#deputy chair

[mushiver]

Hi 🩷💌 what do you think Mabel friends chairs are? Hope you're having a good day sweetie 🌷🩷

I am, thank you!

Expanding the chairverse

[rightnewshindi]

खड़ी रही महिला सरपंच, कुर्सी पर पैर हिलाते नजर पंचायत सचिव और उपसरपंच; जानें क्या है पूरा मामला

Madhya Pradesh News: सतना में पंचायत सचिव की दंबगई देखने को मिली। यहां पंचायत भवन में सचिव उपसरपंच कुर्सी पर बैठे पैर हिलाते रहे और सरपंच को जमीन में बैठने की नसीहत दे रहे थे। हद ये है कि पंचायत की वो प्रथम नागरिक हैं और महिला हैं उस��े बाद भी सचिव की ऐसे अफसरशाही ���ि जैसे वो पंचायत का सचिव नहीं जनपद का मुख्य कार्यपालन अधिकारी हो। वहीं ग्रामीणों ने आरोप लगाया है कि ग्रामसभा के दौरान जब वो अपने काम…

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Save a Horse, Ride a Bob

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Taking someone to your hometown is a huge milestone for you, and seemingly Bob fits perfectly with everyone and everything, except for the fact the he managed to unknowingly place upon the “hat rule” on you. But hey? At least it works out in his favour.

A/N: This 100% was based on when John said “ride Bob into the sky”

WC: 2.7K

⸻

Bringing someone home had always felt… foreign.

Not because you weren’t proud of where you came from, quite the opposite. It was stitched into your bones, the red dirt roads, the smell of warm rain on fence posts, the summer nights heavy with fireflies and the distant lowing of cattle. But this town, with its long memory and watchful eyes, didn’t forget things easily. And it didn’t take kindly to people who didn’t understand its rhythm.

You’d never wanted to share it with anyone. Not really.

Until Bob.

It started small, the way he’d lean in to listen when you talked about riding horses at dawn, or how his lips quirked when you mentioned growing up in a place where the diner served pie before noon and the deputy coached Little League. He never interrupted, never made fun of it. Just listened like he was storing every word somewhere private.

And maybe that’s when you knew.

That if anyone was going to see where you came from, the soft underbelly of your story, the place where your heart had first learned how to beat… It should be him.

Bob Reynolds, with his soft voice and calloused hands, with his quiet smile and wide, storm wrecked heart. He was timid in the way kind people often are, like he didn’t want to take up too much space. But you knew, deep down, that this town would take one look at him and fold him into its patchwork soul like he’d always belonged.

⸻

You and Bob would drove up the winding roads in your beat-up truck, talking about your plans to show him the ranch, have dinner with your folks, maybe take him riding the next morning.

But then as the old house came into view, porch light already glowing golden against the falling sun, there were more than just your parents waiting. A half-dozen trucks were parked haphazardly near the barn, lawn chairs sprouting like dandelions around the fire pit, and you could hear laughter and screen doors slapping shut before you even killed the engine.

Bob looked at you, startled.

“…I thought it was just your family?”

You winced, a smile pulling at your mouth. “It was I guess, until I told my mama I was bringing someone home.”

He blinked. “You told her this morning.”

“Exactly.”

Bob’s brows lifted in slow, dawning realization.

⸻

When he stepped out of the truck, the warm twilight hit him first, that kind of golden dusk you only get in wide, open places. Crickets just beginning to chirp. The slow hum of cicadas. Dust kicking up around boots. The porch steps creaked under familiar weight as your mom came flying toward you, apron still dusted with flour, arms thrown wide. She hugged you like you’d been gone years instead of months.

And then she turned to Bob.

“You must be Robert.” she said, using his full name like she’d already claimed him.

He opened his mouth, but your father stepped up next, tall and sun-worn, giving Bob a long look before offering his hand. “You ride?” he asked, like it was a greeting.

“I… don’t think so?” Bob admitted sheepishly.

Your dad nodded once. “We’ll fix that.”

And just like that, it began.

Neighbors streamed in with casseroles and lemonade. Old classmates you hadn’t seen since graduation hugged you tight and gave Bob speculative, amused once-overs. Kids ran wild near the pasture fence, and someone’s dog had already claimed Bob’s shoes as a pillow. Your best friend from high school elbowed you with a grin, murmuring, “Damn, girl. You did good.”

Bob stood beside you, stiff at first. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention. Not like this. Not like someone’s person. But every time he reached for your hand, you gave it to him, steady and sure.

And slowly, he began to unfurl.

Someone offered him a cold sweet tea. Another told him he would look good in flannel. The neighbor’s teenage daughter asked him what he did, and when he gave her the world’s gentlest answer. “I’m just trying to be a good man” She sighed like she was about to write a love song about him.

You caught him later on the porch swing, ankles crossed, Henrietta the Chicken glaring at him from across the yard like she was sizing him up.

“Do I pass?” he asked you, voice low, amused.

You leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder.

“No one’s ever passed faster.”

⸻

That Friday night, you took him to The Spur, the town’s only bar-slash-dancehall, where the beer was cheap, the music was loud, and the wooden floor had seen generations of boots scuff it up with laughter and two-step.

You made sure Bob was dressed right. It took effort. He had the boots now, worn and scuffed. You made him wear jeans that actually fit. And a pearl-snap shirt in dark navy that made his shoulders look criminally good. The hat was the finishing touch, black, low-brimmed, rugged.

When he stepped out of your room, adjusting the collar and looking shy as hell, you damn near whistled.

“I feel like a theme park character.” he said.

“You look hot.” you corrected, walking a circle around him.

“Do people… wear this for real?”

“Every weekend,” you said. “Now c’mon, Reynolds. Let’s teach you how to dance.”

⸻

Inside the bar, it was all twang and laughter and the thick smell of fried food and whiskey. The band played fast and wild, and people hollered out each note. Bob stuck close to you like a lifeline, eyes wide as folks clapped him on the back, calling him “Hollywood” and “City Man” and asking how he landed you.

You taught Bob how to two-step.

Well, kind of.

“Left foot, then right. No- Bob. Other right.”

“I am using my right!”

“You’re stepping on my foot!”

“Sorry!”

You ended up just swaying with him in the middle of the dance floor, flushed from beer and embarrassment, his hands tentative as they found your waist. You tugged them tighter, grounding him, and that’s when something shifted. The tension in his shoulders loosened. His smile changed, real now.

He smelled like cedar and soap and just a trace of the cologne you told him to wear, the one with the little notes of vetiver and pepper that made your knees weak. The heat between you crackled with something unspoken, and for a few minutes, everything around you blurred into music and motion.

At some point during the night, after another dance, Bob tugged off his hat to run a hand through his damp hair. His face was shiny with sweat, his curls stuck to his forehead, and he looked dazed in that beautiful, happy way, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was here. Then, without thinking, he reached over and plopped the hat down onto your head, shaking his hair out to cool off…

It was a small, tired gesture.

But the moment it happened?

Electric.

The entire bar erupted.

Someone behind the bar bellowed, “WOOOOOO-EEE, RIDE THE COWBOY!”

“HOLY HELL!” someone else shouted. “BOBBY KNOWS THE HAT RULE!”

You stood very, very still.

More hooting. Boots stomping the floor. Someone whooped loud enough to rattle the windows.

Bob blinked, clearly lost, clearly panicking.

He looked at you, eyes wide. “I- uh- what did I just do?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear with a smirk. “You don’t know the hat rule, do you?”

“…No.”

You reached up, adjusted the brim so it sat just right on your head, and said sweetly, “If a cowboy puts his hat on someone else’s head, it means they’re going home together.”

Bob turned scarlet. You’d never seen a man blush that fast.

“Oh.” he said, voice tight. “That’s- uh. That’s a rule?”

You shrugged, already spinning away with a teasing smile. “Town doesn’t make the rules. We just enforce them.”

Bob watched you walk toward the bar like you’d just turned his whole world upside down.

And from behind him, someone slapped his shoulder and howled, “Better saddle up, Bobby boy! That hat rule’s legally binding!”

He just stood there for a long second, still blushing, mouth parted in that stunned little way he got when you caught him completely off guard. Then you glanced back, cocked your head, and gave him a wink.

⸻

You drank, you danced, you laughed until your stomach hurt.

The old dive bar buzzed with warmth and off-key covers from the town band playing on the makeshift stage. Sticky floors, half-priced beers, and a neon sign that flickered like it had a secret, it was the kind of place that didn’t care what time it was, only that you were having a good time. And you were. Maybe more than you had in months.

