#but in my defense she can’t talk so I can’t really include her in the generator

[incorrect-upon-a-witchlight]

Gricko: I had to pick up Hootsie early.

Frost: That’s alright. Has she been sick?

Gricko: No, not sick, she’s just very upset because she’s had a hard day.

Frost: Wait, why did she have a hard day?

Gricko: she took her two pet snails to school with her today, and she had the snails in her book bag. She let out the snails by the sink in the back of the classroom for some exercise, and Torbek, who was visiting the class that day, thought they were snails that had come inside from the playground, so he threw Hootsie’s snails out the window.

Frost: Oh my god.

Gricko: I know you are laughing, Frosty, but please act sad about it when we get home today.

Frost: I’ll try but that is hilarious.

Gricko: Yeah, I know. Stupid pet snails.

Gricko: I’m trying not to let Hootsie see me laugh.

[pucksandpower]

Fairytale

Charles Leclerc x Princess of Monaco!Reader

Summary: Charles Leclerc has everything he could ask for (off the track, at least) including a fairytale romance … except no one actually believes that his girlfriend is really his girlfriend

Charles sighs as he walks into the drivers’ lounge, bracing himself for the inevitable teasing. Ever since he had casually mentioned having a girlfriend, and more specifically who the girlfriend in question is, his friends have been merciless.

“Wow, if it isn’t Prince Charles in the flesh! Back from another romantic getaway with his imaginary princess,” Max laughs as he enters.

“Come on mates, lay off,” Charles pleads half-heartedly. He knows it is useless.

“I just don’t get it,” Lando chimes in. “There’s no shame in admitting that you’re single. We’re racing drivers, we don’t exactly always have time for relationships.”

“Maybe his standards are too high,” Pierre suggests. “He’s actually holding out for real royalty or something.”

The others laugh as Charles feels his face grow warm. If only they believed him.

“You know what you need?” Carlos grins. “A nice Spanish girl to set you up with. My sister’s friend Elena is single, I could give you her number.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “I told you, I have a girlfriend. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because we’ve never seen her!” Max exclaims. “You talk about her all the time but she never comes to races or appears in photos. She might as well be a unicorn.”

“Maybe she’s just embarrassed to be seen with Charles,” Lando teases.

Charles frowns, stung by Lando’s words. If only they knew the truth. The reality is that his girlfriend is extremely famous in her own right and values the little privacy she has left too much to be seen at races. Her life is already public enough without adding the scrutiny that anyone connected to a Formula 1 driver inevitably receives on top of it. Besides, she has her own royal duties to attend to.

“Come on guys, that’s unfair,” Pierre says gently, noticing Charles’ discomfort. “If Charles says he has a girlfriend, we should believe him.”

“Thank yo—” Charles starts to say with relief. At least someone is on his side.

“Even if she is imaginary,” Pierre adds with a smirk.

Charles groans and puts his head in his hands as the laughter starts up again. He can’t really blame them for not believing him.

You are basically a fairytale princess — beautiful, elegant, and kind. Not to mention an actual member of the royal family. Her Serene Highness Princess Y/N Grace Stephanie Caroline of Monaco is the type of girl people write epic poems and songs about. Charles can hardly believe his luck that you had chosen him.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Daniel interrupts, taking pity on Charles. “Leave the poor man alone.”

“We’re just joking,” Max says defensively. “Charles knows we don’t mean anything by it.”

Charles gives Max a tight smile. “Sure.”

“Tell you what,” Daniel says, clapping Charles on the shoulder. “Bring your mystery girl to a race soon. We’ll all get to meet her and then you can finally prove these jokers wrong.”

Charles sighs. If only it were that simple. You have been tempted to attend races in the past but the scrutiny both of them would come under is just too much. You treasure the privacy your relationship allows. But maybe Daniel is right. Maybe it is time for you to finally meet his friends. After all, you are the love of his life. There is nothing to hide.

“Alright, deal,” Charles says finally. “I’ll ask her.”

The others exchange surprised looks, not expecting him to agree.

“Can’t wait to meet her,” Carlos says with a wink.

Charles rolls his eyes again but smiles. One way or another, he is going to prove to them that his amazing girlfriend isn’t just a figment of his imagination.

***

Charles is still thinking about you when he is suddenly accosted by Silvia, Ferrari’s Head of Communications, after practice.

“Charles! Just who I was looking for,” she says briskly. “I need to discuss something rather important with you.”

Charles suppresses a groan. Conversations with Silvia are never fun. “What’s up?” He asks with forced cheerfulness.

Silvia lowers her voice. “It’s about your relationship status. We feel it would be beneficial if you were seen dating someone … compatible.”

Charles’ eyebrows shoot up. “Compatible?”

“Yes. A model. Or perhaps an actress. Someone who would look good on your arm and boost your image.”

Charles folds his arms defensively. “What’s wrong with my girlfriend?”

Silvia waves a hand impatiently. “Yes yes, this alleged princess you keep mentioning. The problem, Charles, is that no one has seen her. No one knows if she is actually connected to you in any way. So, as far as we are concerned, for all intents and purposes, you are single.”

Charles frowns. This again. “I keep telling you that she’s really my girlfriend. Y/N is just very private.”

“Private women don’t date Formula 1 drivers,” Silvia says bluntly. “If she really was in a relationship with you, she would be here. But since that is clearly a figment of your imagination, we need to take steps.”

Charles feels his blood boil. How dare Silvia insult his relationship with Y/N? Question their connection?

“Here are profiles of suitable options,” Silvia continues, shoving a surprisingly heavy folder at him. Charles doesn’t open it.

“No.”

Silvia blinks. “No?”

“My relationship with Y/N is off limits,” Charles says firmly. “My personal life is exactly that — personal. Not to be exploited for PR.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Silvia snaps. “This is bigger than you. Your image reflects on Ferrari. We need to be able to control it.”

“No. What you need to do is back off,” Charles shoots back.

Silvia’s nostrils flare. Clearly she isn’t used to such defiance. “Charles, be reasonable—”

“I am being reasonable,” Charles interrupts. “I won’t pretend to date someone just because the team wants me to. I’m with Y/N. I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

Silvia shakes her head in disgust. “You’re making a big mistake. Don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face.”

She storms off, heels clicking angrily against the floor.

Charles takes a deep breath, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He can’t remember the last time he stood up to Silvia like that. It felt good but also nerve-wracking. He knows she won’t let this go easily.

His phone buzzes and his heart leaps when he sees it’s a text from you.

Heard you had a rough day. Wish I could be there to make it better. I love you 💋

Charles smiles, the tension in his shoulders easing. You always knew just what to say and when to say it.

He quickly types back.

I wish you were here too. No matter what anyone says, they can’t change my feelings for you. I love you so much ❤️

He hits send, imagining your smile as you read his text. It doesn’t matter what his team, the media, or even his fellow drivers think. His relationship with you is real and authentic. Someday he’ll find a way for you to be by his side. But for now, your private moments together are enough.

Charles knows staying with you is the right decision, PR be damned. You are his soulmate — the fairytale princess he never expected to find but thanks God every single day that he did. Your love is worth fighting for. And someday, when the time is right, he’ll finally be able to show the world that what you have together is very real.

***

Charles groans as he notices multiple missed calls from his brothers. He has been avoiding their calls lately, knowing they would just tease him mercilessly about his girlfriend. But he knows he can’t dodge them forever.

Taking a deep breath, he calls Arthur back.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Prince Charles himself, taking time away from his busy schedule of dating princesses to spare a chat with us commoners,” Arthur says slyly upon answering.

Charles rolls his eyes. “Very funny. What do you want?”

“We just wanted to check in on our brother and see how life with Monegasque royalty is treating you,” Lorenzo chimes in. Charles realizes he must be on speaker.

“Oh yes, Princess Y/N,” Arthur says in an exaggerated swoony voice. “Our brother’s one true love since he was 15 years old and had that giant poster of her plastered on his wall.”

Charles feels his face flush. He knows exactly what poster Arthur is referencing — a stunning photo of you in a ballgown from a high society event years ago. Teenage Charles has ripped it out of a magazine and hung it up reverently in his room, gazing at it longingly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he sputters. “I never had a poster.”

“Oh really?” Lorenzo laughs. “I seem to recall you cutting out every picture you could find of her and keeping a little scrapbook.”

Charles cringes internally. Okay, maybe his teenage obsession had been a bit … enthusiastic. But he can’t help that he had recognized you as his dream girl even then.

“Alright, so maybe I had a tiny crush on her,” Charles admits. “But it is not crazy that we ended up together.”

Arthur cackles. “You used to kiss her photos goodnight before going to bed! You were completely obsessed!”

“Remember how he tried to sneak into that royal gala at Salle des Etoiles to see her?” Lorenzo adds. “He was totally insane.”

Charles grimaces at the memory. Okay, not his finest moment.

“Face it Charles, you’ve been in love with the imaginary idea of Princess Y/N since you were in nappies,” Arthur teases. “No shame in admitting she wouldn't even give you the time of day now.”

Charles feels his frustration rising. Why does no one believe him?

“Because your so-called relationship makes no sense!” Lorenzo says, accurately reading his silence. “She’s a literal princess and you’re … you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Charles grumbles. He knows his brothers are just teasing but it still stings.

“Come on, just admit you made the whole thing up to get everyone off your back,” Arthur prods.

Charles sighs loudly. “For the millionth time, what we have is 100 percent real! Just because it seems unlikely doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I don’t care if none of you believe me, I love her and she loves me.”

His brothers are silent for a moment.

“You alright there?” Arthur asks, his voice softening.

“Yes, I just wish everyone would stop questioning my relationship all the time,” Charles admits. “It hurts.”

“We’re only joking Charles, we don’t mean any harm,” Lorenzo says gently.

“I know,” Charles replies. “Doesn’t make it any easier to hear constantly though.”

“You’re right, we took the teasing too far,” Arthur says. “We’ll lay off from now on.”

Charles smiles slightly. “Thanks. And someday soon I will prove to you that it is real.”

His brothers are silent for a moment.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Arthur finally laughs.

Charles groans and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Clearly nothing he says would convince his stubborn brothers that his relationship with you was real and not merely a childhood fantasy.

“Alright, well, I should get going,” Charles mumbles, eager to get off the phone.

“Chin up, we’re only teasing,” Lorenzo says lightly. “Have fun with your imaginary princess!”

Arthur and Lorenzo explode into more laughter as Charles quickly hangs up, his face burning. Someday, he will prove to them and everyone else that his amazing girlfriend isn’t just a figment of his imagination. No matter how long it takes.

***

Charles sinks into the familiar couch in his sports psychologist’s office, exhausted after a long day on the simulator and endless teasing from his team.

“Rough day out there?” Dr. Anderson asks kindly, noticing the strain on Charles’ face.

“That’s an understatement,” Charles sighs. “The car is just so slow this year. We keep trying new setups and tweaks but nothing helps. And the strategy is somehow even worse than the pace. It’s like the team wants me to fail.”

Dr. Anderson nods sympathetically. “That must be very frustrating. Tell me more about how it’s impacting you.”

Charles launches into a tirade about the endless issues with the car, the incompetent strategists, and the lack of proper communication from his engineers. Dr. Anderson listens patiently, letting him vent his pent-up anger and disappointment.

After a lengthy rant, Charles finally runs out of steam. “Anyway, it’s just been a terrible season,” he concludes glumly.

“I can certainly understand why you feel that way,” Dr. Anderson says. “It sounds like the team is letting you down in many ways.”

Charles nods, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders after unloading. It helps to talk about it with someone whose job is not to judge.

“Is there anything else bothering you lately?” Dr. Anderson asks gently. “Any other sources of stress?”

Charles hesitates. He and Dr. Anderson have been working together for years, ever since he joined Ferrari. He knows he can open up to her.

“It’s just … well, besides the team stuff, no one believes me about my girlfriend,” he admits.

Dr. Anderson raises her eyebrows. “I see. Tell me more about that.”

Charles explains the endless teasing from his fellow drivers, the manipulation attempts by the PR team, and the doubtful reactions from his own family. How despite his best efforts, no one seems willing to accept that he is really dating Princess Y/N of Monaco.

“It’s so frustrating!" He bursts out at the end. “I don’t know what else I can do to convince them that we are actually together.”

Dr. Anderson purses her lips, jotting down notes. “I can understand why their doubt would upset you. It must be painful to have your relationship questioned.”

“Exactly!" Charles exclaims, throwing his hands up. “You get it. I knew I could talk to you.”

Dr. Anderson gives him a sympathetic smile.

Charles leaves the appointment feeling much better, confident that his psychologist believes him and is on his side.

As he is exiting, Charles notices Dr. Anderson’s notebook left open on her desk. Before he can stop himself, his eyes scan the page and focus on his name.

He feels his heart sink as he reads.

Charles Leclerc: deflecting from pain of difficult season by creating elaborate fantasy relationship. Fixation on celebrity crush indicates deeper self-esteem issues. Recommend to confront delusion directly in next session.

Charles reels, shock and anger swirling through him. Not even his own psychologist believes him! She thinks he is living in some weird fantasy.

Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, Charles straightens his shoulders and walks out. He has never felt more alone and frustrated in his conviction. But he refuses to give up. No matter what anyone says, his love for you is real. And one day, somehow, he will prove it to the world.

***

Charles is back at his family home in Monaco during a rare few days off. He is puttering around the kitchen while his mother cooks dinner.

“Oh, by the way, Y/N is coming over for dinner tonight,” Charles mentions casually. “I want you all to finally meet her.”

Pascale laughs lightly without looking up from the stove. “Of course, sweetie.”

Charles frowns. “I’m serious, maman. She’ll be here in an hour.”

“Mhmm, I’m sure she will,” Pascale replies indulgently. Charles huffs in annoyance.

Just then, his brothers come into the kitchen, freshly showered after playing football outside.

“Hey Charles, how’s life with your imaginary girlfriend?” Lorenzo immediately teases.

“She’s actually coming over for dinner tonight,” Charles says tersely.

Arthur lets out a loud laugh. “Yeah right! Good one.” He grabs a piece of bread from the counter, still chuckling.

Charles throws his hands up in exasperation. “Why does no one ever believe me about her?”

“Boys, that’s enough,” Pascale chides gently. “Let your brother dream.”

Charles opens his mouth to retort but just then, the doorbell rings. His eyes widen.

“I’ll get it!" He yells, dashing for the door. He takes a deep breath before swinging it open to reveal you standing there casually in jeans and a sweater, looking effortlessly gorgeous.

“Surprise!" You laugh, pulling him into a tight hug. Charles melts into your embrace, all his stress and frustration fading away.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you right now,” he murmurs into your hair.

You pull back to smile at him tenderly. “I’ve been looking forward to this for ages. I want your family to know how much I love you.”

Charles grins and takes your hand, leading your into the kitchen where his stunned family waits.

Pascale’s mouth is hanging open in shock. The piece of bread Arthur is holding falls to the floor with a dull thump.

“Y-your Serene Highness,” Pascale finally manages to stammer out, hastily wiping her hands on a towel. “What an honor, we weren’t expecting you ...”

She shoots an accusatory look at Charles, who throws up his hands defensively. “I told you she was coming!”

Pascale flushes. “Yes, well, I didn’t think … that is … we would have prepared ...”

You step forward gracefully, immediately putting Pascale at ease. “Please, just call me Y/N. I’ve been dying to meet Charles’ family.”

As you effortlessly charm his mother and brothers, Charles stands back watching with a satisfied smile. The shock and sheepishness on his family’s faces is vindicating after so many months of teasing and disbelief.

Charles has never been one to say “I told you so” but … I told you so.

***

The cheers of the crowd are deafening as the chequered flag waves for Charles at the Monaco Grand Prix. He can hardly believe it — finally, a win at his home race!

As he pulls into parc fermé and jumps out of the car, the emotions hit him. Pure elation at ending the long wait for a home victory. Relief at overcoming the team’s doubts. But most of all, excitement for what comes next.

The podium ceremony.

And with the Monegasque royal family presenting the trophies as usual, Charles knows exactly who will be handing him the winner’s trophy.

He can barely stand still through the anthems, eager for his moment with you. The weekend has been agony, so close to you yet having to pretend that there is nothing between the two of you.

But not anymore.

At last, the royal family walks onto the podium led by none other than Princess Y/N. Charles’ heart skips a beat at the sight of you gliding towards him in a figure-hugging red midi dress, sunlight glinting off your carefully styled hair. You somehow manage to become more and more beautiful every time he sees you.

Stopping in front of him, you give him a subtle wink before launching into the customary congratulatory speech. Charles nods along, not hearing a word as he zones out while admiring the stunning woman he gets to call his own.

At last, you turn to pick up the trophy. “It is my honor to present this trophy to our victor, who represents Monaco with pride in everything he does, Charles Leclerc,” you announce, holding it out to him with a brilliant smile.

In that moment, Charles throws all caution to the wind. As he accepts the trophy, he reaches out and pulls you into a passionate kiss.

The crowd below erupts in shocked cheers and screams. You melt into the kiss for a blissful moment before gently pulling back, your eyes sparkling. Charles grins at you breathlessly.

“Worth the wait?” He murmurs.

“Absolutely,” you whisper back, squeezing his hand. “I’m so proud of you, mon amour.”

Turning back to the roaring crowd, Charles wraps an arm around your waist and thrusts your linked hands into the air in triumph.

Looking out at the paddock, Charles sees the priceless dumbfounded looks on his fellow drivers’ faces. The Ferrari PR team looks ready to pass out in horror. Reporters are screaming questions and snapping photos frantically.

But Charles only has eyes for the radiant princess at his side. At long last, he has made your love public for the whole world to see.

Later, after celebrations around the circuit have started winding down in favor of moving to lounges and clubs for the night, Charles and you escape for a private moment together.

“That was quite the reveal,” you say with an amused quirk of your eyebrow.

Charles laughs. “I know, subtlety has never been my strong suit. I hope you don’t mind.”

You caress his face tenderly. “Of course not. I’m happy to finally be by your side. No more hiding.”

Charles kisses you deeply, all the love and longing of the past months pouring into it.

When you finally break apart, foreheads touching, he murmurs, “No more doubts. No more teasing. They all know now that you’re real and all mine.”

“Forever yours,” you whisper back. And seal it with another perfect kiss.

***

“I can’t believe it. I just … actually can’t believe it,” Max mutters, staring at the large screens around the paddock that are showing you and Charles gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes during the post-race interviews.

“Lord Perceval … dating an actual princess,” Carlos muses in disbelief.

“And not just any princess, his teenage celebrity crush!" Lando exclaims.

“I guess we owe him an apology,” Pierre says sheepishly.

“Big time,” Daniel agrees. “We gave him so much crap for making her up.”

“Speak of the devil,” Max mutters as Charles strides into the room, hand-in-hand with you.

An awkward silence descends on the group. Charles clears his throat, enjoying their obvious discomfort.

“I believe you all know my girlfriend, Her Serene Highness Y/N Grace Stephanie Caroline, Hereditary Princess of Monaco and Marquise of Baux. But you can just call her Your Serene Highness or Princess Y/N,” he says politely.

The guys mumble greetings, not quite meeting your eyes. You smile graciously. “You can just call me Y/N. Any friend of Charles is a friend of mine and there’s no need for titles around friends.”

Charles narrows his eyes. “Actually I don’t think that will be necessary. I believe they should maintain protocol and address you properly.”

You shoots him a look. “Darling, it’s fine, really. I want your friends to feel comfortable around me.”

But Charles crosses his arms, not budging. “No, it’s not fine. I must insist that they observe the formal mode of address for royalty.”

The drivers shift awkwardly again. You pull Charles aside with a soothing smile.

“What are you doing?” You whisper. “I’m trying to put them at ease.”

“I know but they deserve to squirm for a bit after how much they mocked us,” Charles whispers back petulantly.

You bite back a smile. “Don’t be silly. I know their teasing hurt but let’s move past it. Can you really blame them for thinking it sounds like a made up fairytale? Put yourself in their shoes.”

Charles sighs. “I guess you’re right ... I just want them to respect you.”

“They will, in time,” you say gently. “But forcing them to be overly formal won’t accomplish that. I’m still just me.”

Charles nods reluctantly. “Okay fine, we’ll do it your way.”

You turn back to the drivers who are trying to act natural and pretending that they didn’t just listen in on your conversation with a bright smile. “I’ve heard so much about all of you,” you say. “Charles speaks very highly of his fellow drivers.”

“We’re, uh, happy to finally meet you too,” Max manages to get out.

“Yeah, congrats mate,” Daniel offers weakly.

More awkward silence follows. Charles smirks, deciding to twist the knife a bit more.

“I know you all had your doubts about me landing a catch like Y/N,” he says casually. “But I can’t blame you. Even I can hardly believe someone so incredible would fall for me.”

