#but bringing her to light... it feels impossible

[3igbootyl0ver]

who hurt you? [v]

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: After finally getting justice, Tara decides to take a step further into your friendship.

word count: 4407

warnings: mentions of abuse, slight angst (insecurity, self doubt), (don’t worry bc it’s all fluff now 😈)

a/n: happy new year everyone! may 2025 bring you endless joy, success, and cherished moments with loved ones :)

part [i] | part [ii] | part [iii] | part [iv]

Tara stands in a familiar room, the air heavy with the heavy scent of Ambers scent. She was at her old house, the one she left weeks ago, but it feels different now. Smaller. Claustraphobic. The walls seem to inch closer, the ceiling pressing downward, as if the entire space is collapsing in slow motion.

“Did you really think you could leave me?” Her voice cuts through the air like shattered glass. She spins around, but she’s not there. Only a shadow flickers on the wall, impossibly tall, stretching toward her.

Tara’s breath quickens. She tries to move, but her legs won’t respond. Her feet are rooted to the ground, the floor beneath her growing colder, wetter. She looks down and sees the carpet turning into dark, sticky mud, sucking her in. She struggles, her hands clawing at the air, but the more she fights, the deeper she sinks.

“You’ll never be free,��� her voice echoes again, closer this time, hot breath grazing the back of Tara’s neck. She whirls around, and now she’s there—her face too close, her eyes dark pits that swallow the light. She smiles, the kind of smile Tara remembers, the one that came before the worst nights.

Her voice catches in her throat as she tries to scream. Nothing comes out. She reaches for something, anything, and her hand closes around a broken shard of glass lying on the floor. She raises it, her arm trembling, but before she can strike, Amber’s hand clamps around her wrist like a vice.

“You can’t fight me,” she hisses, her grip tightening until pain shoots through her arm.

Then, suddenly, the walls give way. The room is gone, replaced by endless black. She’s falling, weightless, spinning through the void, her laughter echoing all around her. Her eyes snap open, and she bolts upright in bed, gasping for air. Her chest heaves as she clutches the blanket to her chest, her skin damp with sweat. The soft glow of the bedside lamp reassures her that she was at your house—her safe place. But her heart doesn’t slow. Her voice still lingers in her ears, a ghost she can’t quite silence.

She decided to take refuge in the kitchen, grabbing a cup before filling it with running water from the tap. She gulped down her drink within seconds, seeking to refill it to repeat her steps before she heard a noise coming from the stairs.

Tara would be lying if she said her skin didn’t crawl out of the body. That was until she realized that she was safe; you were there, and she was currently staying over your house for 6 weeks since the incident at her home. She heard the soft pat of footsteps getting closer, grounding her in the moment. Her eyes burned slightly as you flicked on the kitchen light, illuminating the room with bright lights that contrasted the faint moonlight filtering through the blinds. She hadn’t even realized she had been standing there in the dark the whole time, her arms crossed tightly over her chest like a shield. Her fingers clutched the sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt—the one you lent her that had quickly become her armor

“Hey, you okay?” you asked softly, your voice cutting through the haze like a lifeline.

Tara’s heart skipped at the sight of you, a mix of relief and something else she couldn’t quite name. Your messy hair stuck out at odd angles, and the sweatshirt you’d thrown on hung loosely, bunched up just enough to reveal a sliver of your toned abdomen. She forced herself to look away, her cheeks warming as she realized she might’ve been staring too long.

You yawned, your hand covering your mouth as you shuffled closer, the soft scuff of your socks on the floor breaking the silence. It was obvious you’d just woken up, probably stirred by the noise she’d made earlier when she’d stumbled on the stairs in the dark.

“Did I wake you?” she asked, her voice tinged with guilt. You shook your head, brushing off her concern with a small wave. “Don’t worry about it,” you said, your tone gentle but still heavy with sleep. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Tara blinked, shaking her head as if to clear the fog. “Yeah,” she lied, her voice quieter than she intended. “I was just... thirsty.” She gestured vaguely toward the counter, though the glass of water she’d poured sat untouched beside her.

You stepped closer, your movements careful, deliberate—like you didn’t want to startle her. “Do you want to talk about it?” you offered, your hand hovering near hers without touching.

She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the floor. The truth felt heavy, like a stone in her chest. But the quiet warmth in your voice coaxed something loose. “I had another one,” she admitted, her voice breaking on the last word. “The same nightmare. It’s like I can’t get away, even here.”

Your brow furrowed, and you nodded, understanding without pushing. “You’re not there anymore,” you said gently. “And you’re not alone.”

The words hit her harder than she expected, cracking something inside her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. When she opened them again, your hand was still there, hovering, offering quiet reassurance. For the first time in what felt like forever, she reached out and took it.

-

Tara had recently started seeing you in a different light, her gaze lingering just a moment longer, her heart betraying her with a subtle flutter whenever you laughed or offered her on of your quiet, reassuring smiles. It wasn’t just gratitude anymore—it was something warmer, softer, the kind of feeling that crept up on her slowly, like the first rays of dawn chasing away the night.

But with that warmth came a pang of guilt that tightened in her chest every time she let herself linger on the thought of you. It felt wrong—dangerous, even—to have these feelings so soon after everything she’d been through. She’d barely begun to patch herself together, the cracks of her past relationship still too fresh, too jagged. It didn’t matter that she knew you for as long as she can remember; you deserved someone whole, someone who didn’t flinch at shadows or wake up gasping for air in the middle of the night. Not someone who carried the weight of emotional baggage too heavy to unload, let alone share. Tara didn’t want to overwhelm you, didn’t want to burden you with the mess she felt she still was.

And yet, she couldn’t ignore the way her heart betrayed her, beating a little faster when you walked into the room, or how her defenses softened in the safety of your presence. She told herself it wasn’t fair—not to you, not to her. You had already done so much, offering her a refuge when she had nowhere else to turn. Falling for you felt selfish, and Tara wasn’t sure she deserved to be selfish right now. Not after everything.

Still, when your hand brushed hers accidentally, when your voice softened just for her, when your laughter chased away the heaviness in her chest—or when you stepped in at school, silencing harsh comments with a sharp retort or a glare that could freeze anyone in their tracks—Tara felt something stir inside her. There was a striking contrast between the protective fierceness you showed the world and the quiet vulnerability you reserved only for her. It was in the way your walls came down when it was just the two of you, the tenderness in your eyes speaking volumes you didn’t say out loud.

That contrast captivated her, making her feel like she was seeing parts of you no one else ever could. It felt special, even if she told herself it shouldn’t. No matter how much she tried to bury it, the flicker of hope continued to grow, warm and persistent, defying her attempts to smother it.

Would you like this expanded further or shifted in tone?

On the other hand, you were doing everything in your power to suppress your own feelings, burying them beneath layers of logic and self-control. You told yourself it wasn’t the right time, that Tara needed support, not another complication in her life. You reminded yourself that she was still healing, still piecing herself back together after everything she had been through.

And yet, every time she smiled at you, her walls cracking just enough to let a bit of light through, your resolve wavered. Every small moment—her laughter when you managed to make her forget the weight she carried, the way her eyes softened when she looked at you, or how she unconsciously sought your presence whenever the world felt too heavy—made it harder to pretend you didn’t feel anything.

You tried to keep your distance emotionally, to draw the line between being her safe place and letting your own heart get involved. But deep down, you knew the truth: Tara wasn’t just someone you wanted to protect—she was someone who made you feel seen, someone who awakened parts of yourself you hadn’t realized were dormant. And no matter how much you tried to push those feelings away, they lingered, stubborn and unyielding.

-

That same afternoon, Tara received a phone call from the police regarding the ongoing investigation into Amber’s abuse. Relief flooded her chest as she listened to the officer explain the progress being made—finally, Amber’s actions were being brought to light. But her relief was mixed with a jolt of surprise when she learned that Serena, along with several other victims, had found the courage to come forward and share their experiences too.

Tara’s hand tightened around the phone as a wave of emotions swept over her. She was proud of Serena—proud of all of them—for speaking up, but the news also dredged up memories she’d been trying to suppress. The details of her own ordeal flickered through her mind, vivid and unrelenting.

Still, there was something empowering in knowing she wasn’t alone, that others were finally breaking their silence. Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of the end for Amber’s reign of cruelty. Tara hung up the phone and sat quietly for a moment, staring at the sunlight streaming through the window. A weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying lifted slightly, replaced by a fragile but growing sense of hope.

A month later, that hope turned into reality. Tara sat in the living room, the news playing softly in the background. Her heart raced as Amber’s face flashed across the screen, the headline scrolling beneath it in bold letters: Local Woman Sentenced for Multiple Counts of Abuse.

Amber had been convicted in court, her manipulative web unraveling under the weight of evidence and testimonies from Tara, Serena, and other victims. The judge’s sentence was clear: five years in prison, along with mandatory therapy for her abusive behavior.

Tara leaned back against the couch, letting out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Justice had been served, and Amber’s smug, untouchable demeanor had crumbled in the courtroom. For the first time in what felt like forever, Tara felt a sense of closure—not complete, but enough to begin moving forward.

But the consequences didn’t end there. Online forums and social media exploded with the news of Amber’s trial. Her name trended for weeks as people dissected her actions, some sharing their own stories of survival and solidarity. Amber’s once pristine facade was shattered, her reputation irrevocably ruined.

Tara stayed off social media as much as she could, but every now and then, she’d catch a glimpse of the posts and comments. Part of her still felt conflicted—justice was never as clean and satisfying as people made it seem—but the other part of her, the one that had endured so much, knew Amber deserved every consequence she faced.

Sitting in the quiet comfort of your home, Tara turned to you, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It’s finally over,” she said softly, her voice tinged with a mix of relief and exhaustion. You nodded, meeting her gaze with a warmth that steadied her. “It’s the start of something new,” you replied, your words gentle but firm.

And for the first time in a long time, Tara believed that might actually be true.

-

After finding justice against her abuser and knowing she wouldn’t be seeing Amber anytime soon, Tara finally felt a sense of safety she hadn’t known in months. The weight that had clung to her since the abuse began was lighter now, replaced by a cautious but growing confidence.

With your unwavering support over the past three months, she found the courage to take the next step: moving back into her own home. It wasn’t an easy decision—her house still carried echoes of the past, shadows of memories she’d rather forget—but it was time to reclaim her space and her life.

Still, she couldn’t help but miss the little intimate moments you shared—the lingering stares that spoke volumes, the quiet whispers exchanged in the stillness of the night. Both of you seemed to hover on the edge of something more, a silent understanding that neither dared to voice. She knew you both wanted to take that next step, but the unspoken weight of your circumstances kept you from crossing the line.

As the days passed in her reclaimed home, Tara found herself replaying those quiet moments with you—the lingering stares, the warmth of your whispered reassurances, the way your presence had become her anchor during the hardest time of her life. She realized how much those moments had meant to her, how much you had come to mean to her.

But with that realization came another: she couldn’t keep living in limbo. The fear of her past and the weight of uncertainty about the future had kept her frozen for too long. If she wanted to truly start over, she needed to let go of the chains that held her back—her doubts, her fears, and most of all, the idea that she didn’t deserve happiness.

One evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon and painted her living room in hues of orange and gold, Tara made a decision. She wasn’t going to let her past define her any longer. She wasn’t going to let the possibility of rejection stop her from moving forward.

The next day, she called you. Her hands trembled as she held the phone to her ear, but the sound of your voice steadied her. “Hey,” she began, her voice softer than usual. “Can we meet? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Of course. When and where?”

When you arrived at her house later that evening, you found Tara waiting on the porch, the soft glow of string lights framing her silhouette. She looked nervous but determined, her fingers fidgeting slightly with the edge of her sweater.

“Tara?” you asked, concern flickering in your eyes. “Everything okay?”

She took a deep breath, summoning the courage she’d been building all day. “I’ve been thinking,” she began, her voice wavering slightly before she steadied it. “About us. About how much you’ve done for me and how much you mean to me.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, but you stayed silent, letting her continue.

“I know I’ve been through a lot, and I know I’m still figuring things out,” she said, meeting your gaze. “But I also know that I don’t want to keep pretending like I don’t feel something for you. I don’t know where this could go, or if it’s even the right time, but… I want to try. If you’re willing.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, but the look in your eyes spoke louder than any words. Then, a small, reassuring smile curved your lips as you reached out, your hand gently brushing hers. “Tara,” you said softly, “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

Relief flooded her chest, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself smile—a real, unguarded smile. This wasn’t just the start of something new; it was the start of a life she was choosing for herself, free from the shadows of her past.

-

From that moment on, things between you and Tara unfolded naturally, like a river flowing back to its course. Neither of you rushed into anything; instead, you let the connection grow in its own time, giving Tara the space she needed while steadily building on the trust you already shared.

Your first outing wasn’t anything grand—just a quiet evening walk at a nearby park, where the golden hour bathed everything in a warm glow. You talked about anything and everything, from random childhood stories to dreams for the future, and Tara found herself laughing more than she had in months. It felt effortless, like being with you was the safest and most natural thing in the world.

Each hangout felt like a small but significant step forward. Movie nights turned into impromptu dinners; casual walks turned into long conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning. You were patient with her, never pushing for more than she was ready to give, and that patience only made Tara’s feelings for you deepen.

Before either of you realized it, those moments of closeness had transformed into something neither of you could ignore. One evening, while sitting together on her couch after yet another movie marathon, you turned to her, your expression more serious than usual.

“I don’t want to assume anything,” you said softly, your voice steady but unsure. “But these past few months have been… everything to me. I just need to know—what are we?”

Tara felt her heart skip, her stomach fluttering nervously. But instead of fear, she felt a quiet certainty settle over her. “I think,” she began, a small smile forming on her lips, “that we’re something worth holding on to.”

You smiled, relief and happiness evident on your face, and without thinking, you reached for her hand. This time, there was no hesitation—only warmth and a mutual understanding that this was the start of something real.

From that night on, you were no longer just two people finding solace in each other. You were something more, a partnership built on trust, shared laughter, and the unspoken promise that no matter what came next, you’d face it together.

-

Tara could feel herself melt like a puddle with how well you treated her—both before and after you officially started dating. It wasn’t just the big gestures, like showing up at her door with her favorite takeout on a tough day, or surprising her with a late-night drive to watch the stars. It was the little things that truly got to her: the way you always opened the door for her without making a big deal of it, how you remembered the exact way she liked her coffee, or how you would kiss her temple and whisper sweet nothings every time you both cuddle; even if you thought that she was sleeping, and the way your eyes softened whenever she spoke.

Before you were together, those moments had been her lifeline, a reminder that someone cared, even when she doubted she deserved it. Now, as your partner, those gestures took on a whole new meaning. It wasn’t just care—it was love, expressed in the quiet, unassuming ways that made her heart flutter every single time.

She couldn’t help but wonder what she’d done to deserve someone like you. But whenever she voiced that thought, you’d simply shake your head and pull her close, your words as steady as your presence: “You deserve everything good, Tara. Don’t forget that.”

And in those moments, she believed you.

Even though things were going so well between you two, there were moments when Tara couldn’t help but doubt herself. She would catch herself wondering, Why would you date someone like me? The thought lingered in her mind more often than she cared to admit. She wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to being treated with such kindness, with respect and patience, without the underlying tension of manipulation.

There were nights when the quiet would settle in, and she’d look at you, unsure of what to do with the warmth in her chest. What if I mess this up? What if I’m not enough? It was a thought that tugged at her constantly, a remnant of the insecurities Amber had instilled in her. She had spent so long believing she wasn’t worthy of love, and now, with you, she was learning to undo that belief, but it didn’t come easily.

And sometimes, that uncertainty bubbled to the surface. Tara would snap at you over the smallest things—little miscommunications or harmless comments that she would blow out of proportion. Her heart would race, her pulse quickening with the old familiar fear that she was doing something wrong, that she might push you away. She’d feel guilty for arguing, but the sting of past hurts would seep through, making it hard to just… relax.

“I’m sorry,” she’d whisper one evening after a heated argument, her eyes downcast, voice barely audible. “I don’t mean to be like this… I just… I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be in a healthy relationship. I’m not used to it.”

You would always sigh softly, your touch gentle as you cupped her face in your hands, lifting her chin to meet your gaze. “Tara, you don’t have to apologize for being human. We all have our moments. But don’t ever think that you’re not enough. You are more than enough, just the way you are.”

It wasn’t always easy for Tara to believe you, but in those moments, your words grounded her. Slowly, she began to understand that healthy relationships were built on patience, understanding, and forgiveness—not on fear or constant conflict. Your love for her wasn’t conditional, and that was something she was still learning to accept.

“My issue isn't you, it's the problem we're having. My love for you hasn't diminished in the slightest." is what you would say every time Tara doubted herself.

But with every apology, every tear shed, and every moment where she saw the love in your eyes, Tara began to shed the weight of her past. You never gave up on her, and bit by bit, she started to believe that she could let go of the fear, the doubts, and the walls she had built around her heart.

Eventually, the arguments became fewer, the self-doubt quieter. And when Tara realized that she could trust the stability and love you offered without second-guessing herself, she allowed herself to truly lean into the warmth of this healthy relationship you had together.

-

“I had no idea you did that during your finals, that’s wild!” Tara laughed, cuddling by your side, her leg hooked onto your torso while her arms were wrapped around you, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she listened to your story about the soccer finals against Blackmore.

“Yeah, and Mindy’s been boasting non-stop about scoring the winning goal. She’d been riding that high for at least month,” you chuckled, shaking your head, still a little in awe of her determination. “But, honestly, I’m so proud of her for leading the team and getting that goal. She earned it.”

Tara grinned, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s Mindy for you. She knows how to make sure everyone knows when she’s the hero.”

“You know… I’m glad you did that to Amber… But you shouldn’t have, you ruined your own career,” Tara added, leaning in closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper, the words softening as they barely escaped her lips.

You shrugged nonchalantly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Honestly, I don’t care about the career right now. What happened, happened, and I’ll deal with the consequences. But as long as you’re here, that’s all that matters to me.”

Tara blinked, surprised by your response. “You’re serious?”

You met her gaze, your voice steady but soft. “Yeah. In the end, careers come and go, but I’ve got your back, no matter what. You’re more important to me than any of this.”

Tara smiled, her eyes softening as she leaned in for a quick hug. “You’re insane, but I’m glad to have you by my side.”

You placed a hand gently on Tara’s waist, your voice unwavering. “I love you, Tara. There isn’t anything that I wouldn’t do for you.”

Tara’s eyes softened as she looked at you, the weight of your words sinking in. Without another word, she pulled you into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around you as if she never wanted to let go. You held her just as tightly, a quiet moment passing between you both.

Then, she pulled back slightly, her gaze meeting yours, before she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead then a peck on your lips. “I love you too,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Tara felt a quiet certainty deep within her—that no matter how hard the world threw at her, no matter how much she had to endure, she could face it all as long as you were there beside her. With you by her side, there was nothing she couldn’t overcome.

————————

a/n: hehehe thanks for tuning in for this fic! lmk your thoughts & feelings🤔

[claramelooo]

CRIMSON REVERIE

Hey!! What's up?

So, I think this chapter will break the expectations of some of you... But that's what I'm here, right? To surpriseeee you!

Taste it <3

Pairing: Dark!Witch Wanda x Fem Reader

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Summary: For the first time, the witch feels helpless around you and you notice it.

Read here: Prologue | Envy

MULTIVERSAL ANCHOR

The sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the room in a golden glow. Wanda slowly woke, her eyes opening with some difficulty. Her mind was still foggy from the night before—the memories of the battle, the victory, the moment when she claimed that place for herself.

And then, she felt it.

You were by her side.

Her arm rested lazily on her protruding belly, her fingers intertwined with yours, as if the gesture were natural. The warmth of your body radiated towards her, while the comfortable weight of your leg lay on her thighs.

Wanda held her breath for a moment, completely still. Is this what she feels every day?

She shifted her gaze to you, watching the softness of your sleeping expression. Your lips were slightly parted, your hair messily framing your face. There was something so... vulnerable about you in this state, and it stirred something within Wanda that she wasn’t ready to admit.

Her gaze instinctively shifted to your belly, pressed against hers. The rounded volume was impossible to ignore. The idea that you were carrying her daughter—your daughter—stirred something within her.

But that’s not why I’m here, she reminded herself, closing her eyes and trying to push the thoughts away. I’m here for the boys. For my children. Not for her. Never for her.

Mornings with her Wanda usually involved small routines you’d built together. She used to kiss your belly first, whispering something to the baby before getting up. Then, she’d always grab an extra pillow to support her back while you talked about what you’d do that day.

But today, there was none of that.

You looked at her, confused, as she sat beside you, almost as though she didn’t know what to do.

“You’re unusually quiet today,” you remarked, trying to smile.

Wanda forced a smile in return. “Just... didn’t sleep well,” she lied.

You didn’t seem convinced, but didn’t push further. Instead, you reached out to touch her hand. The gesture was automatic, and Wanda tensed as she felt your fingers brush against hers.

“You seem so distant,” you said softly, your eyes filled with concern.

Wanda swallowed, feeling exposed. You were so... attentive. The other Wanda knew exactly how to respond to this kind of concern. She didn’t.

“I’m fine,” she said, slowly pulling her hand away. “I just need a moment.”

At breakfast, Wanda seemed to return to her normal self, playing with the boys and smiling. This made you grin widely. She always had a way with being a mom. When she was pregnant with the boys, you saw that same sparkle in her eyes. Nothing had changed.

You watched her in silence, the smile on your face growing as she laughed at Tommy and Billy’s antics. There was something magical in seeing her like that—so connected to the boys, so at ease with the morning chaos.

“And then I said: ‘If you run faster, you’ll turn into a rocket!’” Tommy exclaimed, flailing his arms excitedly.

“Oh, really?” Wanda responded, laughing. “And who had to run after the ‘rocket’ to bring him back home?”

“Billy!” Tommy pointed, laughing, while the older brother feigned indignation but soon smiled, proud.

It was in these small interactions that you saw the Wanda you loved. The same gleam in her eyes when she was pregnant with the boys still there, intact, as if nothing had changed since then. But something inside you sensed a difference, a lightness that seemed forced.

And then, Wanda looked at you.

Her smile faltered, as if she had been caught. The light in her eyes disappeared, replaced by something you couldn’t decipher. It was as if, for a moment, she had been consumed by an emotion that shouldn’t have been there.

“Wanda?” you asked, concerned.

She blinked quickly, her face softening as the smile returned to her lips—forced, hurried. “I’m fine,” she replied, turning her gaze back to the boys.

You wanted to believe it, but the discomfort inside you grew. Something was wrong, even if you couldn’t pinpoint what.

After breakfast, Wanda went upstairs to the room, leaving you with the boys. She claimed she needed to sort some things out, but the truth was, she needed space. In the room, the silence was suffocating as she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

“Why is this happening to me?” she murmured, feeling the frustration bubble in her voice.

The room seemed too small for Wanda, every inch filled with thoughts she couldn’t silence. Sitting on the edge of the bed, her elbows resting on her knees, she stared at the floor, her hands trembling slightly with the energy she wanted to release, but didn’t know how to control.

Since arriving in this universe, Wanda had thought it would be simple. Replace her other version, win back the boys, and... and you.

But you were different.

She tried to manipulate your emotions, shape your thoughts, even steal her other self’s memories to understand how it was possible for you to love her so deeply. But nothing worked. It was as if you were protected by an invisible force, a barrier she couldn’t cross, no matter how powerful she was.

And worst of all? This resistance didn’t make Wanda give up. It made her want more.