Bob didn’t stop smiling, not once. Not when someone spilled a drink down the back of his jeans, not when the bartender got your orders wrong three times, and definitely not when he nearly tripped over the jukebox cord trying to avoid Henrietta, who had somehow followed you to the bar like a bad penny . His cheeks flushed pink, more from laughter than embarrassment, and he mouthed a frantic “save me” before ducking behind you like you were his personal shield. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your beer.

The night wore on in golden, blurry edges. You danced like no one was watching, even though they definitely were. Arms loose around his shoulders, his big hands hovering just shy of your waist like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. But with every song, he drew in closer, more confident, until you were moving as one. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell beneath your fingertips, the soft warmth of his breath near your ear when he leaned in to tell you something stupid or sweet or both.

And hours later, when the crowd thinned out and the music turned slow and drawling some old country love song that could’ve been from your parents’ wedding, Bob didn’t ask. He just offered his hand, gentle and sure, and you took it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He pulled you into a quiet dance, his movements tender and deliberate, as if he was afraid to break the moment. Not once did he step on your feet. Not once did he falter. His arms wrapped around you like a safety net, loose but strong, and for a long time, the world felt small, just you, him, and the soft hum of a steel guitar in the background.

The cowboy hat stayed firmly on your head the entire time. Bob gave it a reverent little tilt when he looked down at you, like it was some kind of crown, like you were someone special, someone he’d waited years to find. And under the dim bar lights, with your head resting against his chest and his heart beating a little too fast, it was then he decided you really were.

⸻

The night air was warm and thick with the scent of wildflowers and summer sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, earth still holding onto the day’s heat. Crickets sang in the tall grass, and fireflies blinked like they were keeping time with your footsteps.

You walked back to the ranch under a million stars, boots crunching gravel, Bob’s fingers twined with yours like he never wanted to let go. He kept glancing over at you, smile crooked, eyes glassy with just enough of a buzz to make him bold. You were both a little tipsy. The good kind. The kind that made everything shimmer around the edges, like the world had softened and spun itself into something just for the two of you.

He bumped his shoulder against yours as you neared the porch. “This was… a really good night.”

“Even with Henrietta managed to track you down into the bar?”

He laughed loud, boyish, real. “Especially because of that. I got to hide behind you like a damsel. Very dignified.”

You giggled, heart drumming somewhere in your throat. And then you were at the door, old, creaky, paint chipped from years of weather and wear, and the moment you pushed it open, something shifted in the air between you. Something quiet and charged, like static before a storm.

Bob kissed you before you’d even kicked your boots off.

It wasn’t tentative or careful, not anymore. His mouth was warm and insistent, and you gasped against him, your fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, tugging it loose. You stumbled backward into the hallway, knocking into a console table and nearly sending a mason jar of flowers tumbling.

“Door.” you murmured, laughing between kisses, trying to remember where your old bedroom even was.

“Where?” Bob’s voice was low and ragged, one hand splayed wide across your lower back, the other still cupping your cheek like you were breakable and sacred all at once.

“Left- no, other left- BOB-!”

You both slammed into the wall beside the staircase, right beneath your childhood photos, your third-grade rodeo ribbon nearly fell off its nail. You couldn’t stop giggling, and Bob kissed the sound right out of your mouth, breathing hard like he’d been waiting days to stop being so damn respectful.

He finally found the door, flinging it open with more enthusiasm than grace. You tripped over the threshold in a tangle of limbs and laughter, landing on the bed in a puff of quilted covers and heat. Bob followed, all long limbs and broad shoulders, kissing you like a man starved.

Clothes came off in messy, half-laughing pulls. His shirt over his head, your dress yanked down around your hips. Boots hit the floor with loud, lazy thuds. He paused to help you with the stubborn zipper, grinning when it caughtand you laughed so hard he had to hush you with another kiss, mouths brushing and breath mingling in the dark.

Then he pulled back, just for a second. Long enough to look at you.

To really look.

You were flushed and glowing, chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton of your bra, his cowboy hat still perched crooked on your head. You blinked up at him, lips kiss swollen, eyes wide and a little wild.

Bob stood there like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He breathed out a shaky laugh. “Gotta live up to the hat rule, right?”

You bit your lip, reaching for him. “You better, Reynolds.”

And with a soft, reverent touch, he leaned forward and set the hat straight again. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged there with him, beneath him, in every version of the life he hadn’t dared to picture before now.

And then he kissed you slow. Not the urgent kind from the hallway, but something deeper. Something that lingered. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask,it told. That you were wanted, worshiped, known.

The mattress creaked beneath you as he joined you, the old springs singing their familiar tune. You let your hands roam his back, mapping muscle and freckle and scar, and he whispered your name like a saying. Over and over. Until it was the only thing that mattered.

His fingers trailing down your spine, gentle but certain, pulling you closer until every breath you took was shared. The warmth of his body pressed against yours was like coming home, steady, real, grounding. His lips moved from your mouth, to your jaw, to the curve of your neck, leaving soft promises with every touch.

You tilted your head, exposing more of yourself to him, your breath hitching when his teeth grazed your skin just enough to stir a fire. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, steadying you in the sweet chaos of your shared desire.

You didn’t rush. You let the moment stretch, every heartbeat syncing between you. There was no need for haste, no need for words—just the quiet music of two people who had found something worth holding onto in a world that often felt too loud.

When his mouth finally met yours again, it was slow and deliberate, a dance of trust and tenderness. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, as if to memorize every inch of him.

And outside, the stars burned on. Quiet witnesses to the beginning of something you didn’t have a name for just yet. Something real.

Something that felt a lot like home. He was home.

⸻

[dearlenore]

AN ‘I FEEL’ STATEMENT. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer and you interrogate a suspect

PAIRING: bau!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.7K / ???

a/n: guess who this is based on and win a cookie

Spencer didn’t even look up when you barged into the motel room.

“Don’t say it,” he said, flipping a page in the case file.

You froze in the doorway, still halfway through pulling off your FBI jacket. “Say what?”

“That the crime scene smelled like expired deli meat and failure.”

You made a face. “Okay, rude. That’s classic FBI fieldwork ambiance.”

He looked up and smirked. “You’re predictable.”

You tossed your jacket on the chair and flopped onto the bed beside him. “You like me because I’m predictable.”

“I love you in spite of it.”

You stuck your tongue out and stole the file from his hands. “Alright, Dr. Sass, what do we know?”

“Third victim, male, 30s, found in an alley behind a gas station that sells ‘hot dogs’ that may or may not be actual meat,” Spencer replied with a snarky tone , leaning back against the headboard. “Ligature marks, same positioning as the first two. Garcia’s running facial rec now.”

You flipped through the photos. “This guy looks like my ex.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Which one? Also…You dated a guy with a neck tattoo that says Loyalty Over Everything?”

“He had a motorcycle and a soft spot for cats. It was a phase…. And the tattoo said ‘I’m a dick’ in Chinese.”

“I sincerely hope your standards have risen.”

You gave him a smug look. “Please. I’m dating a literal genius with three PhDs. I upgraded.”

He hummed. “Four soon.”

“Whatever,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’re basically the FBI’s version of a trophy husband.”

He blinked. “Are you saying I’m your trophy husband?”

“Yeah. Except instead of a yacht I got… trauma and access to crime scenes. I guess?”

Spencer rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Romantic.”

You snickered. “That’s what they all say.”

For a while, you worked in comfortable silence, both reading over the files. The motel TV buzzed in the background, playing a rerun of some bad soap opera where the acting was worse than your last polygraph subject.

“So,” you said eventually, “you think this guy’s trying to make a point? The symmetry, the posing, the weird ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ energy of it all?”

Spencer looked thoughtful. “He’s definitely performing. But it’s subtle. Less drama, more… statement.”

“Like a TED Talk, but make it murder.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed. “I fucking hate Ted talks, people who talk for hours like that are so annoying.”

He glanced sideways at you. “Speak for yourself. I’m adorable.”

“You’re adorable in a ‘my girlfriend wants to kick my ass daily’ kind of way.”

“To be fair, you want to kick everyone’s ass. Some more sensually than others.”

“HEY! Me and Emily had a deal. Have you seen— actually don’t answer that I’d have to kill you.”

“I find you so oddly attractive.” He said, looking a bit perplexed by his own taste.

You bumped his shoulder gently. “You always say that like you’re surprised.”

Spencer gave you a soft look, the kind he saved for when the world got too heavy. “I’m not. You’re annoying and incredible.”

You grinned. “Aw. You’re such a sap when we’re surrounded by homicide photos. You should be more mindful of the dead,”

“Don’t ruin it.”

He leaned in to kiss you, brief and warm. Then he stole the case file back like the nerd he was.