He gazes at you adoringly as you blush prettily while the drivers fidget uneasily.

“Anyway, as you can now see, she’s real and we are happier than ever!" Charles concludes brightly.

“We’re really sorry for not believing you,” Lando bursts out sincerely. “And all the teasing.”

The others chime in with apologies and congratulations. Charles graciously accepts, reassuring them no hard feelings.

After you have throughly charmed them all and departed, the group surrounds Charles excitedly.

“Alright, you have to give us all the details,” Max demands. “How did you meet? How did you get her to go out with you? When did it get serious?”

Charles just laughs. “It’s a long story. But the important thing is that she’s the only one for me. Despite everyone doubting us, our love was real from the start.”

“Pretty epic to have a real life princess as your soulmate,” Pierre says dreamily.

“Just remember you knew me back when you all thought she was imaginary,” Charles jokes.

“We’ll never live it down,” Carlos groans goodnaturedly.

Charles smiles, feeling lighter and happier than he has in ages. The long struggle to prove himself has been worth it. Now he has everything — the win, the girl, and the utter shock and joy of proving to the world that even his wildest dreams can come true.

And this is only the beginning for him and his beloved princess.

[thoughtfulfiction]

Shift in the Routine II

Thank you so much for the love on part 1! Hope this one gives you all the feels. Joe requests are open!

masterlist

“Can you just…tell me exactly what happened?From the beginning.”

You sigh, running a hand over your face, thinking about the various ups and downs you’d been through emotionally the last few days. “There’s nothing new to tell, I told him I need to think about things and he was supportive of that. He really hurt me Rach, I can’t just—forget about it and move on.”

“I completely understand where you’re coming from. It’s just,” she pauses, trying to find the words. “What about—”

“The game on Monday night? Under no circumstances am I watching that,” you promise her, crossing your arms in protest of what was expected of you.

“Bengals defense missing a tackle? Likely place for them to be. This game is going to give me an ulcer.” You slammed your drink on the table, putting your head in your hands in hopes that they’d get a stop if you looked away for a bit.

Rachel watched silently, still trying to understand the rules of this football thing. She found you more entertaining than the game most of the time.

“Oh my god, how many times are we going to go for it on fourth and short and not convert?” This season had been full of trying moments, forcing you think back on the few times you snuck in to catch a peak of what Joe was seeing on film when these things would happen.

“FACEMASK?” You yell. “There’s no way in the world they just miss that? Hello? They’re literally trying to rip his head off, that should’ve been a first dow—wait,” you pause, standing up out of your seat for the first time in a few hours. “Is he…is he limping? He’s limping, right?”

Rachel sits up, joining in your concern but also slightly amused at the situation, considering the fact that you said you weren’t going to watch the game and the two of you had been glued to the tv before kickoff. “No matter how much you don’t want to admit it to anyone, including yourself, you still care about him. A lot.”

“I do care,” you swallowed, feeling like your heart was in your stomach at the thought of being in pain. That sleeve didn’t look like it was going to protect anything. “Maybe I care a little too much? Which is exactly why I’m in this predicament. Because let’s be real, on paper? We do not make sense. He doesn’t even flinch spending $3 million and I cry a little if I add too many things to my Amazon cart.”

Rachel laughs, tossing a few pieces of Chex mix into her mouth. “That’s because your job is stingy with raises. And with Joe? Just talk to him. Go see him tomorrow, give him his gift and go from there, see how you feel about everything.”

You admired her ability to put a positive spin on a situation that you felt was pretty much doomed. Maybe you could have one more day of happiness with him tomorrow before walking away for good. That may be your best bet, to just cut all communication and quit cold turkey. After his birthday of course. Dumping someone before their birthday just sounded really terrible and you’d spent a long time getting him this special present so there was no way you weren’t going to see the look on his face in person as he opened it.

The drive felt uncomfortably long. They had gotten a much needed win and he seemed happy enough postgame. But what if he didn’t want to see you? You’d been so focused inward on your feelings and what you needed to do that you really hadn’t had the time to even wonder what Joe’s thought process was. Just in case he wasn’t in the mood for company, you knocked on the door instead of letting yourself in.

Clad in a purple Nike hoodie you remembered borrowing a few times, there he stood in front of you with a blank look on his face.

Solid start.

“Why did you knock? You could’ve just come in.” His hair looks extra fluffy, like he woke up not too long ago, taking it extremely easy after coming home late and taking quite a few hits in last night’s game.

You pushed down the nerves, determined to make today neither awkward nor painful for all parties involved. “Happy birthday. I brought your favorite smoothie from Rune and…did a package come in this morning?”

He thanks you, grabbing the drink out of your hand and closing the door behind you. You can tell he’s moving gingerly. “Yeah I had them put it in the garage. So…are we still—”

“In relationship limbo? Definitely. But today is your day and I’m not a monster,” you joke as a smile forms on his face. And I wanted to see you for myself to make sure you weren’t going to lie. How’s your knee?”

Joe looks at you affectionately, almost visibly resisting the urge to reach out to you. His first instinct was always to give you a comforting squeeze or a gentle hand on your shoulder as a form of reassurance, he just wasn’t sure if that would be appropriate given the circumstances.“Careful, it almost sounded like you were worried about me for a second there.”

“I do not care about you. I care about my favorite football team’s starting quarterback and his well being for the rest of the season. That’s all. Don’t read too much into it.” You were lying through your teeth and both of you knew it.

He nods slightly, catching you looking at his leg or any sign of pain in his face if he so much as leaned over the counter. And if you still had a soft spot for him somewhere in there that was enough. “I feel ok. It’s sore but it’s Tuesday and the day after games is always touch and go. You know that.”

You quickly learned just how exhausting some postgame days were. His body bruised easily so sometimes he looked like he’d honestly been in a fight of some kind. And lost…badly. Moving around was slow and painful as if he were closer to being put in a retirement home than he was to playing another bruising game the next week. But the next day was usually back to normal and you were always in awe at his ability to bounce back. Having everything laid out in front of you like this made it easy to understand why he had such a strict schedule. Eating and sleeping and everything in between were catered to help him recover.

“Are you ready to open your gift?”

Joe sighs, stating that he doesn’t need more presents but you give him a look and he knows it’s best to just follow you to the garage. “I didn’t realize how big this is,” he notes, a hint of apprehension in his voice, “you really didn’t have to get me anything.”

He runs his fingers along the top of wrapping, deep in thought for a few seconds before you urge him to open it. Carefully peeling back the paper, Joe pulls back the layers to reveal a one of a kind Seinfeld painting.

“Before you say anything, look at the back,” you tell him when he looks at you like he’s about to open his mouth. On the back is a handwritten note from Jerry Seinfeld himself. Joe’s jaw actually drops and he’s rendered speechless, silently rereading the words over and over. “It goes great with the pants, that I somehow knew you’d be wearing today. How predictable.”

He shrugs and looks down at the well worn blue pants, trying and failing to hide his smirk. “What can I say?”

“That you’re a millionaire who’s also a serial outfit repeater? What would Anna Wintour say if she could see you now?”

“She’d probably say that I pull off the lazy look very well,” he retorts with a laugh. Looking back at the painting and then at you, Joe feels a rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. He had no idea how you got this but he’s sure it took a long time and you went to great lengths to make it possible, to make him happy. “Thank you,” he whispers, suddenly not trusting his voice.

You find yourself in his arms before you even register that your body has moved, clinging onto him like your life depends on it. Part of you wanted to stay, be in this moment and let yourself fall back into the routine of a grueling season with the person who clearly brought you an immense joy unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Joe was your peace, your picnic on a sunny day and it was scary to see how easily the two of you hadn’t missed a beat, teasing each other and talking like lifelong friends who could read each other like a book. The thing that was breaking your heart the most is that Joe had become your best friend, the one you could talk to about any and everything while simultaneously making your heart beat out of your chest at the effortless romance that came from this playful and unexpected connection.

But was that really enough? When you gave his body one more squeeze before stepping back, Joe couldn’t help the awful thought going through his mind that this could be the last hug. Not wanting to tear himself away from the embrace, he awkwardly and very hesitantly lets you go, standing alone in the garage after you wish him happy birthday again and leave. All that progress he’s thought the two of you had just made was out the door and he was stuck with the coolest gift he’d ever received and a sense of emptiness inside him that only you could fill.

The next day in the facility he was locked in. Focused solely on football from the moment he walked in, went through walkthrough as he tried to avoid the Hard Knocks crew and conducted his weekly press conference like it was another day. Only after he got in the car did he allow himself to really acknowledge that he was missing you. Yesterday was supposed to have helped and it did, but it also just made him realize that life was just better with you around and he couldn’t keep letting you walk away.

He’d admittedly been quiet last night at dinner with his parents and when they asked if he was okay he just told them that the season was weighing on him a bit, not exactly ready to divulge the fact that he was seeing someone and had potentially ruined it all in the same breath. That may result in too many questions he wasn’t ready to answer. So he scheduled time to speak with the one person he could always turn to for guidance and perspective.

And 24 hours later, as soon as he walked in the door, he set his stuff down and went upstairs to his room for an emergency Zoom meeting with his therapist. After the session was over and he had a moment to think, he pondered his therapist’s words urging him to think about one defining moment that encapsulates your relationship to guide him in his next steps.

The two of you had finished eating dinner during the bye week on the couch. Sushi boxes were discarded on the table as you forced him to watch some cooking show. You slid your feet under his leg, desperately searching for warmth in places where the blanket just wasn’t enough.

“Your feet cold again?” You nod. “Babe, you might have circulation issues or something, should probably get that checked out,” he grins, lifting himself up so he can grab your legs and put them in his lap. His touch instantly brings heat to your limbs, shooing away the frigid air and replacing it with a soft glow that you’re pretty sure has surrounded you since you and Joe made things official.

Once you’ve warmed up enough you cross over to the other side of the couch to wrap yourself up in him, as close as you possibly can. Nights like this feel like his own little peace of heaven, your arm resting casually on his chest and your bodies practically glued to each other, becoming one simultaneous heartbeat. He presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, laying there in complete bliss, all of worries about football, the team and their season out the window for a bit. The weight of carrying a franchise is easily lifted when you’re around, keeping his feet on the ground in times when he would have his head in the clouds. For one second everything makes sense and it’s perfect…until it hits him square in the chest.

He’s in love.

Joe comes back to himself, snapping out of that bye week memory wiping a tear that he hadn’t realize was coming down his face. His heart tightens at recognizing why he’d lashed out at you and said those horrible things. It wasn’t football stress at all. It was fear driving him, he reverted back to the person he was trying to work on. And instead of being honest, he’d built an emotional wall around himself disguised as work stress to keep himself from saying those three words at a time he thought could be too soon for the two of you and scare you off. Because it was definitely terrifying him, even if he felt it. And now he may have lost you as a result of his actions.

On Friday, he actually looked forward to enjoy the off day, after he got his morning workout in at the facility. And then you texted him to tell him you were walking into the house.

You looked nervous and he didn’t like it. “Is this a bad time?” He shakes his head no, unsure if he wants to do this right now. The quarterback was really regretting coming home right about now. Being at the stadium watching the guys play golf would’ve been a much faster but still painful death. This was just torture.

“I’ve been thinking…a lot. And,” you take in a deep breath, hoping that filling your lungs with lots of air can make what you have to say a bit easier.

Joe pales, thinking that you’ve put off breaking up with him because of his birthday. He wants to brace himself for impact. He should respect your wishes, whether he agrees or not, but you both know he isn’t one to go down without a fight. “Before you dump me, I just—I have to tell you how sorry I am. You bulldozed through my life like freight train with your royalty jokes and your horrible day and I knew I needed more. Wanted to know everything about you. But I’m not great at this. Emotions aren’t easy to talk about and I usually pride myself on not showing them and you’ve brought them out of me. So when things got a little too real, I shut down. You’re one of the greatest things in my life but I really messed it up.”

“Joe…” you say quietly, begging the tears not to come.

He stops you, “if I don’t get this out, I might not get another chance. I’m sorry for making you feel like I don’t want to be around you when the truth is that sometimes it’s all I want. You mentioned schedules and—and routines. Nowhere in my plans did it include falling for someone this soon and I pushed you away because I was scared, not because you’re a distraction but because—being with you makes me have to admit that the things I feel for you aren’t like anything I’ve ever felt before. I’m sorry I hurt you in the midst of realizing that.”

You look at him, trying to memorize every one of his features. The natural bags under his eyes are a bit more pronounced, a slight glimmer in his ocean eyes give away all of the emotions written on his face. He looks devastated, a look all too familiar to you since you and the entire country have seen him look dejected and defeated several times throughout the season. But there’s something more distressing hidden behind his gaze. An indescribable amount of worry etched across his features.

Joe looks…heartbroken.

The honesty and raw intensity of his words are almost enough to render you speechless, but you came here for a reason.

You clear your throat before you speak, biting back your own emotions. “Joseph I’m not breaking up with you. Believe me, I wanted to and I thought about all the reasons why maybe I should. Because I don’t think I’m built for this life,” you look down at your feet, heaving out another breath before looking up at him and holding out your hand for him to hold.

“None of this is easy and sometimes, yeah I doubt myself. And you are very moody for like half the year. But there’s nowhere else I want to be and no one else I’d rather be with. Through the honeymoon phase or 60 years from now when when we’re senile and yelling at each other about the tv remote. Mostly me yelling you staring angrily but—as long as we’re together, I really don’t care. What I’m saying is…I don’t want easy. I want you.”

The tension in his shoulders is released almost immediately. “So you’re saying you’re stuck with me?” He laughs, a sense of relief taking over him. “And you aren’t just saying that because you haven’t had Boca in almost two weeks, right?”

“Your ability to get me their Maple Mascarpone Cheesecake whenever I want is not the main reason why I love you. That’s just one of many.”

You take a second to realize what you just said, opening and closing your mouth a few times but no words are coming out.

Joe’s smiling so big his face is starting to hurt. “You just said you love me.”

Tilting your head to look at him, laughing a little. You can’t believe you let it slip out like that. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Say it again,” he says softly, squeezing your hand and taking a few steps toward you.

You shake your head, one of your hands finding their way into his hair as you pull him in.

The man’s breath hitches as he melts into your touch, the kiss slowly putting him back together, free from all the anxious energy he’d put aside as a defense mechanism. “Joseph, I love you. I love you. I love you.”

The sound of your words radiate against his lips, sending a never ending shiver down his spine.

"I love you too,” he utters with such sweetness you feel like your heart is exploding. “And I missed you.”

He leans in and pours two weeks of apologies and love into the kiss and after all this time of not being close to him, you never want to let him go again. You eventually do separate, only because you need air, and giggle at the fact that you actually still haven’t let each other go. With your fingers intertwined, you lead him upstairs. “Do you need help packing?” Joe steals another quick peck, whispering yes because he’s not letting you out of his sight until it’s time for him to leave tomorrow.

None of this was part of the plan but now that your soul has found its match, you really don’t have a choice but to dive in.

[reidmarieprentiss]

UnLucky

Summary: Based on this request! Reader encourages Penelope to go on a date, which ends in tragedy. This event shakes the team, leading to conflict, particularly between reader and Spencer, who blames her for what happened. Alternate ending to Lucky …

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: angst

Warnings/Includes:

Word count: 15.4k

a/n: i do agree with the comments saying they wouldn't forgive him... so here ya go!

main masterlist

“So,” Derek says with that familiar smirk, “who’s the lucky guy?”

Penelope's eyes sparkle as she smiles, her fingers toying with a brightly colored pen on her desk. “His name is James. Just this sweet guy I met at the coffee shop. You know... normal, stable. No dark criminal past.” She tries to sound casual, but the happiness in her voice is unmistakable.

“Uh-huh...” Morgan leans in, tilting his head as if scrutinizing her every word. “And you’re sure you want to go out with him?”

A slight defensiveness takes over as Penelope puts her hands on her hips, feigning indignation. “Yes! Why not? Am I not allowed to date now, Derek Morgan?”

Morgan's grin widens, and he shakes his head, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say that. Just... be careful, alright?”

Rolling her eyes with a dramatic sigh, Penelope can’t help but huff. “Yes, Dad,” she quips, wondering why Derek is being so weird about this.

But then Morgan’s expression shifts, softening into something deeper, more earnest. “No, seriously.” His voice drops, gentle but firm. “Just... be careful, Baby Girl. Don’t give away your heart to some guy who hasn’t earned it.”

Penelope hardens slightly, feeling slightly hurt that Derek feels the need to lecture her. “I know, Derek. But... he seems nice. Really.”

Morgan nods slowly and walks away, still caught in the cloud of his concern and overprotectiveness. She lets out a soft sigh, looking down at the pile of case files on her desk, feeling a little bit deflated despite her earlier excitement. She loves that Derek cares, but sometimes he can be a bit... much. She starts to drum her fingers nervously against her desk, mulling over their conversation.

That's when you come in. You'd been passing by and couldn't help but notice the tense exchange. Taking a quick survey of Penelope's expression—anxiousness and longing—you decide to step in, offering a soft but encouraging smile.

"Hey, Pen," you say gently, leaning against the edge of her desk, careful not to crowd her. "You doing okay? I saw the little showdown with Morgan. He can be a bit... intense sometimes, huh?"

Penelope chuckles softly, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You could say that. I mean, I know he means well, but... I just want to do normal things, like go out with a guy. And James... he seems so sweet, you know?”

“James?” you say, a teasing grin spreading across your face as you lean a bit closer. “Who is this James?”

Penelope's eyes dart to yours, and for a moment, she looks like a deer caught in headlights, her surprise quickly melting into a flustered smile. “Oh, he’s... just this guy,” she says, her voice rising in pitch as she tries to sound nonchalant. “Met him at the coffee shop. He's sweet, you know... normal.”

Your grin widens, clearly unconvinced by her attempt to play it cool. “Normal, huh? And when exactly were you planning on telling me about this ‘normal’ guy?”

Penelope tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting out a playful huff. “Oh, come on. It’s just a date... no big deal.” But the glint in her eyes says otherwise, and you know it’s a big deal to her. And that’s exactly why you’re going to keep teasing.

“Well, it’s still a deal!” you exclaim, leaning forward in your seat, eyes wide with excitement. “Tell me all about it!”

Penelope laughs, the warmth of your enthusiasm easing away the hesitation she’s been holding onto. She fidgets with the edge of her sweater, a shy smile creeping onto her face as she starts to talk. “So... I was at my usual coffee shop, you know, the one with the really good chai lattes,” she begins, her voice picking up speed as she gets lost in the memory. “And then, out of nowhere, this ridiculously attractive man just... walks up to me, like he’s in some kind of rom-com or something. And he... he asked me out.”

You lean back, eyes wide, soaking in every detail of her story. “No way,” you whisper, your excitement infectious. “What did you do? What did you say?”

“Well, I said yes, obviously!” she chuckles, though there's an underlying nervousness. “But... I felt so... I don't know. Conflicted. This just doesn’t happen to girls like me.”

“Girls like you?” Your expression shifts from curiosity to confusion, brow furrowing as you try to make sense of her words. “Penelope Garcia, you are one of the most beautiful, kind-hearted, brilliant people I have ever met in my life.” You lean in, your voice gentle but insistent, making sure she understands every word. “ ‘Girls like you’ deserve the world and more. Don’t you dare think otherwise for a second.”

Penelope’s eyes widen, your words hitting her like a warm, unexpected wave. Her smile softens, and she blinks a few times, trying to brush off the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “You really think so?” she whispers, her voice almost breaking with vulnerability.

“Are you kidding?” you say, a grin spreading across your face as you reach out to squeeze her hand. “James is the lucky one here, Penelope. Trust me on that.” 

She squeezes your hand back, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she ducks her head a little. “So, you’re saying I should go on this date?” she asks, the nervousness wavering just slightly in her voice. “Because... Derek didn’t seem so sure.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning back in your chair with a dramatic sigh. “Derek is a man, and men are weird,” you say with a knowing smirk. “I bet he’s got some strange alpha-male possessive thing going on. It’s like, in his DNA or something, to protect his pack. Don’t listen to him. You should absolutely go on this date.”

Penelope’s smile widens, and she lets out a soft, relieved laugh. “Well, when you put it like that... maybe you’re right. I mean, he is just one guy. And he did buy me a coffee...” 

“Exactly!” you exclaim, nodding fervently. “You’ve got a very attractive guy who bought you coffee and wants to spend time with you. And, Penelope, you deserve to have fun. So don’t overthink it, okay? Go on the date, be your amazing self, and if Derek has a problem, he can take it up with me.”

She chuckles at that, the tension finally leaving her shoulders, and the smile that spreads across her face is brighter than ever. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it. I’ll go on the date.” 

