not shielded by divine power, as well as the distance and direction to them relative to itself. Targets become permanently shaken whenever the Unnamed is within 1 mile of them as a feeling of impending doom creeps into their minds, and if it is within 100ft, this condition ignores all forms of immunity to fear. All parts of this ability work across all boundaries and through any barrier.

Unseen (Sp/Su): When not being observed by an intelligent creature, the Unnamed may become invisible as a standard action, as per Greater Invisibility, except the effect lasts until an intelligent creature ends its turn adjacent to the Unnamed (or vice-versa), or until the Unnamed ends the effect itself as a free action. It can only use its spell-like abilities while invisible using this ability.

Unwind (Ex): The Unnamed produces a powerful, hallucinogenic poison which it delivers with its bite and dart attacks. It may also produce a colorless, odorless version of the poison as an aura with a 100ft radius, affecting all creatures which inhale it, though they gain a +4 circumstance bonus to the save. It may begin producing this poison mist as full-round action and stop as a move action; its bite and dart attacks do not poison their targets while it's producing the mist, and it can only maintain the aura for a total of 7 rounds a day (they do not have to be consecutive).

--Unwinding Venom: Bite, dart, or aura--injury, contact, or inhaled; save Fort DC 24, frequency 1/round for 5 rounds, effect 1d3 Wis damage plus hallucinations for 1 minute (all other creatures have 20% concealment), cure 2 consecutive saves.

[vincentspissfleshlight]

Sano Kojima x Reader

Minors DNI!

Tags: Yandere, Kidnapping / Captivity, Medical Horror / Manipulation, Possessive Male Lead, Toxic Obsession.

TW: Gore, Medical Horror / Needles / Drugging, Mental and Physical Torture, Captivity / Kidnapping, Manipulation / Gaslighting, Body Horror, kidnapping.

Looking Through The Eyes Of The Serpentine

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After a long, grueling night at the bar downtown, you could feel the exhaustion settling into your bones. The constant noise of the rough group of men, their lecherous gazes, and hands that seemed to always find a way to touch you no matter how many times you tried to pull away—it was enough to drive anyone mad. You hated it, hated this town, hated that you always felt like you were being watched. And tonight, that feeling was stronger than ever. You had grown used to the unspoken danger in the air, to the way men looked at you like you were nothing more than an object to be owned, but there was one person whose gaze was different. Cold. Calculating. It sent a shiver down your spine every time you felt those sharp eyes on you. This time, you could feel someone or something.. following you, lurking just out of sight but never too far. Your instincts screamed at you to be careful, to get to your apartment, lock the door, and never look back. But the night had drained you, and all you wanted was to get home. You quickened your pace, hoping to escape the strange sensation creeping up your spine, but there was no escaping the feeling of being hunted. Your footsteps echoed in the quiet street, a heavy silence falling around you as the city seemed to close in. Then, as you turned the corner and walked into the dark alleyway, you realized your mistake. You knew better than this. You knew about the disappearances—the whispers on the news, the stories of people vanishing without a trace. Why did you always make this mistake? You cursed under your breath, but it was too late. His presence was unmistakable as he approached from behind, each step slow but deliberate. The air grew thick with tension, and you could feel him closing in. Your heartbeat quickened, your breath shallow, as you turned around just in time to feel a large hand clamp over your mouth and nose. The scent of chloroform hit your nostrils like a punch, a sharp, sickly sweet smell that made your stomach turn. Your body immediately began to rebel, struggling against his grip, your hands clawing at his arm in a desperate attempt to break free. But it was no use. Your vision blurred, your eyes watering as your eyelids grew heavier, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to fight much longer. His hold on you was unyielding, and as the world around you started to slip away, you heard his voice, low and dangerously calm, right against your ear.

“私の美しい人形.”

The words, foreign and yet somehow intimate, sent a chill down your spine. Then, everything faded to black.

Your world slipped away in an instant, everything going black as the edges of your vision blurred and your consciousness faded. The last thing you felt was the coldness of his hand still pressed to your face, the smell of the chloroform lingering in your nose like a terrible, suffocating perfume. When you woke, it was a slow, groggy process, your mind struggling to piece together where you were. A sharp ache pulsed in your temples, the remnants of the drug still making your head swim. The dim light in the room only added to the disorienting feeling as you tried to blink your surroundings into focus. You were on a cold surface—was it stone? No, it was too soft to be stone. Your hands were bound, tied tightly against a cold metal medical table. Your breath quickened as panic began to set in, your pulse racing. You tried to move, but your body felt sluggish, heavy. The sound of your own breath seemed louder than it should be, every breath shallow and strained. The air was thick, heavy with the smell of something unfamiliar, a blend of musk and incense that sent a chill crawling up your spine. The room was quiet, too quiet—except for the sound of your racing heart and the soft shuffle of footsteps that seemed to be getting closer. A door creaked open, and you froze, straining to see through the shadows. Then, his figure emerged from the darkness—tall, imposing, his silhouette framed by the faint light. You couldn’t see his face clearly yet, but you could feel his presence in the way the temperature of the room seemed to drop. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as his gaze locked onto you, his eyes glowing faintly, sharp and predatory. “You’re awake.” His voice, cold and monotoned, sending an uneasy shiver down your spine. It was calm, almost soothing, but there was an unmistakable sense of edge to it that made you want to recoil. “Good. We can finally talk.” You tried to speak, but your mouth felt dry, your throat tight from the drug still fogging your senses. All you could manage was a strangled sound. He stepped closer, the dim light catching the glint of his eyes. He didn’t smile and he was holding a needle in his black gloved up hands. It made your stomach churn, a knot of fear forming as the reality of your situation set in. This wasn’t some bad dream. This was happening, and you were trapped. The knot in your chest tightened as he knelt before you, close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. “I’ve waited for this, 私の美しさ” he whispered, his voice like a gentle calm breeze in a cold night. “savouring this moment.” His hand reached out, gentle at first, as if he were savoring the moment. His fingers brushed against your cheek, a soft touch, but one that made your skin crawl. “You may not realize it now, but you were always meant to be with me, ever since I’ve laid eyes on you at the Snakes Den.” Every inch of your body screamed to run, to escape, but you were paralyzed, trapped in a place where every move seemed futile. You couldn’t escape. His fingers traced down your neck, dangerously close to where your pulse raced. “Don’t worry,” he said again, his voice low and almost soothing. “I’ll make you understand in time. I always do.” And with that, the last shred of hope you had left seemed to slip away, replaced with a growing dread that this was only the beginning of whatever twisted plan he had in store for you.