“Fine,” you said, standing up and stretching. “I’ll go see if Morgan found anything useful, or if he’s just flirting with the local deputy again.”

“Tell him if she has a cowboy hat, he has my blessing.”

You grabbed your jacket, pausing at the door. “If I get shot, tell the team I died being hotter than all of them.”

Spencer looked up with a totally deadpan expression and whistled. “That goes without saying.”

You blew him a kiss and shut the door behind you, already drafting what you’d say to Morgan when you saw him.

Eventually , you’d caught the guy.

The suspect sat cuffed to the table, arms crossed, expression somewhere between cocky and confused. He’d asked for a lawyer three times. The team knew it. So did you. But now he was suddenly cooperative—and you had a feeling that had less to do with his conscience and more to do with the fact that Morgan had promised he’d be “dealing with Dr. Reid next.”

What he didn’t know?

He was getting both of you.

You stepped into the interrogation room, Spencer behind you, both of you in sync like you were about to perform a synchronized FBI ballet—but with more psychological warfare.

Outside the one-way glass, Morgan muttered, “This’ll be interesting.”

Inside the room, you dropped into the chair across from the suspect and offered a sugary smile.

“Hi, Marcus. Love the scowl. Very tough guy who definitely has never cried in a 90s Honda civic. Or was it a Toyota?”

Spencer sat beside you, calm and collected, opening the file in front of him like he was about to politely destroy a man’s entire worldview.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “So they sent the nerd and the girlfriend?”

You smiled wider. “Aw. You think I’m just the girlfriend. That’s cute.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “Statistically, assuming a woman is less competent in a professional setting increases the likelihood of public humiliation by seventy-three percent. But don’t worry, we’ll keep it between us.”

“For real? You just know that?” The suspect hissed.

“No asshole, I made it up…” Spencer mumbled, still looking at the file and reading it closely.

You slid the photo across the table—victim number two. “Let’s talk about this guy. You were seen outside his apartment the night he was killed. Coincidence, or did ya get the first time murder jitters?���

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Spencer’s voice was deceptively light. “We didn’t say you did. You said that. Interesting.”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand. “Also interesting? That your fingerprints were on the door handle, and the doormat has your boot tread on it. You’re either involved or you’re just deeply nosy.”

Marcus shrugged. “Maybe I was there. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, honey,” you said, voice syrupy-sweet. “People like you never do things for no reason. You can’t even microwave instant soup without making it about your masculinity.”

Spencer coughed like he was covering a laugh.

“Also if you’re microwaving soup shame on you. Put it in a damn pot on the stove like the rest of us.” You groaned, knowing damn well you did it yesterday.

“Look,” Marcus said, sitting up straighter. “I don’t have to say anything to you.”

You looked around the room , faux confusion on your face. He literally asked for you?

Spencer tapped the table twice. “Totally fair. You’re exercising your rights. But just to clarify, you’re not denying you were there. So if we subpoena your phone, we’re not going to be shocked by GPS data, right?”

You leaned toward Spencer and whispered loudly, “Is this the part where we pretend we don’t already have that?”

He nodded seriously. “Yes, for dramatic effect.”

Marcus shifted. “You’re bluffing.”

“Buddy,” you said, leaning back. “The FBI does two things really well: crush dreams and ruin lives. And my boyfriend here’s got a PhD in both.”

Spencer added, “Technically only one, but I did minor in destroying egos.”

“Oh for real? That’s fine I have a masters in being better than most people and humbling men. I think that’ll suffice.” You replied.

Outside the glass, JJ blinked. “Are they… flirting? In the middle of an interrogation?”

Hotch muttered, “I think it’s working?”

Back inside, the suspect was starting to sweat, his earlier confidence deflating like a balloon at a sad birthday party.

You pulled out another photo—this time of Marcus’s ex, who had filed a restraining order last year. You dropped it gently on the table.

Spencer’s voice was quiet. “She’s scared of you.”

“And she was like 16.”

Marcus looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor as Spencer flipped to the next page in the file.

“Her name was Emily,” he said calmly, tapping the paper. “She filed for a restraining order at sixteen. Updated it again when she turned seventeen.”

Marcus scoffed. “She was—she acted older than she was.”

You blinked. Spencer’s jaw twitched.

“Oh wow,” you said, leaning forward. “Do you have an I feel statement about that?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, like—‘I feel like I want to date children’?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the vibe I’m getting too. Really leaning into the predator energy.”

“I’m not a predator,” Marcus snapped, defensive now, angry. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Spencer arched a brow. “We literally read your search history.”

You added, “And the restraining order. And the texts. And your very creative Reddit username.”

“Subtle wasn’t your strong suit,” Spencer muttered.

You leaned back in your chair, folding your arms. “So here’s what we do know about you, Marcus: you’re insecure, violent when women say no, and very interested in people who are still in Algebra II. That about cover it?”

He opened his mouth—then shut it again.

“That’s what I thought,” you said sweetly, before glancing over at Spencer with a grin. “See? We’re so good at this.”

He smiled back. “Terrifyingly good.”

“You think this is funny?” Marcus snapped, finally rattled. “This little good cop, bad cop thing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good cop? You sweet summer child.”

“We’re not good cop, bad cop,” Spencer added helpfully. “We’re bad cop, worse cop.”

“I’m worse,” you chimed in. “Obviously.”

Spencer nodded. “That tracks.”

Marcus was silent, jaw tense.

You leaned in again, tone shifting. “Look. You talk to us, you get some control back. You don’t, and we throw this entire file at the prosecutor and let them tear you apart. Your call.”

Spencer added, “Statistically, cooperating suspects receive lighter sentences. Not that you seem like a man who cares about consequences, given your stunning history of rage texting and unpaid parking tickets… and dating children.”

You smiled. “Seriously, ten tickets? What are you, allergic to parallel parking?”

Marcus stared at the table, finally cracking.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he muttered.

You and Spencer exchanged a glance.

“Okay,” you said, sitting back. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

[yasministration]

One of us - platonic!marauders x reader

summary: when the marauders find out you're an animagus, you're forced into the beginning of a friendship with them. wc: 1.2k+

With a piece of toast halfway through your mouth, actively listening to Evan’s story, the last thing you’d been expecting on a Monday morning was for Dumbledore to stand up for an announcement. “Will the following students please report to Professor McGonagall’s office.” The old wizard cleared his throat and Evan rolled his eyes, mockingly starting to list off the names of the marauders. “Sirius Black,” You and Evan burst into a fit of giggles at the accuracy of his prediction, listening closely for the other students’ names. “James Potter, Peter Pettigrew and,” Dumbledore paused, squinting his eyes at the slip of paper he was staring at as Evan mumbled ‘Remus Lupin’.

“Uh, Y/N L/N.” You felt all the blood drain away from your face and Evan’s jaw dropped from where he sat in front of you. You felt everyone’s eyes turn towards you and furrowed your eyes in confusion. Evan widened his eyes at you, nodding his head towards the entrance of the Great Hall. You gestured at him with your hands, expressing how you had no idea what you'd done, and grabbed the rest of your toast, sticking it between your teeth as you gathered your bag, slinging it over your shoulder.

Turning around, you were surprised to find the three other students lingering in the doorway, waiting for you. You bit through your toast, catching the piece of bread in your hand as you sped up your footsteps, catching up to them. The gears in your head churned as you thought about every single rule you broke in your last seven years at Hogwarts. But why on earth would you be called to see the head of gryffindor house when you weren’t even a gryffindor? You gasped, stopping in your tracks. The three boys in front of you spun around to look at you, a panicked look on your face. “Oh, looks like someone knows what they’re in trouble for.” Sirius teased in a sing song voice, a smirk making its way on his face.

“Oh, can you tell us please! Because, we’re probably in trouble for the same thing, and we always get in trouble so it could be anything! And you, you never get in trouble.” You grimaced at Pettigrew’s little rant, debating whether you should tell them. You shook your head quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat, saying with an embarrassing squeak “I can’t tell you.” Because being an unregistered animagus was not only breaking school rules, but breaking the law. And the only reason you would be called to Professor McGonagall’s office was because she too, was an animagus, and she’d be the only Professor who would know how to deal with situations like these. You looked at the three boys in front of you, rushing past them. But if that was the case, why on earth would they be called into her office too?

You huffed, making the final turn to Professor McGonagall’s office. You put your fist up, ready to knock, but held yourself back. “Hey,” You turned your head to look at the boy speaking to you, a gentle smile on his face. “Don’t worry. If you were in real bad trouble, you wouldn’t be called in with other people.” James nodded towards his two friends, mumbling “Speaking from experience here.” You scoffed in amusement, unable to help the small smile on your face, finally knocking on the wooden door. The “Come in!” was instant. You gulped, smile instantly dropping.