“Good!” you say, beaming. “And when he inevitably falls head over heels for you, I expect a full play-by-play report.”

“Deal,” Penelope says, grinning, the confidence returning to her eyes as she envisions a night filled with possibilities.

When you walked out of Penelope’s office, a spring in your step from the lighthearted conversation, you made your way back to your desk in the bullpen. As you approached your workspace, something immediately caught your eye — a fresh mug of hot coffee sitting on your desk, the steam curling upward in delicate wisps. A secret smile spread across your face as you set your things down and wrapped your fingers around the warm mug, the scent of your favorite brew filling the air.

You didn’t need to guess who’d placed it there. Glancing up, your eyes found Spencer across the bullpen, and sure enough, he was looking at you with that sweet, soft smile that always made your heart skip a beat. The quiet gesture was simple, but it spoke volumes about the thoughtful, caring man he was.

You mouthed a silent “thank you,” lifting the mug slightly as a toast of gratitude, and playfully blew him a kiss. Spencer’s cheeks flushed that adorable shade of pink that always surfaced whenever you flirted with him, and he shyly ducked his head for a moment before glancing back up to meet your eyes. With a wink and a barely contained grin, he turned back to his work, trying — and failing — to hide just how pleased he was to have made your morning a little brighter. 

The sweetness of the morning, with its light teasing and the comfort of Spencer’s coffee, was short-lived. The moment Hotch called everyone into the conference room, a palpable shift in energy settled over the team. You quickly gathered your things and followed the others into the room, the coffee that had moments ago been a small joy now forgotten as you braced yourself for the case that awaited.

On the screen in the conference room was the face of a young woman — a bright, smiling 19-year-old with curly brown hair and freckles that dotted her cheeks. The smile in her photo seemed hauntingly out of place for what followed. Abby Connors, the name beneath the picture read. Hotch stepped forward, his face grave, and began the briefing.

“Abby Connors was a 19-year-old freshman at the University of Florida,” he explained. “She left home a little over a week ago to move into her dorm, but she never made it back. Her parents reported her missing, and after three days of searching, joggers found her body near a park in the Everglades, near an area the locals refer to as 'Alligator Alley.'”

A murmur rippled through the room as the next image appeared — a crime scene photo, one that showed just half of Abby’s body. You instinctively held your breath as you took in the gruesome details: everything beneath her waist was missing, consumed by the predators that roamed the swampy area. But it was the condition of the remaining part of her body that made the room go eerily silent.

“She was found with an inverted pentagram carved into her chest,” Hotch continued grimly, pointing to the markings on her torso. “Her fingers were all cut off at the second knuckle, and her throat was slit cleanly.”

You exchanged uneasy glances with your teammates, the horrifying nature of the crime setting in as you processed each detail. “So what are we dealing with?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. “Some kind of satanic cult?”

Rossi, who had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, shook his head. “It's not as simple as that. The idea of satanic cults operating as organized serial killer groups has been widely debunked.” He sat up, his expression thoughtful but firm. “The satanic panic of the ‘80s and ‘90s sensationalized a lot of things, but ritualistic killings like this? They don’t happen often in the way people think.”

“So, not a cult,” JJ mused aloud. “But this is still a ritualistic killing, right? The pentagram, the mutilation... it’s not random.”

“Absolutely ritualistic,” Spencer added, nodding in agreement. “The precision of the throat slitting, the removal of the fingers, the inverted pentagram... they all suggest that this was premeditated, and that the unsub wanted to send a specific message with Abby’s murder.”

“This type of ritualistic behavior can escalate,” Derek said, leaning over the table, a serious look in his eyes. “It’s got all the hallmarks of a kill that’s part of a larger motive. If we don’t catch this guy, he’s likely to do it again.”

“Which means we’re looking at a potential serial killer in the making,” Emily concluded, her voice grim. “Someone with a specific set of rituals and a willingness to mutilate and kill.”

Rossi cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him as he spoke with an almost reverent gravity. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” he quoted in a low voice, his Italian rolling off his tongue smoothly. Seeing the questioning looks on some of your faces, he translated: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

A silence fell over the room as the weight of those words hung in the air. You knew, as did everyone else in the room, that this case was going to be dark, disturbing, and an all-consuming race to catch a killer who seemed to find something meaningful — perhaps even sacred — in the brutality of his crimes.

And with that, the team set into motion, knowing that every second mattered if they were going to save another girl from meeting the same fate as Abby Connors.

—

After the team closes the case, the team sits in relative silence on the jet, each member deep in thought, processing the horrors. The soft hum of the plane’s engine provides a strange comfort, and the tension of the day slowly begins to ease. Morgan sits across from Rossi, resting his elbows on his knees, staring off into the distance. Rossi watches him for a moment before speaking up.

“You did good work out there,” Rossi says, his voice steady and calm, the kind of voice that always has a way of grounding everyone. 

Morgan looks up, giving a half-smile, but there’s a heaviness behind his eyes. “Yeah... but you know how it is, man. No matter how many of these cases we close, it never feels like it’s enough.” He shakes his head, running a hand over his face as if to brush away the exhaustion. “I just keep thinking about Abby’s family. They’ll never be the same.”

Rossi leans back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap, a thoughtful look on his face. “Yeah, it’s tough. But we gave them answers. And sometimes, that’s all we can do. You know as well as I do, it’s not about winning every battle. It’s about making sure we fight it.”

Morgan nods, his jaw tightening as he absorbs Rossi’s words. “I know,” he says, voice a little softer now. “It’s just... there’s so much darkness out there. And some days, it feels like it’s winning.”

Rossi’s expression shifts into something more reflective, a small, wise smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Maybe it feels like that,” he admits, “but the fact that it bothers you — the fact that it bothers all of us — that’s what makes the difference, Morgan. It means we’re still out there, shining a light in the darkness.”

Morgan's shoulders relax a little, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I guess you’re right. Just gotta keep fighting, right?”

Rossi raises a glass of bourbon from his side table, offering a silent toast. “To fighting the good fight.”

Morgan grins, and they clink glasses in a quiet, shared moment of understanding. The jet continues its journey through the night, a small point of light against the vast expanse of sky.

—

Meanwhile, Penelope walks arm-in-arm with James, her laughter bright and infectious as it echoes down the sidewalk. They reach the front steps of her apartment building, and she turns to face him. “Well, this was... really nice,” she says, giving him a genuine smile. 

James grins back at her, and for a second, he leans in as if he’s about to kiss her. But at the last second, he pulls back, laughing playfully. “Sorry,” he says, scratching his head sheepishly. “Didn’t want to be too forward.”

Garcia giggles, shaking her head at his little fake-out. “You almost had me there,” she teases, turning to fish for her keys in her bag. “Well, goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Penelope,” he says, stepping back and starting to walk away, giving her one last wave. 

As she turns to unlock her door, James suddenly stops, a strange stillness in the way he holds himself. He calls out to her over his shoulder, voice casual but loud enough to make her pause. “Hey, Garcia?”

Penelope looks up, smiling as she begins to open her door. “Yeah?”

James turns fully toward her, the smile gone from his face, replaced with an unsettling calm. “I’ve been thinking about doing this all night,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket.

Before Garcia can even process what’s happening, James pulls out a gun, his movements quick and fluid. The world seems to slow down around her — her eyes widen, her mouth opens to scream, but the sound never comes. 

And then, in an instant, the gun fires. The crack of the shot echoes through the empty street, and Penelope’s body jerks back, eyes wide with shock and pain as she collapses to the ground, her keys scattering across the pavement. 

James stands there for a moment, the smoke from the barrel of his gun curling into the night air. He watches as she gasps for breath, a cruel smile curling on his lips before he turns and disappears into the shadows, leaving Penelope lying there, her life slipping away on the cold, unforgiving ground.

—

Back on the jet, you lean back in your seat, facing Spencer with a thoughtful look. “You know, I keep wondering what Penelope’s date is like,” you muse aloud, spinning your half-empty cup of coffee between your hands. “I hope she’s having fun. She deserves it.”

Spencer’s brows knit in mild surprise, his mouth opening to respond, but before he can even utter a word, Derek’s voice cuts across the cabin. “Wait — hold up.” He’s leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide and brimming with concern. “Garcia actually went on that date?”

“Yeah, she did.” You nod, meeting his incredulous stare with a small smile. “I told her to go for it. She’s gotta put herself out there, right? No reason for her to hold back just because you’re all... alpha about it.”

“Alpha?” Derek echoes, looking around at the others as if searching for an ally. “I’m not... okay, look, I just want to make sure she’s safe. And how do you even know if this guy’s legit? Did you see him? Talk to him?”

You wave a hand dismissively. “No, but she deserves to have fun, Derek. She seemed excited, and it’s not like she doesn’t have a good head on her shoulders. I think it’s great that she’s taking a chance on something new.”

Emily nods along in agreement, leaning back with a relaxed smile. “I think it’s sweet. And Penelope isn’t some naïve kid — she’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself.”

JJ chimes in with a bright smile, “Yeah, and besides, it’s not like she’s going to let someone walk all over her. She’ll know if something’s up. And if he treats her right, then it’s all the better for her. Maybe it’ll turn into something special.”

Rossi, watching the whole exchange with an amused smirk, adds, “Sometimes people surprise you. And sometimes that surprise is exactly what someone needs to get out of their comfort zone. Our girl deserves someone to treat her well.”

Derek’s shoulders stay tense, and he shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “I get that, but... I just want to make sure she’s happy. That’s all. You know Garcia — she’s got a big heart, and I don’t want some guy messing with it.”

You reach over and pat Derek on the shoulder, a soft smile on your lips. “I get it, really. But maybe you should trust her on this. Penelope’s stronger than you think, and she’s allowed to take some risks. It’s not always about protecting her, Derek — sometimes it’s about letting her live.”

Spencer, who’s been listening quietly, finally speaks up. “She’ll be fine, Derek. And she’s lucky to have someone who cares as much as you do. But I think what she really needs right now is support... and maybe for us to just be happy for her.”

Derek looks around at everyone, the tension in his expression easing as he sees the genuine support in the eyes of his teammates. He lets out a reluctant chuckle, running a hand over his shaved head. “Alright, alright. I guess I’m just overprotective.”

“Just a bit,” you tease with a playful nudge.

“Fine,” Derek relents, lifting his hands in surrender. “But if this guy hurts her...”

“Then we’ll all be there to kick his ass,” Emily assures with a wink, and the team laughs, the conversation flowing into lighter banter, the tension dissipating as they talk about how much they hope Penelope enjoys her date — all of them unknowingly letting go of their worry while the truth of the night's events remains just out of reach.

You leaned into Spencer, feeling that familiar warmth spread through you as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you closer until your head rested comfortably against him. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, a silent show of support and affection.

The chatter of your teammates surrounded you, playful jokes about first-date jitters and guesses about how Penelope’s night might be going. It was one of those rare lighthearted moments that made the job feel less heavy. And as you closed your eyes for just a moment, feeling the calm of Spencer’s presence, everything felt okay.

The jet touched down smoothly, and you straightened up, reluctantly leaving the warmth of Spencer’s side as everyone prepared to disembark. But as soon as the wheels hit the ground, Hotch’s phone buzzed loudly against the table. He picked it up immediately, his expression going from relaxed to steely in an instant as he answered.

“Hotchner,” he said, his voice flat and professional.

The team began to gather their things, their attention still mostly on wrapping up the casual conversation, until Hotch’s face went stark white, his eyes narrowing as he listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line. His mouth opened slightly, and you saw the shock in his eyes before he steeled himself again.

“What happened?” he demanded, his tone shifting from its usual calm to something far more urgent. He stood up abruptly, stepping away from the team, but you could all still hear him as the rest of the plane went silent, each of you glancing at one another with rising concern. Spencer’s hand instinctively found yours, and you squeezed it, anxiety blooming in your chest.

“Where was she?” Hotch’s voice was clipped, a mixture of alarm and anger. “When?”

You exchanged quick glances with your teammates. It wasn’t normal to see Hotch like this, and that fear in his voice made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Is she...?” Hotch stopped, and there was a pause, a terrible pause that seemed to stretch on forever. You held your breath, waiting, every second feeling like a lifetime.

“Understood. We’re on our way.” Hotch’s voice was low, tight with a struggle to maintain control. He hung up without another word, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the tension in his muscles.

He turned back to the team, his expression grim, and you knew, you just knew, that whatever had happened, it wasn’t good.

Hotch’s voice was like ice, cutting through the stunned silence of the jet as he delivered the news that seemed impossible to process: “Garcia’s been shot. She’s in the hospital, in surgery.”

The world seemed to tilt, a rush of chaos and confusion drowning out everything else. In an instant, you and the rest of the team scrambled to grab your bags, shock and fear flashing in everyone’s eyes. It was like all at once, the air was sucked out of the room, and before anyone could fully understand what was happening, you were rushing down the steps of the jet. The roar of the engines and the slap of your feet against the tarmac seemed distant, muffled, as adrenaline took over. 

Within seconds, you piled into the SUVs, slamming the doors shut as the engines roared to life, and the cars sped off toward the hospital. The journey felt agonizingly long, despite the breakneck speed. No one spoke, but the tension in the car was palpable — every breath was shallow, every heartbeat loud in your ears. Your hand was clasped tightly in Spencer’s, and he held on as if anchoring you to reality, but all you could think about was Garcia and the thought of losing her. 

When you finally pulled up to the hospital, everyone practically flew out of the cars, running toward the entrance. The white lights of the waiting room were harsh and sterile, amplifying the dread that hung over the team. Hotch was the first to speak to the receptionist, his voice firm and demanding answers, but the only thing they knew was that Penelope was in surgery — no word on her condition, no updates, and, most importantly, no word on who had done this to her. 

And so you waited. 

The team paced, hands running through hair, fists clenching and unclenching as they tried to contain the storm of emotions within. The minutes stretched into hours, and the silence felt heavy, like a weight pressing down on each of you. Spencer held you close, one arm wrapped tightly around you as you buried your face into his chest, tears streaming down your face. He murmured gentle reassurances, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, but his own eyes were red-rimmed and his voice strained, betraying his fear. 

Across the room, Derek’s frustration finally boiled over, and he lashed out, yelling at a nurse who could provide no new information. “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know anything? That’s our friend in there! You have to know something!” His voice was raw, the anger masking his pain, but before he could cause more of a scene, Hotch intervened, gripping his shoulder firmly and steering him outside. 

The tension in the room didn't lessen, only growing heavier in Derek’s absence. Emily sat with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped tightly together, staring at the ground as if willing time to move faster. Rossi paced back and forth, his jaw tight, not a word leaving his mouth, but the anger and sorrow on his face spoke volumes. JJ stood near you, hugging her arms to her chest, eyes fixed on the swinging doors that led to the surgery wing, willing them to open with some kind of good news.

Hours passed in that awful purgatory, time stretching and distorting until it seemed like you’d been waiting an eternity. And then, finally, a nurse came out and told you that one person could go back to see her. As a unit, the decision was made for Hotch to go — Garcia had named him her emergency contact, and he was the steady hand, the one who would be able to bring back the information without being overwhelmed by the storm of emotions all of you were feeling. 

The waiting resumed, and all you could do was cling to Spencer tighter, the fear and worry seeming to squeeze the breath from your lungs. 

When Hotch emerged from behind the doors some time later, his face was unreadable, a mask of professionalism over whatever emotions he was truly feeling. The rest of you gathered around him quickly, every muscle tensed as you waited for him to say something, anything, about Garcia. 

“Garcia’s going to make it,” he said, his voice low but firm. You let out a shuddering breath of relief, and the room seemed to collectively exhale. “She’s stable, but...” He paused, glancing at each of you, and in his eyes, you saw a darkness that made your stomach drop.

“It was her date who shot her,” he said quietly. “James. But his real name... is Jason Clark Battle.”

The name seemed to hang in the air like a curse, and it took a moment for the shock to register. And when it did, Derek’s expression twisted with a rage so violent it was almost frightening. “No,” he said, shaking his head as if refusing to believe it. “No, no, no—” His voice rose to a shout, and before anyone could react, he lunged toward you, face twisted with anger and pain. “You told her to go! You told her to go with him!”

His hands reached out to grab you, but before he could touch you, Rossi and Emily were on him, grabbing his arms and holding him back. “Derek, stop!” Rossi’s voice was sharp, his grip firm as he held Morgan in place. “This isn’t their fault!”

“Let go of me!” Derek struggled against their hold, his voice hoarse with fury, his eyes wild and filled with a grief that had no outlet. “I should’ve stopped her... I should’ve...”

Hotch stepped between you and Derek, his face set in a stern, controlled mask. “Enough,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. “This is not how we handle this. We find this man, and we make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

It felt like everything around you was falling apart, the walls closing in as the weight of the world crashed down on you, pressing in from all sides. Your breath caught in your throat, and you turned to the one person who could always make things feel right — Spencer. You reached out to him, seeking his comfort, his steady reassurance. But instead of the familiar warmth of his embrace, you were met with a coldness that hit you like a blow to the chest.

He stepped back, his eyes fixed on you with a look you’d never seen before — something between shock, hurt, and a kind of betrayal that cut deep. The warmth was gone, replaced by an expression that made your stomach drop. 

“Spence?” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely more than a whimper. You felt your world spiraling, desperately trying to grasp onto something to steady yourself. 

Spencer’s eyes darted to the floor for a moment, then back to you, and he shook his head, his expression clouded with confusion and anger. “You told her to go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with pain. It wasn’t an accusation, not quite, but it felt like one all the same. He kept backing away from you, his face crumpling into an anguish you’d never seen before, like he was fighting to hold himself together. And then, without another word, he turned and stormed out of the waiting room, his footsteps echoing.

“Spencer!” JJ called after him, her voice urgent, but he didn’t stop. Without hesitation, she rushed to follow him, leaving you standing there, frozen in place.

Your eyes welled up with tears as you tried to piece together what had just happened, a sob choking in your throat. It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you, and you were falling, tumbling into a void. You wrapped your arms around yourself, hugging your own body, trying to stave off the cold emptiness that seemed to seep into your bones. You wanted to scream, to cry out and make sense of the look in Spencer’s eyes, the pain in his voice. But all that came out was a soft, broken whisper.

“Spencer...”

Rossi was there in an instant, a steadying hand on your shoulder, guiding you gently to a nearby chair as the reality of the situation crashed over you in relentless waves. Emily crouched down in front of you, her face tight with concern as she spoke softly, her words trying to break through the fog in your mind. But you could hardly hear her. The only thing echoing in your head were Spencer’s words — “You told her to go” — a statement that seemed to slice through your heart, over and over again.

—

You left the hospital soon after Spencer did. The cold night air hit your face as you stepped outside, but the chill did little to clear your head. Everything felt like a blur — Spencer’s words, the look on his face, Derek’s anger — it all played on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with sharper edges, digging deeper into your heart. You didn’t know how to feel, how to process the whirlwind of fear, guilt, and confusion. But one thing was clear: you had to find the man who hurt Penelope.

The next morning came all too quickly. The sun hadn’t even begun to rise when you arrived at the BAU. The bullpen was already a flurry of activity, the team moving with a frantic energy that matched your own desperate need to do something, anything, that could bring justice for Penelope. But as soon as you stepped inside, the adrenaline wasn’t enough to mask the raw pain that hit you when you saw Spencer.

He sat at his desk, fingers typing furiously at his keyboard, his face drawn tight with concentration. You stood there for a moment, holding your breath, waiting for him to look up — to give you some sign, any sign, that you could start to fix whatever had broken between you the night before. But Spencer wouldn’t look at you. It was as if you didn’t exist, like he’d built an invisible wall around himself, and you couldn’t break through. The red puffiness around your eyes was the only outward sign of the sleepless night you’d had, but the exhaustion in your soul ran much deeper.

When you walked past JJ’s desk, she reached out and touched your arm gently, her eyes full of concern, the pity unmistakable. “Hey,” she whispered, trying to offer comfort, but you shook your head, swallowing hard. The last thing you could bear right now was pity. Not when you had to keep it together for Penelope.

The rest of the team looked at you with the same expressions — sympathetic, worried, but no one knew what to say. And the truth was, neither did you. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, feeling the familiar sting of guilt rise in your throat, and forced yourself to look away, trying to focus on the task at hand. It was time to work, and that was something you could still do. Something you could control.

Well, the whole team except for Derek. 

Every time he walked by, you could feel his eyes burning into you, his anger practically crackling like static in the air between you. And he didn’t hold back, either. With each passing hour, he took every chance to let you know exactly what he thought, throwing thinly-veiled digs and outright accusations whenever he could. 