When Wanda closed her eyes, it was her image that appeared. The way you looked at her during breakfast, concerned, but still full of trust and love. The soft smile on your lips as you folded clothes for Seline, as if the world had no weight on your shoulders.

It was so frustrating, so hypnotizing...

“Why you?” Wanda murmured again, her voice low and bitter.

She raised her hand, letting the red energy pulse once more. She made a subtle gesture, trying to recreate the spell she used to manipulate memories and emotions. The magic’s glow was strong, lighting up the room, but when she thought of you—the curve of your belly, the touch of your fingers at breakfast, the lightness of your laughter—the energy wavered again.

And vanished.

Wanda cursed, the frustration bubbling inside her. What made you different? What made your presence feel untouchable, but at the same time, so... alluring?

She stood abruptly, walking toward the mirror. The reflection staring back at her seemed darker than ever. Her eyes were filled with shadows, and, no matter how much she tried to hide it, Wanda knew she was falling apart inside.

You loved her, but not her.

You loved the version of herself that seemed lighter, more human. A Wanda who didn’t carry the weight of the Darkhold in her fingers and her heart, who hadn’t been consumed by pain and chaos.

The image of your smile when you saw her with the boys earlier returned to her mind. You looked so... happy. As if you were seeing someone who completed your life perfectly.

“She shouldn’t have you,” Wanda whispered to the reflection. “I should be the woman she loves. I should be the boys’ mother. The wife. Everything.”

But the truth was like a cold blade against her throat. She wasn’t what you needed.

The night descended upon the house like a veil, tinting the sky with deep blues and grays. The windows glowed with soft light from within, exuding a warm, welcoming heat that seemed unreachable from the garden. Wanda was there, shrouded in the dimness, her silhouette almost indistinguishable as she watched you from the outside.

In the kitchen, bathed in a serene yellow light, you moved between pots and dishes, simple, routine gestures that, somehow, magnetized her gaze. Every action you took seemed to hold a depth she couldn’t unravel, something that held her attention more than she was willing to admit.

Questions hammered in her mind. What was it about you that made the other Wanda desire you so much? What made you irresistible? Why did something so ordinary seem so extraordinary? She needed to understand what made you shine like that, even in the most mundane tasks.

Wanda clenched her fists, feeling the red energy pulse, an involuntary response to the storm growing within her. It was a reminder that she should maintain control, but, in that moment, she felt vulnerable, at the mercy of something she couldn’t name.

She watched you as you stirred the pot, the steam rising in spirals that momentarily obscured your face. Then, you laughed, casually brushing the steam away with a motion. That laugh was like a musical note reverberating inside her, echoing in spaces she didn’t even know existed.

You weren’t trying to be extraordinary. And maybe that was what intrigued her the most. Your happiness seemed so genuine, so simple, that Wanda wondered how anyone could find so much fulfillment in the everyday. How did the other Wanda see that? How did she feel so much for you?

Behind the flower-covered fence, Wanda crouched a little lower, her eyes fixed on you. When you turned to tidy the dishes, there was a graceful care in your movements, almost as though every gesture carried a greater purpose. It was impossible not to notice the affection in your actions.

The obsession inside her grew with every passing minute. The desire to decipher you, to understand every nuance, became almost unbearable. What did the other Wanda feel? Admiration? Love? Or something even deeper, something she herself had never experienced?

Wanda closed her eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like to be loved by you. Without secrets, without magic—just her, as she was. But, no matter how hard she tried, there was always an emptiness. An abyss between who she was and who she wanted to be.

When she opened her eyes again, you were drying your hands, laughing at something the boys had said just out of view. Your smile was so unpretentious, so natural, it seemed to hold all the warmth in the world. Wanda wondered: what did the other Wanda see when she looked at you?

She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to contain the frustration. It wasn’t just envy burning inside her. It was something more dangerous, a desire to experience what the other Wanda felt. A desire to be seen, to be enough, even with her cracks and imperfections.

You turned toward the window, and for a moment, it seemed as though your eyes would meet hers. Wanda’s heart raced, and instinctively, she retreated further into the shadows, holding her breath. But you simply looked at the sky, a thoughtful smile on your lips before you turned and disappeared inside.

The cold night air seemed to claw at her skin, but she stayed there, still. Watching. Trying to understand. Trying to feel. Why were you so irresistibly enigmatic? Why did it seem impossible to control you, but equally impossible to resist you?

The awareness that this obsession was heading in a dangerous direction bothered her. With each passing day, her desire to understand and possess you grew. But the scariest part was realizing that this wasn’t just about envy or curiosity. It was about you. About who you were.

Wanda wanted to find out if she could love you the way the other Wanda did. Or, perhaps, in a way only she could.

[...]

Wanda was in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, lost in her thoughts. Every moment of the day had been an internal struggle, a battle to maintain appearances while her conflicting emotions grew within her.

But something else was bothering her, something she couldn’t ignore: her powers.

This resistance intrigued and irritated her in equal measure. Why you? Why couldn’t she control you like she did everyone else?

Wanda was lost in these thoughts when she felt the mattress sink behind her. Before she could react, you climbed on top of her, pushing her down against the bed. Your knees were on either side of her hips, your hands firmly gripping her wrists and pinning them above her head.

Wanda’s eyes widened, her body stiff beneath yours as her blood rushed through her veins.

“W-what are you doing?” she asked, her voice shakier than she intended.

You tilted your head, looking at her with a mix of curiosity and challenge. “I should be asking you that,” you said, your voice low but firm. “What’s going on, Wanda?”

For a moment, Wanda didn’t respond. Her gaze locked with yours, as if trying to find an excuse, an explanation. But nothing came. The warmth of your body against hers, the way your hands held her wrists so securely—it all seemed to send her mind into even greater chaos.

“This isn’t like you,” you continued, your voice now softer but still laced with concern. “You’re different. Distant. Like you’re carrying something heavy.”

Wanda tried to look away, but you didn’t let her, leaning closer, your faces so close she could feel your breath.

“You can talk to me,” you murmured, your voice now almost a whisper. “I know you, Wanda. Something’s wrong.”

The words hit Wanda deeply. Did you know her? Did you truly know her? Or were you just convinced you knew the version of her that wasn’t here now?

And then there was another problem—her powers. She tried, in that exact moment, to use her magic to enter your mind, to find answers. But again, it was like hitting an invisible wall. Nothing worked on you.

“Why doesn’t it work?” Wanda murmured, not realizing she had spoken aloud.

You frowned, confused. “What?”

She shook her head quickly. “Nothing,” she lied, trying to regain control of the situation.

“You can try to hide what you’re feeling,” you said, leaning even closer to her, your tone now more challenging. “But I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

The silence between you stretched, but there was something else there now. The tension in the air was almost palpable, a mix of emotion and something deeper, more dangerous.

Wanda couldn’t look away from you. The way you were on top of her, the way your hands held her wrists with such confidence—it was impossible to ignore the desire that was beginning to grow within her.

And the worst part was that she didn’t know how to react. She had never felt this way before, never desired someone like this. Not with Vision. Not with anyone.

And her curiosity about you didn’t help. Why didn’t her powers work on you? What made you so different? Was that what drew her in? Or was it just you?

You noticed the change in her. Her eyes, which had been filled with uncertainty moments ago, now held something else. Something you recognized immediately.

“Wanda…” you began, but stopped when you saw the way she was looking at you, as if on the brink of something.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” she murmured, her voice hoarse but lacking the strength to push you away.

“And you shouldn’t hide what you’re feeling from me,” you replied, leaning even closer to her until your faces were mere centimeters apart.

She took a deep breath, trying to regain control, but it was useless. All she could think about was you—so close, so confident.

For a moment, Wanda wanted to tell the truth. She wanted to tell you everything—about who she was, about what she had done to be here. But fear stopped her. Fear of losing you before she even had you completely.

So, she did the only thing she could in that moment: she gave in.

With a swift movement, she pulled her wrists free from your hands and grabbed you by the waist, flipping your positions. Now, she was on top of you, her eyes glowing with something you had never seen before.

“If you want to know what’s going on,” she said, her voice low but filled with emotion, “maybe I need to show you.”

And before you could respond, Wanda leaned down and kissed you, her mouth capturing yours with an intensity that made your heart race.

The kiss was firm, deliberate, almost calculated at first. But as her lips moved against yours, Wanda began to feel something she hadn’t expected. The warmth of your touch. The way you responded to her every movement.

The intent to distract quickly gave way to something more primal, stronger. She felt her body react to yours, her hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer. You wanted her just as much as she wanted you.

And that was when Wanda lost control.

The kiss grew deeper, hungrier. Wanda’s breathing became ragged, her fingers pressing firmly against your wrists still pinned above your head. You arched your body to meet hers, and Wanda felt it.

You were wet for her, soaking her thighs with your arousal.

The shock and desire that coursed through Wanda were so intense that she almost pulled away. But instead, she dove even deeper. Her lips moved to your neck, nibbling lightly as you moaned, the soft sound echoing in the room and sending waves of heat straight to her.

This is real. It was the only thought running through her mind. You were real, here, wanting her, responding to her.

But then, something began to change. Wanda felt a familiar energy bubbling inside her, warm and powerful. Growing with every touch, every breath. The witch’s eyes began to burn, and when she opened them, she realized: the scarlet red was everywhere.

She tried to ignore it, but when you pressed your hips against hers, Wanda cursed softly at how naturally provocative you were. And then, she exploded.

A wave of red light flashed around you both, illuminating the entire room for a brief moment.

You opened your eyes, breathless and trembling, freezing when you saw the woman above you. Her unique deep green eyes now burned a brilliant, intense red.

“Wanda…” your voice was shaky, caught between curiosity and fear.

She pulled back, as if she had been shocked, realizing what was happening. Her eyes were entirely red, and the energy in her hands now pulsed against your wrists, no longer just holding you but encasing you.

“I…” Wanda began, her voice filled with panic as she tried to suppress the magic spilling out.

You blinked, looking at her in confusion. “Your eyes… what’s happening to you?”

Wanda tried to steady her breathing, pulling away from you as the energy still glowed faintly around her. How could she have been so careless? How could she have let this slip?

“I… I don’t know,” she lied, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.

You slowly sat up, watching her cautiously. “This has never happened before. You’re different, Wanda. I know it. Tell me what’s going on.”

Wanda looked at you, her heart racing. She wanted to tell you, to explain everything. But the fear of losing you, of shattering the moment she almost had with you, held her back.

You stepped closer to her—defying every warning your mind screamed at you—and cupped her cheek, forcing her to look at you. “Is this what’s making you act so strange?” you asked, your brow furrowed.

Wanda swallowed hard, your presence strong and magnetic, pulling her closer to you and the curve of your neck—where she so desperately wanted to bury her face. “Tell me, love. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it together.”

And then Wanda understood.

You didn’t know about her powers in this universe because she couldn’t use them on you. She should have questioned your counterpart before sending her away in her place.

The tension in the room was unbearable. The pulsing red of Wanda’s powers still dimly illuminated the space, like an erratic heartbeat. She stood now, her breathing uneven, while you remained seated on the bed, your eyes locked onto hers, filled with questions and conflicting emotions.

Wanda felt as though she was teetering on the edge of a cliff. Your words echoed in her mind, daring her to tell you the truth. But how could she? How would you react to learning who she truly was, to understanding what she had done to be here, with you?

You stood slowly, your eyes never leaving hers. “I won’t push you, Wanda,” you said, your voice low but steady. “But you need to be honest with me. Whatever it is you’re carrying, I want to carry it with you.”

The gentleness in your voice broke something inside Wanda. For a moment, the desire burning in her chest was overshadowed by guilt and fear. But the intensity of the moment, the warmth lingering in the air between you, pulled her back.

“Do you really want to know?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. The red in her eyes began to fade, returning to the green you knew, but the tension didn’t lessen.

“I do,” you replied without hesitation.

But she hesitated, the words catching in her throat. Then something shifted. Maybe it was the way you looked at her, without judgment, just a fierce curiosity and a silent devotion. Or maybe it was the fact that, for the first time in so long, Wanda didn’t want to carry this burden alone.

“I’m not… the Wanda you know,” she began, each word heavy. “I came from somewhere else. Another… universe.”

You frowned, clearly confused, but didn’t interrupt. Wanda continued.

“I lost everything. My husband, my children, even my dog. I just wanted to get it all back… and when I came here, I saw the chance to start over and—”

“Where is my Wanda?” you interrupted sharply.

Of course, something was wrong. Wanda hadn’t touched your belly or spoken to Seline the way she did every morning; this Wanda not being yours was entirely justifiable.

With jealousy simmering in your gut, you asked again, your voice tight with emotion. “Where is she?”

With a flicker of defiance and desperation, the witch responded, “I am your Wanda.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The tension in the air felt like a taut string ready to snap. Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to process what you had just heard.

“You’re… my Wanda?” Your voice was low, filled with disbelief and something deeper—a mix of anger, pain, and a trace of betrayal.

Wanda took a step toward you, her hands outstretched as if to reach for you, but she stopped when she saw the hard look in your eyes. “I am,” she insisted, her voice firm but trembling with vulnerability. “I’m yours, in every way that matters. I’m here now, and all I want is—”

“—to steal her life?” you interrupted, your voice as sharp as a knife. Wanda recoiled as though struck.

“It’s not like that,” she protested, her posture crumbling. “I just want my children with me, that’s all.”

You stepped back, creating space between you, but Wanda followed, as though unable to bear the thought of you moving away from her. “You knew,” you said, your voice quieter now but still laden with emotion. “You knew she was here, that she existed, yet you chose to take her place.”

Wanda shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I just wanted—”

“—to deceive me,” you cut her off again, your pain evident. “You think you can just be her? That I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t know something was wrong?”

Wanda moved closer again, ignoring the distance you tried to create. Her hands found your shoulders, gripping you with a desperate strength. “I didn’t want to deceive you,” she said, her voice breaking. “I just wanted… my boys, a family. I want a family.”

Her words hit you like a blow, and for a moment, your anger and resentment wavered. But the confusion and jealousy remained, coursing through your veins like a constant reminder of everything at stake.

“You don’t understand what this means to me,” Wanda continued, her eyes searching yours, desperate for a spark of understanding. “I lost everything. There was nothing left but pain. And then I saw you. And you… you’re everything I never knew I needed.”

“But I didn’t choose you,” you said, your voice finally steadying, though still heavy with emotion. “I chose her.”

Wanda froze, and the silence that followed was almost unbearable. Then, she let go of your shoulders, stepping back as though your words had struck her.

“You don’t understand,” she murmured, more to herself than to you. Her eyes darkened, and the red energy began to pulse around her again, a physical manifestation of the storm raging within her.

“Wanda,” you said, your voice filled with warning, a touch of pain.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through your abdomen, and you cried out, doubling over. “Wanda!”

Wanda spun around at the sound of your scream, the scarlet glow in her eyes vanishing in an instant. Her gaze fixed on you, now hunched over, one hand clutching your belly while the other gripped the back of a chair to stay upright.

“Are you okay?” The concern in her voice was genuine, but you could barely respond. A searing pain coursed through your body, pulling a groan from your lips.

“No… it’s not okay,” you managed to say, your words halting. “The water… broke.”

Wanda froze for a second, shock and fear washing over her. But then, like a switch flipping, she sprang into action. In an instant, she was by your side, one hand steadying your back while the other grasped yours, guiding you toward the door.

“Oh. Fuck! Boys, wake up!” she yelled, her voice firm but laced with urgency. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

You tried to walk, but your legs felt like jelly, and the pain was overwhelming. Wanda noticed immediately and, without hesitation, scooped you into her arms as if you weighed nothing.

“Hold on tight,” she murmured, already rushing toward the car.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. Every bump in the road seemed to amplify your pain, and you clung to Wanda's hand as if your life depended on it. She drove fast, her face tense as she cast worried glances in your direction.

"Breathe, Y/n. We’ll get there in time," she said, but it was impossible for you to focus on anything other than the pain and the growing sense that something was wrong.

When you arrived at the hospital, the medical team was ready, thanks to Wanda’s phone call during the drive. You were rushed into the delivery room, and Wanda insisted on staying by your side, even as the doctors tried to make her wait outside.

The delivery was chaotic. The room was filled with hurried voices, beeping monitors, and you struggled to stay focused as your body seemed to wage war against itself.

"Just a little more," the doctor encouraged, but your vision was already beginning to darken around the edges.

Wanda held your hand tightly, her expression desperate as her eyes glowed an intense red. She was trying to keep control, but the fear of losing you was clearly winning the battle.

"Bring her back, please..." Your voice was weak, almost a whisper, but it was enough for Wanda to hear.

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. "No, don’t say that," she pleaded, gripping your hand tightly.

"Please," you repeated, your voice barely audible as tears streamed down your pale face.

Wanda hesitated, looking at you as if standing at the edge of an abyss. She knew what you were asking. And she knew that if she did it, there would be consequences—for you, for her, for everyone.

But she wanted to be here, wanted to see little Seline be born, wanted to hold her for just a moment.

When the cry of the first baby filled the room, Wanda closed her eyes tightly. But then, hearing your weak groan and seeing the deathly pallor spreading over you, she knew she had no choice.

"I can’t lose this," she whispered to herself as the scarlet magic manifested.

The room was engulfed in a bright red light, and the doctors screamed in shock. Wanda ignored everything, focusing solely on you and the plea that echoed in her mind.

"Bring her back..."

And, with tears streaming down her face, Wanda did exactly that.

[...]

The hospital room was silent except for the soft beeping of the monitors in the background. The other Wanda stood by the window, cradling the baby delicately. The child’s eyes were closed, but when they opened, they revealed an intense, piercing green—just like Wanda's.

The Witch stepped into the room, the tension in her shoulders unmistakable. She hesitated upon seeing her counterpart there, but it was impossible to look away from the small life that was now part of their universe.

"She’s beautiful," the Witch said, her voice low, almost reverent.

The other Wanda smiled faintly, though her eyes carried a silent sadness. "The eyes are ours," she replied with quiet conviction, handing the baby to the Witch.

The Witch took the child carefully, feeling the light yet significant weight in her arms. When the baby’s green eyes opened again, something inside her shifted. A wave of emotion washed over her, deeper than any spell or magic she had ever known.

Seline was born with a head full of hair and rosy skin, with chubby cheeks—just like yours, the Witch thought.

"She’s perfect," the Witch whispered, almost unable to believe that something so pure could exist in her life.

The other Wanda watched in silence for a moment before speaking. "You know you can’t stay here, right?" she began, her voice calm but firm.

The Witch lifted her gaze, tense. "I know."

"I’ve prepared everything for you... but somewhere else," the other Wanda said, choosing her words carefully. "This universe isn’t your home. You weren’t meant to stay here. I created the possibility of this life, this opportunity, but not here."

The Witch frowned, but the other Wanda continued.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Isn’t it obvious? I’m you. Who better to understand you than yourself?" Her copy laughed softly before continuing, "You need to find a place where you can be happy, where you can start over without... everything that brought you here," she explained. "There’s a new universe waiting for you. It’s different, but... it has potential. Maybe even for a new beginning with her."

The Witch looked down at the baby in her arms, her heart aching. The idea of leaving her, of leaving her boys, you, seemed unbearable. But she knew her counterpart was right.

"Why can’t we use our powers on her?" the Witch suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

"Ah... So you’ve discovered what makes Y/n so special." The copy crossed her arms, amused. "For a long time, I hated that about her, almost like an affront to who I am. Until I realized..."

She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on the Witch’s shoulder. "She’s our multiversal anchor."

The Witch looked up, intrigued.

"In the multiverse, every being has a unique essence, a 'code' that ties them to their universe of origin. However, in rare cases, there are individuals who act as 'multiversal anchors'—people who, unknowingly, possess an unbreakable connection to the fabric of the multiverse."

The copy continued her monologue:

"These anchors are immune to magical or cosmic manipulations that could alter their natural course. This means no external force, not even chaos magic, can change their thoughts, emotions, or memories."

The Witch was silent, the words echoing in her mind. It all made sense now—the irresistible pull, the inability to control her, the sense of love that transcended logic and reason.

"So, what do I do now?" the Witch finally asked.

The other Wanda sighed, a melancholic smile on her lips. "Go to where you belong. Maybe there, you’ll find what you’re looking for."

With one last look at the baby, the Witch handed her back to the other Wanda. She stepped back, the pain of leaving evident on her face, but determination already beginning to shine in her eyes.

When the Witch opened a portal, the scarlet light illuminated the room briefly before vanishing.

[...]

The new universe was brighter, younger somehow. The Witch looked around, taking in the subtle yet undeniable differences.

And then she saw you.

You, but younger. More innocent. With the same eyes and smile that had already captivated her, but without the weight of everything you had been through together.

She stopped, her heart pounding in her chest.

And there, in the midst of an unfamiliar universe, with the possibility of starting anew, the Witch took the first step.

In the grand tapestry of the universe, every thread is woven with purpose, each knot tied with deliberate intention. No force, no will, no magic can alter what the hands of destiny have inscribed.

The stars may burn and the galaxies may spiral in infinite chaos, but they all dance to a rhythm preordained. Each life, like a thread, intertwines with others, forming patterns that cannot be unraveled, no matter how fervently one might try.

Destiny is not a shackle but a compass, guiding every soul toward a purpose they may not yet understand. It is unyielding, yet fair; silent, yet deafening in its clarity. Even the mightiest beings, those who wield chaos and creation in their hands, are bound by its immutable lines.

It is said that to defy destiny is to defy the essence of existence itself. For the universe, in its infinite wisdom, knows what is meant to be—and ensures that, in the end, it comes to pass.

~*~

Everything back in its rightful place :)

Tag list <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580 @valentine585

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @bees-for-brains @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp

@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @sheriffswan-blog @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000

[themiserablechick]

Pumpkin

mdni

Age Gap (dbf! Art), degradation, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap.) Arts also kinda pathetic

a/n I have never posted smut on here and this isn’t edited so….also it’s so much longer than the first part I got carried away I guess. If this is bad please tell me. I also have a lot of smut that’s just sitting in my drafts so if y'all want that…

Part 1

Art told everyone he’d sleep in hopefully to avoid your hand sliding down his thigh at breakfast, when he did come down to the breakfast at the hotel everyone was pretty much done eating and you were nowhere in sight. When he asked where you were your mom said that you hadn’t felt well, you’d come down later.

“Oh well I can bring her breakfast,” Art was a stupid man

When he reached your door a breakfast plate in hand and knocked you shouted “Sorry I don’t need house keeping,”

he scoffed “It’s me.”

He heard shuffling and you opened the door in your underwear and a t-shirt. Art cleared his throat

“That’s how you answer the door?”

“It’s you,” you said obviously

“Right well-uh, this is for you.”

You eyed the plate and then him “You brought me breakfast?”

Arts's face feels warm, he feels stupid or like a little kid. He has to remind himself he’s older than you. “I-yeah, your mom said you didn’t feel well.”

“Oh-“ you grab the breakfast plate

“I just wanted to sleep in, maybe sneak off to the pool,” you shrugged and looked back into the now empty suite you shared with his daughter, you turned back squinting at him. “Do you want to come in?”

His face reddens more “oh probably not-“ he saw visions of you wrapped in cigarette smoke enveloped in blue light from the pool “I think they’re waiting-“

You quirk a brow “it’s vacation no ones waiting”

You left the door open and sat on the bed he stood in the hallway for a second before closing the door behind him. He stood a good distance away from the bed like you were contagious

“Good to know you were thinking of me.” He chuckled “oh I wasn’t—“ he rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t know why you’re so set on denying yourself pleasure.”

He blushed slightly he felt like a high schooler “Why do you say stuff like that?”