The three of you entered the room in a single file line, sitting down on the four chairs lined up in front of the deputy headmistress’ desk. Professor McGonagall didn’t look up at you until you were all settled, slamming a stack of papers down on the wooden surface of her desk. “Well,” She started with her familiar croak, adjusting her glasses on her nose. “This isn’t how I thought I’d start my week, but what’s life without surprises?” You laughed nervously at her words, but you could tell from her monotonous voice and serious facial expression that you were out of order.

“Recently, a few members of staff have heard students talking about how animals from the forbidden forest are getting comfortable and wandering on school grounds.” You sucked in a sharp breath, straightening your posture as you peeked at the three boys from the corner of your eye. They were glancing right back at you. “More specifically, mentions of a stag, the grim, and a white tiger.” Professor McGonagall looked straight up at you. “Ms. L/N the dog and stag may get away with it, and no one has even noticed the rat, but a white tiger? Students are claiming they’ve made the scientific discovery of the century because white tigers are apparently inhabitants of Scotland now. Scotland!!”

You felt heat rush to your face as she said those words, reaching up to take her glasses off and folding them in front of her. You smiled nervously, rearranging the the tie around your neck as you said “Frankly, Professor McGonagall, I’m not quite sure I know what you’re talking about.” A noise of disagreement came from Sirius, who was wincing at your challenging tone. Professor McGonagall reached for her wand, and you barely had time to react before she was mumbling “Revelio” under her breath. You felt your bones shift, the familiar warm feeling of your animagus form overtaking your body. You squealed, or rather roared, your thick, furry paws sending you leaping into the air as you quickly forced yourself to take shape of your human form again.

You stood awkwardly next to the chair you’d be sat on, patting your hands down on your hair to tame it and straightening out your shirt. Sounds of amazement came from the three marauders at your animagus state, watching as you calmly sat down, clearing your throat. “Alright then.” You muttered, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “You need to sign these registration forms.” The four of you made sounds of exclamation, standing up in unison. “That’s what I thought.” Professor McGonagall continued, a satisfied smile on tugging at her lips, “Now you four be careful. If I call you up here again, know that these forms will be waiting for you.”

You all made noises of agreement, speeding towards the door. You slammed the door open, taking a deep breath when you finally escaped Professor McGonagall’s wrath. You sighed, looking to where Remus Lupin leaned against the wall waiting for his friends. His eyebrows shot up in surprise at your dishevelled state. “Moons, you’ll never guess!” Sirius brushed past you, ranting on to his friend about your transformation. “Oh my goodness, be quiet!” You snapped, spinning on the balls of your feet to face him. Remus laughed, watching as James slung an arm over your shoulders, saying how you had to transform for them again, whilst Peter went on about how soft your white fur looked.

“You know what this means don’t you?” The tall boy called out, looking at how your shoulders became stiff and you tried prying your hair out from under James’s arm. You raised your eyebrows in question, prompting Remus to go on.

“It means you’re one of us now.”

[wilwheaton]

The Democratic National Committee has decided to double down on the same losing strategies that lost it the last election. Newly elected DNC Chair Ken Martin on Monday named Roger Lau as executive director of the committee. Lau has been serving as the DNC’s deputy executive director since 2021, joining the committee after running Elizabeth Warren’s unsuccessful 2020 presidential campaign.

DNC Rehires Same People Who Oversaw Crushing Defeat to Trump

These fucking guys, I swear to god.

Fuck the career losers at the DNC. They will get no money, no time, no energy from me. Everything I’ve always given to the party will now go toward whatever we end up calling the Democratic incarnation of the Tea Party.

These vichy fucks have been wrong about everything. They are the reason Governor Walz stopped correctly pointing out how weird and lame all these MAGA lunatics are. He should have OBLITERATED Vance in the debate, and it was a draw, because the DNC and those idiot consultants forced Walz to stop doing everything that voters loved.

The DNC is cowardly, willing to give away ten miles of progress so they can celebrate barely clawing back one inch (and then its back to the endless fundraising).

America may never come back from this. I may be taking all of my privilege and using it to emigrate to a country that cares about human beings and isn’t controlled by these deporables.

But if it is going to come back, the current Democratic leadership and the DNC won’t be part of it. If they spent half the energy attacking Trump and his neonzais that they spend attacking progressives in primaries, we probably wouldn’t be here.

So if we are to save America and all of the most vulnerable people who live here, we have to get rid of the weak, comfortable, wildly out of touch consultants and corporate centrists who are protecting Trump and his neonazis from the wrath of the American people.

We outnumber them by orders of magnitude -- all of them, not just the evil republicans, the corporate democrats, too -- and if we can get organized, we can force change.

[rafessecret]

⋆˚࿔ bitchy¡ reader && sheriff¡rafe cameron

HE'S SO EASY TO MAKE JEALOUS.

You stretch yourself across the front desk like you own the damn station, one heel dangling, skirt riding up just enough to make it look like an accident. Your legs are shaved, oiled, and crossed at the knee like art. Perfectly manicured fingers trace slow, lazy circles against Deputy Harris’s forearm. Not Rafe’s. Never Rafe’s. Because that would be too easy.

You pick the dumbest one on purpose. Wide-eyed, fresh-faced, too naive to realise that when you touch his arm like that, it's not flirting. It's war. The pink gloss on your mouth is a weapon. The perfume on your collar is another. You play dumb and play sweet, but you’re watching Rafe like a hawk. Every little shift. Every little twitch.

Rafe watches from across the room, behind his desk, pretending to work. But you can feel his eyes burning into you. His jaw clenches like he’s chewing gravel. He shifts in his seat and leans back, and you can practically hear the leather creak beneath him. He's trying not to look. Trying not to care. Failing miserably.

Then you do the final blow. You glance over your shoulder, catch Rafe’s stare and hold it. Smirk. Then you lean in and whisper something in Harris’s ear. Something meaningless. Something with teeth. The kid laughs. Rafe stands so fast his chair groans against the floor. ❝Deputy, go do a full inventory on the east-side patrol kit. Take your time.❞ His voice is sharp. Controlled, but barely. Harris blinks, confused, but obeys. His cheeks are red. He nods and scurries off.

You blink all innocent. ❝Was it something I said?❞ You hum, already sliding off the desk, hips swaying with every step. He doesn’t answer, just turns on his heel and walks back into his office. The door's open, like bait. You step inside without hesitation. He’s behind his desk, stiff and quiet. You can tell by the way he won’t look at you that he’s mad. That low, simmering Rafe anger—the kind that doesn’t explode, just festers. The kind that builds.

❝You were picked up again two nights ago,❞ he starts, voice tight. ❝Drunk. Loud. In the middle of Main. You remember that?❞ Oh yeah, that's why you're here. You flop into the chair across from him, crossing your legs. ❝Vaguely.❞ ❝You can’t keep doing this.❞ He still won’t look at you. ❝Doing what? Living?❞ You tilt your head. ❝Are you going to start writing me tickets now, Sheriff?❞ His jaw ticks. He finally looks at you. Big mistake. You’re in a barely-there top, skirt riding high, gloss thick and glinting. You’re his favourite crime, and you know it.

❝You, uh,❞ he says suddenly, breaking eye contact. Clears his throat. ❝You have a crush on Harris or something?❞ perfect You nearly laugh. Nearly. ❝Jealous?❞ you purr, sweet and poisonous. ❝Don’t be. He’s not even cute.❞ He scowls. ❝It’s not a joke.❞ You lean back in the chair like you own it. ❝Didn’t say it was. Just saying—if I did have a crush on someone, I wouldn’t waste it on some rookie with shaky hands.❞

He’s quiet. Angry. You’ve hit the nerve and twisted. Rafe Cameron is not just hot. He’s terrifying. Massive in that uniform, always so contained. Always biting back everything you want him to let out. His hair is too perfect for a sheriff. His belt sits low on his hips. His hands are too big to be doing desk work. You like undoing him. Like watching him fight himself.

You drive him insane. Not because you try. Because you exist. All glossed lips, low-rise jeans, fur-trimmed jackets, and perfume that smells like sin. You’re the reason the station has a new no-loitering rule. You’re also the reason Rafe grinds his teeth in his sleep. He won’t touch you. Not yet. But God, he wants to.

And you? You want him ruined. The tension between you could snap a bone in half. You sit in that chair like a throne, and he sits behind the desk like a man praying to God for self-control. He wants to yell at you. Wants to tell you to stop showing up like this, half-dressed and full of attitude. But he doesn’t.