“This is your fault, you know,” he muttered under his breath when you passed each other in the hallway. “You’re the one who pushed her into going out with that psychopath. If she’d just listened to me, she’d be safe.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as his words stabbed into you like a knife, but you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. You just kept walking, heading back to your desk with that guilt clawing up your throat, making it hard to breathe. There was no time to argue, no room to let Derek’s words take over. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shut them out.

And then there were the moments when Derek couldn’t hold it in, when his anger boiled over and his voice rose loud enough for the whole team to hear. “You know that if she dies... if she dies, it’s on you,” he spat, his eyes burning with a fury so sharp it left you feeling gutted. “Her blood’s on your hands. Because you thought it was a good idea to let her go out with some random guy.”

You could feel the eyes of the rest of the team on you whenever it happened, the tension in the room growing thick and heavy as they tried to balance the grief for Penelope and the pain of watching their family fall apart. JJ would try to step in, her voice gentle but firm as she said, “Derek, now’s not the time—” or Hotch would give him a stern look, that unspoken command to drop it. But nothing seemed to get through to him, and each word he threw at you landed like a punch, his grief and fear bleeding out as anger directed at you.

You couldn’t argue with him. You didn’t know how to defend yourself. How could you, when deep down, a part of you agreed with every word he said? 

So you did the only thing you could — you kept your head down and worked, staring at files until your eyes burned, listening to updates and following every lead until you were numb to everything except the hope that finding Jason Clark Battle would somehow make it right. You tried to drown out Derek’s voice, drown out the guilt, drown out the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, if you hadn’t encouraged Penelope, things wouldn’t have gone this way. But no matter how hard you tried to bury it, Derek’s words followed you, hanging over you like a dark shadow. 

And the work continued, relentless and desperate, with everyone pushing forward to find the man who’d hurt Penelope. But the team was fractured, split between their grief and their anger, and the chasm between you and Derek seemed to widen with every word he threw your way.

Even as you worked, though, you could feel Spencer nearby — that familiar presence that you could always sense, whether you were looking at him or not. But this time, it felt different, like an ache just below the surface, a heavy, unspoken rift. He still wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t speak to you, even as you shared the same space, both working to the same goal. And no one pushed him. No one had the time or the energy to force him to talk through his emotions, not when there was a dangerous man on the loose and a life hanging in the balance.

But every time you heard Spencer’s voice — every rapid-fire observation, every note of urgency — it felt like a reminder of how things had changed in the space of a night. You worked side by side, but worlds apart, both desperate to save Garcia, but more than that, desperate to find your way back to each other.

And so, the hours wore on, a relentless, all-consuming search for Jason Clark Battle, with every member of the team driven by the same furious need to bring him to justice. Because in the midst of all the uncertainty and hurt, one thing was clear: no one was going to let him get away with what he’d done to Penelope. Not while any of you still had breath left to fight.

The team found Jason Clark Battle quickly, all things considered. The determination to bring him to justice — to make him pay for what he'd done to Penelope — fueled every moment, every step, every search through records and combing of evidence. But as the moment of his arrest neared, it became a new kind of challenge: keeping Derek Morgan away. 

Hotch had to physically block him from joining the takedown, knowing all too well that if Derek got his hands on the man who shot Penelope, it wouldn’t end in an arrest. “Stand down, Morgan,” Hotch had ordered, his voice like a steel blade, cutting through the thick fog of Derek’s rage. It took Rossi and Emily to finally pull him back, their hands firm on his shoulders as Derek cursed and seethed, every inch of his body vibrating with the need to rip Battle apart. But they couldn't afford to lose two team members to the fallout, and Morgan was forced to stay back, simmering with fury as the rest of the team moved in.

When Jason Clark Battle was finally caught, subdued, and taken into custody, there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing that the man who hurt Penelope would face justice. But the victory was bitter, the relief tainted by the damage left in the wake of what had happened. The case might have been closed, but for all of you, it didn’t feel like a win — not when someone you loved was still lying in a hospital bed, healing from wounds she never should have gotten.

Once the reports were turned in and the team was officially dismissed, you watched as everyone else gathered to visit Penelope. There was a sort of reverence in how they spoke of her, quiet smiles and gentle jokes exchanged as they planned to bring flowers, chocolate, and anything else that would bring a smile to her face. But you couldn't go. The thought of stepping into that hospital room, of meeting her eyes, of seeing the pain and understanding what your advice had led to... it felt unbearable. You couldn’t face her, couldn’t let her see how broken you felt, knowing how close you’d come to losing her because you thought you were doing something good.

So, while your teammates headed to the hospital, ready to surround Penelope with love and support, you went home. The silence of your apartment was suffocating, and it took everything in you to not collapse under the weight of your own regret. The emptiness of being away from the team, from Penelope, only deepened your guilt. But it was better than showing up and making things worse — better than her having to see your face and be reminded of everything that happened. 

Instead, you did what little you could from afar. You sent gift baskets filled with all of her favorite snacks — crunchy caramel popcorn, brightly wrapped candies, a couple of silly trinkets you hoped would make her laugh. You sent care packages with magazines, crossword puzzles, and soft blankets she could curl up with while she healed. You tried to send all the comfort you couldn’t bring yourself to give in person, every basket and letter a quiet apology you weren’t sure you deserved to offer. You only hoped she knew that, despite the distance, you were thinking of her. That you were sorry. 

And as the days went on, and Penelope stayed in that hospital, you wondered if she could ever forgive you — if one day, when she was better and things returned to some semblance of normalcy, she might understand that all you wanted was for her to find happiness. That, even though your advice had gone so terribly wrong, it had come from a place of love. But the uncertainty of her forgiveness lingered, hanging over you like a cloud, and all you could do was hope that, in time, the rift could be healed.

Until then, you stayed away, waiting for the moment you could finally make amends — if that moment ever came.

—

The next workday, you sat at your desk, your eyes fixed on the papers in front of you, but your mind felt miles away. The sound of your own heartbeat seemed loud in the quiet of the bullpen, pounding relentlessly in your ears as you willed yourself to focus on something — anything — other than the turmoil of the last few days. You barely slept, and the fatigue sat heavy on your shoulders, making every moment feel sluggish, disconnected from reality. The tension still hung in the air, lingering after Penelope’s shooting, and it felt like every step you took was on eggshells, threatening to crack under the weight of all you hadn’t said. 

You didn't hear Derek's approach at first, lost as you were in your own thoughts. But when you did catch the sight of his broad form looming in your peripheral vision, your whole body tensed up instinctively, bracing for what you knew would be another wave of anger, another round of accusations that would leave you feeling raw and exposed.

Here it comes, you thought. The guilt clenched in your chest as you waited for the onslaught, already picturing the words he’d throw at you, the blame you knew you deserved.

But then, you looked up, and the expression on Derek's face made you pause. It wasn’t what you expected. The hard lines of anger that had been etched there were gone, replaced by something softer, something regretful. He stood before you, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, his hands shoved into his pockets, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to find the right words.

“Hey,” he finally said, his voice low and rough with emotion.

“Hey.” You nodded back, your voice barely more than a whisper, your body still taut like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Derek glanced down for a moment, and when he looked back up, there was an apology written all over his face. “I, uh... I came to talk to you about... you know.” He trailed off, taking a deep breath as if trying to steady himself. “About what I said. What I did. And... I’m sorry.”

You blinked, the words hitting you like a punch you didn’t see coming. “You’re... sorry?” you repeated, trying to make sense of it, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I shouldn’t have come at you like that. I... I was angry, and scared, and I let it all out on you, and that wasn’t fair. It’s not your fault, what happened to Garcia. You were just being a good friend.” He paused, letting out a long, heavy breath. “And I guess... in a way, I’m mad at myself. Mad that I couldn’t keep her safe, that I didn’t know who this guy was, that I couldn’t stop it... so I put all that on you. And I’m sorry.”

You searched his eyes, looking for any trace of the rage you’d seen before, but all you saw now was sincerity, and pain, and a vulnerability that you hadn’t expected to find there. Derek Morgan — the strongest person you knew — was admitting his own fear and guilt to you, and it felt like the world was tilting just a little bit on its axis.

"I appreciate your apology, Derek, but it doesn't erase how you treated me."

Derek's gaze dropped for a moment before flickering back to yours. "I know, Y/N. I said I’m sorry."

"And I heard you," you replied, your voice calm but firm. "But sorry doesn’t fix everything."

Derek's shoulders dropped slightly, the weight of your words settling in. He shifted on his feet, glancing away for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. When his eyes met yours again, they held that same sincerity, but now there was something else—regret, deeper and more profound.

“I know it doesn’t,” he admitted softly. “And I don’t expect it to. I just... I couldn’t leave things the way they were. You didn’t deserve that, Y/N.”

You crossed your arms, not to shield yourself but to hold steady under the swirl of emotions. “It hurt, Derek. I get that you were scared, but I was too. And when I needed someone to understand that, I felt like you were ready to make me the enemy.”

He nodded slowly, stepping closer, careful but deliberate. “I know. And I hate that I made you feel that way. I should’ve been better. You’ve always been there for us—for me—and I let my anger blind me. That’s on me.”

There was a long silence between you, filled only with the hum of the bullpen and the distant chatter of the team.

“I don’t expect things to go back to normal right away,” Derek continued, his voice low, “but I hope we can get there eventually.”

You sighed, feeling the tension in your chest ease just slightly. “I hope so too,” you said quietly. “But it’s going to take time, Derek.”

He gave you a small, understanding nod. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, the rift between you felt just a little smaller—still present, but with a path forward that hadn’t been there before.

—

The day Penelope returned to work felt almost like a holiday. The bullpen was transformed, bursting with bright colors and streamers that cascaded down from the ceiling. Balloons, in every vibrant hue imaginable, were tied to the chairs, and the break room was packed with all her favorite snacks and drinks — colorful cupcakes, glittery cookies, and more caffeine than the doctor would ever allow. The team had gone all out, putting together a grand welcome fit for the one and only Penelope Garcia. The room was buzzing with laughter and excitement as she entered, everyone cheering loudly as she walked through the doors, wide-eyed and grinning.

It was exactly the kind of entrance Penelope deserved. And as she hugged each person, the joy on her face made the space feel warmer, brighter. But you stood in the back, a small smile on your lips, content to watch from a distance. You clapped along with everyone else, but you kept to yourself, too aware of the gnawing guilt that still sat in your chest. It was wonderful to see Penelope smiling, to see her back on her feet and surrounded by the love of her family. But being there, knowing what you’d encouraged her to do, left you feeling like an outsider, not quite sure where you fit in anymore.

When Penelope finally got to you, it took all your courage to step forward and pull her into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you said, your voice trembling slightly, and you clung to her a little tighter than you’d intended. The relief of finally seeing her in person, of knowing she was safe and whole, made your throat tighten with emotion. 

Penelope returned the hug with a strength that surprised you, squeezing you tightly as if she didn’t want to let go. “I’m just happy to see you, hon,” she whispered, her voice warm and forgiving. “It’s been too long.”

You pulled back, offering a small, apologetic smile, but the warmth in her eyes made it clear that there was no anger there, no bitterness — just pure gratitude and love. And for a fleeting moment, you felt the overwhelming urge to spill everything, to apologize for not visiting, to explain the guilt that had been eating away at you. But Penelope gave you a knowing look, a slight shake of her head, as if to say not now. And you understood. This moment was for her — for the joy of being back, for the healing that still needed to happen. The deeper conversation could wait.

But as the celebration continued and the week went on, you still kept your distance. You showed up, of course, participated in the day-to-day, but any time Penelope tried to engage with you beyond work matters, you found ways to cut the conversation short, to avoid anything that could bring up what happened. You didn’t want to push her; you didn’t want to burden her with the weight you were carrying, the idea that anything you say could put her in danger. And you could see she was trying to give you space, to let you come to her on your own terms. But the longer you avoided it, the harder it became to find a way back to the easy friendship you once had.

By the end of the week, it seemed Penelope had had enough. As you were leaving the office one evening, walking toward the elevators, she appeared beside you with a determined look on her face.

“Going somewhere?” she asked, planting herself firmly in your path, hands on her hips.

“Just... heading home,” you said, trying to sound casual, but the way she was looking at you made your heart skip a nervous beat.

“Well, change of plans,” Penelope said cheerfully, not giving you a chance to argue. “You’re coming over tonight. We need some serious girl talk, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Penny, I—” You opened your mouth to protest, but the look on her face was unwavering, her smile patient but insistent, like she’d already made up her mind and wasn’t going to let you wriggle your way out of it.

“Ah ah ah, don’t even try it,” she said, holding up a finger in playful warning. “We’re way overdue for some quality time, and if I have to drag you to my place myself, I will. And believe me, I’ve got the strength to do it.” She gave you a pointed look, raising her eyebrows.

You let out a sigh, feeling the tension in your shoulders slowly give way. How could you say no? Penelope was right; you did need this. And no matter how afraid you were of having that conversation, of putting her in more danger, you couldn’t keep running from her. “Okay,” you said finally, giving her a small smile. “I’ll come over.”

“Good!” she exclaimed, beaming as she linked her arm with yours, pulling you into the elevator with a bounce in her step. “I’ll see you at seven. And trust me, it’s gonna be like old times. Pinky swear.”

And just like that, with Penelope by your side, the world felt just a little bit brighter again.

Being with Penelope felt so easy, so natural — just like it had always been. From the moment you stepped into her apartment, it was as though nothing had changed, as if the heavy cloud of the last few weeks wasn’t hanging over you. She’d set up her place just the way you remembered, warm colors, quirky decor, fairy lights draped over bookshelves, and the familiar scent of lavender. And Penelope, as if sensing your hesitation, knew exactly how to guide you back into a comfortable rhythm.

It started with laughter, of course. The kind only she could pull out of you, a sound that seemed to break down the walls you’d built around your heart. She leaned back on her sofa, legs curled under her as she went on about the latest gossip in her stack of magazines, her voice rising with excitement and exaggeration. 

“Okay, so tell me this,” Penelope started, waving around a magazine with glossy pages. “How is it possible that Bruce Willis can just get hotter every year? It’s like the laws of nature don’t apply to this man!”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I guess some people are just blessed like that.”

“And don't even get me started on what I saw in the office last week,” she continued, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “I swear to you, I saw a hickey on Hotch’s neck. A hickey. On. Aaron Hotchner’s. Neck.”

You nearly choked on your drink, the image catching you completely off guard. “No way!”

“Yes way!” she nodded, her eyes wide with the thrill of gossip. “I’m telling you, our stoic unit chief has a spicy side. And speaking of spicy sides, have you seen how Emily and JJ have been looking at each other lately? I mean, come on, are they not totally vibing?”

The conversation flowed easily, effortlessly, and before long, you found yourself leaning back, laughing, the warmth of Penelope’s company soothing all those frayed edges that had been gnawing away at you for so long. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe again. It was fun to catch up, to just be with her, to hear about all the little things you’d missed — the world outside the darkness you’d been living in. And you could see how much Penelope was thriving, back in her element, glowing with that infectious positivity you’d always loved about her. 

But eventually, it happened. The laughter faded, and the unspoken truth sat between you like a presence too big to ignore. Penelope’s expression softened, her eyes meeting yours with that gentle understanding you’d come to know so well. “Okay, hon,” she said softly, resting her hand on yours. “We’ve gotta talk about it. About what’s been eating you up inside.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to make an excuse, but it was like the dam broke before you could stop it. All the guilt, the fear, the shame — it all came flooding out. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you couldn’t stop the trembling as you finally voiced the things you’d been holding onto for so long.

“Penny, I... I don’t know how to say this,” you started, your voice cracking. “But I’m so sorry. I... I didn’t know, I couldn’t know what was going to happen, but I feel like it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t told you to go, if I hadn’t encouraged you to see him, then maybe you wouldn’t have...”

“Stop,” Penelope said firmly, squeezing your hand. “Just stop right there.” Her eyes were intense, her voice steady in a way that cut through all the panic you were feeling. “You didn’t know. None of us did. And what happened — what he did to me — that is not on you. Do you hear me? It is not your fault.”

“But what if it happens again?” you whispered, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. “What if I give you bad advice? What if I invite you somewhere, or we’re just hanging out, and I somehow put you in the wrong place at the wrong time and you get hurt again? I don’t... I don’t think I could handle it. I can’t go through that again. I can’t lose you.”

Penelope’s eyes softened, and without missing a beat, she pulled you into a hug, wrapping her arms around you tightly. “Shh,” she murmured against your hair. “You’re not going to lose me. I promise you that.”

You clung to her, the sobs coming freely now as all the fear and self-blame poured out of you. Penelope held you firmly, stroking your back, soothing you like only she could. “I know you’re scared,” she said gently. “But, sweetie, you can’t carry the weight of things you can’t control. What happened to me — that was on Jason. He was the one who did this. Not you. You were just being a friend, trying to help me find some happiness. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I should’ve known better,” you mumbled against her shoulder, the words muffled but filled with regret. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go.”

“Hey, listen to me,” she said, pulling back to look you in the eyes, her hands gripping your shoulders. “You didn’t push me. I chose to go on that date. And yes, it turned out horribly. But that doesn’t mean you should stop being my friend, or stop giving me advice, or living your life like you’re walking on eggshells around me. I need you, okay? And I need you to be you, because that’s the person who’s always been there for me, the person I love. I don’t want you holding back because of fear.”

The sincerity in her voice, the love, and the forgiveness shining in her eyes broke down the last of your walls. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you tried to believe her words. “I just... I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered again, your voice small and vulnerable.

“And you won’t,” Penelope said, her voice steady and resolute as she held your gaze. But then, her expression shifted, her eyes searching yours with a gentleness that only she could carry. “But I know that’s not all.”

A flicker of confusion crossed your face. “What do you mean?”

Penelope hesitated, biting down on her lip before speaking, her eyes dropping to her hands as she fidgeted with a loose thread on the blanket draped over her lap. When she finally looked up again, there was a hint of sheepishness in her expression, like she was tiptoeing into territory she wasn’t sure she should tread. “I know you were worried about me, hon,” she said softly. “And I love you so much for that, for being there for me even when you couldn’t actually be there. But… I can tell I’m not the eye of the hurricane inside your head.”

You felt your breath catch, the truth of her words hitting you with a force that left you momentarily speechless. It was as though she had seen straight through you, through all the guilt, all the fear — to the thing that lay beneath it all. And as much as you wanted to deny it, to tell her that it was just about her, you knew you couldn’t lie to Penelope.

You sighed deeply, the weight of everything you’d been holding onto crashing down on you again. You sniffled, trying to steady your voice as you nodded slowly. “Spencer,” you said, the name leaving your lips like an admission of a wound you hadn’t yet looked at directly. “Spencer hasn’t talked to me since we found out what happened.”

Penelope’s eyes widened with sympathy, and she reached out to take your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Oh, sweetie...”

“It’s like he just shut me out,” you continued, your voice trembling. “The day we found out about you, he walked out of the hospital without even looking back. He hasn’t said a word to me since, and every time I try to talk to him, he just... shuts down. I know he’s hurting. And I know he’s probably just processing everything, but...” Your voice cracked, and you shook your head as the tears welled up again. “It feels like I lost him too. Like I lost both of you. And I don’t know how to make it right.”

Penelope listened intently, her face softening with every word you spoke. She could see how much pain you were carrying, how deeply Spencer’s silence had cut you. “Have you tried talking to him? I mean, really talking to him? Not just about work or everyday stuff, but about how you’re feeling?”

You nodded, though your shoulders slumped as the hopelessness of it all settled back in. “I’ve tried, Pen. I’ve tried so many times. But every time I get close, it’s like he just... builds a wall. He won’t even look at me sometimes. And it hurts, because I don’t know what to do to fix it.”

Penelope was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful as she processed your words. Then she sighed softly, her fingers intertwining with yours. “You know what I think?” she said gently. “I think Spencer is hurting more than he knows how to deal with. And I think he’s taking that hurt and turning it inward — or maybe even outward. But I also know that he cares about you so, so much. He wouldn’t just turn his back on you for good.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over again. “But what if he has? What if he’s blamed me for this just like everyone else did?”

“Honey, listen to me,” Penelope said, her voice firm but full of compassion. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but he’s also a human. And sometimes, humans don’t know what to do with all the pain they carry. That doesn’t mean it’s your fault, and that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. He just needs time, and you might need to let yourself be okay with that. I know it’s hard, but you can’t carry both your own guilt and his.”

You sat there, taking in her words, trying to let them sink in. It was easier said than done, but hearing Penelope — wise, compassionate Penelope — tell you that it was okay to not have all the answers gave you a sliver of relief. 

“Do you really think he’ll come around?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability clear in your eyes.

Penelope smiled, a genuine, warm smile that seemed to light up the whole room. “I know he will. And until then, you’ve got me.”

You nodded, squeezing her hand, feeling a small, fragile hope begin to grow in your chest. 