“Because you know it’s true,”

“Your dad is a nice guy you know? He doesn’t deserve-“

“To have such a slut as a daughter?” You cut him off, setting your breakfast plate to the side

“That’s not what I was saying.”

“It’s what you meant.”

He looked down and you got up to stand across from him “why did you come up here?”

He didn’t answer.

You intruded his space your chest bumping his

“Tell me you didn’t come up here to fuck me.”

“Jesus—“ he looked to the side

“Look at me.” He turned his head and your faces were impossibly close. You leaned up to kiss him pressing your lips to his. At first he stood perfectly still his hands at his side but you took his hands in yours and guided them to the plumpness of your ass. He moaned at the feeling of his tongue running at the seam of your lips begging for entrance. His hands slid up to your hips and under your shirt at your waist.

He walked you back till your knees hit the back of the bed and you fell backward. He took off his shirt and you saw a glimpse of his face he looked pathetic like a kicked puppy. You laid back and he climbed between your legs. He kissed you like he hated you really hated you. His pumpkin. A nickname you eventually outgrew. You were born before his daughter 2 years older, and he always considered you as his own. He felt so gross. His hand reached between the two of you his fingers feeling the wet spot on your underwear.

“Are you always this wet?”

He sunk his fingers into you he felt warm,wet and tight, you whimpered at the feeling.

“I’m sorry” he said into your skin, he wasn’t apologizing for making you whimper he was apologizing for being there in the first place, for the hard-on in his pants

“Fuck- I’m sorry” he pumped deeper he moved his head under your jaw “why’d you make me do this??” He reached for the button of his pants shucking them and his boxers off “fuck why’d- you make me do this?” You just laid there unraveling he took his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean like it was nothing

He aligned himself with you and bullied his cock into your tight hole “You’re such a slut,” his hips rocked “making me fuck you.” He talked about you like you had powers beyond him and he couldn’t help himself. You were so warm and you sucked him right in and he couldn’t remember the last time he actually fucked his wife.

“M’sorry.” You mewled clinging to him“wanted you so bad.”

It made him think about all the times he’d carried you when you were younger clinging to him— whining when he left

Art pressed his lips to yours urgently, and he reached between the two of you searching to roll your clit between his fingers. You whined and bucked against him he was already coming

“Fuck feel so good, so tight.”he dropped his head to your shoulder he sped up feeling you tighten around him “I’m gonna-fuck” he groaned he tried to pull out but long legs wrapped around his hips

“Want you to come inside.” And just like that he was gone, you felt him come inside you. Warmth spread all over. He still moved his hips urging you to finish and you did not long after. He collapsed on top of you.

After silence he spoke up “I didn’t mean to call you a slut.” He said into your shoulder

“I know.” You ran a hair through blonde hair

He leaned up and kissed your head “Love you pumpkin.”

[leftoverghosts]

✩ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tashi, tashi, tashiiiiiiiiii bot drop!

no one could ever make me hate her! i feel like i don't put out enough tashi content, so here's a little appreciation for our favorite woman. xoxoxoxoxo

✩ make it everlasting so nothing's incomplete ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ felix catton!tashi x oliver quick!user (gn)

You met Tashi Duncan on the tennis team at Stanford, her name already whispered like legend among the student body. She’s everything you’re not—effortlessly poised, impossibly wealthy, with a smile that suggests she knows something you never will. You don’t belong in her world, and you know it. But you’re good at watching, at listening, at blending in just enough to make her think you’re harmless.

chat here!

✩ make it everlasting so nothing's incomplete ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 2006!tashi x best friend with benefits!user

You weren’t jealous when Tashi told you about the two pricks—fire and ice— who had invited her to their hotel room after her celebration party. That wasn’t your thing, and she knew it. or, kissing art and patrick is fine for fun, but your bed is where she'd rather be.

chat here!

✩ the shade of my eyes the shape of my mouth ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ atlanta!tashi x ex-bestie / tennis champ!user Tashi sits before you, her presence almost electric, crackling in the air between you. It's as though time has folded in on itself, bringing you both back to the moment where everything between you started unraveling. The years, the silence, the distance—they all seem so small now that you are face to face with her. You had thought you were past this—past her, past the tangled mess of Art, Patrick, and the way they all once fit into your life.

or, since tashi is revisiting old beds, she might as well give yours a seventieth try.

chat here!

✩ kiss the ground that you're walkin' on ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tennis coach!tashi x affair partner / protege!user (babygirl) (gn)

I think I have power over you because I could make one call and you’d lose everything. And it turns you on when I say that.

The words you’d uttered yesterday still lingered between you, hanging heavy in the air like the storm clouds that always seemed to follow Tashi. She wasn’t quite sure if they had been meant to wound, seduce, or both—but they had hit their mark.

chat here!

✩ need to get a little bit closer ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tennis champion!tashi x rivalry with benefits!user

The celebration was in full swing, but you couldn’t shake the frustration gnawing at you. Tashi Duncan had just beaten you in the Australian Open final. You’d given everything, but it wasn’t enough. You stepped onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette, letting the smoke swirl up into the cool air as you leaned on the railing. The party inside was loud, full of accolades and photos, but you weren’t in the mood for any of that.

chat here!

[tojislibrvry]

★ ︵ @ fem!toji / reader , sexuāl fantasies , cūnnilingus , strāpping , fingēring , perv toji , genderbent au , roommate au

it is almost 2 am when you hear someone ring the bell. it was a warm night, you had shed layers of clothes opting to wear a tank top and shorts. the air was thick with humidity, a layer of sweat making your body glow under the dim lights of your apartment. you get up from your comfortable position on bed — legs curled and on your side scrolling on your phone. stretching your sore arms you walk to your front door.

you look through the peephole and see none other than your new roommate toji. you both met for the first time in a cafe after she answered to your post looking for a roommate to split rent. she was truly a sight to behold. decked in comfortable looking clothes, a pair of baggy jeans and a form fitting t-shirt that fit her large frame perfectly, a hint of her calvin klein boxers peeking through. she was charming, and nonchalant and you decided at that moment that you would not mind sharing an apartment with her.

you open the door and you are met with the sight of a very drunk toji.

"... i think i'm going to throw up."

girl.

toji's eyes burn as she throws up into the toilet bowl, stomach churning with nausea already. she can feel the beer make it's way back up to her mouth and she swears that she'll never drink again.

she feels your soft hand on her back as you coo at her plight. you draw soothing circles on her skin as she heaves again.

"s'okay toji, it's almost over." you say as she pukes her gut out for the final time and collapses on the bathroom floor.

you help her up and get her to brush her teeth. up and down, side to side. the foamy sounds growing louder as you move the toothbrush. she's taller than you, by a lot of inches than you can count so to reach up to her is a struggle, arms cramping up with the effort.

she's still very drunk, bubbles of her intoxication bursting around her.

you bring her to her room when you notice her outfit. she's wearing a black tank top, a little too tight on her skin paired with leather pants that seem a little too warm for the weather.

she seems to realise that too because the next thing you know she's tugging off her pants, sliding it off her long legs.

you quickly turn your back to her, fingers pressed against your wandering eyes.

"toji! y-you can't just do that!!" you whisper-yell, hoping she would stop nearly stripping in front of you.

"was too hot, fuck—" she mumbles, "—m never fucking wearing leather again."

"are you dressed ?" you sigh in defeat, back still turned.

".... yeah, look at me baby."

toji was a flirty, sleazy and oh so mean drunk.

you turn to see her only wearing her thong and a graphic tee that is conveniently pulled over the curvature of her ass.

she looks at you face flushed and still manages to sneak in a wink.

".... i'm leaving."

she gets up and grabs you before you can leave pulling you into the bed with her. she holds you close as your face is pressed impossibly close to her chest, close enough to hear her beating heart.

"nooooo ... stay with me, please."

the next morning toji wakes up with the kind of headache that makes her want to hit her head against the wall. she groans as she gets up, back all kinds of fucked up. she rubs her eyes, sitting cross legged on the bed. once her vision clears, she notices something on her bedside table.

' your head probably hurts a lot rn >:( , so here's a painkiller and some water. take it after you eat the soup i've made. it's in the fridge ( heat it up for 30 seconds ) ! take care ~ ♡ p.s - your phone should be at 100% now , it's charging in the living room '

oh

she heats the soup and it tastes just right, making her feel a lot better. her phone is not dead and fully charged, her room definitely cleaned up and she realises even her makeup from the night before was removed. she takes the painkiller and heads to the couch where she pulls her phone out to text shiu.

t. fushiguro : i need to fuck my roommate shiu 🐾 : girl, that's gay t. fushiguro : ...

it becomes unbearable for toji to be around you. her once 'super nice!' roommate becomes the star of every single one of her wet dreams. it doesn't even take a lot from you for toji to bite her fist in frustration.

you wearing a checked apron ? wet. you kissing her cheek goodbye ? horny. you passed out on the couch snoring ? she wants to eat you.

you were just so fucking cute.

she also starts wishing that you stopped becoming comfortable around her. just the other day, she was grabbing a quick bite from the kitchen when she's met with the sight of you wrapped in a fluffy turkey towel coming out of your shared bathroom.

"t-toji!" you yelp in surprise with her sudden presence. her heart beats so hard, as you come closer. your hair dripping wet, bare faced and a soft smile painted on your lips. the towel doesnt do much. its wrapped tightly around your breasts and she can see the soft peaks of your nipples. the towel was also way too short to cover your glistening thighs. fuck.

she thinks about the way you looked that one time as her fingers push deeper into her cunt. she tries not to think of you like that. you were too sweet to be the main character of her perverted fantasies. she imagines your eyes screwed tightly as she fucks deeper into you with her strap. she imagines every single one of her wildest fantasies.

would you bite ? would you scratch ? she thinks how delicious the drag of your manicured nails against her back would feel ? would you cry ? sob as she plays with your pretty clit ? she wants you under her already.

all of her fantasies manifests into existence on a normal saturday. she comes home to you seated in the dining table, with your lips pursed. you barely notice that toji's back home, mind clearly distressed.

"everything alright roomie ?" she asks, startling you. your eyes widen animatedly and you gasp.

"toji!" you take a deep breath in, "we need to talk."

fuck, toji thinks to herself. you probably found evidence of her debauchery somehow and wanted her to leave.

she clambers over to you and takes a seat, palms clammy. "y'er scaring me, doll."

you shake your head, anguished. "toj' we can't be roommates anymore..." you drop your head down, like a kicked puppy.

"oh."

"is it because you found my stash of your stolen pant—" "i am attracted to you toj—"

HUH

your mouth hangs, jaw dropped. toji is quick to turn red. she curses her stupid mouth. why didn't she wait till you talked ?

"you STOLE my panties ?"

"you are attracted to ME ?"

both of you fall silent. situation way out of both your hands.

"we should fuck now, obviously."

"you can't just say that !!"

toji had imagined you in 38 positions, 53 different outfits and 120 separate plot lines all involving you with your eyes rolled up your head with pleasure.

none of those fantasies even came close to the feeling of you sat on her lap, rubbing yourself against her thighs, your mewls don't go unnoticed as she bites your nipples, soft cries echoing through the room.

your nails raked against her naked back, eyes crossed in the simple pleasure of her thigh getting you off. she could feel you throbbing through the thin layer of frilly pink panties that you still had on.

you stop and look at toji, she almost worries that you don't want to continue this little game.

"toooji," you sound drunk, eyes lidded, "please let me taste you."

toji has you on your knees, carpet rubbing against your soft skin. her legs are sprawled out to the sides of your head, you vision looking straight at her pussy. she looks at you, elbows supporting her just so she can watch you try to give her head.

you start off slow, kissing her sensitive inner thighs. you take your time to press your lips softly against body, moist with arousal and sweat from the sweltering heat.

with precision, you lick a strong stripe along her slit. this action is enough to pull the softest sounding gasp from toji. you pull back, strands of her arousal attached to your lips. you calm your beating heart and try to ignore the way toji looks at you.

"go on, you were begging for this." she mocks you. you slowly use your fingers to spread her lips apart, a resounding squelch bounces off the walls.

"you are so wet toji....," you sigh dreamily as you press your lips to her clit. toji's hands make way to your head and pulls your hair, making you moan into her skin.

"y'er so nasty, so dirty for me, only me right baby ?" you nod and begin to make out with her cunt. you begin to drool as you taste her, the tanginess of her juices igniting your brain on fire.

you cry out together with her when you push your tongue into her pulsing hole, fluttering around the wet muscle that invades. she groans, pushing your head impossibly closer to her cunt.

you continue to eat her out, till her thighs begin to shake from exhaustion. you suddenly stop, looking up at toji with the widest doe eyes she's ever seen.

"please use me toji, wanna make you feel good."

that's all she needs to hear before she drags you back to her cunt, this time her hips grinding against your face. your nose bumps into her clit and she reels you in deeper.

"fuck, doll," she whispers, "i'm so fucking close." you hold on to her thighs as she fucks your mouth. your tongue is strained from the attention you give her, the wetness of her arousal like music to your ears. she does not pull you off when she squirts, painting your face with her juices.

your pants create clouds of heat against her skin, face flushed and content. suddenly you are flipped, eye to eye with toji caging you beneath her. her tits, enormous as they are, all for you to take in with your eyes hangs above you. there's a glint in her gaze that tells you that she's going to devour you.

"now, my turn."

toji has you in a mean mating press, as she fingers you. she grabs you and holds you close with a single hand on your waist. you know very well tomorrow you would wake up with the bruises of her rough padded fingers blooming on your skin. your legs ache from their bent position on her muscled shoulders.

"toooooji," you whine as you feel her spit on your cunt, "m' sensitive." you tremble with over sensitivity. your teeth clatters as she brings you closer to another orgasm, thumb working quickly against your sticky clit. she grins victoriously at your ruined state, makeup running down in streams as you look at her with stars in your eyes.

"fuck! don't look at me like that." she grunts as she shoves her thick fingers deeper into your aching cunt. she looks at the base of her knuckles, rings of your creamy release making her grow wetter with the anticipation of your release.

"baby, please, let me use my strap on you." she nearly begs, voice scratchy with need. you whine with embarrassment, eyes prickling with tears of humiliation as you nod.

"use your words," she taps your sloppy pussy. "tell me what exactly you want."

"stop teasing me..." you mewl, "please fuck me with your strap toji." you say with our fingers covering your eyes, streaming in vision of toji's satisfied face.

toji has you arched, ass rippling as she fucks into you with her emerald green strap. she grinds her hips against you. she bends over, hands massaging your tits and the way you would whimper whenever she rubbed your nipples between your fingers fell on deaf ears.

"atta girl, move against me just like that," she grouses as you throw slow circles against the strap. you feel her reach all the way up to your gut, the stretch nearly splitting you into half.

"hah! ngh—," you moan as you feel her bully her strap against your g-spot, nestled all the way in you, "—s'too much toj!" you try to say as you run from her strap. her pelvis bruises your ass with the force of her unforgiving thrusts. she cackles at your plight, suddenly flipping you to your side so she can fuck deeper.

the angle she has you in makes you feel like youve ascended heaven, the mean grind against your poor cunt as she slams her strap in a way that no one could withstand. all hours of her working out in the gym were paying off as she sees you sob, praying for release.

the plap-plap in the room doesn't stop until you squirt all over her strap, making a mess of your pink sheets.

"fuck! baby, that was amazing," she whispers at the wetness dripping off her body, she didnt know you could squirt. you crawl away from her before she grabs your ankle and pulls you back against her body again, "— awww baby, you didn't think that was all, right ?" she fills you up until you can't breathe, the wind knocked out of your lungs.

"once more, you can do it—" you can almost feel her throb, "fuck, you look so pretty." this time she brings her nimble fingers to work on your pretty clit, sticky and gooey as she rubs circles on it.

"i'm so close !—" you cry out, her fast fingers making you taste your release. you cry out, eyes closed tightly from the pleasure of orgasming for the fifth time that night. she whistles as you squirt again, body giving up from the buzzing between your legs. your lashes flutter ready for a quick nap.

"i love ya' toji." you mumble out as you fall asleep, feeling toji pull out. her cleaning you up is all a fuzz, wet cloth wiping away all the fluids using your body as a canvas. you swear on life that at some point, she whispers a 'i love you too baby.' but you chalk it up wishful thinking.

when you wake up from your nap, you see toji on the bed next to you opening up a package. she looks happy, small smile on her scarred lip. she's still half naked, wearing a green satin robe left untied. she looks beautiful as the moonlight hits her.

"oh, you up? " she says as she holds the scissors in her mouth to use her hands to rip off the tape.

"what do you have there ?" she doesn't reply until she brings out the product.

its curved, pink and looks like a double ended dildo with ridges on them.

"pink is your favourite colour right ?"

[rinasdigitaljournal]

journal entry 03: simon riley's comfort in the dark

simon's shoulders felt heavy. the silence in his mind and room around him weighed down like a drink not fully digested. the emptiness ringing from the left and right side of his brain should make him confused. it should have him pushed to the edge, sitting up in bed with his hands in his hair, trying to silence the stirring memories of screams and rippling cries of pain. 

but nothing came. 

no screams, no nightmares.

he wasn’t on the battlefield. 

he wasn’t in a prison cell. 

he wasn’t alone in his barrack with only the darkness as a sense of presence. simon closed his eyes, letting the darkness take over his senses as he took a deep breath. he felt his lungs expand against his chest, igniting a fear of suffocation in the darkness. then he exhalend, letting his chest slowly emerge downwards and the fluttering feeling of oxygen hit his throat once again.

1, 2, 3, 4. simon opened his eyes again.

one tv sitting across from him, the image of a crackling fire and a faint melody of a piano filled the rattling space of silence in his brain. it was funny, he could hear the music playing. he recognized the sounds were happening and it wasn’t a trick. but the music wouldn’t register. it wasn’t being processed in his brain. he was there and yet he wasn’t.

two lamps were adjacent from him, lighting up the dark spaces of the room he was in. he remembered changing the bulbs for a more dewy light. a type of yellow that wasn’t bright and in your face, it wasn’t obnoxious like that. no, this light was more subdued and calm. it shined dimly but still took up space, it made you stare at it and you could feel the uneasiness and fear slowly escape in the basking warmth of its glow.

 “it’s a lot like you.” 

his bird told him and at first he didn’t understand. he remembers making a grunt and continuing to listen to her depiction of the color and why she chose it. she was beautiful like that, finding a meaning and carefully dissecting its relationship to her and wrapping it in a pretty binding with a bow, delivering it to simon because she knew he would always listen. he did listen, wrote it down if he remembered the words right, and sent it to his heart. she saw him in everything she did. a cup of tea, a old leather knife strap with a worn out “s” at it’s center, and a light bulb.  to show his appreciation and that he listened, he bought the lights and a decorative lamps that fit her “aesthetic” in the hour and had it shipped over to the apartment. he didn’t want anything out of it other than her smile but instead he got something better, 

“i love you.” 

it was their first, the first time she ever looked at him and said it. the words slid off her tongue so effortlessly, simon wondered if she was talking to him. he had to stop building for a second and turn to her, he felt like his heart was ripping itself out of his chest. suddenly the tools he was holding felt too heavy, impossible for a man his stature and size, and they dropped without question. he didn’t mean to cry, he meant to say “i love you too” but the tears ran out faster. she loved him but why was that hard to understand. he didn’t know who moved first, his bird as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders or his knees bringing him to the ground. 

why did it hurt so beautifully? 

three frames hung around the tv, there were more but he focused on the specific three. one of his bird with her cats. it was the first picture he saw of her on instagram. johnny was talking about some girl he couldn’t get with or wanted to, simon didn’t remember. he only looked because johnny shoved the phone in his face mid bite. simon will forever be indebted to johnny for that. the first thing he noticed was her smile, the way it lit up the darkened screen and made his heart thump hard against his rib cage. he memorized the instagram handle instantly, looking her up in the darkness of his barrack with a quiet hope of a follow back.

the second picture was of the two of them on their first year anniversary dinner. simon wanted to make it special for her, its nothing less than what she deserves. he bought her a new dress, one she had been eyeing for months but never had the heart to buy. he had laswell’s wife pick out the matching shoes and earrings whilst he picked out the necklace. simon didn’t know how she would feel about wearing his dog tags, the symbolism well intentional but he knew his bird's anxieties could get to her. after talking with price, he settled on the letter “s”. she was the only person outside of 141 who knew his name. she was the first who said it with such love and conviction, it only sounded right coming from her lips. he’ll never forget her reaction to it. he toyed with the box in his pocket at the dinner table and when he finally mustered up the courage to give it to her, his bird, a clever one she is, gave him the leather knife strap. 

“i know you can’t carry it around with you because of, well you know, but when you’re with me i want you to at least have something of yours. not ghost’s, but yours, simon.” 

simon had forgotten he was holding the box and dropped it on the table, taking the leather strap and running his fingers around the stitching. it wasn’t newly bought, something that could be traced if god forbid the task force enemies found out about their relationship, but it also wasn’t entirely old. 

“i found it thrifting. the manufacturer has long gone out of business and i used cash.” 

simon wanted to kiss her but he held back. she already scowled at him before they left for smearing her lipstick and making them late. he was so entranced with the details of the strap, the newly stitched red rose that had his bird's trademark all over it, that he didn’t witness her grabbing the box and opening it. when he heard the small gasp, he looked up instantly feeling regret and shame. 

was it too forward? was it too controlling or restrictive? that was the last thing he wanted her to feel, god he hoped she liked it. or not and rip him a new one for being too brash. 

“can you put it on for me, si?” she had whispered, holding the necklace close to her chest and simon would have melted right then and there if he hadn’t have the innate response to follow an order. without question or a falter in his step, simon was already behind her, carefully taking the gold chain and wrapping it around her neck. once the clasp was buckled, his bird looked up at him with such bright and steady eyes, simon couldn’t hide his own smile. and then the flash came and when he looked up, there johnny and kyle stood with two cameras alike and wide, shitty ass grins. yet, simon couldn't find the anger or confusion. all he could do was smile wider. 

the third and last picture was one of them from that morning. his bird wanted to do a family portrait for the fun of it and who was he not to oblige. they only had one decent photo. simon held his bird in his lap, her head resting on his shoulder and eyes looking up at him while the cat was digging its nails into simon’s shoulder. the cat too stared at simon, but not out of love or adoration but a threatening glare. simon too stared back a the cat, glaring at him back but there was no heat in his gaze. just a twinkle of..affection for the fierce protectiveness the cat possessed. maybe that’s why the corner of his lips were turned upwards. 

four soft snores snapped simon out of his thoughts, his head whipping around the soft body next to his own. he watched as his bird’s chest raised four times before falling down, a steady beat of silence, before taking it up again. the quietness of it all vibrated against his leg, her hair sprayed out across the pillow in an adorable fashion. the blanket wrapped around her body like a gown, rising up and down along with her. her face was gentle, her shoulders relaxed and her arm hugging the extra pillow next to her. she had snuggled her face so deep into her pillow, the small outline of drool was showing. simon chuckled, inching closer to press a soft kiss on her cheek. 

she was beautiful under the moonlight. she was beautiful in any light really but when she was like this, soft and relaxed in the safeness of their bedroom with no fear clouding her mind of the storm raging outside, simon couldn’t help but fall back into slumber. he brought her body close to his, the warmth of her body ran the coldness out of his own and finally simon felt like he could breathe normally again.  pressing his hands along the softness of her stomach, simon envisioned the rhythms of her breathing like it was a personal lullaby from her to him. the quiet didn’t scare him like it used to, he would always welcome it with his sleeping songbird right by his side.

[there-will-be-a-way]

05. September - Bathtub Girl

A lot of different triggers that I need to process and document.