Because then you’d stop showing up. He doesn’t want that. ❝Are you done lecturing me, Sheriff?❞ you ask, dragging out the word like it tastes good in your mouth. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. ❝Why do you do this?❞ he murmurs. You shrug. ❝Because you let me.❞

That lands heavy. He looks at you again—really looks. You can see it in his eyes. He’s losing. Slowly, beautifully. You lean forward, arms on your knees, and smile like a secret. ❝Want me to behave, Rafe?❞ you ask, voice low, dangerous. ❝Tell me to.❞ He doesn’t. Because he can’t. He’s too far gone. Watching you come in here week after week, looking like a pinup and acting like a problem. He’s already broken half a dozen rules for you. He’ll break half a dozen more.

And you’ll be waiting. Perfect. Poisonous. Smiling all pretty-like, as if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. You stand slowly, skirt rising again as you lean over his desk just slightly. ❝I’ll see you around, Sheriff.❞

He doesn’t respond. Not out loud. But when you walk past his window later, you swear you hear his chair creak again. Swear you feel those eyes. Swear you win.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : yuh yuh yuh. already obsessed it’s actually criminal. i will perish if this flops. send asks about them and go read their little intro pls !! that one anon better be smiling rn (love u fr)

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf @folksriddle @loverliner

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[spiderb00bs]

- YOU'RE MINE #2

Cairo Sweet x (g!p) reader 

“Cairo had to learn that you weren't just her puppy” 

Genre – smut  +18  Warnings – daddy kink, A bit of degradation 

(request)  part 1 | part 2

Now playing – Shameless, by The Weeknd

"you want me to fix you but it's never enough"

You knew from the start that it was all too good to be true. The calm during the weeks, the quiet, almost domestic atmosphere that you and Cairo had built up was like a farce, like a smokescreen, distracting you from the elephant in the room.   

Things were going well between you and Cairo. Since the fateful day when you finally got together, you haven't been apart. You'd go on little dates together, share deeper thoughts about your individual futures - and sometimes even a future together - but you'd never put a label on it, you wanted to take things slowly, no matter how much you were in love with the Sweet girl.  

And then today was the day. Apparently, today was the day chosen for all those hidden cards to be put on the table, displayed so that the two of you could see what you'd been avoiding all along. To say that you were surprised when the deputy from the small town called you was an understatement, but nothing could have surprised you more when he mentioned Cairo's name. Then, as if by magic, you were in your car, driving to the police station like a maniac, fortunately, Robin was by your side, which reminded you to drive safely.  

When you got out of the truck, your boots kicked up some dust, making Robin - who had already jumped out of the passenger seat - sneeze.   

“Sorry, buddy.” You said, making the dog bark. Sighing, you put your hands on your waist, looking at the dog before finally facing whatever awaited you inside. “Come on!”  

The heavy doors of the police station felt like paper in your hand, and you didn't know if the hard work was making you stronger or if your worry got the best of you. The town was small, and you got to know some of the men and women who worked there, being greeted with smiles and friendly nods, until one of the officers led you to the deputy's office.  

As you opened the door, you let Robin pass between your legs, the dog quickly settling into one of the chairs in front of the deputy's desk. “Colonel Robin.” The deputy said playfully, causing you to let out a sarcastic snort.  

“What happened?” you asked immediately, sitting down next to Robin.  

Leaning back in his chair, the deputy took a good look at you before starting. “It happened that your girl was out picking fights around town!”   

“My what?”  

“Not just Miss Sweet, but Miss Carter too.” Damn!   

You'd broken things off with Anne two days after having sex with Cairo, and we can't say things were very friendly. You preferred everything to be said in person, which only earned you several objects thrown at you, while the blonde screamed about what an asshole and insensitive person you were.  

“Now, I understand that you're young, Yn. And it's okay to want to make multiple women happy...” You groaned, covering your ears as if you were listening to a lecture from your parents. “But you can't make it entertainment for the whole town.”  

“All right, Sir! I'm sorry, I don't know what came over Cairo to make a scene. But it won't happen again.” You explained, hoping that it wouldn't take much to get Cairo out from behind bars.   

“Yes, I hope so.” The deputy said, laughing slightly when he saw the embarrassment in your eyes. “God, your grandmother would be desperate if she knew the situation you were in.”  

Nodding your head, you tried to disguise a smile, watching as the deputy called one of the police officers to free Cairo.   

“In my defense, I broke up with her, with Anne.” Your voice was low, dripping in embarrassment.   

“Oh, I know. She made that clear to the whole town.” The deputy laughed, going to open the door - not before stroking Robin's fur - when he heard a knock. “You two are lucky Miss Carter won't be pressing charges.” The deputy said, emphasizing the word “complaint” as he looked at Cairo, who just rolled her eyes.  

“Whatever. Come on, Yn.” That was the first thing the brunette said, as if she was the boss of you. As if what she'd done wasn't enough, she still had to act all thick.   

Without saying anything, you stand up, giving the deputy a friendly nod. Your head spins with a million thoughts, all about Cairo. How she always has to be bossing you around with that tone, making you look condescending. How she never seems to take anything you say seriously, from the most serious things, like when you told her to take the morning-after pill, to the pizza you were going to order that night. Everything made it seem like Cairo was in charge, and not you.  

You were so focused on your thoughts that you didn't even notice Robin diverting the car's path to the short blonde in front of the police station.   

“Robin, come!” It was only with these words that you woke up from your own trance, seeing Robin wagging his tail as he received a pat from the woman you used to be close to. “Yn! Do something!”   

For the first time, Cairo's voice sounded irritating to your ears, and you knew you had to put an end to her shitty attitude once and for all!  

“Robin, come here boy.” Seeing you crouch down, the dog ran up to you. Giving him a kiss on the head, you opened the car door, and Robin quickly snuggled into the seat. 

“You know, you don't have to be afraid Cairo, it's not like I'm going to steal the dog.” Anne said, her tone of voice making you sigh, desperately wanting to avoid another mess.   

“Shut up, you cunt.” It was the only response Cairo gave before heading towards the car.   

“Of course, I'm the cunt. I'm the one who's hooking up with committed women out there...”  

You saw the exact moment when Cairo slammed the door of your car hard, moving quickly towards the blonde woman, making you quickly grab her waist.   

“SAY THAT AGAIN, BITCH, I DARE YOU!” Doing your best to calm Cairo down, you opened the car door, ushering the woman inside before closing and locking the door, and walking over to Anne.  

“Listen. I don't want you anywhere near me or Cairo. Do you understand?! What we had is over, so please stay away from me!”  

You really didn't want to talk to her like that, you didn't want any more trouble. But she offended Cairo, and although the Sweet girl wasn't at all right, she also offended you.  

Anne didn't answer, just watching you walk furiously to the car, slam the door shut and drive off, leaving a cloud of dust on the road.   

The drive home was silent. Cairo never tried to talk to you, as if you had done something wrong, as if you had put her name on the rise in the city. When you finally stopped the car in front of your house, you put your head down on the steering wheel, taking a deep breath as you opened your door, letting Robin out of the car and into your house through the doggy door.  

Cairo tried to open the door, quickly becoming frustrated when she saw how her door was still locked. “Open that shit.”   

Looking at her, you observed her angry features. You're not the wrong one!  

“Have you gone fucking crazy? Fighting in the street?” Hearing you start to speak, Cairo rolled her eyes, not wanting to be lectured now.   

“What? You're going to defend that bitch now? You should be happy that I defended my girlfriend!” You looked at Cairo as if she had two heads.   

“When did we start dating?” Cairo frowned, clearly angry about how you didn't agree with her.  

“AS SOON AS I SAY SO!” Her scream made your head throb, it was almost as if she was testing how far you would break. No one can be a saint, right?!  

“Things don't work like that, Cairo.” You tried to say, patiently.   

“Oh, no?” You watched her face contract into a sarcastic expression as she came closer and closer to you. The smile she put on her face made you want to throw yourself off the bridge. “So why do you do everything I say like a puppy? You must really be Robin's best friend.”  

Cairo's mouth was millimeters from yours, and the smile she had on her face was a victorious one, as if she knew you'd give in, that you'd kiss her and forgive all the shit she'd been doing. Sighing, you grabbed the brunette's cheeks, not hard enough to hurt her, but with a firm enough grip to let her know you meant business.  

“You know what? I'm sick of your attitude, Cairo.” The look on the woman's face said she wasn't convinced, she didn't think you could override her orders.  

“What are you going to do about it, puppy?”   