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“You’re… you’re the… the guy I saw at the Snakes Pit,” you whispered, the words scraping from your raw throat, each syllable a painful reminder of how deep you were in this nightmare. The room felt smaller, suffocating, as the realization hit you like a punch to the gut. It was him—the same man, the one with the cold gaze and the unshakable curiosity. The man who had watched you, his eyes sharp but hiding something behind those thick glasses. His dark blue hair, slightly messy, partially hid his right eye, almost as if it were deliberately concealing something dark, something he didn’t want you to see.

The memory of that night flickered before you. His presence had been unsettling, something about him was off, and yet you couldn’t place it. You had noticed him at the bar, the way he had tried to talk to you, but you had ignored him. His soft-spoken words hadn’t been enough to break through your walls. You had brushed him off, as you always did with men who lingered too long in your space. The rest of the night blurred in a haze of drunken fools and sweaty bodies, the chaotic, pulsing music of the club filling your senses, but somehow, his gaze had remained with you. “Ah yes, that was me,” Sano’s voice broke through your thoughts, smooth but laced with something sinister. He didn’t sound the least bit surprised by your recognition. “I thought you would have forgotten about that night.” His smile was thin, lips curling up in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. He wasn’t sorry. There was no regret in his tone, no apology.

“I don’t think I’ve actually introduced myself,” he continued, his gaze flicking to the needle in his hand. “My name is Sano, 私の美しさ.” His words felt foreign, but the meaning behind them was unmistakable. It made your skin crawl. His gaze never wavered, as if he enjoyed watching the fear and confusion play out in your eyes. “You’re probably wondering why I’ve decided to… kidnap you.” He didn’t say it with malice, no. His words were calm, almost casual, as if kidnapping was just another mundane task in his life. You couldn’t speak. Your throat burned, the remnants of the chloroform still clouding your senses. Your mind raced, your body struggling to move, but your limbs felt like they were made of stone, heavy and unwilling to cooperate. You tried to shift, but your hands were bound tightly behind you, the ropes digging into your wrists, leaving raw, angry marks against your skin. Sano didn’t seem to notice or care about your struggle. His eyes, now narrowed with concentration, traced the line of your arm as he tapped a vein. The sound of his fingers against your skin sent a jolt of panic through you, your pulse quickening as the needle gleamed in the dim light. The soft flick of his fingers against your skin made you flinch. “Hold still,” he murmured, as though his words would somehow ease the fear clawing its way up your chest. You tried to pull away, your body jerking instinctively, but he was faster. The sharp sting of the needle punctured your skin, and you hissed in pain. The discomfort spread as the cold substance coursed into your veins, a burning sensation that made your stomach lurch. The room seemed to tilt, the walls pressing in around you, and your breath hitched as the drug began to take hold, dulling your senses and making everything feel distant, unreal. Sano’s smile widened slightly, and you could see the satisfaction in his eyes as he withdrew the needle, his fingers brushing the spot where he had injected you. “There,” he murmured, his tone almost approving. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” His voice was eerily soft, like he was comforting you, but the chill in his words was unmistakable. The drug was spreading now, its effects numbing you in waves. Your vision blurred at the edges, the world slipping away in fragments, but through the haze, you could still hear his voice—soft, calm, but tinged with something darker beneath the surface. “I’ve been watching you for a while now,” he continued, his voice taking on a more contemplative tone. “I’ve always been drawn to people like you. People who don’t understand what they’re truly capable of.” His fingers lightly traced the edge of your jaw, sending a shiver through you. “Someone who knows what it means to truly known by another person, to be seen and noticed by..” Your chest tightened as the weight of his words sunk in. You tried to fight it, to summon some spark of defiance, but your body wasn’t cooperating. You felt weak, vulnerable, exposed. His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now, as if he were sharing a secret with you. “You’ll learn, though. Soon enough, you’ll understand your place in this. And when you do, you’ll stop resisting. You’ll see that I’m the only one who can truly understand you, for who you are.” The world around you seemed to spin, the drug taking full control of your senses now, and you could barely keep your eyes open. But through the fog, you could still hear him, still feel the cold brush of his fingers against your skin, like a predator savoring the moment before his kill. You tried to hold onto your thoughts, to fight back the overwhelming sense of fear and helplessness, but as the darkness closed in, Sano’s presence remained. The last thing you heard before the blackness consumed you completely was his voice, soft but heavy with meaning: “You’re mine now, 私の美しい人形”

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