I had very graphic nightmares last night. It started with me having to get married to my sister - which was so wrong. Then I dreamed of him. Being kept in a small, dark room. Being abused and something about the bathtub girl too.

Then, later today, I accompanied my roommate to the hospital. On our way there, during the bus ride, we had a conversation that reminded me of the bathtub girl too. I felt like crying. I was so close to having a full blown PTSD panic attack in the bus but managed to keep my calm. It made it feel like what I remember is real. At least it affects me.

Then later in the evening I watched a movie with my other roommate. Something about it triggered me too. The way the wallpaper looked in this hotel room. The dead people that were shown in the bathtub. I felt like I got so close to remembering the missing puzzle pieces. I felt scared I would have one of these bad movie like flashbacks that make me scream and cry in fear. I had to repeat to myself, I am safe. It is 2024. I am with R. and he is a safe person to be around. I am in his room. It is 2024. I am safe.

Then I went outside to smoke my last cigarette of the day and when I looked at the stars in the darkness, I was suddenly on that street again. In front of his house and I saw her face again. For a second. I saw it so clearly. When I went to my room again, I had to chant I am safe. I am safe. It is 2024. I am safe.

I'm scared to go to bed tonight. Scared of sleeping, scared of the dark. Scared of having nightmares, of having flashbacks. Scared of the missing puzzle pieces and of seeing her again. Of all of my memories, I fear her the most. I fear what he did to her, what he was capable of. I fear what he forced me to watch. And that he is still out there, that she is still out there and no one knows what was done to her. That no one ever found her.

[cuteniarose]

It’s almost 6 a.m and I can’t sleep because I’m being plagued by thoughts of The Latest OC

[ikkyfics]

Divination

James Potter x f!reader

Summary: "You two have a intertwined future," the teacher says, her enigmatic smile deepening. "I see a boy... He'll wear glasses, like his father."

Warnings: just fluffy - a lovestruck and embarrassed James

Masterlist - Realization

The scent of incense hangs heavy in the stifling Divination classroom, where the heat wraps around you like an invisible cloak. The dim light of scattered candles in ancient holders gives the room a mysterious air, and thick velvet curtains block out any sign of the outside world. You’re seated beside James Potter, and between the two of you, at the center of the round table, a crystal ball rests silently, surrounded by a tattered book of Divination with yellowed pages.

It’s been at least half an hour since you both started staring at the crystal ball, unable to see anything at all. Frustrated, James was the first to give up, throwing himself into the far more entertaining task of making up ridiculous stories about the future he “saw” in the cloudy surface of the object.

“There! It’s as clear as day,” he says, dramatically pointing at the crystal ball with a mischievous grin. “You’re going to be the first professional Quidditch player to bring a hippogriff onto the field. And I’ll, uh… obviously become the greatest dragon tamer the world has ever seen.”

You burst into laughter, trying to keep a straight face as he gestures like he’s actually wrangling an invisible dragon. “Didn’t know your vision included being mauled by your own dragon,” you tease, and he chuckles, pushing his glasses up as he attempts to look offended.

You’re still laughing when you notice the professor’s presence beside your table. She seems to materialize out of the shadows, her intense gaze flicking between you and James. Your laughter dies in your throat, and James straightens in his chair, still with a trace of a grin on his lips.

“Enjoying yourselves, I see,” the professor says, her low voice reverberating in the quiet space. She leans slightly forward, observing the crystal ball for a few seconds before turning her gaze back to you. The pause is long, almost uncomfortable, and when she finally speaks, the room seems to hold its breath along with you.

“You two have an intertwined future,” she says, her enigmatic smile deepening. Her fingers brush lightly against your shoulder, a gesture almost maternal. “I see a boy… He’ll wear glasses, like his father.”

The silence that follows is deafening. It feels as though the entire world has frozen in that instant, the weight of her words hitting you like a gust of icy wind. When you finally summon the courage to glance at James, he’s already looking at you, his eyes wide, his expression a mix of surprise, embarrassment, and something else you can’t quite place.

“Well… that was… interesting,” he says at last, breaking the silence with a voice deeper than usual. He attempts to laugh, but it comes out nervous, and his hand automatically moves to his neck, ruffling his already messy hair.

“Interesting is one word for it,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady. But your heart is pounding so fast it feels impossible he can’t hear it.

For a moment that feels like an eternity, you hold each other’s gaze. James’s look is intense, almost unsettling, as though he’s trying to decipher something, like the future the professor mentioned is now written on your face.

“Our son, huh?” he finally says, his voice barely a whisper. He tries to smile, but it’s a hesitant one, laden with something that might be fear or anticipation. “Hope he gets your good sense. Two of me would be a disaster.”

You laugh, despite the tension, and the sound seems to ease the air between you. “And I hope he doesn’t inherit your knack for getting into trouble.”

He laughs too, and for a brief moment, everything feels normal again. But then the silence returns. James averts his gaze, staring at the crystal ball as if, suddenly, it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. You do the same, fixing your eyes on the open Divination book in front of you, though you can’t read a single word.

And then, at the same time:

“I was thinking that—” “Do you think she—”

The words overlap, making both of you stop instantly. You look at each other, startled, before James starts to laugh nervously. You can’t help but laugh too, covering your mouth with your hand as you feel heat rising to your cheeks.

“Sorry,” he says, still chuckling, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “You go first.”

“No, you go,” you reply, the smile still playing on your lips.

“Alright, then.” He takes a deep breath, as if preparing for something big, but when he speaks, his voice comes out softer than you expected. “Do you think… she was serious?”

You hesitate, biting your lip as you consider the question. “I don’t know. She seems so certain about everything, but… maybe it’s just one of those things she says to make an impression, you know?”

James nods, but his smile is small, almost uncertain. “Yeah, probably. I mean, she did say Peter would marry a Merpeople, didn’t she?”

You laugh again, the memory easing some of the tension. “And that Sirius would become Minister for Magic. He nearly cried from laughing so hard.”

“Yeah, that does put things in perspective.” He laughs too, but the silence that follows feels different this time. It’s not uncomfortable, but full of unspoken thoughts that seem to hang in the air between you.

“But what if…?” you begin, your voice so quiet you can’t believe you said it out loud.

James looks at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he’s trying to figure out what you mean. “What if…?” he repeats, leaving the question hanging, and you feel your heart race.

“Oh, forget it,” you say quickly, laughing nervously. “It’s just the professor and her absurd prophecies. No reason to take it seriously.”

“Yeah, of course,” he agrees, but something in his voice makes you think he’s not entirely convinced.

The silence returns, and you can’t help but let your mind wander. A little boy with James’s messy hair and a pair of glasses slipping down his nose comes to mind, and without meaning to, you smile. The image is so sweet it almost makes your heart ache.

“What are you smiling at?” James asks, and you realize he’s looking at you again, his head tilted slightly.

“Nothing,” you respond far too quickly, feeling heat rise to your face.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he presses, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“It’s just…” You hesitate, but James’s smile is encouraging, even if he doesn’t realize it. “I was thinking about what she said. About… a boy. And I was imagining… he’d look just like you, with messy hair and those glasses.”

James blinks, as though your words caught him completely off guard, and you feel the urgent need to fill the silence before it gets awkward. “Not that I think that’s going to happen! It’s just… well, the idea is funny, isn’t it?”

“It’s…” he starts, but then stops, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away. When he speaks again, his voice is almost a murmur: “I think I’d… maybe I’d prefer a girl. Who looked like you.”

Time seems to stop. You’re sure your heart skips a beat, and the silence that follows is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

James’s eyes widen as if he’s just realized what he said. “I mean—” he begins, his voice an octave higher. “Not that… that’s not what I meant! I just… ah, never mind.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, and it’s impossible to hold it back. “A girl who looks like me, huh?” you tease, and his embarrassment is so endearing you almost forget your own.

“Alright, you win,” he says, throwing his hands up in surrender, but the smile he tries to hide says more than any words could. “I think the professor got to us. We’re officially losing it.”

“Yeah,” you agree, laughing, but inside, you know something has changed. Because, as absurd as it might seem, the idea of a shared future with James doesn’t feel so impossible anymore.

[hoshifighting]

Racer!Reader x Racer!Mingyu 一 Rivals to Lovers

Synospsis: Racer!Mingyu, the new kid, is determined to beat you in the college underground race. Does he have the guts to defeat you, his senior, the reigning queen of the racing scene? Before the race starts, a photo of your boyfriend cheating on you is spread to the students. When you look up from your phone, there's Mingyu with his piercing eyes. [...]

“Hmm, all upset, just the way I wanted,” Mingyu teased, leaning against the doorframe.

WC: 8k

Warnings: Cheating, illegal racing, rumors, smut, angst, penetrative sex, oral (f. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), squirt, clit stimulation, g'spot stimulation, body fluids (cum), kinda of rage make out?, chocking, spanking, dirty talk, sex pic and etc.

Mingyu. A name that had once been just a murmur in the shadows of the racing world is now on everyone's lips. This new kid, this prodigy, decided to go against the grain, to take on the best and make a name for himself. 

And somehow, you're the one he's set his sights on. The competition is obvious, like the electricity in the air before a storm, and the entire college is buzzed with bets. It's impossible to ignore the excitement at the thought of the race tonight. It's been too long since you've felt this alive.

The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline is already in your nose, a scent that brings back a flood of memories. The first time you felt the wind rush past you on two wheels, the rush of adrenaline when you crossed the finish line ahead of the pack. 

The races had been your escape, your way to prove to the world that you were more than just another face in the crowd. 

And now, as you lace up your boots and slip into your worn-in leather jacket, you know that this race will be different. It's not just about the thrill anymore. It's about pride, about maintaining your title, about showing Mingyu that he's bitten off more than he can chew.

The stakes are higher than ever before. You can feel it in the way Mark's eyes darken every time he looks at you, in the way he clenches his fists when Mingyu's name is mentioned.

As you swing your leg over your bike and rev the engine, you push those thoughts aside. Tonight, there's only one thing that matters: the race, the roar of the engines, and the taste of victory.

Mingyu's eyes sparkle inside his helmet, the gleaming visor reflecting the neon lights of the college parking lot that's been transformed into a makeshift race track. He's young, fearless, and he's got something to prove. 

You've watched him from afar, studied his technique, his daring moves that have earned him the title of 'the rookie to watch'. He's good, really good, but he's never raced against someone like you. You're the old war-horse in this game, a veteran who's seen it all and done it all. 

And now, the moment has arrived.

The girl in the quadriculed flag raises it high, her arm muscles taut with excitement. You and Mingyu lock eyes for a brief second, a silent promise of a fierce battle to come. And then, with a nod from her, you both speed off into the night. Your bike responds to your touch like a well-trained steed, the engine purring as you lean into the first turn.

But this is your turf, and you're not about to let some newcomer take your crown without a fight.

As the race extends, the wind whips through your hair, and the roar of the engines fills your ears. The world around you is a blur of lights and shadows, the only thing clear being the track ahead and the figure of Mingyu on your tail. 

You push harder, feeling the bike protest under your command, but she holds steady. You're the lead, with Mingyu playing the role of the eager suitor, eager to overtake. You can't help but smile beneath your helmet. It's been so long since someone's made you feel this alive. The thrill of the chase is intoxicating, and you're going to enjoy every second of it.

As you cross the finish line, you pull a dramatic wheelie, the tires screeching and smoking against the asphalt. You circle around, revving the engine, feeling the power beneath you, and as you come to a stop, Mingyu pulls up beside you. 

You both remove your helmets, and the chilly night air kisses your sweat-drenched skin. His eyes are on you, focused and intense, drinking in the sight of you. Your hair is a wild mess around your face, the wind from the race playing with it like it's alive.

You swing your leg over the bike, the leather of your pants hugging your thighs tightly. You stand there, arms crossed over your chest, looking at him. He's tall, with a muscular build that's clear even through his bulky racing gear. His face is a mask of determination, and there's something about the way he carries himself that makes you want to knock him down a peg.

"So, what's your name, kid?" you ask, your voice carrying over the din of the engines.

Mingyu's face cracks into a smirk, and he extends his hand towards you. "Mingyu. Kim Mingyu," he says, his voice deep and sure. But you don't take the bait. You keep your arms crossed, your eyes locked on his.

His smirk falters a little when you ignore his outstretched hand, and he slowly lowers it. 

The crowd around you goes quiet, watching this silent exchange like it's a scene from a movie. They know the history, the tension, and the unspoken challenge that's just been laid down.

"Well, you must know me," you say, the leather jacket creaks as you tighten your grip. 

"I know of you," he says, his language tinged with a hint of an accent. "But I'm not here to bow down to reputations. I'm here to make my own." You can't help but respect that.

The crowd around you is hushed, waiting for the next move. Mark is there, his eyes on you, a silent question in his gaze. You give him a nod, reassuring him that you're okay, that you're in control.

 The rivalry between you and Mingyu has only just started, and it's going to be one hell of a race.

Mark storms over, eyes flashing with anger. "What the hell are you two talking about for so long?" His voice cuts through the cheers of the crowd, drawing their attention. You feel the tension between him and Mingyu, like a string pulled taut, ready to snap.

Mingyu just watches him with that sly grin, clearly enjoying the show. His gaze flickers over you, lingering on your leather pants, and you feel a shiver of annoyance and something else you can't quite name.

"Hey, Mark," you say, trying to keep your tone light, but there's an edge to it. "Calm down. We were just talking."

"Talking? That's what you're calling it?" Mark's voice is loud, drawing even more eyes to your little drama. He turns to Mingyu, his face red. "And what are you looking at?"

You roll your eyes, the frustration bubbling up inside you. "Mark, walk."

He stares at you, eyes wide in disbelief. "What?"

"Yeah, walk," you repeat, your voice firm. "Just go cool off."

For a moment, it looks like he might argue, but then he glances at Mingyu, who’s still smirking, clearly enjoying the spectacle. With a huff, Mark turns on his heel and stalks off, the crowd parting to let him through.

Mingyu chuckles, a low sound that only you can hear. "What an obedient boyfriend you have."

You shoot him a look, half warning, half curiosity. "Don't push your luck, Mingyu."

He raises his hands in mock surrender, the grin never leaving his face. "Just calling it like I see it. But seriously," his tone shifts, becoming more sincere, "you were amazing out there."

"Thanks," you say, the word coming out more curt than you intended. You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering tension from Mark's outburst. "So, why did you want to race me, really?"

Mingyu’s expression becomes thoughtful, the cocky façade slipping just a little. "Because I wanted to see if the rumors were true. And now, I know they are."

You can't help but smile at that, feeling a rush of pride. "Well, you gave me a good run for my money."

"Next time," he says, his voice low and filled with promise, "I'll be the one crossing the finish line first."

"We'll see about that," you reply, walking out with your motorcycle by your side, glancing at him over your shoulder. 

[...]

Mingyu, the new kid, had something different, something that pushed your limits in a way no other rival had before. It was exhilarating, but also stressful. And your boyfriend’s incessant comments about Mingyu didn’t help.

Every time he brought up how Mingyu looked at you, how rude he was, how he thought he was the most incredible thing, you rolled your eyes. Mark’s jealousy was nothing new, but you’d never seen him so uncomfortable around someone before.

For the past month, you’d heard from other students that Mingyu had been spreading rumors about how he was going to win this race, no matter what. It was irritating, but also a challenge you couldn’t ignore.

As you were heading to your P.E. class, you saw Mingyu and his friend walking down the hallway. He spotted you immediately, a grin spreading across his face.

"Look who's here, Y/N... without the leather jacket?" His eyes roved over your tight gymnastic clothing, clearly enjoying the sight.

You smiled around the scrunchie you held between your teeth as you tidied up your hair, then pulled it free to tie it up. "Look who’s here, Mingyu... still talking big?" you teased back, not missing a beat.

He laughed, a rich sound that echoed down the hall. "Only because I’ve got the skills to back it up."

"Oh, really?" you said, raising an eyebrow. "All I’ve seen so far is a lot of talk."

"Maybe you just haven’t been paying close enough attention," he replied, leaning casually against the lockers. "I’ll make sure to give you a front-row seat next time."

You finished tying your hair and gave him a mock look of concern. "I’d hate to see you disappoint all those fans you’ve been bragging to."

He smirked, undeterred. "Don’t worry, I’ve got this covered. You might want to start thinking about a new title because that crown is coming my way."

"Big words for someone who hasn't beaten me yet," you shot back, stepping closer, your confidence unwavering.

"We'll see about that," he said, his voice low and filled with promise. His eyes held yours for a moment longer, the air between you crackling with tension.

Mingyu doesn't look the least bit afraid of you, of your reputation, of what you can do on this track. He's bold, maybe even a little cocky, and you can't decide if you like it or if it just makes you want to wipe that smug look off his face. 

You've always been the one everyone looks up to, the one they whisper about in the halls. But now, there's someone new, someone who doesn't seem to know his place. And that's what makes him so intriguing.

You know Mingyu will be back, and he'll be better next time. And you can tell your boyfriend, Mark, is not happy about this new rivalry一about the way Mingyu makes you feel alive again.

"You've got to get your head out of the clouds, Y/N," Mark says as you look to the ceiling, "This isn't just a game anymore."

You pull back, looking up at him. "What do you mean?"

"Mingyu," he says, his voice tight with anger, "he's different. He's not like the others."

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off. "He's just a freshman with a fast bike," you say.

"He's been watching you," Mark says, his eyes searching yours, "studying you. He's got a vendetta, and I don't like it."

You swallow hard, pushing the thought away. You can't let Mingyu get under your skin like this. "I've got this," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

But Mark's not convinced. He's noticed the way your mind has been elsewhere, the way you've been pushing him away. The way you've been turning down his advances, lost in thought about the new kid on the block. He's been frustrated for a few weeks, trying to get you to focus on anything other than the race. 

As the days pass, the tension between you and Mark grows thicker. He tries to initiate sex, but your mind is always elsewhere, replaying the race, thinking about Mingyu's next move. You know you're hurting him, but you can't seem to stop.

 The thought of Mingyu, of the way he looked at you, of the way he talked about winning, it's like a drug. And you're hooked.

The next day, you're in the garage, wrench in hand, making some final adjustments to your bike. You've always been meticulous, but with Mingyu on your mind, you're even more so. You can't have anything going wrong on your bike when you face him again.

The door to the garage opens, and you look up, expecting it to be Mark, but instead, it's Mingyu. He struts in, his leather jacket and bike helmet hanging casually from his hand.

"Hey, Y/N," he says, a smug smile playing on his lips. "I see you're still playing with your toy."

You roll your eyes, not bothering to hide your annoyance. "What do you want?" you ask, not looking up from your work.

"Just thought I'd come by and say congrats," he says, leaning against the workbench. "You put on a good show last night."

You raced a senior from your class last night. You won despite the slippery concrete caused by the rain. Again.

You slam the wrench down, the sound echoing in the empty garage. "Thanks, but I'm not looking for your approval," you reply, your voice icy.

Mingyu laughs, a sound that grates on your nerves. "You don't have to be so defensive," he says, his eyes scanning the garage, "I just wanted to talk shop, maybe pick up some tips from the queen herself."

You stand up, wiping your hands on your greasy rag. "What makes you think I'd share anything with you?"

He shrugs, his smile never wavering. "Call it a peace offering," he says, holding out his hand. "Truce?"

You stare at his hand for a moment, weighing your options. You know you need to keep your enemies closer, especially one as talented as Mingyu. You take his hand, giving it a firm shake. "Fine," you say, "but don't get any ideas."

"Oh, I have plenty of ideas," he says, his eyes glinting with mischief, "but I'll save them for the track."

You can't help but laugh, despite yourself. He's got nerve, you'll give him that. You spend the next hour talking bikes and racing strategies, and for the first time since the race, you feel like you're not just a competitor but a fellow enthusiast. It's strange.

As Mingyu leaves, you can't help but feel a blend of emotions. There's the excitement of the challenge he represents, the thrill of the rivalry that's been ignited. But there's also a nagging doubt, a fear that maybe Mark is right. 

Maybe Mingyu isn't just a racer looking to make a name for himself. Maybe he's got something more planned, something that could threaten not just your title but your relationship. 

You shake the thought off, telling yourself you're just being paranoid. After all, it's just a race, right?

[...]

The sun is setting, casting a warm orange glow over the makeshift circuit that’s been built for tonight's race. You take a long sip of your Gatorade, savoring the cool taste as you mentally prepare yourself for the competition. The grandstand is buzzing with energy, students excitedly chattering about the upcoming event.

As you sit there, focusing on your breathing, Mingyu appears and casually sits down next to you. You chuckle, unable to help yourself. "Are you following me, kid?"

He rolls his eyes, a familiar gesture by now. "I’m not a kid."

"But I’m your senior," you counter, grinning at the way his face sours. He’s always so easy to tease. "What did you plan?"

"Huh?" He seems genuinely confused, his attention now fully on you.

You smirk, leaning back a bit. "What do you have up your sleeve, Mingyu? Some oil on the floor, a pin in my tire...?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "I don’t need tricks to beat you."

"Good," you say, your voice dropping slightly, more serious now. "Because neither do I."

Before the conversation can go any further, your boyfriend, Mark, appears. "What’s he doing here?" he asks, his tone accusatory.

"Just talking," you reply, trying to keep your cool.

"Talking, huh?" Mark scoffs. "Seems like he’s always around, doesn’t it? You’d think he’s got nothing better to do."

"I think you’re overreacting." You breath tired. 

Mark's eyes narrow. "Just remember who’s waiting for you at the finish line."

Mingyu’s jaw tightens at this, his posture stiffening. He looks like he’s holding back something, a secret or a truth he’s not ready to share.

You glance at Mingyu, noticing the shift in his conduct. "What’s that look for?" you ask him, curious despite yourself.

He shakes his head, the tension in his body evident. "Nothing. Just focus on the race."

You button your jacket, feeling the familiar weight of the leather settle around your shoulders. Checking your shoelaces, you make sure they’re tight, ready for the race ahead. The buzz of your phone breaks the moment, a single notification lighting up the screen. You glance around, noticing other students doing the same, pulling their phones from their pockets.

It’s odd, almost synchronized.

The feeling in your gut is like a rock, weighing you down, making it harder to breathe. You glance around, noticing the smirks and knowing looks from the other racers, the whispers that seem to carry on the wind. 

You click on it, and your heart sinks like a stone. It's a picture of Mark, your Mark, kissing a girl. A girl with auburn hair and a laugh that's nothing like yours. And he's wearing the shirt you gave him just this week, the one with the funny racing pun on the back. The same shirt he wore to bed last night, whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

You stand there, frozen, as the world carries on around you. The cheers of the crowd, the roar of the bikes—it’s all just background noise now. You look up and see everyone watching you, their expressions a combination of pity and shock. They all know now. They've all seen it.

And as your eyes meet Mingyu's, you realize that he knows too. There's something in his gaze, a glint of satisfaction that makes your blood boil. Did he do this? Did he send this to you? The thought is like a knife twisting in your gut, but you can’t be sure.

With trembling hands, you slip the phone back into your pocket, trying to compose yourself. You don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing you fall apart. But as you button your jacket and tighten the laces of your boots, you can’t help but feel like you’re tying up the loose ends of your life. 

Everything’s changed in the span of a single message. Your heart is racing, but it’s not from the thrill of the chase anymore. It stems from the agony of disloyalty and the rage at being played for a fool.

And as you turn to face Mark, who’s pushing his way through the crowd, his eyes searching for yours, you know that the real race has only just begun.

Your breath comes in shudders as you hop on your bike, putting on your helmet. You’ve give all the signs that you are going to race tonight. The crowd is abuzz with anticipation, their eyes locked on you. 