The smile on Cairo's face quickly faded as you opened the car door, got out and walked hastily to the side of the passenger seat. Opening the door quickly, you pulled Cairo out, making the girl lean over the hood of the truck. You've never been a fan of doing this in the middle of nowhere, you've never even considered the possibility. But you knew no one would be around, you and Cairo didn't exactly live in the city center. So maybe it could work, just for today.   

“You like an audience, don't you?! Let's see if we're lucky.” Pulling Cairo's skirt up, you slapped her hard on the ass. The slap echoed in the trees as did Cairo's moan.   

“You can't make a fool of me and think everything's fine!” Slapping the brunette's ass once more, you smiled as a wet spot began to appear on Cairo's panties. “You're a slut, aren't you? You just wanted attention all this time.”  

“Yes, Daddy.” The name almost made you cum right there, but you had to keep focusing on why Cairo was in this position in the first place.   

“Good. Because I was very good to you. But you had to be a little slut.” You said, stroking the woman's battered skin beneath you. “I'll fuck that attitude out of you, and you'll wish you'd been a good girl all along.”  

Unbuckling your belt and unzipping your pants, you let your cock jump free. Holding Cairo's waist, you pushed her panties aside, letting your cock slip through her folds.   

“You know why you're being punished, don't you babygirl?” You asked, just a gentle way of asking Cairo if she was comfortable with it all.   

“Yes, daddy. I'm sorry.” The woman's voice was low, a huge contrast to the shouting she was doing a few minutes ago.   

“It's okay, babygirl.” You said, before finally guiding your cock into the brunette's hole, making her moan softly. “I just want you to know that you can't just act like I'm nothing.”  

A nod was all Cairo could manage as you began to thrust into her. Your cock filled her in a way she'd never experienced, she was speechless every time.   

“You can't just decide that we're dating...” You continued, your thrusts firm and slow, just to get her used to your size. “If you really want this, you should have told me.”  

“I'm sorry, daddy.” It was the first thing you heard from Cairo, only for her to interrupt herself with a series of loud moans as you began to thrust faster.  

“I love you, Cairo.” You said.  

Leaving no room for the surprise and the feeling of happiness that was growing inside the Sweet girl, you wrapped your biceps around her neck, pulling her until her back was against your front. Her small hands tried to grip your biceps, only for her to leave a trail of scratches in their wake.  

“Fuck! I love you too, baby.” The brunette replied, her body trembling in your arms as you placed your free hand on her clit, starting to make rapid movements there.   

Cairo's loud moans echoed through the trees, only giving you more strength to go faster and deeper inside her. Her body felt like it was about to explode, sweaty and trembling in your arms, and it wasn't long before she crumbled in your hands like dry sand, making you go right after her.  

The heavy breathing of the two of you mingled, and you let her settle completely into you as you pulled out of her, making sure that you really hadn't been seen by anyone. Lowering her skirt, you kissed Cairo on the forehead, making her smile at you lazily.   

“So we really are girlfriends now?”  

“Whatever you want, Sweet.” 

hi guys, what's up?

well, I hope this didn't turn out to be a mess. I usually don't like to do second parts to my stories coz I always think the first one is better, but you asked for it, so here I am.

stay safe and drink water

xoxo, spider.

[sakumz]

a/n : istg I didn't think I'd cry so early in the year, there goes my one month streak of not crying hjhj and when i cry IT WONT STOP anyways I wanted to write a new years fic but darn it! inspiration isn't hitting um anyways cw reader cries.

____________________________________________

[ l. lighter, a. harumasa, l. seth x gn reader ]

____________________________________________

when lighter decides to open up with you about his past at chesetopia, he wasn't expecting you to cry. was it too chessy? was it too early to tell you this? he thought you were ready since you were his long time lover or friend to lovers, well you were a long time friend of his to lovers.

um either way, he didn't want you beating around the bush about his past. sure idiots come up to him, wanting a fight and they bring up fragments of his past. when he looks back at you, you only tilt your head in confusion. not knowing what the idiot was sprouting.

he shoves the tissue box at your direction, offering to order you a pudding but you shake your head. calming your last tears as you finally look up at him. red teary eyes staring back at him.

" i-im sorry, " he falters at your face. you can't help but chuckle softly.

" no I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cry over your past. it's just so sad that you lost everyone and- " you feel another wave of tears floating back at the thoughts of him being alone. he quickly walks over to sit next to you, patting your back in an attempt to comfort you.

was this like a sad show to you? he can't help but laugh a little. he didn't cry over his past self nor would he ever expect someone to cry over it for him.

" hey, it's fine really. I'm no longer alone you know, since I've got you and the sons of Calydon. " he smiles at you as you feel your face flush.

" yeah, you're right. I'm glad you're all safe and sound! please keep living happy, " you press a kiss to his cheek as a subtle blush grew but he quickly clears his throat to calm down any racing thoughts.

" I can easily live happy as long as you're around. "

---

another playful argument with harumasa. who would've thought this one would send the other one crying. you sniffle at your desk beside him, aggressively rubbing at your eyes. you excuse yourself but harumasa grabs your hand, yanking you back to your chair. you glare at him as he can't help but smile at the awkwardness.

" haru- asaba. " you said sternly, yanking your hand away.

" if you need to cry, just do it here. " he says so casually, making you rage. did he not care? it's embarrassing to be crying in an office. no less with the chief and deputy chief around.

" I really hate you! " you slam your hands on the desk, making a run to the toilet as yanagi voice fades in the background.

you've splash water multiple times on your face to cool and calm down. sure he probably didn't mean any words during the playful batter but it did strike your nerves when he called you the weakest fighter in all of H.A.N.D! he's the weakest person alive in H.A.ND!? you've work hard to keep up with everyone at section six, your efforts should be complimented and recognised, not thrown away so simply. wasn't it impressive to use a sniper or wield two swords? there's missions where you got to use your beloved sniper, to shoot the etereals and clear the path for your chief.

with one last huff, you decide to finally exit the washroom. your soft heel clicks come to a stop, when harumasa grabs you. pining you on the wall with both hands caging you.

you look away, a pout on your face as his gaze softens.

" I'm sorry. " he starts.

" you better be, " you step his toes as he winches but he doesn't move.

" you're not the weakest fighter in all of H.A.N.D and its pretty ironic hearing it from the weakest human alive, " he laughs as you glared at him to shut up and he quickly stops.

" I know you've worked hard and! it was really a slip of the tongue. I didn't mean anything I said and I'm really sorry it got to you. you're so talented and beautiful and I love you so much. break up with me if you don't believe a word I said. " he let's go of you and you pretend to think for a moment. it's too easy to let him get away with this. it did upset you heavily and he deserves to learn a lesson.

" alright let's break up, " you walk away, leaving him stunned for a moment before he's dashing behind you.

" protect me miyabi and yanagi! " you ran behind them. as harumasa stops to catch his breathe.

" is this one of your games? " yanagi asks as you shook your head.

" he won't leave me alone! " you whined as miyabi looks at the dishevelled harumasa.

" I say, you both should make up to this. don't come back until you're both okay, " she sholves both of you out of the office. locking the doors behind.

" I really hate you, " you spat as he sighs. thanking the chief for giving him an opportunity. he forcefully drag you to one of the seating areas in H.A.N.D. you seat yourself in one of the sofa, big distance away from him as he laid on one of them.

" have you broken up with asaba, l/n? " a co-worker walked past as he winks at you.

" why, yes I have. " harumasa quickly sits up, upon hearing the flirts and what not.

" no we have not broken up! " he shouts at the co-worker as he pushes him away.

he kneels next to you, hand in yours as you look away. he really doesn't want to let you go.

" y/n l/n. we can't break up! what about the child we have? " you try to pry your hands but it's not working.

" that's your child! " it really did sound like one was having an affair, a really interesting drama that some colleagues can't help but eavesdrop behind the walls.

" asaba, let go of me. "

" no way, " he jumps to hug you as you're just stuck, hoping the sofa swallows you whole. this is so embarrassing.

" I don't want to break up, and I'm really sorry for everything I've said. you mean so much to me and even if you were the weakest or the strongest I would still protect you, " he pleaded with you, voice so soft and fragile it sounded like he's about the cry.

" get off me, " you croaked. a few tears fell but you managed to quickly calm down. he pulls away, shocked slapped to his face.

" I didn't mean to make you cry! "

" I'm not crying! I'm sorry... for being difficult, " he pats your head, fondness in his eyes. he really does and truly loves you.

" you're not the difficult one... "

" I'm glad you've got self awareness. "

---

to think you'll be bawling your eyes out over a sad romance movie with seth next to you at the cinema, asleep.

the male lead protects the female lead and dies a tragic death protecting her. he didn't get to say he loves her before closing his eyes. seth stirs awake at your hiccups and trembling body.

panics fills him as he turns to you.