—

The kindness and warmth Penelope had shown you was not extended to Spencer when she found him in the breakroom Monday morning. You were still settling in at your desk when you saw her storm across the bullpen, determination in her eyes and anger practically sparking off of her. You didn’t think much of it at first — Penelope’s strong-willed presence was no stranger to the office. But when you saw her walk straight up to Spencer, her expression dark and unyielding, you knew something was about to happen.

Spencer, who had been stirring his coffee absently, looked up in surprise as Penelope closed the distance between them, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. And then she let him have it.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Spencer?” she hissed, her voice low and venomous as she jabbed a finger into his chest. “Ignoring Y/N for weeks? Shutting her out like she’s some stranger? After everything you’ve been through together, and everything she’s done for you, you have the nerve to treat her like this?”

Spencer flinched at her words, his face going pale as the berating continued. He opened his mouth to respond, but Penelope wasn’t letting him get a word in. 

“Y/N’s been tearing herself up over what happened, blaming herself for something that wasn’t even her fault! And you know what? Instead of being the partner she needs — the person who supports her no matter what — you’re just adding to the guilt. You don’t get to treat her like that. Not after—”

“I almost lost one of the most important people in my life because of her!” Spencer choked out suddenly, his voice cracking with emotion as he interrupted Penelope’s tirade. His eyes were wide and filled with fear and frustration, and he looked like he was unraveling with every word. “I almost lost you, Penelope, because she told you to go on that date.”

Penelope’s expression shifted then, the anger replaced by a deep, aching sympathy as she let Spencer’s words sink in. There was a silence, a heavy silence that felt like it filled every inch of the breakroom. And neither of them knew that in that very moment, you’d walked up to the door, hearing Spencer’s words, and froze. The world around you seemed to fall away as his voice echoed in your head, the raw pain in his tone seeping into your bones. You stayed there, heart pounding, unable to move.

“Spencer,” Penelope said slowly, her voice gentle but firm, trying to rein in her own anger. “That was not her fault, and you know it. Do the math, genius. Jason was targeting me from the start, whether I was on that date or not. He had me in his sights long before Y/N ever said anything. Stop blaming her for something no one could control.”

Spencer scoffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as if trying to brush off the weight of her words. “Yeah, well, you say that, but it’s not that simple. If she hadn’t—”

“No, Spencer!” Penelope’s voice cut through his, sharper now, and she pointed a finger right in his face. “You listen to me. That is your girlfriend we’re talking about. Your life partner. Your best friend. Y/N has been there for you through everything. Do you remember when you were so drugged up that you didn’t even know what you were doing, or who you were with, when you lashed out at her in the middle of the night? And did she blame you? Did she shut you out? No. She held you, she comforted you, and she made sure you got the help you needed. She has never given up on you, not once, and you’re giving up on her?”

Spencer was silent. His mouth opened as if to respond, but nothing came out. He looked at Penelope, his eyes burning with anger and anguish and something far more complicated. And for a long moment, the silence stretched between them, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, cracking with the strain of what he was feeling. “I love Y/N more than anything else in this world. But how can I trust her to make good decisions for herself, at all, if her last one almost got you killed?”

And that was all you could take. The words hit like a blow to the chest, and before you knew what was happening, you let out a sob, loud and choked and broken. The sound tore through the silence, and both Spencer and Penelope whipped around, eyes wide in shock as they realized you’d been standing there, hearing everything. 

“Y/N—” Spencer started, panic flooding his voice as he took a step toward you.

But you were already moving, already running. You turned and fled, the tears blurring your vision as you rushed down the hall, away from the breakroom, away from the words that had shattered you all over again.

“Shit!” you heard Spencer yell from behind you, followed by the sharp slap of his hand hitting the cabinet in frustration, the loud bang echoing down the hall. But you didn’t look back. You couldn’t look back. All you could do was keep running, trying to outrun the pain that seemed to chase you down with every step.

“Was it worth it, Reid?” Penelope asked, her voice breaking the silence that filled the breakroom after you’d fled. There was no anger left in her tone — only a sadness, heavy and deep, that seemed to echo around them. She looked at Spencer with a sorrowful expression, searching his eyes as if she could somehow pull out an answer that would make sense of what had just happened. “Was it worth it? To get that off your chest?”

Spencer stood there, frozen, his hand still resting on the cabinet door he’d slammed shut in frustration. The thud of it still seemed to reverberate in the air, mingling with the ghost of your sobs. His jaw clenched, his eyes staring blankly at the floor where you’d stood only moments before, now empty. 

He didn't respond, and for a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t find the words. He just shook his head, unable to meet Penelope’s gaze. 

“Did it help?” Penelope pressed, her voice gentle but insistent. “Did it make you feel better? Because from where I’m standing, you just broke the heart of the person you say you love more than anything else.”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes tightly, fighting back the emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” he finally choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, Penelope. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make this right. I was just... I was so angry. So scared. And I... I took it out on her.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut as he let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to take it back.”

Penelope’s face softened, but there was no pity in her eyes, only a deep, aching understanding. “You can’t,” she said softly. “You can’t take back what you said. But you can try to make it right. You can own up to it. You can tell her the truth — that you were hurting, that you let the fear and anger get the best of you. That you don’t actually believe she’s to blame for any of this.”

Spencer finally looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed, filled with regret. “But what if she doesn’t forgive me?” he asked, his voice raw with desperation. “What if I’ve lost her?”

Penelope took a step closer, reaching out to touch his arm, grounding him in her touch. “Then you fight for her, Spencer,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “You do everything you can to make her see how much she means to you. You remind her that you love her, that you need her, that this — all of this — was just you not knowing how to handle almost losing two of the people you care about most.”

She paused, her voice softening even more as she gave him a sad, knowing smile. “But first, you’re going to have to forgive yourself. Because all that anger you’ve been carrying? It’s not about Y/N. It’s about you.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, nodding, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He knew she was right — he knew it all along. But knowing it and facing it were two different things. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to truly sit with the pain of it, to feel the regret for what he’d done, and the fear of what he might have just lost.

And in that moment, the truth settled in his chest like a stone: if he had any chance of making things right, he’d have to confront his demons, no matter how much they scared him. Because he loved you. And he was going to do whatever it took to get you back.

—

You found an empty office as soon as your legs carried you far enough away, stumbling inside and shutting the door behind you before you could even think of stopping the sobs that clawed their way up your throat. You leaned against the wall, your hands over your face as you let yourself cry — really cry — until the tears came freely, the weight of Spencer’s words sinking in like a stone in your chest. Every breath hurt, and the dam of emotions you’d held back for so long finally broke. It wasn’t just about what he said, but how deeply it cut. 

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours; you couldn’t be sure. You let it all out, every sob, every tremor that racked through you. And then, as the tears finally slowed and the pain dulled into exhaustion, you knew you couldn’t stay hidden forever. The team was counting on you. Penelope was counting on you. So you pulled yourself together as best as you could, taking slow, deep breaths and wiping your face with the sleeves of your shirt until your hands stopped shaking.

The mirror in the bathroom was unforgiving as you stood there, splashing cold water on your face. You ran your fingers under your eyes, trying to erase the smudges of mascara that had stained your cheeks, and did your best to fix your hair, to smooth away any evidence of your breakdown. But your eyes were still puffy, red-rimmed, the remnants of your tears clearly visible. And you knew, even as you straightened your posture, forcing a calmness you didn’t feel, that everyone would see right through it. That they’d probably all heard what happened.

But you had work to do, and you couldn’t afford to fall apart again. So, with a deep breath, you steeled yourself and walked back out into the bullpen, your head held high, your shoulders squared. Even if your composure was a fragile thing, even if you felt like you could shatter with the slightest touch, you made your way to your desk, focusing on each step as if it were the only thing holding you together.

The bullpen felt different now, the energy heavier than it had been before. Conversations were hushed, the usual buzz of the office subdued as you passed by. You knew they were watching, that they’d seen or at least heard what had happened in the breakroom. But you didn’t look around; you didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. You just sat down at your desk, opened up the stack of files in front of you, and forced your focus onto the work, letting it be the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Across the room, Spencer sat at his own desk, and as soon as you walked in, he saw you. He saw the way you held yourself together — the straight line of your back, the tightness in your expression, the way you refused to let your gaze wander to his. And he hated it. He hated knowing that he had done that to you, his love, that he’d been the reason for the pain and exhaustion etched into your face. He’d never seen you like this before — so closed off, so... dim. 

He watched you bury yourself in your work, your fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, your pen scribbling across the pages as if each word was a way to silence the hurt. And all Spencer could do was sit there, guilt and shame wracking his mind as he thought about what he’d done — how he’d let his anger and fear control him, how he’d let it spill out onto you, the one person he swore to protect, the one person who deserved none of it. His brilliant, loving, beautiful girlfriend, who had always stood by his side, even when he didn't deserve it.

He made you cry. He made you doubt yourself, blame yourself for something you had no power over. And the light that usually radiated from you — the brightness he loved so much, the joy you carried so effortlessly — was gone, dulled by the weight of the hurt he’d caused.

Every fiber of Spencer’s being screamed at him to get up, to walk over to you and wrap you in the biggest hug he could manage. He wanted to hold you, to whisper a thousand apologies, to promise that everything was going to be okay and that he’d never, ever make you feel this way again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to move, because he knew that it would take more than that — more than a hug, more than an “I’m sorry” — to fix the damage he’d caused. It would take time, and understanding, and patience — all things he wasn’t sure he even deserved from you after what he’d said, what he’d done.

—

Later that evening, the weight of the day still clung to Spencer like a thick fog. Unable to concentrate, unable to push past the regret that gnawed at his insides, he found himself reaching for a small comfort — your favorite book. It sat on his shelf, the well-worn cover soft under his fingertips as he pulled it down. You had gifted it to him long ago, lovingly annotated with notes, doodles, and highlighted passages. Each page was filled with bits of you — your humor, your thoughts, your heart. Categories like “reminds me of you,” “our jokes,” “my favorite quotes,” and “scenes I wish I could live with you” peppered the pages, showing just how much care, time, and love you’d put into making it special for him. It had been one of the most thoughtful gifts he’d ever received.

He settled onto the couch, the book resting heavily in his lap. And as he flipped through the pages, he let himself be pulled into the memories, letting his fingers brush over your handwriting, your underlines and notes. He read the small snippets where you’d connected a moment in the book to a joke only the two of you shared, where you’d drawn silly little hearts in the margins or underlined lines that spoke to you. And he could almost hear your voice as he read your thoughts, your teasing comments, your kind words. It felt as though you were right there with him, the warmth of you emanating from every page.

The tears came slowly, silently, at first just a sting in the back of his eyes that he tried to blink away. But as he read deeper, the notes growing more tender, the love you’d put into every word more apparent, he let them fall. He let them fall because he could feel the depth of what he’d pushed away, how much you’d loved him, how much you still loved him. And how horribly, deeply he’d hurt you.

He was reading a note that simply said, “This reminds me of the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching”. He laughed softly through his tears at your handwriting, slightly wobbly from when you’d annotated it while on a train, but the joy of that memory only made the pain sharper, cutting through him like a blade. He wished he could take everything back, go back to when things were easier and he hadn’t let his fears get the better of him.

Spencer found himself reaching for his phone, his fingers hovering over your name before he clicked it, pressing the device to his ear. The dial tone echoed in his chest, each ring making his anxiety climb higher as he waited for you to answer.

“Hello?” Your voice came through, flat and devoid of emotion.

“Y/N?” he asked softly, hesitating as if testing the waters.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Spencer...” he trailed off, the words catching in his throat. The coldness in your tone unsettled him, and he suddenly found himself unsure why your attitude toward him felt so distant.

“I know,” you replied, your voice quiet but sharp enough to cut.

Spencer swallowed, feeling the space between you growing even through the phone, and he realized this call wasn’t going to be as simple as he’d hoped.

“I, um, I wanted to say I’m sorry… for earlier, for what you heard,” Spencer said, his voice hesitant and unsure, each word carefully chosen but fragile.

“You’re sorry I heard it?” you asked, the flatness in your tone making him wince.

“I’m—no, yes, I mean—” Spencer huffed softly, frustration lacing his voice as he struggled to find the right words. “I’m sorry I said it at all.”

Silence hung between you for a moment before you spoke again, your voice quieter but no less pointed. “Did you mean it?”

Spencer froze, his breath catching in his throat. He gripped the phone tighter, feeling the weight of the question press down on him, heavier than he expected. “No,” he whispered, the answer finally falling from his lips with a sincerity that surprised even him. “No, I didn’t mean it. I was scared, and I let that fear turn into something it shouldn’t have. But I didn’t mean it, Y/N. Not for a second.”

The line stayed quiet, but Spencer could hear your soft breathing on the other end, and he held onto that sound, hoping it meant you were still there, still listening.

Spencer’s words hung in the air, heavy with regret and vulnerability. But as you stood there, gripping the phone tightly in your hand, the weight of everything he’d put you through crashed down like a tidal wave.

You wanted to believe him — wanted to believe that fear had driven him to say those things, that he hadn’t meant to make you feel small and alone when you needed him most. But wanting to believe him didn’t erase the reality of how deeply his words had cut.

“I’m glad you didn’t mean it,” you said quietly, your voice steady but distant. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you said it, Spencer. And it doesn’t change how much it hurt.”

Spencer’s breath hitched on the other end. “I know,” he whispered, desperation creeping into his tone. “I— I know I let you down. I wasn’t there for you when I should have been. But I want to fix this, Y/N. I’ll do anything to fix this.”

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the phone. The truth sat heavy on your chest, but you couldn’t hold it back any longer. “I don’t know if you can,” you admitted, and for the first time since the call began, your voice trembled, betraying the storm of emotions you’d kept bottled up. “What you put me through... on top of everything else... it feels unforgivable.”

“Y/N...” Spencer’s voice cracked, but you couldn’t let him sway you.

“You were supposed to be there for me,” you continued, blinking back the tears burning at the edges of your eyes. “And instead, you made me feel like I was the reason for everything that happened. Like I was the reason Penelope got hurt. I needed you, and you made it worse.”

The silence that followed was deafening. You could hear Spencer’s breathing, uneven and shaky, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to explain it away.

“I think I need some time,” you said softly, pressing the palm of your hand to your forehead as the ache in your chest grew heavier. “I just... I can’t do this right now.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away, but when he did, his voice was faint, barely more than a whisper. “Okay. I understand.”

And with that, the line went dead, leaving you standing alone with nothing but the weight of his absence and the ache in your heart.

—

The next day at work, Spencer sat at his desk, glancing over at you every chance he got. His eyes lingered, watching carefully for any sign that you might be willing to meet his gaze. But every time he tried to catch your eye, you looked away, your focus glued to the files in front of you or the screen of your computer.

His frown deepened with each failed attempt, the knot in his stomach tightening. He could feel the distance, thick and unrelenting, sitting between the two of you like an unspoken barrier he wasn’t sure how to break through.

By mid-morning, he tried a different approach. Quietly, he slipped away to the breakroom, returning a few minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee — just the way you liked it. It was a small gesture, but it was the only thing he could think to do, a silent offering, an olive branch wrapped in warmth and caffeine.

He set the cup gently on the corner of your desk, lingering for a brief moment in case you wanted to say something.

You glanced up, your eyes catching on the cup before drifting to him. A small, polite smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, and you gave him a soft nod. "Thanks," you said, your voice quiet but distant, as if the words were more out of obligation than gratitude.

Spencer nodded back, but the lack of warmth in your tone hit harder than he anticipated. He wanted more — a real conversation, something to pull you both back to where you used to be. But instead, he returned to his desk, the silence louder than any rejection could have been.

You didn’t owe him more than that. And Spencer knew he had a long way to go if he ever wanted to earn more than just a nod and a polite smile.

It took weeks for you to acknowledge Spencer outside of work. You were always courteous, always professional — but that was all. The warmth, the teasing, the quiet moments you used to steal together between cases were gone. And Spencer felt every second of that absence.

He missed you — deeply, achingly. Every glance you gave him that didn’t linger, every polite nod that replaced the easy smiles he once knew, it all felt like tiny fractures splintering through his chest.

But he gave you space. As much as it hurt, he didn’t push. He knew he deserved the distance, knew he’d earned every bit of the cold shoulder you gave him.

Then one night, after he’d convinced himself you might never reach out again, his phone lit up with your name. Spencer stared at the screen for a second longer than he should have, hardly daring to believe it was real before he answered, voice hurried and breathless.

“Y/N?”

“Hi, Spencer.”

He nearly melted at the sound of your voice, the familiar softness in it, even if it felt restrained. “I— It’s good to hear from you. How are you?”

There was a pause on the other end, and Spencer held his breath.

“I’m... okay,” you said carefully. “I was actually calling because I need to pick up a few things from your apartment. Would you be home tomorrow?”

The excitement that had bloomed in his chest moments earlier shrank instantly, replaced by the cold grip of reality. His throat tightened as he tried to keep his voice steady.

“Yeah... yeah, of course,” he replied, forcing a small, empty chuckle. “I can be here anytime. Just let me know when.”

“Thanks, Spencer. I’ll text you.”

And just like that, the call ended, leaving him staring at the phone in his hand, the silence of his apartment pressing in around him.

But Spencer wasn’t above begging. Not for you.

The next day, when you arrived at his apartment, Spencer stood in the doorway as you gathered the small things you’d left behind — a sweatshirt in his closet, your hairbrush by the sink, the book you’d been halfway through reading on his nightstand.

He couldn’t stop himself from watching you, his heart twisting with every item you picked up, as if each one was a piece of you he was losing all over again.

When you finally met his eyes, ready to leave, he took a shaky breath, and before you could step out the door, the words spilled out.

“Please don’t go,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “Y/N... I know I messed up. I know I hurt you in ways I can’t take back. But... I love you. And I can’t— I can’t just let you walk away from me like this. Please... I’ll do anything.”

You hesitated, your grip tightening on the bag in your hand. Your eyes softened for a brief moment, flickering with something he couldn’t quite place — regret, maybe, or sorrow.

But you didn’t say anything right away. And Spencer stood there, heart breaking with the silence, knowing that no matter how much he begged, some things might take more than words to fix.

Your grip on the bag tightened until your knuckles turned white. You could feel Spencer’s gaze on you, heavy and desperate, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes for long.

“Spencer...” you began softly, your voice breaking just enough to betray the conflict raging inside you. “I can’t.”

His breath caught, and you saw the way his face fell, the faint flicker of hope extinguishing right before your eyes.

“I know you’re sorry,” you continued, forcing yourself to stay steady even though the tears threatened to come. “And I know you mean it. But this… this isn’t something an apology can fix.”

Spencer took a step closer, his hands trembling at his sides as if he wanted to reach out but was afraid you’d pull away. “I can be better,” he pleaded. “I will be better. Just— just give me the chance to prove it to you.”

You shook your head, feeling the tears slip down your cheeks before you could stop them. “I gave you that chance, Spencer. And when I needed you the most, you weren’t there.”

The weight of your words hit him hard, and for a moment, he looked as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“I’m not saying I don’t love you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But love isn’t always enough. I can’t keep giving and giving, hoping you’ll be there, only to be left standing alone.”

Spencer wiped at his face, quickly brushing away tears that he’d failed to hold back. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and the silence between you grew thick and unbearable.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he finally said, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” you admitted softly, meeting his eyes for the first time in what felt like forever. “But I think... I already have.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something, anything, but there were no words that could undo the damage. Nothing that could fix what had already broken.

“I need time,” you said, stepping toward the door, your fingers curling around the strap of your bag. “Maybe one day... but not right now.”

Spencer nodded, though the understanding in his expression didn’t mask the heartbreak written all over his face. “Okay,” he whispered. “If that’s what you need.”

You paused at the threshold, hesitating for just a second before you turned back to him. “Take care of yourself, Spencer.”

“You too,” he replied, his voice barely audible.

And with that, you stepped out of his apartment, leaving Spencer standing alone, the echo of your absence louder than any sound could ever be.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

[vampireimiko]

i loved your most recent steve work! i was wondering if i could request an eddie work similar to that where the hellfire club just doesn’t believe that he could have a gf

Full of Surprises

warnings, none! note, this was fun to write !! also i didn't include the whole hellfire club i didn't feel like writing the extras in💔

"Eddie, you expecting a call or something? You keep staring at the phone like a maniac." Mike pointed out.

"You noticed too?! I didn't wanna say anything but holy shit, every few seconds he stares at it." Dustin agrees.

Eddie rolled his eyes, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah I'm uh, just waiting on my girlfriend to call." he muttered, his tone nonchalant, but the room instantly fell into a stunned silence.

Mike’s eyes widened. “Girlfriend?”

Dustin snorted, crossing his arms. “Sure, Eddie. And I’m dating Madonna.”