You roll the bike's accelerator, the roar calling for attention so the race can start. The flag girl gulps, her nervousness evident, and you look over your shoulder to see Mingyu approaching.

The girl stretches the flag, and you brace yourself. The lights go out, and suddenly, you're off, the wind in your hair, the roar of the engines filling your ears. Mingyu is right beside you. You can feel the bike responding to your every move, the tires gripping the asphalt like a vice. 

Inside your helmet, your breathing is loud and ragged, a stark reminder of the adrenaline and anger coursing through you.

As you race, your thoughts race too. Mingyu planned everything. He sat by your side to watch you unravel from Mark's jealous crisis, and then those messages minutes before the race start—meant to destabilize you. It’s like a puzzle clicking into place, each piece revealing the depth of his strategy.

The bike protests but holds steady as you apply more pressure. The track is a blur, but your focus is razor-sharp. Mingyu is still there, matching your speed, but you’re not going to let him win.

You replay the moment when you first saw the message, the image of Mark kissing another girl. It stings, but it also sets you aflame. How dare he think he can break you? How dare he underestimate you? You’re not just racing against Mingyu; you’re racing against the doubts and whispers.

Mingyu pulls ahead slightly, his bike edging past yours. You grit your teeth, leaning forward to reduce drag, pushing your bike to its limits. The sound of the engines is loud, the wind whipping past you. 

You glance at Mingyu. He thinks he won, that his plan worked. But he doesn’t know you. 

You see the final stretch approaching, the finish line within sight. You dig deep, finding that last reserve of strength. You and Mingyu are neck and neck, the crowd’s cheers blending into a single roar. The world narrows to just this moment, just this race.

As you cross the finish line, you throw all your weight into one last burst of speed. You cross the line a split second before Mingyu, the crowd exploding into cheers.

You slow down, the realization of your win sinking in. You did it. Despite everything, you did it. But still, there is no taste of victory in your mouth.

The cheers fade as you lean forward, gripping the handlebars, and ride your bike away from the circuit, leaving a cloud of dust behind you. The streets blur past you, seeking an escape from everything. Your dorm or campus are the last place you want to be tonight.

After what feels like hours, you spot a cheap motel by the roadside. Its flickering neon sign is a welcome sight, a promise of anonymity, and a place to rest. You pull in, park your bike and walk to the reception. The clerk barely looks up as you hand over cash for the night. Key in hand, you head to your room.

The room is small and poorly illuminated, but it’s a refuge from the chaos of the night. You lay on the bed, the springs creaking under you, and pull out your phone. The screen is still lit with notifications, but you don’t want to see any of them. Whether it was Mingyu or someone else who shared those photos, you don’t care. Not tonight.

[...]

The weekend drags by, each minute feeling like an eternity. You don’t go to class, don’t leave your dorm except to grab food from the vending machine, because, you can’t face the pity in your friends’ eyes.

You clean obsessively, organizing your bookshelf, scrubbing the floors, folding clothes into neat piles. It’s a futile attempt to regain some semblance of order in your life. It feels like you’re erasing him from your life, one item at a time.

The notifications on your phone keep popping up, your friends and classmates checking in, asking if you’re okay. You manage to reply with short, curt responses. "Yeah," you type, "Just need some space." The lie feels heavy on your fingertips, but it’s easier than explaining the tornado of emotions inside you.

As the day stretches on, you start to feel a little more in control. You’re not going to let this beat you. You’re not going to let Mark or Mingyu ruin what you’ve built. 

So you sit there, in the quiet of your room, and you start to plan. You’re going to show up to class, to the next race, with your head held high. You’re going to leave the drama behind and focus on what you do best—race.

On Thursday, you walk into class, a box in your arms. The whispers start as soon as you enter the room, the eyes are on you like a spotlight. You find Mark’s usual seat and drop the box in front of it, the thud echoing in the stunned silence.

The box, with his things.

You don’t wait for his reaction. You don’t need to. You turn and walk out, leaving the whispers and the weight of his backstabbing behind.

At lunch, you sit with your friends, the same table you’ve shared since freshman year. They all look at you, their eyes filled with concern. "You okay?" one of them asks, tentatively.

You nod, trying to put on a brave face. "Yeah," you say, your voice stronger than you feel, "I just needed some time to sort things out."

They all nod, understanding without needing the details. They know the score, they know what happened at the race. They know about the picture, the rumors, the cheating.

"You've cried enough," your best friend says, her voice firm but gentle, "It's like that bruise on your knee from when you were seven. It hurt like hell, but it's healing now."

You manage a small smile at the memory. It’s true. You’ve shed enough tears over Mark to fill an ocean. But here you are, breathing, standing, moving forward.

"Let’s talk about something else," you say, changing the subject. "What's new with all of you?"

They exchange glances, clearly surprised by your sudden shift in tone, but they follow your lead. They talk about their classes, their weekends, their plans for spring break. You listen, really listen, letting their words wash over you like a balm to your soul.

"Oh, and apparently none of Mark’s friends want to talk to him," someone says, almost as an afterthought. "They had no idea."

"Good," you say. "He’s not worth their time either."

Your friends nod, respecting your wishes to not delve into the drama further. You don’t need their pity or their empathy. You just need them to be there, to be the rock that grounds you.

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, and you all stand up, collecting your trash. "Thanks, guys," you say, your voice genuine.

"For what?" one of them asks.

"For not treating me like I’m made of glass." you reply, smiling.

They laugh, you know they’re worried, but you also know they trust you to handle this. You’re the same person you were before the race. You’re strong.

The sadness has morphed into something else, anger simmers just under the surface, a slow burn that’s been building since that message. You’re not just mad at Mark, but at Mingyu too. You don’t know his role in this, but you can feel his influence, the way he’s been poking and prodding, trying to get under your skin.

And now, it’s like a game of chess, and you’re the pawn in the middle of the board. You can’t help but wonder if he’s been playing you from the start. If all those smirks and smug looks were just part of his plan to take you down.

The bell rings, and you grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. As you turn to leave, you feel a hand wrap around your arm. You turn, ready to snap, and find yourself face-to-face with Mingyu. You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Come on, don’t be grumpy. Running away from me, princess?” he says, a sulky look on his face.

You remember avoiding both Mingyu and Mark all day, doing everything to keep your distance. You start to leave, but he holds onto your arm again, making you huff in frustration.

“You should thank me, don’t you think?” he says, his tone teasing.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Mingyu smirks. “First, I let you win last Saturday,” he says, lying through his teeth. You remember how he was right on your tail during the race, clearly giving it his all.

“And I got you rid of that asshole,” he adds.

You cross your arms, glaring at him. “So, you’re admitting you orchestrated this whole thing, huh?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Well, I warned him it would happen.”

“He knew?” you ask, your voice rising in disbelief.

Mingyu tilts his head slightly, like he’s stating the obvious. “Of course he knew. Y/N, he was cheating on you for a whole semester. At the first freshman party I went to, I saw him with Sayla. She’s from my class.”

“What?” you nearly shout, drawing the attention of nearby students. Mingyu gives you an exasperated look, like it’s common knowledge.

You grab his arm and drag him around campus, heading for the grandstand where you can talk in private. Once there, you turn to him, your eyes blazing with anger.

“I saw the photo, and I know it’s real. But Mingyu, if you’re lying about this, I swear I will fucking kill you.”

He shakes his head, his expression serious. “Why would I lie to you? If I need to tell you something, I’ll say it to your face.”

“Tell me from the beginning,” you demand, crossing your arms.

He rolls his eyes but starts talking. “Well, it was my first party here, a freshman party. I needed to go to the bathroom, and there they were, making out.”

You make a disgusted face, which seems to amuse him. “But in the photo, they weren’t in a bathroom,” you point out.

“Yeah, it happened plenty of times. When I found out he was your boyfriend, I went to a frat party and took that photo,” Mingyu explains.

“That one?” you ask, referring to the incriminating photo.

Mingyu nods. “Yeah, that one. He saw the photo and came to have it out with me. I might have told him that if he didn’t tell you, I would, and that I would love to take care of his girlfriend.”

You scoff. “So that’s why he was so sick-jealous of me?”

Mingyu closes his eyes and nods like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You curse under your breath, feeling the weight of betrayal all over again. “This motherf—”

You stop, looking at Mingyu, who’s watching you with a confused expression. “What do you mean by ‘take care of his girlfriend’?”

Mingyu smirks. “I was interested in you. But when I found out you were dating, I backed off. When I saw your boyfriend slacking, I needed to make it clear to Mark that I was going to reach out to you somehow.”

You narrow your eyes at him, the audacity of it all making your blood boil. “So, you’ve been planning this from the start?”

“Not exactly,” Mingyu says, shrugging. “But I saw an opportunity and took it. Your boyfriend was a dick, and you deserve better.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “And you think you’re better?”

Mingyu’s is smug. “I know I am.”

“And what makes you think I’d be interested in you?” you challenge, crossing your arms.

Mingyu steps closer, his gaze intense. “You’re fierce, competitive, and you don’t take shit from anyone. You’re exactly the kind of challenge I like.”

You roll your eyes, though a small part of you is flattered? “You’re still an asshole.”

He grins. “Maybe, but at least I’m honest about it. Can’t say the same for Mark.”

You take a deep breath, trying to process everything. "Mingyu, just stay out of my way. I don’t need any more complications.”

“What can I say? I know what I want.” He shrugs before leaving, again, with that stupid smirk on his face. 

[...]

You were dragged by your friends to every party on campus, parties you didn’t even know existed, every day a new one. According to them, you needed to enjoy your new ‘single’ life. And with all the guys on campus now aware that you were single, your DMs were flooded. 

Tonight was one of those nights. Everyone saw you parking your motorcycle in front of the frat house, the rumble announcing your arrival. You danced with your friends, met new people, but your happiness didn’t last long.

You caught a glimpse of Mark and Sayla. Sayla was wearing one of his baseball jackets, his arm draped over her shoulder. Everyone stared at them, the ‘new’ couple making a fool of themselves. 

You didn’t expect Mark to be so bald-faced about it. Your blood boiled, your head felt like it was on fire, and you wanted to leave the party. But if you did, you’d look weak. So you stayed, trying to enjoy the party with your friends, but it was impossible. When Mark kissed Sayla, one eye open in your direction to gauge your reaction, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You grabbed your helmet and stormed out of the party, your friends calling after you, warning you not to do anything stupid because you were hot-headed. 

And you were, for real. 

Arriving back on campus, you pulled out your phone, fingers fumbling as you dialed a number. Your steps echoed, the dress you’d chosen for the party riding up with each step, making you pull it down in frustration.

The phone rang, and rang, until finally, a voice answered, “You calling me? Y/N, what a—”

“Where are you?” you cut him off, voice trembling with rage.

“Damn, what happened to ‘hello, how are you?’” The voice was playful, but you weren’t in the mood.

“Where. Are. You.”

“Hell, I’m at my dorm, wassup?”

“Open the door,” you demanded.

“What?”

“Open the fucking door,” you said before hanging up.

Moments later, the dorm door opened, revealing Mingyu with the phone still in his hand, wearing only black shorts that showed a peek of his white underwear. He looked confused, but when he saw you—eyes almost black with rage, in your little dress—he swore it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“Hmm, all upset, just the way I wanted,” he teased, leaning against the doorframe.

You pushed him inside, slamming the door shut behind you and tossing your cell phone on the table. You kissed him, rough and urgent, your fingers tangling in his hair. Mingyu moaned between kisses, the realization that you were kissing him sinking in. His hands found your waist, one hand sliding up to your neck, choking you slightly, making you gasp.

A smirk played on his lips, between breaths. “About time you admitted it.”

“Shut up,” you muttered before kissing him again, harder this time.

Mingyu's grip tightened on your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re so damn hot when you’re mad,” he murmured against your lips.

“Just shut up and kiss me,” you demanded, your fingers tugging at his hair.

He obliged, kissing you with a fervor that matched your own. His hand slid down your back, gripping your ass and pulling you against him. You could feel his bulge pressing against you, a reminder of how much he wanted you. You broke the kiss, breathlessly, your eyes locking onto his.

“What’s your plan, Y/N?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

You smirked, a glint of mischief in your eyes. “To make sure I don’t think about Mark ever again.”

Mingyu’s eyes darkened with craving. “I can help with that.”

“Good,” you said, pulling him back into a kiss, your hands exploring his body, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, fingers fumbling from his big chest, to the defined lines of his abs.

Your hand slides from his lower belly to his cock, squeezing his clothed erection slightly. You feel him twitch in your hand, a broken sob leaving his lips.

“Fuck, you got hard so fast,” you murmur against his mouth.

He moans, his breath hot and heavy. “Can’t help it when it���s you.”

You grin wickedly, turning around to show him the long zipper at the back of your dress. “Help me,” you say, your voice low and inviting.

Mingyu nods, his eyes dark with desire. He bites his lip, trying to stifle a moan as he catches the zipper and slides it down, his happiness akin to opening a Christmas gift. The dress falls away, and you hold your breasts in your hands, turning to face him, your fingers playing with your hardened nipples, watching his eyebrows furrow.

His hot hand covers yours, and you let him take over, feeling the heat of his touch. He pushes you toward the bed, his lips trailing kisses down your neck before biting gently, his notorious fangs grazing your sensitive skin. 

You moan, the sound going straight to his cock. His hands move desperately to your panties, fingers fumbling with the lace until they’re off your legs. He opens your legs with his hands, giving your wet folds a not-so-discreet look.

Mingyu licks his fingers, meeting your eyes before sliding them inside you. You scream at the sudden stretch, feeling his big fingers filling you. He looks at you, to see if it hurts, but then he feels you getting wetter and wetter, your pants filling the room. His hand stills, and you roll your clit against his palm.

His fingers start to slide in and out, the wet noises are sinful as he finds your g'spot. You gasp, your body arching from his bedsheets, your both hands finding his forearm, stilling his fingers curled in this position. 

Mingyu's eyes widen in surprise at your reaction, and he repeats the motion, pressing against your sweet spot again, making your eyes fill with tears. 

''R-right here! Please!" 

“Did your boyfriend never find this spot?” he asks, his voice serious.

You shake your head negatively, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. 

Mingyu's expression hardens, anger flashing in his eyes. “That asshole didn’t know how to please you,” he mutters, then his voice softens as he coos at you. 

You sob, his fingers curling repeatedly on the spongy spot. “Aw… don’t worry, my love. I’m going to make you feel so good.”

He continues to stimulate you, watching your every reaction, your pleasure nourishing his own. His fingers work you expertly, and you start to get embarrassed by how wet you are getting.

But you can't stop your hips from rubbing against his hands, you can't stop yourself from constantly moaning his name, and you can't help but wonder how you survived without feeling the pleasure Mingyu was giving you.  

Your body tenses so much, you're afraid of getting injured, and the pleasure builds, making your vision blurry, catching only Mingyu's silhouette. “Mingyu…,” you gasp, your voice shaking.

He's in love with your sensitive form. He slides his fingers out, brushing against your clit, making you moan, wanting the stimulation again, but then he munches on your pussy, making a throaty moan leave your mouth, tears wetting your cheeks. You don't even know if you're sobbing or moaning. You can only focus on his warm mouth sucking everything it can. 

Mingyu moans against you, like he's getting stimulated too, and when you manage to squeak out, “Gonna' cum,” he moans even more, the vibrations going to your clit as you arch your back, squeezing your tits. 

He opens your legs—quivering pathetically around his head—with the strength of his arms. He only stops when he feels your clit throbbing incessantly inside his mouth, all sensitive.

You don't know how long it took before you were in your mind again, but you can feel Mingyu kissing your whole body. For him, it was a maxim to calm you down, but mainly to appreciate every bit of your skin. When you open your eyes, he's kissing your hand, his thumb gently caressing it. You don't look much, or you will blush. For him, it could finish like this: you cummed, satisfied, and he gets satisfied. But then you mumble, eyes lidded, “Fuck me, please.”

His eyes almost fall from his skull. He watches your legs spread, and you slap weakly at your pussy, inviting him. Mingyu almost falls back with your tease. His hands, lowering his shorts and underwear in one go, desperate to go over you.

"Wait." 

He stills, and you smile at his obedience. You turn around, on all fours, wiggling your ass at him, and you hear a suffered moan behind you, making you scoff. 

He squeezes your ass between his hands tightly, then slaps your meat, making you hiss. Then another one, making you moan. Then another one, making you drip a line of your cum on the sheets.

Mingyu feels like a crazy creature. He pumps his veiny cock before sliding on your wet folds to spread your cum. And then slides inside. You were so tight, so tight that his blood pressure almost falls down. 

“I need to thank your boyfriend for keeping it tight.” He groans after bottoming out.

You widen your eyes at the comment, he sounded so sincere. And you laugh, your hand covering your face, and he chuckles too, seeing that he can't hold his tongue around you.

He can feel you clenching around him every time you laugh, making him moan synchronized with you. He starts to move and your laughs turn into moans, laughed-moans.

“Shit, you’re so tight, you are squeezing me,” he cries, his thrusts slow and deep.

“Didn’t think you’d be this talkative,” you manage between gasps, your body responding to every move he makes.

“Can’t help it,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss your shoulder. 

His pace quickens, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. You grip the sheets, your back arching as he hits just the right spot. “Right there, Mingyu. Fuck, right there.”

He obeys, his thrusts becoming more precise, each one sending thrills through your body. “You feel so good,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your hips. “So fucking good.”

"Seriously, Mingyu," continue betwee moans, "you have no filter."

He grins, thrusting harder. "You're too much."

"Too much for you?" you tease, pushing back against him.

"Never," he mooans, his hands gripping your hips tighter. "I could do this forever."

You moan at his words, that feeling on your stomach tightening. "God, Mingyu..."

He leans over, his breath hot against your ear. "You like it when I talk, hm? When I say, how good you feel?"

You nod frantically, your mind a blur, you were cock-drunk, moaning his name like it was the only word you ever knew.

He chuckles darkly, thrusting deeper. "Good, because I’m not stopping until you can’t even say his name."

He stops his hips inside you, balls deep, and you can feel his tip kissing your cervix as he rolls his hips to make you feel it deep. Your arms quiver, making you fall with your chest on the bed, face on the sheets. You've never felt someone this deep before. Your hand reaches the bulge Mingyu makes on your belly, and you writhe.

He dirty talks, "You like to feel me here?"

You answer with a throaty moan. He closes his eyes to your rough moan and says, "Fuck, I need to see your pretty face moaning my name."

He turns you to lay on the bed again, one of your legs on his shoulder, and the other stretched by his hand. Since when were you this flexible? you think. When he slams inside you again, your messy cunt clings to him for dear life.

You moan all sly, and Mingyu is inches from your face now, and he teases you, "Look who's all sensitive right now. Where's that grumpy girl from the race? Hm? You just needed a good cock fucking you right to get you relaxed? Right, babe?"

You want to clap a hand on his mouth to keep his cocky talk out of it, but your pussy betrays you, clenching around him the moment his dirty words start to fall from his lips. Instead, you give some wet kisses on his lips. He reciprocates every one of them.

You ask him to touch you, and he looks in your eyes, asking, "Where?"

You guide one of his hands to your clit. He collects some of the lubrication that formed a ring at the base of his cock and starts to massage the swollen bud, circling it. Your nails scratch his back, and he hisses, eyes closing. He ruts desperately into you, your pussy casting a spell on him, all wet and good for him. 

You glance around the space, the warm illuminated lamp, the scent of his cologne everywhere, his tanned body sweating to give you pleasure, his muscles clenching as he holds you, his hand on your clit, his cock filling you, his eyes focused on every one of your expressions, his moans every time you clench.

You prepare for every detail when your eyes suddenly blur. You feel it coming... fuck. You're cumming, but something else is coming too. 

The realization hits you, and you say, "No, no, no, shit!"

You hold his bicep, your head thrown back, the veins on your neck popping. You try to stop, but you can't. You squirt all over him and his bed.

Mingyu stops inside you, mouth open. Now he gets desperate, taking his cock from you and cumming on your belly, so far that it hits your tits too. He lets your legs rest on the bed, and you cover your mouth.

"M-Mingyu, your bed! I'm sorry, let me put this to wash and—" You start to get up, feeling a rush of embarrassment and responsibility for the mess.

Mingyu, still catching his breath, quickly moves to stop you, his hand firm but gentle on your shoulder. He gives you a little push, making you lay back on the bed again. "Hey, relax," he says, his voice low and soothing. "It's just a bed. We can clean it up later."

You look at him, your cheeks flushed. "But it's such a mess," you protest weakly.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. "I like it messy," he says, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "Besides, I think I like you better like this."

"But seriously, Mingyu, your bed—"

He cuts you off with a kiss, his lips capturing yours in a tender, lingering embrace. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire. "The bed can wait," he murmurs. "Right now, I want to focus on you."

Your heart skips a beat at his words, the sincerity in his voice making your pulse quicken. "Mingyu," you whisper, feeling the heat rise in your body again.

He tilts your chin up to meet his gaze, his thumb brushing gently over your lower lip. "You're beautiful, you know that?" he says softly. "Especially when you're all flustered and breathless like this."

Mingyu's eyes sparkle with mischief as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin. "Then why don't we make a little more mess before we clean up?" he suggests, his voice a seductive whisper.

[...]

Your ex's message lights up your cellphone on the table beside the bed: "Where are you?" Mark asks. You can't help but scoff at the audacity. The nerve of him to ask after everything he's done. A surge of defiance washes over you, fueled by the memory of him flaunting Sayla around like some trophy.

Mingyu's rhythm doesn't falter as he thrusts into you from behind, his hand gripping your hair, pulling just enough to make you feel the pain on your scalp, but loving the pleasure that comes with it too. You reach for your phone, you know exactly how to answer Mark's question.

With a quick swipe, you open the camera, positioning it just right. The screen captures the sinful scene—Mingyu's defined body behind you, your flushed shoulder peeking into view, and your hair being pulled by Mingyu. 

You snap the photo and attach it to the message as a single view photo. 

Letting the image speak for itself.

"Here's your answer," you mutter under your breath, hitting send.

Mingyu's grip tightens, his pace quickening as he senses the shift in your mood. "What did you just do?" he asks, laughing.

You turn your head slightly to meet his gaze, a wicked smile playing on your lips. "Just answered a question," you reply, your voice breathless.

Mingyu's eyes darken with approval. "Good girl," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck, his thrusts growing more forceful. "Let's give him something to really be jealous about."

The bed creaks beneath you, the sound mingling with the chorus of moans and gasps that fill the room. As Mingyu's hand slips down to tease your clit, your phone buzzes again, another message from Mark. 

But you don't bother to check it. 

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　SLEEPLESS NIGHT

spencer reid x reader

SUMMARY: Where Spencer finally has a night to sleep at his apartment with his girlfriend, but the current case doesn't even let him close his eyes, leading him to study the files until ungodly hours. But who said that Y/N can sleep away from him?

WARNING: Slightly mention of age gap (reader is still in college), tooth rotting fluff.

REQUESTED?: No.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Spencer hated bringing work home, and he had two very specific reasons for it. First, he loathed the idea of mixing his work life with his personal life. The BAU was a constant source of darkness; gruesome crimes, twisted minds, and the unrelenting pressure to solve the unsolvable.

His home was the opposite: a place of light and warmth, a refuge from the horrors that haunted him on a daily basis. But more importantly, home was where Y/N was. She was the one person who could pull him from the depths of his thoughts, her mere presence offering a calm that he couldn't find anywhere else. She was his life, his anchor, and his sanctuary.

Their time together was sacred, especially with the demands of his job taking him away so often. Whether he was chasing unsubs across the country or spending endless hours poring over case files at the BAU, being away from Y/N was the hardest part of his job. When he was home, he wanted to be fully present, to make up for the time he lost while he was away.