" huh! what's wrong? y/n did you hurt yourself?! " his panic voice fills the whole cinema, as everyone turns to the two of you hushing and glaring for ruining the moment. the movie was about the end. you take his hand and excuse yourself out.

maybe watching a sad romance wasn't the best idea for a break.

" I'm fine, the movie was just... too bittersweet that it got me thinking if that was me and you. " the sudden thought was about to bring you to tears but seth quickly pull you into a hug.

he didn't watch much besides the part where both characters were introduced. a security guard meets a cute cafe waitress. you weren't a cute cafe waitress but a pretty pubsec officer like him!

" what happen? " he runs his fingers in your hair. you hum slowly.

" the male lead dies for the female lead. "

" I'd do the same but I'll try to survive in the accident too. " you deadpan how can he survive when it was a killer stabbing the male lead multiple times from the back as he shielded himself for the girl?

you pull away as you wipe your tears.

" the male lead was getting back stabbed... "

" oh! I'll apprehend the killer, you saw me do it before. " he smiles as you pat his head. sure he'll protect you, but he'll definitely stop any tragedies from happening first.

" the movie sucked, didn't it? " you asks as both exits the cinema.

" yeah, what a lame security... "

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 13)

first chapter >> last chapter

-

You could just tell him. 

You consider it at least once a day, particularly in the mornings when John sits up on his side of the bed and hesitates briefly before rising to his feet and going downstairs to start breakfast. You can feel the way he wants to lean over and touch you, and the way he holds himself back. The way he pulls his hand back at the last second from where it hovers over your prone body.

He leaves you in bed with an ache in your stomach so deep that you swear it’ll swallow you whole. But you have no choice but to sigh and sit up as he shuffles around downstairs, the morning well on its way in. There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The atmosphere in the house is tense. You walk on eggshells around each other, unsure of how to bridge the divide. The eggs jump in the pan and brown at the edges, and outside the feather reed sways in the breeze. You’re weary of each other and yet hardly capable of being apart.

Maybe that’s just on your end. 

You’ve taken to watching him from afar in recent days. In the absence of his physical touch, which comes sparingly now, his hands always curled into fists like he’s holding himself back from reaching out and touching you, you’ve resorted to the only thing left to you: the visual realm. That’s what you glut yourself on now, and while it doesn’t fill the hole in you, it soothes the ache. 

You watch him with the horses in the paddock, always confident and sure-footed with them. Suspenders straining against the muscle of his back and his shoulders, sweat running in rivulets down his back, the sun golden on his face. At dinner, he collapses into his chair, exhaustion written into every corner of his being, and you drag your eyes over the jut of his stomach, the layer of fat over his muscled core. Hairy forearms braced against the table while he eats (no manners, that one). 

Any thought of bolting in the night now seems unwise. Your previous aspirations of freedom seem foolhardy in the light of day. You give it some consideration. Say you had succeeded in escaping—now where would you be? Alone wandering the mountains, parched and starving? Drinking from the ravine? Eating poisonous berries and hawthorn leaves in desperation to have something in your belly? Or hogtied in some bandit’s tent, enduring a fate worse than starvation or death? 

You shudder to think of it. 

In the days since John brought you home, you haven’t seen hide nor hair of Graves, nor anyone else in pursuit of a woman from back east. No bounty hunters, no officers of the law, no rogue agents. It’s as if they came, found nothing, and simply wandered on through.

You should’ve just waited them out. It’s clear now, what you should’ve done, but who can argue with the past? You’re sick of telling yourself that there might’ve been another way. It doesn’t change the way things are now. 

There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The routine is the same. You head into town every morning and try to say as few words to each other as possible. You glance at each other when the other isn’t looking. The glances grow longer with the days, the stubborn sun refusing to set until well into the evening hours, and your own eyes refusing to part from his form. When you catch him watching you in turn, his eyes are always heady, filled with something like longing.

Outside, the sky is cornflower blue; clouds bulge and drift away. 

Life returns to some degree of normalcy, despite the sense of something unresolved hovering in the air. John’s deputies come over again for supper, and with them they bring better table manners this time. At least Soap doesn’t belch at the dinner table and Kyle leaves his hat at the door. Simon is taciturn as always, but that comes now as a comfort.

The men play cards in the living room until even the fireflies go to sleep, until the night is a thin paste spread over the world, the sharp edge of the knife scraping over the craggy limestone peaks and ridges and spreading it evenly. You go to bed alone, the bedroom door cracked open enough to see the flicker of lamplight against the wall, their shadows weaving in and out of it. 

He must come to bed at some point because his side of the bed is warm when you wake up the next morning. You put your hand there to soak up his warmth until you can’t excuse lying in bed any longer. Breakfast is, again, quiet, but you feel the compulsion to break the silence bubbling up in your chest. You think if he stares at you even a moment longer, you’ll have no choice but to belt it out. 

The brittle morning is interrupted by the arrival of one of John’s deputies. When Simon rips open the door and barges into the house, you nearly scream, watching with wide eyes as he charges towards the back, looking for John. You flit over to the window to watch him go. He finds John out back mucking the stalls in the stable and there’s a brief moment of intense conversation before you watch as John throws the pitchfork against the wall and hurriedly shuts the stables up, following Simon back towards the house. 

It’s a flurry of motion after that, John throwing on his clothes haphazardly, not even bothering to properly button up his shirt. You unconsciously follow him up the stairs to the bedroom.

“John?” you ask, uncertainly. 

He doesn’t answer you right away. The tension creeps up the length of your back the longer he goes without responding, his mouth set in a flat line. 

“John?” you repeat, more force behind your words this time. “What’s wrong?” 

“Passenger train up east is about to be robbed,” John finally grunts out in reply, checking his rifle to see if it’s loaded. “Simon got word.”

“How’d he know before it even happened?” you ask, stuck on conversation because you unconsciously want to delay the inevitable. Your heart pounds hard in your chest, images of gunfire and bloodbaths searing the backs of your eyelids. 

“Informant. He’s got ‘em all over the county.”

Not once does he slow down or pause to take a breath. You follow him back downstairs and through the house, watching anxiously as he loads his gun and tightens the belt of bullets around his waist. He plucks his hat from where it sits hung up beside the door and then exits out of the house, you trailing along helplessly behind him. The porch creaks ominously under his feet as he makes his way down the stairs towards the horses, where Simon already has John’s other horse saddled up and ready to go.

“When will you—” You can’t finish it. It hangs uselessly in your mouth. He doesn’t answer you. 

You follow him to the horses but stumble to a halt when he reaches them first, taking over from Simon and fixing the straps in place. Simon gives you a curt nod when your eyes meet before turning to his horse and heaving himself up onto it briskly, obviously in a rush to get going. 

John turns to you when the straps are fixed in place and he has one foot in the stirrups, brows furrowed deep enough to accentuate all the lines in his forehead. He gestures warningly at you with a finger. “You stay here, you hear me?”

Your brows furrow, affronted at the command. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t fancy havin’ to chase after you for a second time, but I will if you try anything funny while I’m gone.”

“Well, you just see here now—”

“You heard me, darlin’—”

“Price,” Simon growls, cutting him off, and it takes you by surprise to see his usual phlegmatic disposition traded in for something choleric. He’s never been one to talk back or act insubordinately, more of a guard dog than a deputy sometimes. His mouth is set in a hard line though, betraying the tension coiled in his bones. 

John nods and hauls himself up onto his horse.

“You be good while I’m gone,” John says, casting you one last parting glance.

You screw your lips into a scowl. “Don’t you dare die out there.”

That somehow gets a laugh out of him, as jagged as it is. It makes your stomach twist, the goodbye stagnant on your lips. You refuse to say it.

John’s horse whinnies when he pulls on the reins. He gives a sharp whistle, jolting it into motion, and you watch as he circles around and follows Simon down the path, their horses kicking up dust behind them. 

You stand there until their horses disappear over the horizon. Then you linger a little longer.

It dawns on you that John hadn’t said goodbye either. That has to count for something.

Still, you dwell on it over the next hour, hardly able to keep your breakfast down. Any lingering frustration melts away into dread the longer you think about John confronting a train full of armed robbers, his deputies accompanying him or not. The shotguns loaded and strapped to their backs told you enough about what they expected to encounter. The thought makes you shudder.

You try to distract yourself with chores, but that hardly helps. All you can think about when scrubbing the floors is whether someone will have to do the same on the train. You know how hard it is to clean up blood.  