Eddie shot them both an annoyed glance. “I’m serious.”

The skepticism in the air was palpable. Lucas raised an eyebrow from across the room, tossing a pencil onto the table. “Eddie Munson... with a girlfriend? That’s rich.”

"What's that supposed to mean?" Eddie asked, defensively, leaning forward.

Dustin shrugged, an innocent grin on his face. "C'mon, man. If you had a girlfriend, we would’ve heard about it by now."

"And met her," Lucas added.

Eddie groaned, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Not everything revolves around you guys, y’know. Some relationships are private."

Dustin, Lucas, and Mike exchanged skeptical glances before bursting into laughter. "Yeah, right! What, does she go to another school or something?" Mike teased.

"Yeah there's no way in hell Eddie Munson gets bitches." Dustin laughed.

"Well news flash, Dusty boy! I do infact gets bitches. Not that my girlfriends a bitch or anything." He said adding that last part very quickly. Even though you weren't there, he'd never disrespect you like that or in any way for that matter.

Dustin raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Okay, okay, so you get bitches. Prove it."

"Yeah, let’s see some evidence," Lucas added with a smirk. "I mean, it’s kinda hard to believe when we’ve never even seen her. Is she invisible or something?"

Eddie huffed, tapping his fingers on the table, clearly annoyed but trying to keep his cool. "She’s not some trophy I need to parade around, alright? She’s busy. She’s got... a job! School stuff too."

"Uh-huh, and I’m guessing she also lives in Canada and only writes letters?" Mike quipped, earning a round of chuckles from the others.

Eddie sighed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. "Fine! You wanna meet her so bad? She’ll come by Hellfire next week."

Dustin raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Oh, really? Can’t wait."

"Yeah yeah, I'll believe it when I see it. Now enough about his imaginary girlfriend, I'm hungry." Mike interrupted.

The next week couldn’t have come fast enough for the Hellfire boys. The anticipation was thick in the air as they sat around the table, pretending to focus on the campaign, but their eyes constantly darted to the door. Even Eddie, who usually basked in his Dungeon Master role with enthusiasm, seemed a little distracted, checking his watch more than usual.

Dustin nudged Lucas under the table. “You think he’s actually gonna pull through? Or are we about to witness the most embarrassing bluff in Hellfire history?”

Lucas smirked. “I dunno, man. He’s been pretty confident. It’s either the truth, or he’s about to go down in flames.”

The whole week leading up to this very moment, Eddie talked about you to the guys. They obviously did not believe him one bit. Eddie had told them about some of your hobbies, favorite movies, he was even close to telling them where you worked but quickly decided against that.

They always asked him to just give out your name, but then they'd know who you were obviously. Eddie wanted to keep a little bit of mystery surrounding your identity. News flash, you were a quite known person at Hawkins High.

"Can't wait to see him squirm either way," Mike added with a grin.

Eddie, sensing their whispers, glared across the table. “You know, you guys are real supportive friends.”

“We’re just preparing for disappointment, Eddie,” Dustin shot back, hands raised. “Don’t take it personally.”

Eddie opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, there was a knock on the door. The room fell silent, and all eyes shot toward the entrance. Eddie’s cocky grin returned as he stood up, walking over to the door with a confidence that even had Dustin second-guessing his skepticism.

He swung the door open, and there she was—you. Dressed casually, you gave Eddie a warm smile before stepping into the room, completely unaware of the stunned expressions plastered across the faces of his friends.

“Hey, babe,” Eddie greeted you, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Told you I wasn’t making her up.”

The room was deathly quiet, the boys blinking in disbelief as you walked further into the room.

Mike was the first to break the silence. “Holy shit. Y/N Y/LN?

You laughed softly, glancing at Eddie before turning back to the group. “I take it he’s been bragging about me?”

“More like we didn’t believe you existed,” Lucas admitted, still wide-eyed. "Much less did we expect the girlfriend to be you?!"

Dustin was still frozen, mouth hanging open in shock. “Eddie... how?”

Eddie grinned smugly, draping an arm around your shoulders. “Told you, Dustin. I get bitches. Not that I'm calling you a bitch." He quickly clarified, knowing you didn't tolerate any type of getting called out of your name.

You playfully elbowed him in the side. “I know you'd never do anything like that."

Eddie chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Noted.”

"Anyway, nice to meet you guys! I've seen you around and Eddie talks about you guys all the time." You exclaimed cheerfully, extending a hand to the nearest person to you, which happened to be Mike.

Mike, still in shock, shook your hand cautiously, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “Uh, nice to meet you too…”

Lucas stood up, still blinking. “Okay, I have to ask—how the hell did Eddie Munson land a girlfriend like you?”

You laughed, glancing over at Eddie with a playful smile. “What can I say? He’s full of surprises.”

Eddie grinned proudly, leaning against you. “See? Told you guys. I’m not just some lonely metalhead.”

Dustin finally regained his composure, shaking his head. “This has to be some kind of cosmic glitch. I mean, Y/N Y/LN... and Eddie Munson? Something isn't right."

Lucas nodded in agreement, still processing. “Seriously, I gotta know—what did he say to win you over?”

You smirked, crossing your arms. “Well, he didn’t try too hard, if that’s what you’re thinking. Eddie’s actually... kind of sweet once you get past all the theatrics.”

Eddie gave a mock bow. “Thank you, thank you. Theatrics are part of the charm.”

You giggled and gave him a loving look.

Mike snorted. “Yeah, we’re still trying to figure out what charm you’re talking about.”

Eddie shot Mike a look, then turned back to you, clearly soaking in the validation. “See what I deal with?”

You shook your head, laughing. “They’re not so bad, Eddie. Just a little... doubtful.” You glanced at the group, your expression softening.

Dustin nodded. “You’re like, Hawkins royalty compared to... well, Eddie.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving Eddie a curious look. “Royalty, huh?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but you could tell he secretly liked the sound of it. “They exaggerate. A lot.”

You smiled warmly at him. “Well, royalty or not, he’s good to me. And that’s what matters.”

Mike finally cracked a grin. “Alright, alright. Maybe you’re not completely full of shit, Eddie.”

Dustin laughed, pointing a finger. “Still can’t believe it though. You lucked out, Munson.”

Eddie smirked, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Told you, man. I’m full of surprises.”

additional note ! my requests are open if you wanna have me write something<3

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wicked Games 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, cheating, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you had a one night stand. Or did you?

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You wait. And wait. And wait. 

Each day, each week, your hope dwindles. Barrett doesn’t change. He’s not going to change. You know for sure as you watch him storm out. 

That’s why you didn’t talk to him sooner. It always ends like this. He gets defensive, you get emotional, and it all erupts. If he would just listen! 

You sigh and hold your chin in your hand. You look around at your small apartment. Even when you’ve just cleaned, it feels cluttered. You hate this place. You feel trapped. Or maybe that’s your relationship. Probably, both. 

You don’t think it was that bad to ask for a bit of understanding. All you want is for him to communicate. Instead, he sits on all his gripes until the bubble over in another rant about the squeaky bathroom faucet or the way you fold his shirts. It’s always on you. You’re the one who has to make him happy. Never the other way around. 

This time, it wasn’t the dishes or the mopping or the recycling. Nope. You’re not attentive enough. You’re depriving him. You’re punishing him by not having sex with him after working overtime four nights out of five. It can’t be that you’re tired or hurt. No, it’s an attack on him. 

That’s where it all fell apart.

You tried. Once you got past the frustration and tried to just let the waters calm. When you started talking to him again and fell back into your routine. You were both too busy to keep the fight going. And a few nights, you let him initiate but something would keep you from going all the way. 

Something... 

You saw Wendy last week. She didn’t mention anything about the night you went out. Didn’t mention a guy. She said she had fun and you should do it again. You told her you can’t afford it. Besides, you’re too tired. She called you boring. She’s not wrong. 

You get up and distract yourself. Well, it’s not really for you, is it? You’ll clean everything from corner to corner so he has nothing to complain about. You don’t need him to nitpick another reason to hound you. 

So much for time off. Once more you’re spending it in misery. You finish vacuuming then spray the couch with some freshener. Feeling accomplished but not less addled, you go to the bedroom and pull out some clothes for tomorrow. You’ll go to bed early and get a head start. If you’re lucky, you’ll be asleep before he drags his sorry ass home. 

You yawn as you stare at the time. It’s barely five o’clock and you could keel over. These days, you’re beat to the bone. You can’t remember the last time when you didn’t feel like a sack of dirt. You put your work clothes on the dresser then grab a fresh towel for the shower. 

You wash up, soothed by the warm water, and emerge in a hazy cloud. You go through the motions of applying the discount bin toner and moisturizer. You feel a little fresher. 

You tuck into bed and scroll on your phone for a while. Six-thirty. You black the screen and close your eyes. It takes as much to put you to sleep. 

You dream about flashing lights and the clink of glass. You’re swaying to a drone of music, spinning and swirling. The place is painted in streaks of colours as you keep moving. And when you manage to stop, the room turns on an axis, keeping you dizzy. 

Arms wrap around you from behind and pull you back into a thick body. You can’t escape. You look down and know those aren’t your husband’s hands. Where are you? Who is holding onto you? 

You try to turn around but it’s impossible. You’re stuck in the strange embrace as the neon lights melt and the air pulses with shadows. You push on the arms around you and wriggle desperately.

“Let me go,” you beg, “let me go.” 

Your words rise to a shriek and you wake up with a start. There’s a figure in the room watching you, as if waiting for you to wake up. You almost scream for real as Barrett stares at you. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay before he turns away. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he grumbles. 

You don’t argue as you catch your breath and lower yourself back to the pillows. You can smell the tinge of beer left behind. He’s been drinking. You can’t begrudge him that, not really. Last time it got bad, you did the same thing. At least he came home. 

You cringe. No. Stop. Nothing happened. No one can prove it happened. Not even you. So, it didn’t. 

Your stomach mulches and you turn onto your side. The nausea roils in your stomach. You must be hungry. You didn’t eat. Yet the thought of doing so makes you even sicker. You burp and swallow down the mouthful of acid that sears your throat. 

Stress. It’s stress. And it’s not going to get any better. Not with everything you’re running away from. 

[baelabong]

ᴛᴀᴍɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ - rooftop calm

(ʜᴏᴛʜᴇᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴍɪɴᴊᴇᴏɴɢ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇꜱʜᴏᴛ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ)

Plot: minjeong doesnt like getting told off, y/n likes telling minjeong off

Notes: just a little part in mj and y/n’s story

masterlist || next

———————————————————————————————

As Minjeong sat in class, trying to focus on the lesson, she could feel the irritation building inside her. The teacher was droning on, completely oblivious to the fact that half the class had already checked out, including her. She could barely concentrate as it was, and the teacher's monotonous voice wasn't helping.

But then, the teacher called on her. "Minjeong, care to answer the question?"

She blinked, not having a clue what the question was. She hadn't been paying attention. "I... I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

The teacher sighed, exasperation clear in their tone. "This is exactly what I'm talking about, Minjeong. You need to start taking your education seriously. Your grades have been slipping, and it’s like you’re not even trying."

Minjeong's jaw clenched. It wasn’t like she didn’t care, but the way the teacher was speaking to her, as if she was some lost cause, hit a nerve. "I do try," she retorted, her voice cold. "But maybe if your lessons were more engaging, I'd actually care about what you're saying."

The teacher’s eyes narrowed. "Excuse me? You think this is my fault? You’re the one who needs to put in the effort. If you can’t keep up, maybe you should consider whether you belong in this class at all."

The words felt like a slap in the face, and Minjeong could feel her temper flaring, her control slipping. "Maybe if you weren’t so focused on belittling students, they'd actually want to learn from you!" she shot back, her voice rising.

The classroom fell silent, every eye now on her, but she didn’t care. The teacher's face turned a deep shade of red, their composure cracking. "That’s enough, Minjeong. If you don’t change your attitude, you’ll be looking at detention. I suggest you watch your mouth before you dig yourself into a hole you can’t get out of."

Minjeong could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, her anger reaching its peak. She wanted to say something more, to really let loose, but she knew that if she didn’t leave now, she’d end up in even bigger trouble. So instead, she pushed herself up from her seat, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I’m done here," she muttered, turning on her heel and storming out of the classroom without waiting for permission.

The door slammed behind her, and she heard the murmurs start up as soon as she was gone, but she didn’t care. All she could focus on was the fire in her chest, the frustration boiling over as she stormed down the hall, her fists clenched and her mind racing with all the things she wished she’d said.

She storms up to the school rooftop, her fists clenched and her mind racing with anger. The door to the rooftop slams open, and she strides to the ledge, barely noticing the city sprawling out beneath her. Her chest heaves with each breath as she replays the argument in her head, thinking of all the comebacks she wished she’d thrown at the teacher.

A few minutes later, Y/N quietly follows her up to the rooftop. Despite being the shorter and meeker-looking one between the two, Y/N steps forward with confidence, knowing exactly how to handle her fiery girlfriend. When Minjeong hears the door open again, she turns sharply, her glare immediately falling on Y/N.

“What do you want?” Minjeong snaps, her voice still laced with anger. “You’re not going to lecture me too, are you? Because I’m not in the mood for any of that right now.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “What, so now you’re taking your anger out on me? Real mature, Minjeong.”

Minjeong scoffs, crossing her arms defensively. “Maybe I am. You don’t get it, Y/N. You weren’t there. That teacher—”

“Enough,” Y/N interrupts, her voice calm but firm. Despite her smaller stature, there’s an undeniable authority in her tone that makes Minjeong pause. “You’re upset, I get it. But don’t take it out on me. I’m not your punching bag.”

Minjeong opens her mouth to argue but then closes it, the heat in her glare faltering under Y/N’s steady gaze. Y/N steps closer, not backing down even as Minjeong towers over her.

“Now, are you going to keep acting tough, or are you actually going to talk to me?” Y/N asks, her tone softer now but still carrying that unyielding edge.

Minjeong clenches her jaw, feeling a mix of frustration and something else—something that makes her heart beat a little faster. She looks away, unable to hold Y/N’s gaze any longer. “Fine. Just… fine.”

Satisfied, Y/N plops down beside her on the ledge, their height difference making the contrast between them even more apparent. Without saying anything, Y/N pulls out a cold drink from her bag and hands it to Minjeong.

"Here," Y/N says, her teasing tone returning. "Maybe this’ll cool you down."

Minjeong hesitates, then takes the drink with a huff, though she avoids looking directly at Y/N. “Still mad, huh?” Y/N continues, leaning back on her palms. “Stop being such a baby.”

Minjeong shoots Y/N a sharp look. “I’m not being a baby! You didn’t hear what he said to me! He was completely unfair—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Y/N interrupts again, waving her hand dismissively. “I get it. But seriously, you need to stop sulking.”

Minjeong groans, taking a long sip of the drink to keep from snapping back. They sit in silence for a few moments, with only the sounds of the city below filling the air. Slowly, Minjeong’s anger starts to ebb away, leaving her feeling tired and drained.

She sighs, leaning her head against Y/N’s shoulder. “Let’s just leave school early,” she murmurs, her voice losing its edge. “I can’t go back in there. Not today.”

Y/N glances at her, seeing the tough exterior that Minjeong usually wears so well starting to crack. For a moment, Y/N feels a pang of sympathy, but she quickly pushes it aside. Shaking her head, she tightens her grip on Minjeong’s hand.

“Nope,” Y/N says firmly. “We’re not skipping. You’re going to face this head-on.”

Minjeong whines, burying her face in Y/N’s shoulder. “But Y/N, please… I really don’t want to go back in there.”

Y/N sighs but doesn’t budge. “Stop whining. I’m not letting you run away just because you’re upset. Plus I have class too silly. We’ll go back together after you’ve calmed down.”

Minjeong pouts, her tough exterior fully crumbling as she snuggles closer to Y/N. “You’re so mean,” she mumbles, her voice muffled.

Y/N chuckles, wrapping an arm around her. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a while longer, with Y/N’s steady presence helping Minjeong calm down completely. Finally, Minjeong lets out a long, resigned sigh.

“Fine, you win,” she concedes, though there’s a hint of a smile in her voice now. “But if that teacher says anything else, I’m not holding back.”

Y/N grins, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Minjeong’s head. “Deal. But no more running away, okay?”

“Okay,” Minjeong agrees softly, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. “One more lecture though and he’ll actually-“

“Nuh uh baby, just hush”, y/n cuts her off

[isak-dot-gov]

Balancing Act

Pairing: Rhea Ripley x Reader

Word count: 1018

My masterlist :)

..........................................................

In the world of WWE, Rhea was a powerhouse. Her presence in the ring was commanding, and her dedication to her career was unwavering. It was one of the things you admire most about her. However, lately, her focus on her work has begun to overshadow your relationship. The late nights, the constant travel, and the endless commitments were starting to take their toll, and you felt like you were being left behind.

It had been weeks since you had had a meaningful conversation with her. Every evening was spent waiting for her to come home from a gruelling schedule, only for her to arrive exhausted and barely able to stay awake. The time you did spend together was often cut short by urgent phone calls or unexpected obligations. You tried to be understanding, to support her through the demanding nature of her job, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore the growing distance between you.

One evening, after Rhea had come home later than usual, you found yourself at your wit’s end. She walked through the door, her face drawn with fatigue, and you could see the frustration simmering just below the surface. You had been trying to keep the peace, but it was clear that you needed to address the issue before it spiralled further out of control.

“Baby, we need to talk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tension in your chest.

Rhea looked up from where she had been shedding her gear. “Baby, can it wait? I’m really tired.”

“No, it can’t,” you replied, frustration edging into your voice. “This has been building up for a while. I feel like you’re never around anymore. You’re always working, and when you are here, you’re too exhausted to be present. It’s like I’m invisible.”

Rhea’s expression hardened, a mixture of guilt and defensiveness crossing her features. “I’m doing this for us, you know. I’m trying to build a future, make sure we have everything we need.”

“I get that, Rhea,” you said, your voice softening but still firm. “But right now, it feels like your work is coming before everything else. Including me. I’m not asking for everything, just some time. I feel neglected, and it’s really starting to hurt.”

Rhea’s shoulders slumped, her eyes clouded with frustration and exhaustion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it had gotten this bad.”

“Yeah, well, it has,” you said, your emotions catching up with you. “I think we need to take a break.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and Rhea’s eyes widened in shock. “A break? Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady even as your heart ached. “I need some space to figure out what’s going on with us. It’s not just about you being busy—it’s about priorities. I feel like I’m always on the back burner.”

Rhea’s face fell, and she took a step towards you, her eyes pleading. “Please, don’t say that. I know I’ve been distant, but I didn’t mean to push you away. I’m just so caught up in everything, and I didn’t realise how it was affecting you.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you said softly, your resolve wavering slightly. “But it’s been really hard for me. I need to know that our relationship matters as much as your career does. Otherwise, I don’t know how we can keep going like this.”

Rhea looked down, her shoulders trembling as she tried to hold back her tears. “I don’t want to lose you. You’re the most important thing in my life. I just didn’t know how to balance everything.”

“Maybe we need to figure that out,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your words. “Maybe some time apart will help us both see things more clearly.”

Rhea reached out, taking your hand in hers, her touch almost desperate. “Please, don’t make this decision right now. Give me a chance to show you that I can make this work. I’ll find a way to balance things better. I promise.”

You looked at her, seeing the raw emotion in her eyes. “I want to believe that. I really do. But I need to see it, too. We can take some time apart, and if we can work through this, then maybe we can find our way back to each other.”

Rhea’s grip tightened on your hand, her voice breaking as she spoke. “I’m begging you. I need you to trust me. I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this. I don’t want us to end like this.”

The pain in her voice mirrored the ache in your chest. “It’s not about ending things,” you said softly, struggling to hold back your own tears. “It’s about figuring out how we can both be happy. We can’t keep going like this. I need to see that you’re willing to make changes, just as much as I need to find out what’s best for me.”

Rhea nodded, her face flushed with a mix of sadness and determination. “Okay. I understand. Just know that I’m going to work on this. I don’t want to lose you.”

With a heavy heart, you nodded and gave her a final, lingering look before turning to leave. As you walked away, you felt a pang of sadness, but also a glimmer of hope. Sometimes, space was needed to rediscover what truly mattered, and you hoped that this break would give you both the clarity you needed.

Rhea watched you go, her mind racing with thoughts of how to make things right. She knew she had to reevaluate her priorities and make a real effort to balance her career and her relationship. The house felt emptier as the door closed behind you, the silence a stark reminder of the distance that had grown between you. As the quiet settled around her, Rhea vowed to herself that she would do whatever it took to prove that her love for you was worth fighting for, even if it meant confronting the parts of herself she had been avoiding.

...........................................................