He cherished the quiet moments, the lazy evenings where they could simply exist together without the weight of the world bearing down on him. He wanted to give her every ounce of his attention, to make her feel just how much she meant to him.

But then, there were nights like tonight, when the case followed him home despite his best intentions, forcing him to divide his focus in a way that always left him feeling guilty.

The bedroom was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, filtered through the sheer curtains that hung over the windows. The clock on the nightstand read 2:37 AM, its gentle green glow a quiet reminder of how late it had become.

Spencer lay on his back, his eyes trained on the ceiling, though his mind was far from still. It raced, chasing the loose ends of the case, replaying details, searching for the missing link that could unravel everything. The unsub was smart, meticulous in his planning, calculating in his movements. It was unnerving, the way this case was so close to home, right here in Quantico.

Hotch had granted the team a rare night to return home and rest, knowing the work would pick up again with relentless intensity in the morning. Spencer knew he should be grateful for the chance to sleep in his own bed, to hold Y/N close, and let her warmth lull him into rest. But sleep felt impossible.

Beside him, Y/N slept soundly, her body curled against his. One arm rested across his chest, her hand fisting tightly the fabric of his white shirt and her hand tucked beneath his shoulder, as if even in sleep, she sought him out. Her breathing was soft and even, the slow rise and fall of her chest a soothing rhythm against his side.

Spencer turned his head slightly, watching her. She looked peaceful, her face relaxed in sleep, the faintest hint of a smile still lingering on her lips, probably remains of a dream. His heart clenched with love, a wave of warmth and tenderness washing over him.

With a soft sigh, Spencer slid his right arm beneath her, his hand resting gently on her back, the warmth of her skin seeping through the fabric of the sweater she wore - his sweater. He brought his other hand down to her bare leg, carefully shifting her until her right one draped across his thighs, her body instinctively curling closer to him, almost laying fully above him.

His fingers trailed softly along her thigh, the smooth skin warm beneath his touch. The gesture was soothing, grounding him in the present moment, in the feel of her against him. His thumb stroked lazy circles on her flesh, his touch light and reverent, as if he was trying to memorize the feel of her - as if he already didn't had each part of her craved inside his head.

He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment as he breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of her hair. It was a mixture of her shampoo and something uniquely hers, a scent that had always brought him comfort. His lips brushed against the delicate skin of her closed eyelids, another kiss pressed to her temple. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her hand tightening its grip on his shirt.

His right hand traveled across the fabric of his sweater, slipping below it, his fingertips sliding higher, brushing against the bare skin of her back. She was so warm, her skin so soft, and the feel of her made something inside him settle, if only for a moment. He continued to stroke her thigh with one hand, his other one gently massaging the muscles of her back, feeling the way her body relaxed further into him.

He stared at her for a long moment, his mind flickering between her and work. He didn’t want to leave her alone in bed, didn’t want to let it drag him away from her. Spencer knew Y/N deserved a good night's sleep more than anyone. She had been tirelessly studying for her college finals, always the most academically involved and dedicated in her class, which caused her to staying up late, buried in textbooks and research papers - just as he spent sleepless nights away on cases.

But even as he held her close, the details of the case gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to be ignored.

With a reluctant sigh, he carefully began to shift, his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to disturb her. His hand on her thigh slid away, and he gently eased her leg off his hips, tucking it back beneath the blankets. She mumbled softly in her sleep, her body instinctively moving toward his warmth even as he slipped out from under her.

Spencer sat up, pausing for a moment as he watched her stir. Her hand reached for him in her sleep, her face burrowing further into his pillow as if searching for his scent. The sight made his chest tighten with both affection and guilty.

With one last glance at Y/N, Spencer stood, moving with the quiet precision of someone who was used to slipping away in the dead of night. He padded silently out of the bedroom, the soft sound of his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath his feet.

The apartment was shrouded in a heavy, comfortable darkness, the only sound breaking the quiet being the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Spencer moved with practiced silence, stepping lightly through the familiar space until he reached the small room they’d turned into a makeshift office. It was cluttered with his books, scattered papers, and, more recently, case files.

He flicked on the desk lamp, casting a soft, amber glow across the cluttered desk. His movements were slow, careful not to disturb the serene quiet that enveloped the apartment as he sank into his chair, rescuing his folded glasses from between all those papers.

In front of him lay the case file, the photographs of the victims staring back at him as if mocking his inability to piece it all together. He scanned the reports for what felt like the hundredth time, his brow creased in thought, eyes darting over the details.

Minutes bled into an hour, maybe more. His glasses had slipped halfway down his nose as he leaned in closer to the desk, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the outline of the crime scene photos. His other hand tugged at the cuff of his pajama sleeve, lost in the rhythm of his restless thoughts.

Just then, the sound of soft footsteps padding across the wooden floor reached his ears, the faint shuffling of bare feet snapping him out of his thoughts. He barely turned in his chair before he saw her; a sleepy, disheveled Y/N standing in the doorway, her figure backlit by the faint glow of the hallway light. The sleeves of his sweater were falling over her hands, causing her shoulders to become exposed, and her eyes were heavy with the remnants of sleep.

"Spence..." She mumbled, her voice raspy and thick with drowsiness. The sight of her tugged at his heart in the most tender way.

Spencer’s face softened instantly, guilt creeping in at the edges of his thoughts. He’d woken her.

"Hey, sweetheart." He murmured, pushing the file aside and giving her his full attention. His voice was quiet, filled with concern. "What are you doing awake? You should be asleep."

Y/N blinked at him, the bleariness in her eyes making her seem even smaller and more vulnerable. She swayed slightly on her feet, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"I woke up... and you weren’t there." She slurred softly, taking a small step toward him, her expression confused and sleepy.

His heart clenched at her words, a wave of guilt washing over him. He hated that he’d caused her to wake up, especially on a week that she spent too much time studying and having little to no rest. He adjusted his posture above the chair, motioning her closer with gentle hands, but Y/N was already moving on her own, shuffling across the room with slow, sleepy steps, her gaze never leaving him.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, dove." He whispered as she reached him. He reached out with his hands as she practically fell into his arms.

She pushed his arms open with little effort and maneuvered herself onto his lap, pressing against him as if seeking out the warmth she’d missed. Her legs straddled his thighs, her knees resting above the sides of the chair, her body curling around his like a koala hugging a tree. The weight of her felt perfect, grounding him as she nestled closer, her chest rising and falling softly against him.

"Spence, don’t apologize." She murmured, her breath tickling the skin of his neck as she shifted, her nose nuzzling into the curve of it, seeking his scent. She pressed her face against him, her lips brushing feather-light against the sensitive skin just below his ear as she planted a sleepy kiss. "You know I just can’t sleep well without you."

Spencer let out a shaky breath, the soft, familiar feeling of her lips against his neck sending warmth coursing through him. His left hand instinctively found her back, his fingers running to the hem of his sweater and lifting it slightly, making room for hand to enter under the fabric and meet her skin, spreading his fingers as he began tracing lazy circles along her spine, soothing her.

Y/N sighed in pleasure, her left hand gently crawling up to his face. Her fingers softly traced the rough stubble along his cheek before instinctively pushing his glasses back up to their proper place, her fingertips grazing the bridge of his nose in a familiar, soothing motion.

He smiled softly, his guilt still lingering but melting slightly under the comfort of her touch. She was so close, so vulnerable in her half-asleep state, and it made him feel even more protective of her.

"You should be in bed." He whispered, his voice low and affectionate, his hand continuing its gentle caress. "You have finals tomorrow... and this position’s going to make your back hurt in the morning." He tried to sound stern, but the amusement in his tone betrayed him. He couldn’t help but laugh quietly as Y/N shifted again, her hand leaving his face and meeting the other side of his neck, her right arm tightening around his torso in silent protest.

"I don’t care." She mumbled into his neck, her lips brushing against his skin as she spoke. "I love you. I want to be here."

His heart swelled at her words, an overwhelming wave of love flooding him. He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the comforting scent of her.

"I love you more." He whispered back, his voice barely audible as he nuzzled his cheek against her hair. His hand never stopped its rhythmic movement along her back, his touch gentle and tender.

Y/N hummed in response, her breathing already slowing as the warmth of his embrace lulled her back toward sleep. Spencer could feel the way her body relaxed against his, her weight becoming heavier as she melted further into him. She was so peaceful, her soft breaths brushing against his skin in a steady rhythm.

Spencer's eyes drifted to the case file still resting on the desk, his mind unwilling to let go of the details he was trying to piece together. His hand continued to trail soothing patterns on her back, and he tilted his head down, pressing another kiss to her temple, noticing how her body was giving way to sleep again.

"Let me tuck you back into bed, sweetheart." He whispered against her skin, insisting. "You need the proper rest."

But Y/N shifted in his lap, shaking her head, clearly unwilling to move.

"No." She mumbled, her voice soft but convincing. "What I need is to be with you." She burrowed her face deeper into his neck, pressing her nose against his skin and nuzzling him like she was trying to become a part of him. "Let me stay here. Please."

Spencer sighed softly, feeling torn between the the case and the warmth of Y/N in his arms. He glanced back at Y/N, her soft breathing and her peaceful face pressed against his neck, shaking his head with how stubborn she could be.

Wrapping his arms fully around her, he held her close, one hand still caressing her back while the other pulled the case file closer to him again, reopening it and going back to the first page.

[d-z20]

Neighbourly Care part 4 (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: You go over to Agatha and Rio's for help with your Spanish class and they do help but you also get taught another lesson

-OR-

Agatha fuck you in their home office (while you practice Spanish with Rio) and when you make a mistake she stops fucking you until you get it right.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Top Mommy Agatha, Daddy Rio, more smut, orgasm denial (Rio), squirting, praise, slight degredation, strap on use, even more smut

Words: 4.6k and 80% is you getting fucked

A/N: This one's for all you burnt out gifted kids out there. Also, my Spanish really isn't very good, especially when I'm writing gn!Reader in a gendered language 💀 I'm sorry if it's jarring.

AO3 | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Master List

It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, a growing sense of frustration gnawing at you as you stare down at your Spanish assignment. Your sweatpants are cosy and your cropped vest keeps you cool, but none of it is helping you figure out why this language feels so impossible to grasp.

Your workbook lies open next to your laptop, half-hearted notes scrawled across the page. The conjugation charts mock you, the verbs swimming together into an indecipherable mess. You sigh, running a hand through your hair before grabbing your phone and opening up the messages.

MILFs Anonymous

~13:26

You: any chance i can come over for some help? 😩

You stare at the screen, gnawing at your bottom lip as you wait for a response. It doesn’t take long.

Agatha: Try again, darling.

You: uhhh

~13:28

You: Necesito ayuda con mi español. ¿Puedo ir a vuestra casa, por favor?

Rio: Claro que sí, cariño :)

Agatha: You used Google Translate, didn’t you?

You: Sí 😁

Agatha: We’ll be back from shopping around 4—come over then.

The messages bring a small smile to your face, despite the knot of nerves tightening in your stomach. You can already hear Rio’s warm, teasing tone in the words and Agatha’s steadier, more composed presence offering quiet reassurance.

Your mind drifts back to Thanksgiving dinner. You’d mentioned, almost as a throwaway comment, that you were struggling in your Introduction to Spanish class. It had been enough to spark Rio’s interest—her eyes lighting up as she eagerly offered to tutor you. Her enthusiasm had been impossible to resist, especially when paired with Agatha’s wholehearted support.

“You’re welcome over anytime,” Agatha had said, her voice kind but with an edge of finality that left no room for argument. “You’ll get the help you need.”

And now, here you were, agreeing to yet another visit, the prospect of being in their presence again already making your skin tingle.

The clock ticks on as you attempt to focus on your workbook, but your thoughts keep drifting back to the two of them. You wonder what kind of "lesson" Rio has in mind and whether Agatha will be there to offer her own... unique form of support.

—

When the clock finally strikes 4, you grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder, calling out as you head for the door.

“I’m going over to Agatha and Rio’s!”

Your mom’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “Okay, sweetie! Your dad and I are out with Aunt Carol for dinner, so we might not see you when you get back. Make sure you thank them for all their help!”

“Will do!” you reply, slipping out the door and walking the short distance to their house.

Your heart pounds as you approach the door, excitement and nerves intertwining. Before you can knock, the door swings open, and Rio stands there, her eyes lighting up as she sees you.

“Right on time,” she says, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual. She looks slightly flustered, a flush on her cheeks as she waves you inside. “Come in, come in.”

You step through the threshold, noting how Rio shifts on her feet like she’s barely holding still. She gestures toward the hallway, motioning you ahead of her.

“Agatha’s in the office,” she says, her words rushed. Her lips twitch into a quick smile as she guides you down the hall.

The office door is already open, and Agatha’s presence is immediately noticeable. She’s reclining on a sleek leather couch, looking effortlessly casual in a soft rust-coloured jacket and a white top. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and there’s a small smile on her face as she watches you enter.

“Perfect timing,” she says warmly, her tone smooth.

Rio closes the door behind the two of you, crossing the room to sit at her desk opposite Agatha’s. She moves quickly but jumps slightly when she sits, her hand gripping the edge of her desk for a moment as she adjusts herself in the chair. Her cheeks are still tinged pink, and you can’t help but notice the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“You okay?” you ask, sliding into the chair at Agatha’s desk.

“Fine!” Rio chirps, her smile a little too wide. “Let’s get started, yeah? Verb conjugations—your favourite.”

She flips open her own notebook, launching into a rapid explanation of present-tense endings. You do your best to focus, but something about her energy feels off. Her breath catches occasionally as she talks, and her legs bounce slightly under the desk.

Behind you, Agatha doesn’t say a word. You can feel her eyes on the two of you; her calm, steady presence is a stark contrast to Rio’s restlessness. When you glance back at her, she’s lounging like a queen, one arm draped over the back of the couch, her lips quirked in a knowing smile.

Rio’s voice quivers slightly as she explains another verb conjugation, her hands fidgeting with her notebook as though it’s the only thing tethering her to the moment. You do your best to follow along, but the tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Alright,” Rio says, her voice pitching slightly higher than normal. “So for nosotros, hablar becomes—”

“They deserve a break,” Agatha cuts in smoothly, her voice like honey.

Rio immediately stops talking, her eyes darting nervously toward Agatha, who is now sitting forward slightly, her hand resting on her knee. She pats her lap, her lips curling into a gentle yet commanding smile as her gaze lands on you.

“Come here, sweetheart,” she says softly, the words sounding so innocuous yet carrying an undeniable weight.

You hesitate for a moment before standing, your heart thudding in your chest as you cross the short distance to her. Agatha’s hands immediately find your waist, guiding you to sit sideways in her lap. She wraps her arms around you, holding you close as she presses a kiss to your temple.

“Much better,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your skin.

Behind you, Rio shifts in her seat again, her breath hitching audibly. A quiet whimper escapes her, and you glance back to see her biting her bottom lip, her fingers gripping the edge of her desk like she’s barely keeping herself together.

Agatha notices too, of course. Her sharp eyes miss nothing. “Continúa mi amor,” she speaks to Rio, her voice low and lilting.

Rio blinks rapidly, her cheeks flushing even darker as she nods. “Sí, mi vida.”

She fumbles with her notebook again, launching into another explanation about verb conjugations, but her words are stilted, her voice trembling slightly.

Agatha’s hand rests innocently on your thigh at first, her fingers lightly tracing small circles through the fabric of your sweatpants. You try to focus on what Rio is saying, but the warmth of Agatha’s touch is distracting. The circles grow larger, her fingers inching higher with every pass, and soon you feel her hand creeping up toward the apex of your thighs.

Your breath hitches, and you glance up at her. “What are you doing?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Agatha smiles down at you, her expression sweet but laced with something far more mischievous. “Teaching you a lesson,” she replies smoothly, her tone teasing. “I haven’t forgotten about yours and Rio’s little escapade in the hotel room that morning.”

Your eyes widen in realisation, and as you shift slightly in her lap, you catch a glimpse of her phone resting on the arm of the couch. The app open on the screen makes your stomach flip—it’s the controls for a long-distance vibrator. You glance at Rio, who is squirming more noticeably now, her breath coming in shallow pants as her eyes dart between you and her notebook.

“Rio is going to learn to keep her hands to herself,” Agatha continues, her voice low and steady. “And you, sweetheart, are going to learn to control yourself.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, and you swallow hard as she gives you a gentle nudge. “Stand up,” she commands softly.

You obey, your legs shaky as you rise to your feet. Agatha’s hands find the waistband of your sweatpants, her fingers tugging them down with deliberate slowness until they pool at your ankles.

“Mmm, such a good pet,” she hums, her praise making your cheeks heat as you step out of the fabric and sit back down on her lap.

This time, she adjusts your position, guiding you so that you’re sitting more squarely in the middle of her lap. As you settle, you feel something hard pressing against you through her pants, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Now,” Agatha says, her tone deceptively calm as she leans back slightly, one arm draped possessively around your waist. “Let’s see if you and Daddy can do as you’re told.”

You swallow hard, nodding as you try to focus on Rio, who looks just as flustered as you feel. Her cheeks are tinged pink, and she avoids looking directly at Agatha’s hand, which rests high on your thigh. Rio clears her throat, her voice trembling slightly as she continues.

“¿Cómo se dice... they speak... en español?” She asks, gripping her pen tightly.

“Ellos hablan,” you manage to reply, though your voice wavers when Agatha’s hand starts to move. Her fingers trail lazily up your inner thigh, barely brushing the fabric of your underwear.

“Muy bien, cariño,” Agatha murmurs, her lips brushing against your ear. “But don’t lose focus now. Keep going.”

Rio nods quickly, her words spilling out in a rush. “Y... y cómo se dice... we are speaking?”

You open your mouth to answer, but it’s hard to form a coherent thought when Agatha’s fingers are now teasing the edge of your underwear; her touch so light it sends shivers up your spine. Your hips shift involuntarily when her fingers dip below the fabric, and Agatha hums in approval, her grip tightening around your waist to hold you still.

“Estamos hablando,” you finally gasp, the words barely audible as Agatha’s fingers press more firmly against you.

“Perfecto,” Agatha purrs, her tone dripping with satisfaction. “But you’re trembling, sweetheart. Are you sure you’re concentrating?”

Rio looks like she’s about to combust, her leg bouncing under the desk as she stumbles over her next question. “¿Cómo se dice... uh... you are speaking?”

You try to respond, but your voice falters when Agatha’s fingers begin to move in slow, deliberate circles. A soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you feel your cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“Focus,” Agatha whispers, though her actions are anything but helpful. “Vamos, nena. Dime la respuesta.”

You choke out, “Tú estás hablando,” but your voice is barely steady. Rio squirms in her chair, her breathing uneven, and her gaze flickers to Agatha’s hand for the briefest second before she looks away again, biting her lip.

“Very good,” Agatha praises, her voice sending a thrill through you. Then she taps your hip, her fingers stilling for a moment. “Lift up for me, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, glancing at her, but the look in her eyes leaves no room for argument. You rise slightly, your legs trembling, and she reaches into her waistband, pulling something out—a purple strap larger than the one she used on you before. She pulls your underwear to the side before guiding you back down onto her lap.

The moment you’re seated again, you can feel it—hard and unyielding—pressing deeply inside you. Your breath catches at the sudden, overwhelming sensation, and Agatha smirks, her hands settling firmly on your hips to hold you still, ensuring you feel every inch. The pressure against your walls is unrelenting, a heady mix of pleasure and control that sends sparks shooting up your spine. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, each shallow breath catching as heat pools low in your belly, threatening to consume you entirely.

“Now,” she murmurs, her voice low and sultry, “let’s see if you can finish your lesson without completely falling apart. “Adelante, Río, y no seas fácil con les.”

Rio’s throat bobs as she swallows hard, her wide eyes betraying the tension coiling in her body. Her voice is barely a whisper as she continues. “¿Cómo se dice... we spoke?”

You open your mouth to reply, but Agatha’s hands begin to guide your hips in slow, deliberate movements, each motion sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through you. The friction is maddening, stealing the air from your lungs as a soft whimper escapes your lips. Your pulse thrums in your ears, and your thighs quiver, every nerve alight with sensation as you struggle to keep your focus, the words slipping through your mind like water through a sieve.

“Ha-habla…mos,” you stammer, but your voice is shaky and breathless.

Agatha chuckles softly, her lips brushing against your neck. “Otra vez,” she says, her tone carrying a hint of mockery. “Try again, sweetheart. Say it louder. Let Daddy hear you.”

Across from you, Rio is barely holding it together. She rocks faintly in her chair, her thighs pressing together as if seeking relief. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, and her free hand grips the desk so hard it looks like she might snap the wood in half. Her breath comes in uneven gasps; a small whimper escapes her as she fights to maintain her composure.

“Vamos,” Agatha whispers, her breath warm against your ear as she tightens her grip on your hips, helping you grind down harder against her. The tension inside you builds with every slow, deliberate movement, your body instinctively chasing the friction. A soft, needy sound escapes you, and you shiver as her voice washes over you, low and commanding, grounding you even as she unravels you. “No te distraigas.”

You let out a shaky moan, your head falling back against her shoulder as the sensations threaten to overwhelm you. Your heart pounds, your skin is flushed and hypersensitive, and every touch feels amplified, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Words hover on the tip of your tongue, but they dissolve into broken gasps before you can speak.

Just as your eyes flutter shut, lost in the haze of it all, Agatha reaches for her phone with one hand, tapping the screen. 

“Ughhhh, Aggie, no,” Rio whines frustratedly, her body jerking slightly at the sudden loss of sensation. She glares at Agatha, who raises a single brow in amusement.

“No tan rápida mi vida,” Agatha says smoothly, her voice dripping with authority. “You’ll wait until I say so.”

Rio bites her lip, her cheeks flushed, and you can feel the tension in the room thickening.

But you don’t have time to dwell on it—Agatha’s movements beneath you are maddening, each shift sending a spark of pleasure through you that makes coherent thought nearly impossible. Her hips tilt upward slightly with each slow, deliberate thrust, the firm pressure pushing you closer to the edge with every pass. It’s intoxicating, the way her body presses into you, filling you with a deep ache that you can’t escape. You try to answer the next question Rio poses, but the words come out in a garbled mess, your focus completely shattered.

Agatha clicks her tongue disapprovingly and stills your hips with a firm grip. The sudden lack of motion leaves you aching, your thighs trembling as you try to shift for relief, but her hold on you is unyielding. The throbbing heat between your legs grows unbearable, each second of stillness stretching endlessly. The whimper of frustration that escapes you only earns you a soft mocking chuckle.

“¿Qué dije sobre enfocar?” She scolds, her voice low and commanding. “Answer Daddy, or we stop right here.”

Your face burns with embarrassment as you force yourself to focus, stumbling over the words as you manage to form a proper sentence. Agatha hums in approval, but she doesn’t let you move again just yet.

“Good,” she murmurs, her hand sliding up your side in a soothing gesture. “See? You can behave when you try.”

She waits until Rio asks the next question before finally resuming her movements. This time, her hips push up into you more deliberately, slow and measured, as if testing your resolve. Each thrust presses into the perfect spot, a deliberate rhythm that makes your breath catch and your knees tremble. It’s almost cruel how slowly she moves, dragging out every sensation until you’re teetering on the brink.

Rio’s eyes widen, her breath coming in shallow bursts. She clears her throat and stammers out the next question, her voice barely above a whisper. “¿Cómo se dice... they danced?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Agatha’s hands start guiding your hips again, setting a slow, torturous rhythm that has you clenching your teeth to stifle a moan. The friction is maddening, each grind of her hips sending shockwaves through your body that leave you gasping for air. You feel impossibly full, the steady motion of her beneath you making your head spin as heat coils tighter in your core.

“I—I don’t—” you start, but the words dissolve into a whimper as Agatha’s fingers slip under the hem of your cropped vest, brushing against your nipple.

“Don’t stop now,” Agatha murmurs, her voice like velvet. “You can do it, baby. Say it.”

Your answer is a garbled mess, barely comprehensible as you fight to stay coherent. The thrusts beneath you grow slightly firmer, and she pinches your nipple, drawing a broken cry from your lips. The steady pressure and her soft words blur together, leaving you utterly at her mercy.

Across from you, Rio is trembling, her fists clenched at her sides as she rocks forward slightly in her desperation. She bites her lip, her cheeks flushed as she tries to keep her composure, though her glazed-over expression betrays her struggle.

Agatha notices immediately. Her sharp eyes flick to Rio, and her lips curl into a dangerous smile. “¿Qué crees que estás haciendo, amor?” she says, her voice cutting through the tension in the room. “Stand up. Legs apart.”

Rio hesitates for a moment before obeying, her movements stiff and jerky. She stands with her legs spread slightly, her hands clenched into fists as she tries to keep still under Agatha’s watchful gaze. The air between the three of you feels electric, charged with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“Good,” Agatha says approvingly. Her focus returns to you, and her tone softens. “Now, let’s finish this lesson with one more question.”

Rio swallows hard, her voice shaking as she asks, “¿Cómo se dice... we ate?”

Your mind is a haze of pleasure and tension, the words slipping from your grasp as you struggle to focus. Each deliberate thrust from Agatha beneath you sends fresh waves of heat through your body, clouding your thoughts and making it nearly impossible to form words. Your hips instinctively try to grind against her, desperate for more, but her firm hands keep you in place, controlling every movement.

“Co-com—” you stutter, but you can’t get the syllables out.

Agatha stills your movements suddenly, her grip on your hips tightening as she tilts your head to meet her gaze. The abrupt stop leaves you trembling, every nerve screaming for relief as the tension in your body builds to unbearable levels

“No te distraigas,” she scolds gently, her expression calm but firm. “Answer Daddy. Now.”

The commanding tone snaps you back into focus, and with a shaky breath, you finally manage to stammer out, “C-comimos.”

Agatha’s lips curve into a satisfied smile. “Well done,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. Then her hands slide back down to your hips, and she resumes the slow, deliberate rhythm that has you gasping for air. This time, her thrusts are more purposeful, each one pushing you closer to the edge, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Your vision blurs, your body trembling uncontrollably as you give in to the sensation.

“You’ve done good enough, sweetheart. No more questions. Now it’s time for you to enjoy yourself.”

Her attention shifts briefly to Rio, who looks like she’s about to unravel completely. “You,” Agatha says sharply, her tone brooking no argument, “will stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. Just watch.”

Rio’s breath hitches, her body trembling as she nods, her eyes fixed on the two of you. Her gaze feels like fire on your skin, but you’re too far gone to care, completely lost in the steady rhythm of Agatha’s movements and the way she keeps pushing you closer, her voice a soft murmur in your ear as you come undone.

Agatha’s hands tighten their hold on your hips, her fingers digging in just enough to anchor you to her. The slow, deliberate thrusts beneath you become a little harder, a little deeper, and the sensation sends shockwaves through your body. Each motion builds the pressure inside you, pushing you closer and closer to a breaking point that feels just out of reach.

“Such a good little slut,” Agatha murmurs in your ear, her voice a molten whisper that makes your toes curl. “You’ve been so good, finally learning some control.” Her lips brush against the curve of your neck, and her teeth graze your skin ever so lightly. “I want you to fall apart for me. Completely.”

Your body arches against her as she begins moving you faster, her hips meeting yours with a precision that’s almost too much to handle. The heat pooling low in your belly threatens to consume you, each thrust sending sparks shooting up your spine. You can’t hold back the moans spilling from your lips anymore, the sounds filling the room alongside Rio’s uneven breaths.

One of Agatha’s hands slips between your legs, her fingers circling your throbbing clit as her other holds you steady. “That’s it,” she coos, her tone laced with both encouragement and command. “Cum for me, darling. Let it take you over.”

Her voice, her touch, her presence—it’s all too much. The tension that has been winding tighter and tighter finally snaps, and the release crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your entire body trembles as the pleasure surges through you, every nerve alight as you cry out, the sound raw and unrestrained. The slick evidence of your release soaks into the fabric of Agatha’s pants, sdrenching her completely and leaving a visible mess against her thighs. She doesn’t seem to care—if anything, it only makes her smirk widen, a flicker of pride in her darkened gaze.

Agatha doesn’t let up, guiding you through every second of it, her hands and movements steady even as your body shakes with the force of your climax. She whispers soft praises in your ear, grounding you as the intensity leaves you breathless and utterly undone. “Look at the mess you’ve made,” she chuckles, her tone almost teasing as her fingers trail lazily over the damp fabric. “Such a good little thing for Mommy.” Her lips brush against your temple as she slows her movements, her hands now soothing rather than controlling. “So perfect. I knew you could do it.”

You slump against her, utterly spent, your chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Her arms wrap around you securely, holding you close as you come down from the overwhelming high. For a moment, the room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing and Rio’s soft, stifled whimpers from where she stands frozen, obediently still but visibly affected.

Agatha strokes your hair, her voice a gentle murmur against your ear. “You did so well, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.” Her lips press against your forehead.

You let yourself melt into her, your body boneless and your mind hazy with satisfaction. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register Rio’s quiet, needy sigh, but Agatha’s warmth and the steady rhythm of her breathing lull you into a calm, contented state.

She slips out of you and holds you tight, her hands brushing soothing circles over your back as she presses gentle kisses to your temple. When she finally moves again, it’s to slip one strong arm beneath your legs and the other around your back, effortlessly lifting you into her arms. You can’t help but sigh and rest your head against her shoulder, utterly spent but feeling safe in her hold.

As she carries you toward the bathroom, her voice cuts through the stillness, firm but not unkind. “Rio, my love, go order us something for dinner—whatever you want.” Her tone leaves no room for argument, and Rio, still flushed and squirming with pent-up frustration, lets out a soft, frustrated sigh before nodding obediently.

“Fine,” Rio mutters, her voice tinged with both respect and disappointment. You catch the faintest hint of a pout as she heads toward the kitchen, her steps slow and reluctant.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the soft glow of candles casting warm light over the tiles. Agatha sets you down carefully on the edge of the tub, steadying you as she kneels to turn on the taps, adjusting the water until it’s just right. As the tub fills, she helps you undress; her touches gentle but reverent, as though she’s still savouring every inch of you even in this quiet, intimate moment. When she lifts you into the water, you can’t help but let out a contented sigh as the heat soothes your tired muscles.

Agatha slides in behind you, her strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you back against her chest. The steady rhythm of her breathing and the warmth of the water lull you into a peaceful haze, her presence grounding you completely. She holds you close, her chin resting on your shoulder as her fingers trace lazy patterns along your arms.

“You were so good for me tonight,” she whispers softly, her voice low and soothing. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” Her lips brush against your temple, and you lean into her touch, the quiet intimacy of the moment filling your chest with warmth.

After the bath, Agatha wraps you in a plush towel, her hands steady as she dries you off, and helps you into a fresh set of clothes. By the time you return to the living room, Rio has returned with bags of takeout, her flushed cheeks, and the subtle shift of her legs betraying her discomfort. Agatha smirks knowingly but doesn’t say a word as she settles you onto the couch, pulling you snugly against her side.

The three of you share the meal together; the atmosphere warm and comfortable despite Rio’s occasional squirming. She shoots Agatha a few pleading looks, but Agatha only raises an eyebrow in silent challenge, her arm tightening around you possessively.

“Eat,” Agatha says calmly, gesturing to Rio’s plate. “You’ll get what you need—just not tonight.”

Rio huffs softly but obeys, though her fidgeting doesn’t let up. You curl further into Agatha’s side, feeling utterly content as the soft hum of conversation and the flicker of the TV fill the room. It’s a quiet, peaceful end to a long, intense evening, and as you drift closer to sleep, you can’t help but feel grateful for the comfort of the two people by your side.

READ THE NEXT PART

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[roanofarcc]

GETTING EVEN

pairing. tyler owens x harding!reader

summary. after tyler owens saved your ass, you return the favor. (part 2 to this fic) 

warnings. descriptions of injuries and tornados. reader is the daughter of jo & bill harding (from the og movie!). hurt/comfort (tending to each other wounds? hot). tyler’s the number one loverboy and I stand by that.

a/n. fun fact, my sister's mother-in-law also survived a tornado by hugging a light pole!

word count. 3.7k || masterlist

You stabbed a piece of pancake on your plate, determined to ignore your mom as she spoke from the stove. “Would it be the worst thing in the world?” 

“Yes,” you and your dad answered at the same time, meeting each other's eyes with a small smile. 

Your mom, Jo, sighed deeply and spun around to face the two of you, one hand on her hip. “He’s nice! He’s handsome and-” 

You groaned, feeling a teenager again, mortified that your parents are bringing up any aspect of your love life. Ever since Tyler Owens had helped you to the hospital after a tornado took you and your friend by surprise during a chase, your mom wouldn’t let you go five minutes without bringing him up. 

You were back in town, staying at their farm as another slew of storms were forecast for the surrounding area. Your team was due in later that night, all crashing with your parents, which was their idea. They wouldn’t admit it outright, but that was one thing they missed the most about their storm-chasing days, the friendships formed within their team. Your mom brought out her aunt’s recipes and cooked a big dinner, and your dad was harassed into telling stories of their storm-chasing adventures- which he secretly loved. 

Since the storms were predicted to be pretty wicked, you knew Tyler and the rest of the Wranglers would be around. And while you would rather die than tell your mom, you were excited to see him again. The competition between the two of you for an arbitrary ‘best storm chaser’ title was left behind after you woke up in the hospital to see him still there with you. Instead, your relationship inched more toward friends; though, your mom seemed convinced it was something more. 

“Look, if our daughter isn’t interested in running away with some tornado-wrangling cowboy, I don’t think we should encourage her to,” your dad, Bill, said. 

“I don’t have time for a relationship, anyway,” you added. You were too engrossed in your research to think about a relationship, serious or not. You were content with your team. And your mom’s little fantasy would require Tyler to be interested in you, which you found unlikely.

Yet, your mom persisted. “We did it,” she said, pointing between herself and Bill. “We balanced both work and a relationship. It’s not impossible.” 

You snorted. “Yeah, and you two almost got divorced.” 

Your dad laughed into his coffee mug, hiding it as your mom huffed. 

The thrill of storm chasing, running down backroads as a twister roared beautifully across the ground, wasn’t the only reason you did it. That was only one part of the job. Then there was the research. But the hardest part was trying to help people. Tornados were wondrous but dangerous. They ruined lives, tearing through towns. And while warning systems and radars had advanced significantly since your parents' days, nothing was perfect. That’s why you were the first people to rush into a crowded town directly in the path of a storm and do what you could to ensure people’s safety. 

When a member of your team noticed one of the storm cells you were watching was heading towards a little downtown area not too far from your parents’ farm, you all decided that was where you needed to be, instead of chasing after the storm further west. 

You were close, beating the storm to town, and when you arrived you realized the Wranglers had the same idea. The second you stepped out of your truck, the harsh winds knocked into you. The sirens just started, warning the people of the quickly approaching storm. People were running down the sidewalks, hurrying into buildings to shelter. 

You jumped into action, hurrying some slightly dazed people to safety, along with your team. The storm inched closer, and you knew you only had a few more moments before you needed to take cover yourself to ensure you didn’t get whisked away. You’d lived through enough tornados to know what to do with little fear, but ever since your close call with your team member Frankie, earning you a couple stitches on the back of your head and a newfound appreciation for Tyler, your nerves were a little heighten; you become a little more cautious. 

You turned on your heel to hurry towards one of the buildings, but you caught sight of the tornado wrangler on the other side of a parking lot, searching for something. 

Pressing your lips in a hard line, ignoring the drum inside your chest that started to beat a little faster with the closeness of the storm, you took off after him. 

“Tyler!” you yelled above the howling wind that threatened to knock you off your feet. Rain beat down against your skin, soaking you to the bone. You called his name once more as you neared, finally earning his attention. 

“Harding? What the hell are you doing?” 

“What am I doing? What are you doing? Taking a mid-day stroll?” 

He shook his head, forced his wet hair out of his eyes. “Some kid’s dog got spooked, ran this way, but I can’t find her.” 

You glanced up at the sky, the dark clouds giving the allusion of nighttime. There was a little tremble in your hand, but you steeled your nerves. “Dogs are smart. She’ll find her way, but we’re goners if we don’t get a move on.” He frowned, clearly torn between helping a lost dog and saving himself. “My team and I will help you look after; I promise.” 

With a sigh lost to the wind, he nodded and pointed toward the building others had filed into. “There’s a basement in the library.” 

Together, you two took off in the direction of the library, but the storm rolled in much quicker than you anticipated. It came in with a vengeance, peeling objects off the ground, big and small, with ease and tossing them all around. You ducked, nearly missing a chair that once belonged to one of the downtown restaurants' patios. Your heart started to race uncomfortably, inching toward fearfully. 

Tyler grasped your hand, tugging you to the side as more debris whizzed past you. The rain made your grasp slippery, but you squeezed his hand tightly. There was too much distance to cover, and the tornado was determined to put every possible obstacle in your path. 

It became harder to run but you felt so sure you and Tyler would make it; that was, until the tornado came around the block, tearing into a building and sending the debris in your direction. You didn’t even know what hit you until you felt Tyler’s hand slip from yours and your chin collided with the pavement. A cry of pain fell from your lips, but you rolled over quickly, in search of Tyler. He wasn’t far, just out of arms reach, on the ground. 

You half crawled over to him, tugging on his shoulder until you noticed the look of pain twisted on his face. Your gaze trailed down to his leg and found his foot stuck under a heavy beam plucked from the building the tornado tore through. 

“Shit,” you whispered, grasping the beam with your slippery hands and desperately trying to lift it off. It wouldn’t budge, crushing Tyler’s ankle. 

“You gotta go!” he yelled, trying to wave you off with his hand frantically. 

You stared at him in disbelief. Adrenaline pumped through your veins and the rain clouded your vision. There wasn’t a chance you were going to leave him. Your chest felt impossibly tight, pulling more and more with an indescribable fear you’d never experienced before. Using some kind of strength you didn’t know you had until that moment, you managed to lift the beam just enough for Tyler to pull his bloodied ankle out from under it. 

“Come on,” you cried, trying to help him to his feet. He grunted in pain, pale and breath labored. 

“We’re not gonna make it,” he wheezed out, talking about the library the tornado was already upon. You made a sharp turn, bee-lining toward the building you landed directly in front of. 

There wasn’t even time to get inside. Instead, you half helped half dragged Tyler to where there was a large light post cemented to the ground. It wasn’t much, but there were no other options. Tyler sat on the ground, pulling you down quickly beside him before he wrapped his arms around the pole. You hooked one arm too but kept your other pressed against Tyler’s head. You could take another hit, but you weren’t sure he could. 

You closed your eyes, sending a silent prayer that everyone would be okay. The storm roared, stinging your ears and tugging on you harshly. But, somehow, the both of you remained hugging the light post until the tornado dissipated after an excruciating amount of time. That was the thing about tornados, when you were chasing them, they never seemed to last long enough, but when you were in them, they never seemed to end. 

Shaking from a mix of adrenaline, fear, and cold you unwound your arm from the pole before you brushed your hands along Tyler’s shoulders, drawing his attention, and making sure he was still there. 

You two sat nearly nose to nose, droplets of rain decorating his face, falling his lashes as he tried to blink them away. “Are you okay?” you muttered, voice shaky. 

He let out a breath and tried to shift in his position, but his face twisted up in pain once more before he cursed under his breath. You glanced at his ankle, his jeans were stained with a smear of crimson, but the rest was hidden under the fabric. 

“I think it’s just a sprain,” he said, trying to shrug it off but you saw through him. You struggled to your feet and moved to help him, but he tried to stand on own. He leaned heavily on the light pole, trying to hide a wince. 

You heard his and your name being called in the distance. You hooked an arm around his torso, gazing at him for a moment. “Come on,” you said, gently guiding him back towards the road. As soon as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, you spotted your team and a couple members of Tylers. 

“Holy shit!” Frankie gasped, running towards you. “What happened to you two? We thought you were right behind us?” 

Tyler tried not to lean on you, but you felt his grip tighten on your shoulders with each step. “I think we need to take him to the hospital,” you said, worry seeping into your voice. 

Kate and Javi snapped their gaze at Tyler, who shook his head. “No, really, I’m fine. I think it’s just a little sprain,” he repeated. 

Kate looked at you, half ignoring Tyler. “What happened?” 

“His ankle was crushed under some debris.” 

“I’m right here,” Tyler said. “And I said I’m fine. I don’t need to go to the hospital. But we’ve gotta find that dog-” 

“You mean this lil’ guy?” Boone asked. He and Lily stood with who you assumed was the kid who lost the dog, but who was now cuddling it in his arms with a wide smile on his lips despite the destruction all around them. “He came runnin’ out just a minute ago. Smart dog.” 

You smiled softly, looking at Tyler who sighed in relief. “I told you.” 

“I think the nearest hospital is…” Javi trailed off, looking at his phone with furrowed brows. “Twenty minutes south, just off the interstate.” 

“I’m not goin’ to a hospital. I’m telling you guys, I’m fine-” 

You huffed loudly. “Are you always this stubborn?” 

At the same time, Kate, Javi, Boone, and Lily all replied, “Yes.” 

You realized you probably weren’t going to convince Tyler to get his ankle checked out at the hospital. “Fine,” you sighed. “But you’re not gonna patch yourself up in some grimy motel, got it? My parents don’t live too far from here. You all can crash there.” 

“Are you sure?” Kate asked. 

“Positive. My parents were thrilled to have my team staying. They won’t mind a couple more people.” 

“Wait,” Javi said. “Your parents. Like, your parents as in Jo and Bill Harding?” 

You chuckled. “Yes.” 

He and Kate exchanged a look that bordered on giddy. 

Tyler shifted at your side, pulling out his truck keys and you thought he was out of his mind if he thought he was going to try to drive with his clearly busted ankle. You reached over and snatched the keys quickly. “You’re riding with me, cowboy,” you said before tossing the keys at Kate. She caught with between her two hands, eyes slightly wide before a smile broke out across her lips. 

“I’m driving!” Kate said before she quickly turned on her heel before anyone could protest, Javi following close behind her. 

“You be careful with my truck Sapulpa!” Tyler shouted. 

You all arrived at your parents' place and helped a limping Tyler out of your truck. He tried once more to hide just how much pain he was in, but it didn’t work. As you walked up the driveway, he smirked, a little lopsidedly. “Already taking me home to meet the parents, huh?” You wanted to smack him but decided his sprained ankle was enough punishment already. 

Instead, you rolled your eyes. ���Don’t you be talking like that in front of my mom. She’ll start planning the wedding.” You were only half joking. You knew the second she opened the front door and saw you standing side by side with Tyler’s arm slung around you, even though it was strictly to keep himself upright and pressure off his ankle, her imagination would run wild. 

He was quiet for a moment before he cleared his throat and said, “At least let me buy you dinner first.” 

You didn’t get a chance to respond before the front door was swung open and out stepped your mom. Her eyes flickered between the two storm-chasing teams all trailing behind you before they landed on you and Tyler. You saw the little twinkle in her eye, but it vanished when she noticed the state everyone was in, soaked clothes, a little in pain, and in a slight daze. 

She hurried down the step, grasping your face and gazing at the nasty cut on your chin from where you collided with the road. “Everyone okay?” she asked, eyes drifting over to Tyler. 

“Not exactly,” you replied. “Tyler’s got a busted ankle. I think everyone else is pretty okay. But cold and hungry.” 

Your mom clapped her hands together. “Well then, let’s get you all fed and cleaned up then. Come on,” she said, ushering everyone inside and exchanging greetings. 

You helped Tyler into the bathroom before you dug around for the first aid kit underneath the sink. 

“You know-” Tyler started but you glared at him. 

“If you tell me you’re fine one more time Owens…” He held up his hands in defense, pressing his lips together. Once you found the kit, you sat on the floor and carefully rolled up the leg of his jeans. Whatever damage his ankle took was hidden under his boot. “This is probably gonna hurt,” you said. 

You tried to be as careful as you could, tugging off his boot, and he tried to act like it didn’t hurt like a bitch, but the way his eyes screwed shut and hands clenched into fists in his lap told you otherwise. As soon as it was off, he let out a shaky breath and you assessed the damage. His ankle was swollen, bloodied, and overall in pretty bad shape but considering he could put a little bit of pressure on it told you it wasn’t broken. He was right about the sprain, but it was a fairly bad one. 

Working quickly but carefully, you cleaned up the dirt and blood before wrapping his ankle. “Feel any better?” you asked. He nodded as you stood to your feet. “Good. Are you hungry? I’m sure my mom’s made enough food to feed an army-” 

“Wait,” he said, grasping your hand, turning you back around to face him before you could reach the door. “You fixed me up, now it’s your turn.” 

You furrowed your brows. “What?” His eyes dropped down to your chin, where you’d smacked it against the road when you fell. “Oh. No, it’s just a little scratch-” he cut you off. 

“Are you always this stubborn?” he teased, using your own words against you. With a sigh, you slumped your shoulders in defeat. 

“All right, but at least sit down. Your ankle’s not gonna heal otherwise.” He listened, retaking his place on the toilet lid as you sat on the edge of the tub right beside it. He grabbed an alcohol swap from the kit and grasped your face with one hand. His fingers were cold from the rain but gentle as they tilted your head upwards just slightly so he could clean the cut on your chin. 

You couldn’t help but study him. The brightness of his eyes and how they narrowed when he concentrated, and how he pulled his bottom lip just barely between his teeth. Something twisted in your stomach, and you were suddenly very aware of just how close he was. You had been nearly nose to nose with him earlier, in the aftermath of the storm, but the calmness of your current setting made the closeness feel different. The way his hand softly held onto your face made your breath hitch, and it was impossible for him not to notice. His eyes flickered up from your chin, awkwardly covered with a band aid, and met yours. 

“Thanks for saving my ass out there,” he said, voice just above a whisper, like he too didn’t want to break the calmness that was steady in the room. 

You tried to ignore the patter of your heart that quickened as with his little smile. “I owed you for saving mine.” 

“Guess we’re even know, huh?” 

You nodded, words lost on your tongue. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but you dropped your gaze onto his lips for just a moment before you met his eyes, searching for something. But your wishful thinking died with a startling knock on the door that caused you both to flinch back and away from each other. 

“Everything all right in there?” your dad’s voice sounded from the other side of the door. 

You cleared your throat, quickly standing to your feet. “Y-Yeah. We’ll be out in a second!” A shaky laugh left your lips as your turned to Tyler, who stared back at you with cheeks slightly pink. “We should…” 

“Yeah, y-yeah.” 

After everyone showered and cleaned themselves up, your mom and dad handed out plates and everyone dug in. With full stomachs and dry clothes, the collection of storm chasers all crashed around the house. You lay in your childhood bed, squished alongside Frankie while two other members of your team were asleep on an air mattress on the floor. You tried to sleep, but all you could think about was Tyler, who was just downstairs in the living room. The rest of the evening consisted of you two tip toeing around each other, bordering on avoiding each other in the company of everyone else. 