[chaotic-starlight24]

Dallas Winston Backstory Headcanons Part 3

Part 1, Part 2, General Headcanons

Here is my last part of his backstory headcanons :)

Warnings: None I think

Making it to Tulsa

Eventually he made it to Tulsa, OK at the age of 13 ¾. He had no plan to stay there very long. He had made it to the south so now he just planned to travel around. That was until he went to swipe something from a corner store. Suddenly the manager was right behind him.

“Hey buddy, ya can’t be doin that here.”

Dally just gave him a look, “I was, uh, going to pay Mr…Curtis?”

Did Darrel Curtis Sr. believe him? Nope. Not at all. But he could tell this kid was not from here. With that new yorker accent he was out of place. He saw that this kid hadn’t just moved here. He was alone and afraid no matter how tough he pretended to be. So he let him go and told his wife to look out for him in case she saw him.

Mrs. Curtis did eventually see him when he wandered into the diner and offered him a free meal. He hadn’t eaten in a couple days so he accepted, but was still very skeptical. She tried to ask him what he was doing in Tulsa, where he was from, yada yada. But he was of course very defensive. 

Eventually one of her kids named Sodapop came in with some of his friends. These guys named Two-Bit and Steve. Dally tried to steer himself away from them. But they welcomed him over and soon enough Dally found himself cracking a grin at their stupid jokes. He was still very untrusting, he expected that he would have to disappear soon anyways. But he found himself meeting more people.

Soon enough he met the rest of their “gang”. It was very different from any gang he had ever been in. Not that he included himself in their group. He found himself becoming very drawn to one of the younger boys. Johnny Cade. He saw himself in him, a young and more sensitive version. Dally found himself worried about him. If he was as sensitive as Johnny was he wouldn’t have survived. Johnny also took a shine to him and Dally found himself being followed around. He learned more about him and found out just how tough he really was.

He met Buck through rodeos and became sorta friends with him. He found out Buck had an extra room and bullied him into giving it to him. A 14 year old bullying a 21 year old is quite the sight.

He also met Tim Shephard, in a fight. They beat each other to a pulp after one pickpocketed the other. Afterwards they were like “Hey! I like your style!” They've been frenemies ever since.

He very quickly learned the greaser way from the gang and grew out his hair. But he never cared to grease it. He thought it made it off-color.

He was very close to the Mrs. Curtis and would help her out no matter what the task was. Her and her husband were what made Dally believe that maybe he could stay there. Though he would occasionally have mood swings and not want to talk to her or look at her because he saw his bio mom in her. He truly wished that his bio mom had stood up for herself and not fallen to addiction. 

He was close to Mr. Curtis as well. Not as close but he still trusted him. Mr. Curtis was also a big fan of movies and everything, especially James Dean. So sometimes they would sit on the porch and ramble a bit about him and his movies.

He sort of scared Pony and also just had some dislike for him. He would be rude to him or just flat out ignore him. Usually the gang would get onto him for it but the main reason was that he would be reminded of his own younger siblings. The ones he left behind and now didn’t even know if they were alive. One of his sisters was the exact same age as Pony as well. So Pony grew up believing Dally really was just this delinquent who hated little kids and showed little care. Which was somewhat true…

He was influenced by Shephard’s gang and other more “hood-like” greasers and though the gang didn’t like it, definitely returned to his illegal pastimes. 

[maxdibert]

These are the comments you received on the James defense post. I’d love to see your responses to them if you’re interested in answering.

what i don’t understand is how someone defending a 15yo james potter (thus apparently making them a classist which u think is tantamount to death lmao) is better than y’all defending snape? like. how is That not fascism considering mans was a literal DE who agreed w the ideals from a young age and also created torture curses that he used frequently enough to become his ‘signature spell’ and also became an adult who went on to bully literal children from his position of authority (and even becoming a kids boggart as well as actively harming other kids) whereas james was a kid who was a bully and went on to die at the age of 21. snape lived til his mid 30s and never stopped being an asshole. so. being a fascist defender of a racist bigot, how are you throwing stones at classists? also. if you’re talking ‘european cultural context’ pls remember this is not post-industrial britain and is a society of its own separate from the trad class system of the muggle world. money might play a role but so does blood politics and james was considered a ‘blood traitor’ which would’ve been a stroke against him during voldy’ speak war era. snape, on the other end, actively supported and endorsed the rhetoric. that’s just one layer to it. u can’t just juxtapose any theory to any context without considering the difference in that society from the one marx envisioned. that’s just lazy work.

You really talk a lot about class and aristocracy and brag about your experience and education and how much of an intellectual you are, but you still don’t understand that classes in the wizarding world are not the same as classes in our world. You use big words, brag about your experience, and clearly assert your moral and intellectual superiority over others, yet you don’t understand the meaning of “eat the rich”, the concept of class, the accumulation of capital, or even what capital and the means of production are. Or, most likely, you understand, but you just manipulate with these words to defend Snape thinking that no one can see it.(If you want to debate more substantially, I can send you my meta about classes from a Marxist perspective in the wizarding world. ( though you’ll probably say I don’t have enough neurones to write anything coherent😄)

Regarding the first person, I’ve already talked about this many times, and they’re mixing up concepts. First of all, I don’t understand what adult Severus has to do with James, because the relationship between James and Severus is limited to their teenage years. It makes no sense to bring adult Severus into the debate because we’re not talking about that Severus. We’re talking about the teenager in a teenage context with a teenage bully.

And, even so, if we were to talk about the adult, we could discuss how the violence inflicted by James Potter probably influenced his character as he grew up, precisely because it left him with a host of unresolved traumas. These include an inability to manage his emotions or deal with stressful situations as a functional adult, due to a significant developmental delay directly tied to his experiences at school and the importance he still places on them as an adult.

In any case, that’s beside the point. On the other hand, these people seem to be willfully obtuse. Rowling didn’t create a world out of nowhere; her world is the British Wizarding World, and throughout the series, she uses analogies for real-world political and social issues (like discrimination against Muggle-borns, which is supposed to be an analogy for racism but comes off as ridiculous, or Voldemort being a sort of Hitler figure but not even reaching the level of a nationalist terrorist party leader, or the werewolves being a disrespectful metaphor for HIV victims). So, it’s based on the real society she lived in, which is specifically post-Thatcherite Britain. For these people to claim that Severus was some kind of fascist racist and then have the audacity to deny that Rowling’s world is connected to the real world—when it’s closely based on real-world social dynamics and constantly shaped by her bourgeois, reactionary perspective—is as contradictory as it is ridiculous and even shameful.

And I’m sorry, but class is something that permeates everything. Class is the trunk of the social structure from which other branches of intersecting social issues emerge. Homophobia is also tied to class; feminism is tied to class; racism is tied to class. All the problems and axes of discrimination in our society have a class-based foundation because the social pillars on which it is built were based on class castes that date back to pre-Medieval societies. The Roman Empire was a class society; ancient Egypt was a class society. Our cultural references are strictly linked to class. Ignoring this and claiming that Rowling somehow created a completely isolated bubble uninfluenced by the politics of a world closely modeled after ours, and with issues she constantly alludes to in her work, is basically not understanding a thing, having the reading comprehension of a monkey on amphetamines, or simply refusing to acknowledge the obvious to avoid re-examining personal prejudices or deconstructing their neoliberal perspective.

As for the second message... Yes, I mean, I would tell them that not only am I an intellectual, but I also studied Law + Political Science, have two master's degrees, and have worked in unions. So, it’s not a matter of what I think; it’s that I literally have qualifications in this. I’m a criminal lawyer and political scientist. It’s not like I’m drawing my conclusions from a handful of Tumblr posts I came across.

They’re telling me I don’t understand the concept of means of production or capital accumulation to defend a character who literally lived off the wealth of his ancestors and used that economic and social capital (because there are various types of capital) to maintain a position of power over others during his school years. A character who, precisely because of his accumulated capital, managed to sit at the top of the social hierarchy without lifting a finger and who had nothing to lose by acting like a tyrant because he had an economic and familial safety net (another type of capital) to fall back on. All this while the character he attacked was on the opposite side: working-class, with no resources or financial support, and zero accumulated or generated capital.

I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, and it seems quite incoherent to start posturing as a Marxist intellectual while defending abuses of power by the magical equivalent of an aristocrat against someone from the working class. And I’m sorry, but the social structure of the wizarding world functions exactly like the social structure of any society that still maintains class-based castes rooted in aristocracy. Pure-bloods are basically nobles, aristocrats, members of families with great lineages—they’re essentially lords. It doesn’t take much insight to find the parallel, nor does it require much knowledge of British culture; just a glance at how modern European monarchies work makes it evident.

But anyway, what do you want me to say? They can bring whatever meta they want, but I’m not going to change my opinion. My issue with these people is basically this: one knows what their strengths are, and I’m not pretending to be an intellectual or acting like I know it all. It’s just that I literally have experience in activism, paid work, and university-level studies (master’s level) on these topics.

I’m not going to share my opinions about physics, theories on how spells or magic might work, or whether certain things are plausible from a logical point of view because I don’t have the faintest idea about those things. I don’t know math, I don’t know physics or chemistry, and I don’t know engineering. I’m an absolute illiterate when it comes to equations. But I’m not when it comes to political theory. I’ve earned honors in political theory.

So, as you can understand, these people are hardly going to change the mind of someone who not only has expertise but also has a damn university degree. And frankly, I don’t think degrees are everything, but aside from that, I’ve spent 10 years actively participating in Marxist union activism, leading the university union, and I also worked for a year in the field of labor law after finishing my degree. So, I don’t know—they can say whatever they want, but I don’t care.

[misc-obeyme]

You know what time it is.

Lesson 33 spoilers, including the hard lesson, here we go!

I am pleased. And I am not pleased.

I had so many great moments with all my faves. Solomon being there for me, Levi being a lil cutie, THIRTEEN DATE, Barbatos giving me lil Ds. What glorious moments. I shall share some screenshots momentarily.

BUT FIRST.

Belphie. What the fuck.

Technically, this is Mammon’s fault. He was the one who was like it’s not wrong to feel upset about it and like yeah he’s right, but Belphie is clearly taking that statement to an EXTREME.

We are dealing with YANDERE BELPHIE, my friends.

If I remember correctly, he was always supposed to be yandere. So now we’re really leaning into that, huh? Like straight up, I am going to keep you here forever because you’ll be happier with me than if you leave. Our boy’s gone a little off the deep end lol. I kinda love it.

Though I was really surprised by his final line of “I don’t want you to see what’s inside my head.” He seemed really concerned about it. Considering all we’ve seen already, it can’t be that bad, right? Then again, I wouldn’t want anyone I know to get inside my head, either. Please stay out, you don’t need to see the horrors, thanks.

Also, we still haven’t made a pact with Levi. Just like we didn’t actually make a pact with Beel. Is it because now they’re not sure they want to have pacts with us because of the whole needing magic to get back to the human world thing? I swear I have a memory of Solomon telling us that we could make pacts with all of the brothers at the same time. But we already have pacts with three of them? So why would we only make pacts with three or four of them at the same time? I’m so confused. Someone please share your thoughts with me on this because I don’t get it???

I really feel like they directly addressed some of the concerns we’ve all been having in this lesson, too. I mean Solomon straight up talks about wondering what the brothers we left behind are doing. Or if time is still going there or if we’ll end up exactly where we left etc etc. HOWEVER all that soup talk makes me think they are just going to mesh it all together. ‘Cause Solomon also said this:

What does that mean? How can the future brothers influence what’s happening in the past? Unless their memories are changing in real time… ugh why did they have to go with time travel shenanigans?? Don’t they know this junk hurts my brain??

Anyway, now it’s time for some of my favorite moments, enough about time travel and feelings and pacts!

Because my favorite sorcerer also said this. And I know there are some questions about his motives and blah blah but I don’t care. I love him. He’ll be all serious, then say something sweet and reassuring, then do something crazy or try to cook again… he’s got so many sides to him lol.

STOP MAKING ME LIKE YOU MEPHISTOPHELES. (Please you were like the last character I was neutral about I can’t afford to get obsessed with anyone else.)

Honestly, I laughed so hard when he said this. Mammon just called him out directly and he LAUGHED. He laughed and was like yeah duh of course, idiots. And look how pleased he is about it, too.

May I bring your attention to my baby Levi? Look at this silly guy. I was so happy I got to hug him. And the group hug was adorable, too. Satan protesting the whole time lol. Lucifer coming in and being like… I regret asking.

I swear sometimes I wanna kiss this guy JUST to watch him blush. It’s so freakin’ cute.

Smitten. I am smitten.

The way she’s like I don’t get why you like these weirdos, but I know they matter to you. Don’t worry, it’s going to work out. How she gets all defensive of MC. Her cute little smile. The way she suggests coming to visit MC in the human world & saying that Solomon can come too?! LIKE. I love her so much.

HE KNOWS.

Listen I was thrilled about this whole part - Barbatos being mysterious and giving me a weird piece of paper and a Little D? Yes forever. But also I think we’ve all suspected him of knowing the truth and this part right here just solidifies that for me. He definitely knows. He knows everything about what’s going on. I don’t think that means he’s Nightbringer or even that he’s working with Nightbringer. He could just know because he’s got access to all of time and what not. But either way, he knows.

Honestly I love Barbatos so much. Just the small parts we had with him were enough to get me in my feels. I also really enjoyed the hard lesson because even if Luke doesn’t know what’s going on, I think Simeon does. And their discussion was interesting.

So I’m gonna leave you with one last Barb moment.

I’m so impatient is it the end of the season yet?? I wanna know how it ends right NOW.

[tatumsversion13]

possible TW abuse, necrophilia, pro shipping

please read // accusation of being pro ship and engaging with necro fanfiction

I just came across this and I feel like I need to adress some things.

first of all, I DO NOT condone any glamorization of abuse or necrophilia and it upsets me that some people might think otherwise. I’ve created this account two weeks ago to try and connect with others who enjoy Scream just as much as I do but also as a form to inspire myself through fanfic, fanart, etc. When I’m outside or busy, I tend to mass like posts without further checking the tags or what they’re really about (which is probably not the brightest idea) so I can come back and read them later on. Apparently I’ve liked a fic that contained necrophilia. I was not aware that I had liked it but I’m glad someone brought it to my attention! It was 100% unintentional and I am not interested in reading stuff like that. I should’ve known better and double check before liking posts but I never realised it could be a bad idea because I honestly trusted my algorithm to not show me that kind of content. I didn’t even know people were writing about stuff like that. I understand the confusion but it was definitely not intentional. I apologise for any harm of confusion that may have caused.

pro shipping :

Assuming anon defines pro shipping as a person being okay with the shipping of different fictional characters whether they’re canon or not: honestly I don’t really understand the issue with this. Since when is pro shipping a bad thing? I mean the main reason this blog exists is because of a ship..? I only reblog stuff about stu x billy since that’s the only ship I care about regarding Scream (not including gale and dewey i mean they’re cute but idrc). After all those are FICTIONAL characters?? Most of the people I follow are stuilly shippers and the actors themselves openly talk about shipping their own characters? Besides, why would I care if people have other ships, as long as none if it glorifies things like pedophilia and/or abuse (and no, no matter how toxic, in my opinion and from the fanfics I’ve read so far, Stu and Billy’s relationship does not glorify abuse since all of their intimate acts are consensual).

If you consider pro shipping as shipping without limits (ignoring, condoning or glamorizing abuse, pedophila, necrophilia etc. that’s definitely NOT something I would EVER read or approve.

For the rest, I could care less about other people’s interests in fan FICTION (again, as long as they don’t contain any if the things I just mentioned). Feel free to correct me if I forgot something.

misogyny :

I made a post joking about how I don’t like Sidney in Scream 1/still hold a grudge against her. Not liking a character in a fictional movie does not make me misogynistic and I can’t believe I have to explain that. I absolutely adore Sidney’s character throughout the Scream franchise but I have no problem admitting that I did not like her in Scream 1996 for the simple fact that she killed my favourite characters (and she was just annoying). I know she had to defend herself and it’s a movie. Not liking a fictional character is never that deep and it doesn’t have anything to do with Neve.

Anyways, this is not what I expected to see when I came on here and I’m sorry if this sounds a bit defensive, i’m just tired of people acting like they know anything about others without confronting the person first but I am glad I’ve been made aware and I’ll pay attention to the content I engage with in the future! I hope this cleared things up and I’m sorry again.

P.S. If you have any issues with me regarding something I’ve said or engaged with, I would prefer if you dmed me so we can talk about it personally. Thank you for reading!

[pronounmelon]

How Leasebound suffers under the ablebodied gaze

Hiiiii I’m on my bullshit again 😘❤️

today we are going to talk about how Leasebound’s disability rep is kind of mid

we all know how I feel about the special ed teacher panel

and BONUS: this is Sunny’s insert. Sunny has never worked with disabled kids. RUSTY has never worked with disabled kids, and neither are disabled to my knowledge. I am disabled AND have worked with disabled kids. I still think that panel is complete bullshit, with the lack of knowledge on the topic showing through in the implication that there is ever an instance outside of imminent harm to yourself or others that you need to restrain a disabled child even if my old post may have admittedly overreacted. There is not. There is never an instance outside of imminent harm to yourself or others. If your special education facility has told you that restraint is an option at all when a kid hugs you too long, get a new fucking job 😭 the next alternative to a “let me go” or a collapse or drop move you weren’t taught somehow is never to “hm. If I don’t go to self defense training my only other option is to restrain them”

anyway to the guys I wanna talk about here

now let’s list off disabled characters

Shanzay (it’s not spelled Shanzey in any language Rusty should probably correct that)

Rocky

Uhhhhhhh

Ginger is most definitely disabled given the knee injury but that was most definitely added to give her a stereotypical middle aged “man” backstory of wanting to play professional football and then getting injured and it doesn’t even really come up on panel. Plus the trans women in the comic are. Well. We all know 😭😭

and I am of the personal opinion that Brick has some form of dwarfism or potentially Down syndrome due to how Rusty draws them (height, proportions, and facial features) but this was not done intentionally by Rusty and seems to have mostly been an attempt to make them look “clownish” which is a whole other set of issues. Like I thought Parniya was supposed to teach your grown adult fanbase not to make fun of people for their height or weight but your commentors say otherwise when it comes to Brick sooooo

anyway the only ones I can definitively say are disabled are Shanzay and Rocky

so so far the only 2 characters who are definitively disabled both got it from some big showey traumatic event, not looking good so far seeing as that’s a pretty common stereotype…

Shanzay has partial blindness, seemingly caused by blunt force trauma

Now I can’t believe I have to say this but…

regardless of how you are drawing this REALLY does not communicate a blunt force eye injury

fun fact: I’m not going to show a picture because HOLY SHIT the pictures are horrible but a healed blunt force eye injury (one that WOULD cause permanent full blindness in the eye) usually includes

partially or fully detached retina

reddish sclera for obvious reasons, it gets better overtime but it rarely fully goes away

usually rather than a perfectly vertical scar with stitches there is a bruise or a scar that isn’t. Yk. Perfectly vertical over the whole eye. Often a scar would be something like a deeper one over the eyelid, or uneven tiny scar bits around the eye. While we don’t see what Chris does to Shanzay exactly, if he hit her with what he had at the moment (his fist), she more than likely got a hugeass bruise with no permanent scar outside the eye, maybe a tear in the eyelid itself if we give Chris the disbenefit of the doubt that his single fist is that strong, or that he got multiple hits in. I mean he sells drugs or whatever so maybe??? I’m gonna be for real I doubt this guy’s mary sue ass strength he looks under half my dad’s weight

Bonus that shit is probably HORRIFIC if the injury wasn’t super bad then because it doesn’t seem like she was taken to the doctors

Better ways to stylize this sort of injury on Shez:

partially detached retina, rough healing

Retina removed surgically due to extreme injury or infection after injury, probably healed better due to medical intervention. Would likely wear an eye cap or glass eye cover to protect the eye

Traumatic cataract (what I think Rusty was going for??). Despite all the models you’ve probably seen or whatever the fuck a traumatic cataract is rarely completely perfect over the eye, and often the original eye color is slightly visible underneath. I specifically made this one partial, giving an easily stylizable but accurate look.

“why is this a problem?? Other media does this all the time”

yeah and I kinda hate it 😭😭 it’s one thing if all your characters have dot eyes, like just put an x there BOOM eye disability communicated. Also, Shez is never shown to have the same or similar disability needs to most people who are partially blind or blind in one eye. The large majority of people with full blindness in one eye cannot drive very easily, first of all. One, in most countries you need to pass a medical test. Also, if Shez’s injury is in fact a traumatic cataract, driving is either an incredibly difficult/stressful task, or just straight up unsafe, seeing as the areas of an eye a cataract falls over only allow for very limited vision.