With a quiet groan, you slipped out of bed and headed toward the kitchen, careful to be quiet. Your mom’s words followed you, gushing about Tyler. Would it be the worst thing in the world? You had said yes, but you didn’t really mean it, how could you? This was Tyler. Sure, he was a little reckless and you’d seen him get a little rowdy at a country bar, but he was also the kind of person that looked for lost dogs in the middle of a tornado and who stayed by your bedside at the hospital until you woke up. He was obnoxiously great. You didn’t know how to deal with it. 

In the bathroom, just hours ago, you wanted to kiss him. And a part of you thought he wanted to kiss you too, but the moment was broken too fast for you to know for certain. 

You poured yourself a glass of water before leaning against the counter, eyes focused out the window at the sliver of moon that poked out from behind the clouds. Somewhere behind you, the floorboards creaked, causing you to spin around with a start. 

Tyler paused, wincing at the noise he made before he whispered, “Sorry.” 

You didn’t do it on purpose, but it was like at the sight of him your lips automatically tugged upwards in a smile. You felt a little ridiculous about it but tried to play it off by clearing your throat. 

“I told you that couch was uncomfortable,” you said, voice low to not wake the snoring Wranglers in the next room. 

“It’s not,” he replied. 

“You should be elevating your ankle.” 

“I know, I know. Doctor’s orders, right?” He smiled too. “I was just grabbing some water.” 

You said nothing as you reached back into the cabinet and pulled out another glass before filling it at the sink. You handed it to him, your fingers brushing for just a second before he took the glass with a quiet ‘thanks’ and you pulled away. 

“I should…” You pointed behind you, ready to retreat back to your bedroom and let your Tyler-occupied mind slip away. But he caught your elbow and set down his glass of water. He didn’t say anything as his hand slid up your arm to your shoulder, then to your cheek in a similar way he held you earlier. You were back to being nearly nose-to-nose for the third time that day. Only this time, it was Tyler whose gaze flickered to your lips before he closed the short distance. 

Softly and quietly, you pressed your lips against his, pressing your hands against his chest. His hands were warm on the sides of your face as his lips moved against yours. You parted after a moment, breathing a little heavier, and your chest beat with something new. 

You leaned in once more, kissing him a little harder but pulling back quicker. “Good night, Tyler,” you breathed out. 

He beamed, cheeks rosy. “Good night, Harding.”

[pathologicalreid]

blue ribbon | s.r.

in which you and Spencer dedicate yourselves to helping your daughter with the best baking soda volcano the science fair has ever seen

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: chemist!reader, misuse of lab equipment i don't care, their daughter is very girly, glitter word count: 1.46k a/n: ending the post margotober drought with the very first margovember request!!! i promise i'm working on masterlists but for some reason they're exhausting.

“Why do I have to walk backward?” You grumble while trying to balance the end of the plywood on your knee, pulling at your badge reel to unlock the lab door.

Spencer nods his head in the direction of the keypad, “That would be why.”

Rolling your eyes, you push the door handle down with your elbow before pushing the door open with your foot, shuffling your feet. “Honey, can you turn the lights on?”

Lifting herself up on her tiptoes, your daughter flips all of the switches on the panel, cringing at the bright fluorescent lights.

Together, you and Spencer hoist the science project onto one of the lab tables, careful not to knock anything over as the papier-mâché volcano rests in your professional lab.

You and Leah had stayed up until eleven last night finishing the last coat of paint, even entertaining a visit from her Aunt Penelope so that the finished project could have a fine dusting of glitter all over it. Your dining room was now permanently sparkly, but the look on your daughter’s face when she saw the finished project made the mess entirely worth it.

Spencer steps to grab your jugs of white vinegar from the car, propping the door open so he can bring the supplies for the baking soda volcano in.

Obviously, you weren’t going to use the full-size volcano now, but Leah had refused to travel without it and Spencer believes that saying no to her is an impossible task. “Mommy?” The little girl pipes up, playing with the stirring rod that you had just set in front of her.

“What’s up?” You ask, leaning your hip against the counter, gently reaching out and adjusting the bows adorning her pigtails that you’d put in her hair that morning.

She looks over at the wall, minding each of the posters that line your laboratory, “What is that?”

You follow her finger to see what she’s pointing at, smiling softly, “It’s the periodic table.”

Humming thoughtfully, Leah sets the stirring rod down and walks over to the poster, “It looks like the one at home.”

Nodding, you get a step stool out for her to stand on, “They’re the same poster, the one we have at home is just a lot smaller than the one I keep at work.” You explain to her, knowing she’s talking about the poster you keep in your home office. “Come on baby, let’s go get you a lab coat.”

Setting a hand on her shoulder, you guide her to the storeroom, “Woah,” she breathes. It’s not a positive reaction, her eyes flitter all around the room, a mess of lab coats and goggles.

“Okay,” you say, shoving your way through the space until you find your locker, pulling out your lab coat, as well as safety glasses for the whole family. Holding a coat up to her and having her pull it on, you put your own lab coat on before looking back to find your five-year-old drowning in polyester. Laughing slightly, you adjust the lapels of her jacket, “How does it feel?”

Leah looks down at herself, “Cool!” She exclaims beaming up at you and giving you two thumbs up. She skips out of the closet and heads back to her volcano, almost tripping over the extra fabric of the lab coat, but Spencer grabs her arm before her knees can hit the linoleum.

He smiles at her, “Are you okay?” Helping her adjust her coat, he kneels down to her.

“Daddy,” she cheers, completely ignoring his question for the sake of being five years old, “Look at my coat!”

Smoothing her hair back, Spencer’s eyes briefly meet yours before he looks back to Leah, “You look like mommy.”

In a fit of giggles, he scoops her up in his arms in an attempt to avoid a tripping hazard, but she just thinks it’s fun. He sets her down feet-first on the step stool you had gotten out for her.

“Here,” you say, handing him a lab coat for him to wear and setting the safety goggles you’d gathered on the countertop.

When your daughter came home in tears because she felt like she had been assigned the ‘most boringest’ project for the science fair, you and Spencer quickly decided that you’d try everything to make her baking soda volcano exciting. At the very least, you’d work together to make sure she has fun.

Leah puts her goggles on and looks up at you for her next instruction, watching you divide the baking soda and white vinegar into separate beakers, “So, what will happen when we add these two together?” Spencer quizzes, watching you make careful portions.

“It’s gonna fizz up!” She responds correctly, bouncing on her feet while you gently push the first two dishes in front of her.

You nod, “You can pour the white vinegar into the baking soda,” You nudge her gently, knowing that you measured just enough to reach the top of the beaker, but not enough to flow onto the counter.

She uses both hands to grip the beaker and pour the liquid out, and the immediate reaction surprises her so much that Spencer holds an arm out to keep her upright. He trains his eyes on her amazement as the foam dissipates and the water and sodium acetate are left in the glass. “Can I drink it?” She asks, frowning up at her dad.

“No,” you both answer immediately, a sort of parental reflex. If you don’t answer quickly enough, odds are she’d pick it up and try anyway.

Disappointed, her frown remains on her face while her eyes return to the countertop, timidly, she tugs on Spencer’s lab coat, prompting him to crouch down to her eye level, “What’s wrong, lovey?”

Her eyes nervously look around the lab, eyeing some of the cabinets before she takes a deep breath, “Can we make it pink?”

“The foam?” Spencer says curiously, eyes flickering up at you while you nod frantically, already thinking up options so that you could further individualize your daughter’s glitter volcano.

She rocks back and forth, “Can we?”

As soon as Spencer says yes, it’s like a hold on you has been released, unlocking some of the cabinets so you can grab more supplies from around the lab, you return to the station with an armful of things to try, and Spencer mutters something to Leah about you being a mad scientist, leading you to maturely stick your tongue out at him.

You set up four options, taking photos as you go so you can paste them onto her presentation board. The first one is just baking soda, but you added a touch of dish soap to the vinegar. The increase in bubbles seems to greatly please Leah, so you decide as a team that the final product should have dish soap in it.

The second one has manganese sulfate mixed into the baking soda, and if the pink salt altered the color of the foam at all, it doesn’t impress your perfectionist daughter.

The third one includes phenolphthalein, which you think has some real potential, based on the way Leah’s eyes widen at the sight of it combined with the vinegar. The liquid was almost a fuchsia color, and she gasps when she pours it in to find that the foam is white, “It’s gone?”

You nod, “The phenolphthalein when it’s in the vinegar is pink because it’s an acid, but as soon as you add the baking soda it becomes a basic solution, so…” Your voice trails off when Spencer starts shaking his head, and you look down to find that you have completely lost Leah’s attention. Instead of listening, she’s trying to pronounce phenolphthalein, tracing the letters on the black countertop.

“What do you have next?” Spencer asks, eyeing the tiny dropper bottle in front of you.

Picking it up, you drop some of it into the vinegar and hand it to Leah, “It’s food coloring.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Why do you have food coloring in the lab?”

You wrinkle your nose at him, the expression makes Leah giggle, “Mind your business.”

As a family, you watch the chemical reaction, the white of the foam mixing with the red food coloring to create the desired pink lava. “Oh,” your daughter says softly, “Thank you, mommy!”

Beaming down at her, you place your hands on your hips and sigh, “If you’d like, we can add glitter to the baking soda too.”

Wide eyes look up at you in amazement, brown eyes inherited from her father, “I love science,” she whispers.

Behind her back, you hold your hand out for Spencer, exchanging a silent fist bump—a quiet celebration between two scientists.

[odinsblog]

“I first started noticing the journalists dying on Instagram. I'm a journalist, I'm Arab, and I've reported on war. A big part of my community is other Arab journalists who do the same thing.

And when someone dies, news travels fast. Recently, I pulled up the list that the Committee to Protect Journalists has been keeping and looked at it for the first time. There are 95 journalists and media workers on it as of today.

Almost everyone on it is Palestinian. Scrolling through, I started to get angry. These were the people carrying the burden of documenting this whole war.

Israel is not allowing foreign journalists into Gaza, except on rare occasions with military escorts. These people's names are being buried in a giant list that keeps growing. What I want to do is lift some of them off the list for a moment and give you a glimpse of who they were and the work they made.

I'll start with Sadi Mansour. Sadi was the director of Al-Quds News Network, and he posted a 22-second video on November 18. That was a report from the war, but it also gave me a picture into his marriage.

Sadi's wearing his press vest and looks exhausted. He's explaining that cell service and the Internet keep getting cut off, and it's often impossible to text or call anyone, including his wife. So they've resorted to using handwritten letters to communicate while he's out reporting, sending them back and forth with neighbors or colleagues.

He ends the video with a picture of one of these letters from his wife. In it, she writes,

‘Me and the kids stayed up waiting for you until the morning, and you didn't come home. We were really sad.

I kept telling the kids, Look, he's coming. But you didn't show up. May God forgive you.

Come home tomorrow and eat with us. Do you want me to make you kebab or maybe kapse? Bring your friends with you, it's okay.

And give Azeez the battery to charge. What do you think about me sending you handwritten letters with messenger pigeons from now on? Ha ha ha.

I'm just kidding. I want to curse at you, but we're living in a war. Too bad.

Okay, I love you. Bye.’

A few hours after he shared that letter, Sadie and his co-worker Hassouna Saleem were at Sadie's home, when they were killed by an Israeli air strike that hit his house.

His wife and kids, who weren't there, survived.

Gaza is tiny, and the journalist community is really close. Reading the list, you can see all the connections between people. Like with Brahim Lafi.

Brahim was a photojournalist, one of the first journalists to die. He was killed while reporting on October 7. He was just 21, still new to journalism.

On his Instagram, you can see that in his posts just a few years ago, he was still practicing his photography, taking pictures of coffee cups and flowers. Then he started doing beautiful portraits and action shots. You can really feel him starting to become a journalist.

Clicking around on Instagram, I found a tribute post about Brahim from his co-worker Rushdie Sarraj. In this photo, Brahim staring intently at the back of a camera, his face lit up by the light from the viewfinder. He looks so young.

The caption reads, My assistant is gone. Brahim is gone. Rushdie himself was a beloved journalist and filmmaker.

And I know that because he's also on the list. He was killed just two weeks after Brahim. I read the tribute post to him too.

I saw this over and over again. Journalists posting tributes, who were then killed themselves soon after. And a tribute goes up for them.

And then the pattern continues.

Thank you.

Something else I saw over and over on the list, journalists later in the war who had become aware that they could be making their last reports. They'd say it at the beginning of their videos. And those were the hardest to watch, especially when it was true.

One video like that was posted by Ayat Hadduro. Ayat was a freelance journalist and video blogger. Her videos before the war covered a wide range from what I can tell, interviews about women in politics.

She even appeared in a commercial for ketchup-flavored chips. She clearly liked being in front of the camera. Once the war started, Ayat's pivoted to covering bombings and food shortages.

On November 20, she posted a video report from her home. You can hear the airstrikes hitting very close to where she is. It's scary.

‘This is likely my last video. Today, the occupation forces dropped phosphorus bombs on Beit Lahya area and frightening sound bombs. They dropped letters from the sky, ordering everyone to evacuate.

Everyone ran into the streets in the craziest way. No one knows where to go.

But everyone else has evacuated. They don't know where they're going. The situation is so scary.

What's happening is so tough, and may God have mercy on us.’

She was killed later that day.

Targeting journalists, in case you didn't know, is a war crime. So far, the Committee to Protect Journalists has found that three of the journalists on the list were explicitly targeted by the IDF, the Israeli military. Investigations by the Washington Post and Reuters, Human Rights Watch and the United Nations have also raised serious questions in these three cases.

And the Committee to Protect Journalists is investigating 10 other killings. When we reached out to the IDF for comments, they said, quote, the IDF has never, and will never, deliberately target journalists. That's the answer they always give in these situations.

Meanwhile, dozens of seasoned reporters have fled Gaza. Journalists who worked for Al Jazeera, the BBC, the New York Times, the Washington Post, Reuters, Agence France-Presse. So many media offices were demolished in Israeli airstrikes that the Committee to Protect Journalists stopped counting.

It's not just individual lives that have been destroyed. It's an entire infrastructure.

Thank you.

The name on the list that was hardest for me to look at was Issam Abdullah, because I'd crossed paths with him once. Issam was a Lebanese journalist, a video journalist for Reuters for many, many years. He had just won an award for coverage of Ukraine.

I'm Lebanese and still report there sometimes, and I'd worked with Issam a couple of summers ago. He helped me film a sort of random story in Beirut. I was interviewing this entrepreneur who had started a sperm freezing company after an accident where he spilled a tray of hot coffee on his private area, burning himself.

I know, ridiculous. It was a really silly shoot. Right after we said cut and started to rap, Issam started this whole bit about being in his late 30s, reconsidering his own sperm quality and everything he now realized he was doing to hurt it, and no one could stop laughing.

It was a really good day that felt good to remember and to remember him that way. Issam was killed by the IDF on October 13. His death was one of the three that the Committee to Protect Journalists has identified as a targeted killing.

He was fired upon by an Israeli tank while standing in an empty field on the Lebanon-Israel border with a small group of other journalists. Everyone was wearing press vests with cameras out. They were covering the Hezbollah part of this war.

A few other journalists were injured in the attack, which was captured on video. The IDF says they were responding to firing from Hezbollah, not targeting the journalists. But multiple investigations, including by Reuters, the United Nations, Amnesty International and the AFP, found no evidence of any firing from the location of the journalists before the IDF shot at them.

The journalists in the group and video footage confirmed that there was no military activity near them. I had only met Issam once, barely knew him, but it affected me so much when he died. I know that he understood the risks of his job, but somehow it still felt so random and unfair that he would be struck down like that, following the rules, wearing his press vest and helmet, and a pack of reporters on a sunny day in an open field.

I find myself thinking about him all the time. His last Instagram post was commemorating another journalist, this iconic reporter Shereen Abou Aql who had been killed by the IDF. When I first saw that post in October, I thought how ironic because a week later, Isam also was killed by the IDF.

But then, after spending time reading the list, I realized how common this had become. I still haven't finished going through the list and looking up the people on it. I keep finding things that stick with me, like the funny way this one radio host would cut off a caller who was rambling on for too long.

A tweet from reporter Al-Abdallah that quoted Sylvia Plath. It read, What ceremony of wars can patch the havoc? I'm going to keep going down the list, even though this story is over now.

Just for myself. My own way of bearing witness. Which is, in the end, all that these journalists were trying to do.”

—DANA BALLOUT, The 95. Dana sifts through a very long list—the list of journalists killed in the Israel-Hamas war, and comes back with five small fragments of the lives of the people on it. Dana is a Lebanese-American, Emmy-nominated documentary producer.

[ha-rinrin]

Home in the Madness

summary: In the heart of a chaotic hideout, surrounded by machinery and unfinished projects, a makeshift family finds comfort in each other.

Pairing: Jinx x Fem!reader

Wordcount: 1.4k

Authors note: Im feeling real low but writing about Jinx and Isha brings me serotonin.

masterlist

The hideout was as chaotic as ever, filled with the constant hum of machinery and the unmistakable scent of burnt metal. It was the kind of place that could make anyone feel lost in the mess, yet here, in the middle of it all, there was something beautifully grounding about the way you, Jinx, and Isha existed together. The walls were covered in graffiti, the floors cluttered with half-finished projects, but in the midst of the madness, there was a family—an unspoken bond that ran deeper than the wreckage of the world around you.

You sat beside Jinx on the floor, her warm, electric energy radiating off her, drawing you in like a magnet. She was showing Isha how to assemble a small gun, her hands moving with practiced ease, but it wasn’t just the task at hand that made your heart race. It was the way Jinx looked at you when she thought no one was watching, her eyes softening just for a moment before she went back to her usual chaos.

She was yours in a way no one could ever understand—wild, unpredictable, and impossibly charming. You were more than just partners; you were a team, and in this makeshift family you’d created, the love between the two of you was undeniable. Jinx’s playful touches, the way she leaned in just a little closer when explaining something to Isha, the light teasing in her voice—it was all wrapped in layers of affection that only you could truly see. You knew her better than anyone, her quirks, her flaws, her genius, and above all, the love she had for you.

“Okay, kiddo, you see these parts?” Jinx said, her voice playful and energetic as she held up a small metal piece. “This is the trigger guard. We gotta be careful with it, alright? If you mess up, it’s not a ‘boom,’ but it’s still a pop that’s gonna sting.”

Isha nodded seriously, her wide eyes focused on Jinx, hanging on every word. “A pop,” she repeated, her voice almost a whisper as if speaking too loudly might ruin everything. She took the metal piece in her tiny hands and studied it.

You watched her, your heart fluttering as she gently guided Isha’s hands. You couldn't help but smile, loving the way her energy filled the space, making it feel like home.

Isha looked up at you both with wide, eager eyes, clearly trying her best to mirror everything Jinx was doing. “Like this, right?” she asked, holding up the piece of metal like it was the most important thing in the world.

You leaned in, your hand brushing against Jinx’s as you offered a gentle correction, your fingers tracing the outline of Isha’s little hands. “Just a bit to the left, like this,” you murmured, looking at Isha with the kind of softness that only came when you were with them.

Isha's eyes sparkled with determination as she followed your instructions, her little fingers carefully holding the pieces together. She glanced up at you, then over to Jinx, looking for approval.

“Looking good, kid!” Jinx chimed in, leaning closer to inspect Isha’s progress. Her voice was as encouraging as it was teasing. “You’re gonna be the best gunsmith in the Lanes at this rate.”

Isha beamed at the compliment, a proud smile spreading across her face. She tightened her grip on the parts, adjusting them ever so slightly before her hands froze. “Am I doing it right?”

“Perfect,” you reassured her, leaning in to gently guide her hands into place. “You just need a bit more pressure on the side here, like this—”

Just as you finished the sentence, Sevika's low, almost inaudible chuckle broke through the stillness of the room. You glanced up and saw her sprawled across the couch, arms crossed, eyes watching you three with a calm amusement. She didn’t seem to mind the chaos—she had gotten used to it long ago—but you could tell she was enjoying the scene. There was something comforting in seeing the whole family together, in its own disjointed, chaotic way.

“Are you sure teaching her to make guns is safer than bombs?” Sevika’s voice was laced with dry humor, but there was an underlying affection in the way she watched over you all. She didn’t often show it, but her eyes softened whenever she saw you and Jinx together, especially with Isha.

Jinx let out a mischievous giggle, leaning over to poke you in the side. “Hey, I didn’t think Isha needed to make any big explosions just yet.” She shot Sevika a look, her grin wide and full of playful challenge. “Gotta start small, right?”

Sevika raised an eyebrow, giving a half-smile as she pushed herself up from the couch, walking over to where you, Jinx, and Isha were. “You two are going to turn her into a walking arsenal, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jinx replied with mock innocence, but there was a flicker of pride in her voice. “Just showing her the basics. Gotta be prepared, right?”

You’d never imagined a life like this, especially not with Isha—your heart swelled as you realized just how much she had become part of your world. Over the past few months, she'd grown on you, not just as Jinx’s sidekick, but as your little girl. She was smart, fierce, and sweet in ways that surprised you. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t technically your child; she was family, your child. You loved her fiercely, like you loved Jinx.

Isha proudly held up the completed gun, a wide grin on her face. 'I did it!” she declared, her voice full of pride and excitement.

“Perfect!” Jinx cheered, her voice full of pride as she high-fived Isha. You could see the joy in her eyes as she ruffled Isha’s hair, her usual carefree grin softening with an unexpected hint of pride.

You smiled at her, the love for this little girl bubbling in your chest. “You did amazing, Isha,” you said softly, pulling her into a quick hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

Your eyes met Jinx’s for a moment, and there was a softness there, something you hadn’t seen in a while. Without a word, she leaned in, her lips brushing yours in a soft kiss. In that fleeting moment, the world fell away, leaving just the two of you. You could feel her wild affection for you—untamable and pure. She was more than just Jinx, more than the chaos. She was yours, and you were hers. The bond between the two of you had grown so strong, woven through with every shared look, every touch, and every moment spent together, even in the madness.

As she pulled away, her fingers lingered on your hand, her thumb tracing the lines of your palm in a soft, intimate gesture. There was a glimmer of something deeper in her eyes—something that made your heart beat just a little faster, something that said everything without saying a word.

“Love you,” Jinx whispered, her voice quiet but steady. You could feel the weight of those words, how much she meant them. She didn’t need to say it often; you both knew.

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice just as soft as you gave her hand a gentle squeeze. 

You leaned back against the wall beside Jinx, your hand instinctively finding hers. In that simple touch, you realized that, amid all the madness, this moment felt like home. There was something so natural about it now, like the two of you were always meant to be here, in this messy hideout, teaching Isha how to make guns. You and Jinx were in love, but it was more than that. It was a deep, unshakeable connection that made everything feel like it had meaning, even in the chaos of the Lanes.

Jinx grinned, her heart clearly swelling with affection for the girl who had become part of the fabric of her world. “She’s gonna be unstoppable,” Jinx said with a laugh, her eyes meeting yours once more, this time with something even deeper than mischief. Something that said, without words, this is home.

Sevika snorted, shaking her head. “Don’t get any ideas, Jinx. I’m not cleaning up after all the disasters you two are going to cause.”

Jinx winked at her, her fingers still intertwined with yours. “No promises,” she teased. But there was warmth in her voice, a depth to it that spoke volumes.

You, Jinx, Isha, and Sevika—somehow, despite everything—had become a family. It wasn’t a traditional one. Hell, it wasn’t even close. But in the chaotic, unpredictable world you all lived in, it was more than enough. And as Isha held the gun frame proudly in her hands, a bright smile lighting up her face, you realized that this—this chaotic, loud, beautiful family—was everything you needed.