Like bestie you CANNOT be looking back at Jaden like that regardless of potentially training yourself to drive?? Which even then you’re apparently driving at 3am or so??? It’s DARK AS HELL at 3am fuck off there’s no way

now I’m not partially blind or blind myself so people can absolutely correct me on this (blind people, not people with a totally super real blind cousin or something, I’m not centering ablebodied people here)

Shez seemingly has no trauma from her injury specifically. Only her mother is affected by it. Honestly that’s a lot of the Chris plot line; Shez only wants to save the people around her and that’s apparently good cause “power fantasy” like??? I thought this was supposed to be a comic about realistic women experiences or whatever the fuck.

Oh yeah and why is this panel kind of implying that Shez got her injury on the job when she got it from Chris 😭😭 I guess the rest fits but “this is a rough job” with the weird closeup of her eye 😭😭 bitch what does that MEAN Chris did not injure you at Yonique

okay next one

I have BEEF with this woman ‼️‼️‼️

Whoever decided they weren’t gonna at least teach Rocky sign language is a fucking idiot. Why is she communicating with the same *nod* *nod* she did when her muteness was new at 22 years old. Someone teach Rocky sign language!! ”you can’t expect rusty to learn accurate sign language just for Rocky” then I can’t expect her to respectfully write a mute character without falling into dumbass stereotypes

I do understand why Rocky wouldn’t have an AAC device… I mean, this is 5 (now 6 with Parniya!!) people living in one tiny living space in a city that has a huge classism problem, it’d be very difficult to get their hands on something like that. But. A text to speech tablet?? Like just an iPad?? Maybe??? There’s also AAC-like apps for both Samsung and Android. Rusty invents shit that doesn’t exist all the time!! (Like a plain white simultaneously loose and tight around the boobs turtleneck with plain black text that says yaoi. Looking at Kai) she could just invent an AAC app for Rocky to use that functions exactly like the expensive ones but free and on a standard off brand tablet!! PLEASE it’s giving Teardrop bfb but worse than that because Teardrop was 1. Originally written by children on YouTube 2. Eventually DID get means of autonomy and communication and most people understand and respect her. Rocky only gets nods. How is she getting a job with nods??? Interviews are unfortunately way more complicated than yes or no questions.

now my final issue, applying to both Rocky and Shanzay, which I briefly hinted to earlier

Their disabilities are BOTH from big life altering injuries or PTSD. Which can happen!! That’s fine, but it’s also the most stereotypical form of these disabilities. It’s the one in media most palatable to ablebodied people. Like the little disabled representation coming in the form of wheelchair users who cannot walk at all (often paralysis) or supergeniuses if it’s caused by anything else, or people who so tragically lost an arm, or an eye, or their hearing, or sight in a war, or a fight, or whatever, a mute person who does not communicate in any of the numerous ways that mute people do because the ablebodied writer does not believe they can. Like, you know that dialects of sign language have formed for mute or deaf kids from observation, right?? Even if Meriam didn’t teach her fucking kid to sign or get her in a learning environment where she could learn to, Rocky most definitely knows more than nod and shake, ESPECIALLY as a mute adult.

all the disabled characters are written in the most palatable way they can be to an ablebodied audience, by an ablebodied writer.

Easy fix: GET SENSITIVITY READERS OR DO PROPER RESEARCH BEFORE WRITING SOMETHING YOUVE NEVER TOUCHED JESUS FUCKING CHRIST

[hannahssimblr]

I spend three hours wandering around the estate looking for Goose. I've checked every front garden, every hedge and flower bed and under every car, looked inside bins and up trees by the time I'm forced to contend with the fact that I haven't confronted the railroad tracks yet. I don't. I never pluck up the courage.

I can’t fathom it, being the one to find him there, sweet Goose with his little kitten paws and soft pewter fur. This thought that I hadn’t even considered until Michelle spat it at me is tormenting me now as I forlornly wander the evening streets, calling out the name that I’m not even sure he knows to answer to yet. 

I stumble upon Jen in a little park we used to drink in when we were fourteen. She’s been out looking too, evidently, but has had enough and is sitting on the ground gazing out over the last russet streaks of sunset over Dublin Bay. 

“Have you given up?” I ask her. Her eyes are clouded with sadness 

“I have a feeling he’s gone, Jude,” she says. I feel a lump forming in my throat. “He mightn’t be. He might come back, you know, cats are known to show up after being away for days, weeks, months even,” this is the sort of bargaining a person who refuses to accept the obvious truth gets too involved with, and the kind I’ve been doing with myself the whole afternoon, thinking that maybe if I imagine Goose’s return with enough conviction I will magic him home again, but Jen, for once does not match my idealism.

“He probably doesn’t know where his home is yet, he’s too new.”

“Yeah,” I shift some loose gravel with the toe of my shoe. “Jen, I feel so awful.”

“I know,” she says, and holds her arms out to me to pull me to the ground and wrap them around me, “It isn’t your fault, it could have happened to any of us.”

“I ruined the entire day with my stupidity.”

“Shh, stop,” gently fingers stroke my hair at the nape of my neck, “you just made a mistake, it’s human.”

“Did I ruin your date?”

She pauses, “It’s okay, I don’t think she realised it was a date, and it's probably for the best.” 

The wind rustles through the trees around the park, and I feel chilled with the knowledge that change is coming. The school year is ending soon and now the future lies unavoidably ahead of me, a path completely untrodden. 

“You’ll find someone else to take to the debs,” I tell Jen, peering at the side of her face as her short crop of chestnut hair is backlit by the sunset. “You should have been the first person to get a date anyway.”

She gives me a half smile, unconvinced, “there are like, four lesbians in our year including me.”

“Out lesbians,” I point out, “You never know.”

“When I go to college it will be better,” she says firmly, “school is just destined to be shit, romantically, I mean.”

“In all ways, I think.”

She just laughs. 

“This stuff is bullshit anyway.”

“What is? Love?”

I rub my arms where goosebumps are rising with the cold. I should have worn a jumper. “Yeah, you’re not missing out on much.”

A silence follows, one that feels deliberate, but I venture into it anyway, “Michelle and I had a bad fight earlier.”

“I heard.”

“Us shouting?”

“Mm.”

“Sorry.” I wipe my nose which is running from the cold with the back of my arm. “It was terrible, we both said awful things.”

She just circles her hand on my knee in a vague gesture of comfort.  

“Sometimes it feels like she’s trying to hurt me, you know what I mean? It’s like she has all of this bad stuff stored up that she wants to, like, unleash. It’s so vicious. It seems like she really wants to dig her nails in and leave a mark on me, and then I get so defensive, like, because talking it out doesn’t work, I have to shout, and I have to be horrible too so that she’ll even react to me.”

“We all say things we regret when we’re upset.”

“Yeah, but it’s so destructive. I come away from it all feeling like shit. Like, this isn't who I am, I’m not a person who fights. At least I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be up there saying these things to her, but I can’t stand there and let her say them to me either.”

“Yeah.”

“And I worry a lot about what things are going to look like after this year is over, like, with college and stuff,” even mentioning it makes my stomach feel tight, “like, um, how she wants us to live together and all.”

“And you’re nervous about that?”

I sigh, “Well, I don’t know, it makes sense to do it, right? She thought we could get a little place near NCAD, and we’ve been looking at houses online, and… I don’t know. The idea of being around her all of the time, like, twenty-four-seven, sharing a bed, eating every meal together, walking to college, it makes me feel claustrophobic, and then I worry that if I feel that way now, how am I going to feel when I’m actually doing it? Surely it’s not supposed to feel so terrible, right?” I prompt her when she doesn’t respond, “Jen? What do you think?”

She pauses for a long moment, toying with the aglets on the end of her boot laces. “I think that you’re asking me for an opinion I’m not prepared to give you.”

“...right.”

“We agreed, I agreed with you both that I’d never talk to one about the other. It’s not fair on me and I don’t want to feel stuck in the middle of it.”

“But-”

“You’re both nice people and I love you both so much, but when you are together you are absolutely horrible. That’s all I want to say.”

I don't know how to respond to that, so I don't, I just sit in bad feelings and wish for the millionth time that my brain was normal enough to make good choices on its own and not beg them from other people.

I sniff again, though this time I’m not sure if it’s just because of the cold. “So, um, the acceptance deadline for those other colleges is coming up.” 

“The foreign ones?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you still going to turn them down?”

“I promised Michelle that I would.” 

Jen’s shoulders slump, all of her does, like someone has let the air out of her, but she just says, “Alright.”

I feel the teeth of my genuine desperation for her opinion, her approval gnawing at me. I just want the sage words of advice she’s withholding from me, “Is it a mistake? Like, if I reject their offers? Would that be the stupidest thing I ever did?”

“I don’t know.”

“I worked hard, you know? I really put everything I had into those applications, I gave them the best that I had and they loved it, they said really nice things about me in the letters, and sometimes, like, I think I’ll die, or something, if I don’t leave Dublin. But then there’s Michelle,” I fist the front of my hair in my hand, “and the things at home, and I don’t know what the right thing is, whether it’s hurting myself or hurting everyone else…”

“Jude,” Jen suddenly grabs hold of my face and forces me to look into her eyes, “you have to do what feels right, okay? I’m not going to tell you what to do. Like, just… you need to fucking search within or whatever.”

“Uh huh. What does that entail?” 

“I dunno!” She lets me go and stands up, brushing dirt from the back of her jeans, “C’mon, it’s cold, we should go home.”

“Uh, I was kind of hoping you’d be able to solve me, actually.”

“No, this time you can solve yourself. C’mon, up!” She presents her hand to me and I let her haul me onto my feet. 

“Ugh, Jen,” I say, feeling myself sinking back into a melancholy hole again, but she links my arms and brusquely walks me toward the playground gates with all the pep of a middle aged Sunday morning power walker. “You know what? I think we could both do with something nice to make us feel better.”

“What do you mean ‘something nice’?

“Like, I dunno, an ice cream or something.”

“What time is it? It must be after nine.”

“Yeah, so? I was thinking of that place with all the weird flavours, do you remember that?”

“Yeah, but it’s all the way in town. Effort.”

“You can drive, can’t you?”

“You want me to drive? Jen I hate driving.”

“I think you’ll do it for me.”

“Why’d you think that?”

She eyes me sideways, “After what you put me through today, hm?”

“That's manipulation.”

“No, it's payback.”

“Fine. I’ll go get the car.”

“Really?”

“Yes! Come on, before I change my mind.”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[hxney-lemcn]

Oopsie — Peter Maximoff x gn! reader

summary: Peter found your fanfic (idk how else to summarize this 💀)

tw: descriptions of panic (possibly panic attack?)

a/n: idk how I feel about this one.

wc: 1.1k

Master List

“Give that back, Peter!” I shouted, standing on my tippy toes trying to reach the notebook he held over his head.

“Why do ya want it back so badly, huh?” Peter asked with a smirk. “What are you writing about?”

I don’t think my heart has ever beat as fast as it is now. I could feel my blood rush as panic coursed through me. No, I didn’t use it as a diary or anything…or maybe I was in a convoluted way? When I felt down or needed to vent, I would write scenarios with my favorite characters. The thought of anyone, especially Peter finding out made me want to change my identity and leave the country. He would never let me live it down and some of those stories were extremely personal to me. 

Panic continued to clench at my heart as Peter opened the notebook, still holding it above his head. Pure desperation took hold of me as I jumped, using his shoulders to propel me higher. 

“Whoa there,” Peter laughed, zipping away to the other side of the room. “You really don’t want me reading this. It can’t be that bad.”

“Peter, please,” I begged, trying to stop my voice cracking from the tears that threatened to fall. His smile fell and he looked at me with furrowed brows. Either he read some of it using his super powers to give him more time or he felt guilty due to how desperate I seemed, but I didn’t want to find out. So as a last ditch attempt, I shot a beam of darkness at the notebook, disappearing into the shadows only to reappear in my hands. Before Peter could utter a word I disappeared into the shadows, only to reappear in Jean's room. 

Jean gasped in surprise. I typically didn’t use my powers that often. I wasn’t a part of the X-Men, but I was friends with Jean ever since I first attended the school, which meant I was basically a part of their group. Having the powers of umbrakinesis, at the beginning wasn’t so special. I could manipulate shadows. Didn’t seem like much. Until Professor Xaviar taught me about my true potential. I could travel through shadows, and even manifest the dark particles into a physical form. It was a good defense, creating weapons made out of dark particles, but I wasn’t the fighting type. So I never really used my powers. There was no need to.

So when I not only traveled to Jean through shadows, but also had the most panic stricken face, she led me to her bed. Her work was left forgotten on her desk. 

“Hey, hey it's okay,” She cooed. “You’re safe here.” Jean rubbed my back as she sat next to me. 

I took deep breaths, trying to calm down. I felt so silly getting worked up over such things, but at the same time it was something deeply personal…and embarrassing. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Jean asked. I bit my lip, contemplating if I could stomach saying it out loud or letting her just read my thoughts.

“Could you just…look?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t rude too. 

She nodded, a gentle look in her eyes. I trusted her with the knowledge of the contents of my notebook. Especially when she’ll see how important it is to me. A scowl took over her face after a minute.

“That idiot,” She huffed.

Even after what just happened, I couldn’t help but vouch for Peter, “He didn’t know…”

“You’re letting your crush on him talk,” She rolled her eyes. 

I felt myself warm at such a blatant accusation of my feelings. She wasn’t completely wrong. I was smitten over the silver haired mutant. I found his dorkiness charming, and he just had the cutest smile. He made it so easy to be friends with him, including me in everything, and not to mention his casual affection. An arm around my shoulders here, ruffling my hair there. It was something I wasn’t used to. Yeah Jean would include me in stuff as well, but her affection was more reserved. 

And yes, Peter can be annoying. Prime example would be his incessant talking. He could talk about anything and everything, yet not say a thing of substance. Which I personally didn’t mind, but Jean and Scott found it grating from time to time. 

“I’m just scared he’s gonna think I’m weird now,” I finally confessed. “I mean…it is weird, but…”

“It's not weird,” Jean consoled. “We all have our hobbies, and yours helps you emotionally.”

I fiddled with the notebook pages, “I guess.”

Suddenly, an urgent knocking sounded through the room, followed by Peter’s voice, “Jean! I think I seriously messed up!”

Once more, a frown found its way onto Jean's lips before she sent me a concerned look. She shuffled me into her bathroom, ‘I think you should hear what he’s gonna say.’ I nodded anxiously, staring at the white tiles as she closed the bathroom door. I sat on the toilet seat as I heard Jean open her door.

“What’d you do this time, Maximoff?” She asked.

I could practically hear the nerves in Peter’s voice as he replied, “I-I swear I didn’t know it was such a big deal. I thought we were messin’ around like usual, but then they started to really freak out. I thought it was just some work stuff…but I read some of it, and I won’t say what it was, but I realized I definitely shouldn’t have read it and now I can’t find ‘em.”

“Slow down Peter,” Jean sighed. 

“I can’t!” Peter’s voice broke. “The look they gave me before they left…I can’t get it outta my head. I gotta apologize, but I’m no good at those.” He let out a frustrated groan before finishing, “I always ruin stuff.”

It was silent for a few seconds before Jean finally spoke, “I’ll give you guys some time to talk it out.”

“Wha?” 

The bathroom door opened on its own and I slowly peaked my head out. Peter stared at me with those big puppy dog eyes that melted my heart and I watched as Jean left her own room. I felt a bit bad that our drama made her leave her own room, but was side tracked as Peter started apologizing rapidly.

“I’m so sorry (y/n),” He said. “I-I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m such an idiot.” He brushed his hand through his hair tensely. 

I let out a quiet sigh, “It's okay.”

“It’s not!” Peter refuted. “That was your personal info!”

I bit my lip, “I mean yeah…but I forgive you. As long as you never speak to another soul of what you read.”

“Read what?” He asked with fake cluelessness. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

A bright grin fell onto my face, happy that he didn’t seem to be judging me.

“But…y’know, just for the record, if you wanna cuddle…” He opened his arms like he was gonna go in for a hug. “I’m always open.”

I rolled my eyes, but failed to hide my amused grin, “Whatever Quickie.”

[thevioletcaptain]

🩲😳🫦

Dean’s not staring. He’s definitely not staring.

He’s so consciously and deliberately not staring that he sinks down a little lower in the driver’s seat of the Impala, just in case Cas happens to glance over and see him from where he’s standing like some kind of calendar model on the opposite side of the Smith Center Public Swimming Pool.

Not because he thinks he’s doing anything wrong, though. Cas is hot, and Dean knows that Cas is hot. He's long past having a crisis about the fact that he wants the guy. But he's off limits. He can't quite remember why he'd decided that he was off limits, but he's sure he had a good reason for it.

So he's not staring. And he's not hiding, either.

It's just that Dean doesn’t want Cas to see his face through the windshield, all distorted by the glare of the summer sun, and mistakenly think that he is staring.

Because he’s not.

But. Well. It’s kind of hard not to look, is the thing.

And looking isn’t staring. It’s just — seeing. With his eyes. Which he kind of can’t help but do. And is that a crime? Is it a crime to see?

Anyway, Cas is the one who decided to buy himself a neon green Speedo for the adult swimming lessons he’s insisted on taking now that he’s human again, and it’s hardly Dean’s fault if his eye is naturally drawn to bright colors.

That’s just… evolution. He thinks he read that somewhere, once. Survival instincts, ingrained over countless generations and hardwired into his monkey brain, so that he won’t accidentally put poisonous tree frogs in his mouth or whatever.

Not that he's letting his monkey brain take control right now. Not that he’s thinking of putting his mouth anywhere near Cas’ —

“You can’t park here.”

He jumps, his forearm pressing hard into the horn, and half a dozen people — Cas included — all turn to stare at him from the poolside.

Now they're staring. Not just looking. Definitely staring. Dean knows the difference.

Cas lifts his hand and waves.

It’s probably Dean’s imagination, given the distance, but he’s pretty sure he can see a bead of water — maybe sweat — trickling down his side. It starts near his armpit. Trails down over his ribs.

As Dean watches — looks, really, just happens to see — Cas pushes his fingers through his hair, and shakes his head, and an arc of droplets sparkles through the air around him before he drops his hand back down and wipes it off on his thigh. And now his thigh is wet again.

Who gave him the right to fucking glisten like that? Who the hell does he think he is?

“Sir?”

Dragging his eyes away from Cas, Dean glances up at the woman ducking down to peer in at him through his open window. She’s wearing a navy blue polo with the pool’s logo, and she’s missed a spot with her sunscreen, so there’s an oddly shaped patch of red in the middle of her forehead. The pinched-mouth expression on her face suggests that perhaps she's spoken to him more times than he’d noticed. He shakes his head a little.

“Huh, sorry, what?”

“You can’t park here,” she says, tone harsher than before, and points up at the staff only sign he’d missed when he arrived.

In his defense, the sign is kind of dull, and decidedly not brightly colored, and by the time he’d been pulling into the space, he’d already been kind of distracted by Cas and his glow-in-the-dark-and-the-daytime-too crotch.

Some part of him — the monkey brain, probably — desperately wants his eyes to flick back over toward the pool to see if Cas has decided to do any more post-swim stretching. He valiantly fights it. The effort uses enough brain power that he barely remembers that he's probably supposed to respond to the woman talking to him.

“Oh,” he says, finally.

She waits. Raises her brow. He figures he should say more.

“I’m not actually— I’m not staying. I’m just here to pick someone up. I mean, heh, that sounded wrong. I’m not trying to pick someone up, like, trying to score. I’m just here to pick up a guy. My friend. In my car. To drive him home.”

The woman’s eyes narrow a little, and she half opens her mouth like she’s not quite sure how to respond to his rambling but fully intends to, but before she can get a word out Cas is there, pulling open the passenger door. The hinges creak.

The scent of chlorine and sunscreen and Cas floods Dean's senses.

He glances over, no longer able to force himself not to, and has to bite down on his own lip to keep from letting out a deeply embarrassing noise when he finds him spreading his towel out on the seat so he can sit down, still wearing his Speedo. He drops the string bag with his change of clothes into the footwell and grins at Dean as he climbs inside.

"Don't worry, I won't get your car wet," he says.

Dean's brain is making a strange buzzing sound.

"Uhuh," he says.

“Sir,” the woman cuts in again.

Dean doesn’t even look at her, this time. Just waves a hand in the air and starts the engine as Cas buckles in. Pulls the seatbelt taut across his lap.

"You need to move."

"Yeah, we're going," Dean says.

“See you next week, Doreen,” Cas tells her cheerfully.

“Yeah,” Dean says, but his eyes don’t leave Cas. Maybe he is staring, just a little. “Maybe I’ll come, too.” [written for this prompt game] [find me on ao3 as imogenbynight 💚]