Kate comes over later that morning while you’re still pinning the bed sheets and linens to the clothesline. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt elicits your attention first, and when you look down the dirt path leading into town, you see her riding towards you on horseback. A dapple grey gelding, bigger than Buttercup but leaner than the horse that John had chased you down on.

“Morning!” she shouts, still far enough away for it to be necessary. Your hand goes up slowly in a wave, half-shielding your eyes from the sun.

She comes up the path quickly, dismounting before her horse has even come to a standstill. It speaks to an element of comfort on a horse that you haven't acquired yet. Jealousy licks a hot tongue up your innards. 

“Morning,” you greet tentatively. “Not that I don’t appreciate spending time with you, but don’t you have a store to run?”

Kate shrugs her shoulders, sauntering up the walkway. “Folks chip in when they have to—I’ve got plenty of people in town willing to watch the shop for me. Besides, what’s the point of owning a business if you can’t take a day off every now and then?”

You frown, looking at Kate a bit suspiciously. “Did he tell you to come babysit me?” 

You don’t specify who, but it’s obvious enough.

Her lips flatten. “I offered.”

All that does is stoke the flames of your ire. “They seemed in a hurry to leave. Didn’t think John would have time to stop by and ask you to watch his wayward wife.” 

“John didn’t do anything. Simon mentioned that he was coming here to get your man.”

“My man,” you mumble a bit sardonically. Still, her words make you let go of some of your anger. “So he didn’t ask you to come?”

Kate shakes her head, lips finally curling up into a half-grin. “No, ma’am. Thought I’d just get Miles to mind the shop and come give you some company.”

Your frown keeps getting deeper. “Don’t ma’am me, Kate. And I don’t need your company if you’ve just come to make fun of me.”

“Hand to heart—I came only to make sure you were alright.” Her smile grows directly inverse to your frown. “Give me a minute to put the horses in the paddock and I’ll be right back.”

You could almost kiss her for that though. You’d been dreading the thought of having to bring Buttercup out into the paddock on your own, but the thought of leaving her in the stables all day had also felt immeasurably cruel. Since getting lost with her in the mountains, you haven’t felt confident enough to be around her on your own. At least Kate’s presence takes some of that stress away. 

Not all of it though. Stress eats away at you as the day goes on. You can’t seem to go long without returning to the thought of John being shot or stabbed by one of the bandits on the train. Your mind keeps turning to the image of him lying lifeless on the floor, blood seeping out of a wound in his chest, eyes glazed over and far away. 

You chew on your nails until they tear. Kate smacks your hands when she notices.

It’s well past dark by the time John comes home. You notice his arrival first as a flicker of light when you happen to glance out the window. You’d long ago pulled up a chair to settle down beside the window and wait, Kate in a chair on the other side of the room near the oil lamp, flicking through her book, and with the waiting had come a knot in your chest tighter than a fist. A cancerous lump metastasising in your belly, spreading out into every corner of you. 

And then someone riding up the path towards the house holds up a lamp that swings with the rhythm of their approach. Your heart all but stops in your chest, fingers halting in the middle of knitting. It beats a furious frenzy now, alert again, alive in your chest. The needles clatter to the floor when you rise to your feet, dashing over to the door to swing it wide open.

“I suppose he’s—” Kate says, but you don’t hear the rest, already gathering up your skirt to hustle down the porch steps and meet him halfway, heart lodged in your throat. 

When he notices you hurrying out the door and down the path towards him, John brings his horse to a standstill. 

Shadows engulf his form until you get close enough for the lamplight to slash across John’s face, illuminating the deep, sunken troughs under his eyes. He looks exhausted. The top button of his shirt is missing, perhaps ripped out in whatever altercation he’d gone to stop. Your eyes flit over him, looking for any sign of blood or injury, and you find it along the grooves of his knuckles, the skin there torn and bloodied. He hadn’t even bothered to wrap his hands in gauze before coming home. 

John smiles down at you. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

That’s almost enough to make you sway on your feet, lightheaded. You hadn’t realized the toll his sudden absence had taken on you, or the worry that’d been festering in your belly, but as it drains out of you, it almost brings you to your knees. 

“Are you well?” you ask, throat tight. 

He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he shifts his weight and swings his leg over his horse to dismount, eyes on you the whole time. You can hardly pull your eyes off him, not even for a second. His horse, well-trained enough to not wander off without its rider astride it, huffs out a breath but otherwise remains in place while John walks towards you. 

Your heart jumps in your chest when he lifts a hand to cup your cheek and drops a firm kiss to the center of your forehead, the heat of his kiss suffusing through you. The hairs on your arms and the back of your neck lift. Your arms erupt in gooseflesh.

“Never better,” he says when he pulls back. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your forehead when he speaks. It makes everything from your collarbone up go hot.

You hear the door open again. “Hi John,” Kate calls from the door.

“Hi Laswell,” John calls back to her, but his eyes never leave yours.

A heavy silence pregnant with meaning passes. You’re not sure what to read into it, but reading’s never been your strong suit. 

“I’ll see myself out then,” Kate says. “Leave you two lovebirds to it.” Her words make you bristle, but even that isn’t enough to pull your eyes off your husband. 

“Don’t look so put out—Soap’s just down the path waiting to take you home,” John scoffs. Sure enough, when you peek around him, you notice the slight flicker of light that burns at about the height of a man sitting astride a horse.

Kate rolls her eyes. “So chivalry’s not dead. Thank the Lord for small mercies.”

You don’t hear her go around the side of the house, but she must because she comes back a few minutes later with her horse, lead in hand. Her goodbye goes unnoticed by you or John, barely audible over the sound of the crickets in the bushes. You come back to yourself only when her horse takes off down the path towards Soap, and by then your voice is too faint, the words evaporating off your tongue. 

The moment finally bursts when John shifts his weight and winces. You frown. “You’re hurt.”

He huffs. “Just a sore rib. Nothing worth fussin’ over.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Your eyes flick down to his bloodied knuckles. “Your hands need tending to anyway. We should get inside.”

John nods. “I’ll put Chiron away and then come in.”

“Chiron?”

“This boy here.” His horse chuffs when John pats his neck lightly, smoothing a hand down the length. It slots into your mind—another piece of this place assimilated into your being. Another name you’ll never be able to shake. 

You hurry back inside while he takes Chiron around the side of the house towards the stables, the lamp still swinging from his hand. It’s how you track him from the window. It’s too late now for them, but you remember staring off into the distance earlier, watching the fireflies flicker in and out of view, gold will-o-wisps hovering over the fields. Now it’s quiet, and nothing outside moves. Even the moon hides behind dark clouds. 

You wait by the window until you see John come out of the stables, headed back towards the house. Only then do you exhale. 

He sits at a chair in the living room and spreads his legs, forcing you to step between them to get close enough to treat him. You bandage his torn knuckles under the light of the oil lamp in the corner of the room. John doesn’t so much as flinch when you clean them, gently inspecting the wounds to remove any debris that might’ve gotten in. He’s a good patient; hardly makes a sound as you wrap the gauze around his knuckles. 

“Do you want me to call the doctor in the morning?” you ask, then start a bit at the sound of your own voice, inexplicably loud in the relative silence of the room. 

John shakes his head. “Don’t bother. Wasn’t anything too serious.”

You frown. “Are you sure? I don’t want to risk it getting infected—”

He turns his hands over in your loose hold, curling his fingers around yours. You blink at the stark contrast between his and your hands. His fingers are thicker than yours, swollen at the joints, and the skin of his palms is calloused, rough to the touch. You’ve felt them over every part of you—loose at your waist, gripping the nape of your neck, prying your thighs apart. Holding your hand. Sunk deep into your quim. 

You can recall the feel of his touch from memory now. 

“It’s not that bad, darlin’,” he rasps, dragging his thumb back and forth over your fingers. “Y’did a good job fixin’ me up. You’re a good little nurse.”

“I’m no substitute for proper medical care,” you snip, still frowning. 

“Ah, if I die, I die.”

“That’s not funny,” you snap, abruptly incensed, and the joking twist of his lips unfurls at that, the creases around his eyes smoothing out. He looks at you like there’s something new writ large on your face.

There’s a tremble in your lower lip and a tremor in your hands that you hadn’t noticed until now. Once you notice it, it’s impossible to shake; your lip wobbles when you have to pinch back your tears. A stubborn one nearly leaks out until you sniff and blink it away. 

“Now where’s this all coming from?” John asks, voice pitched low and intimate, just for the two of you. 

His voice laps over your bones like bourbon on the rocks, glistening amber in the setting sun. Except it’s dark now and there’s not a drink in the world that could dilute the emotions welling up in you. You’d be a blubbery drunk anyway; you’ve always been something of a sad sack. 

“I thought you might come back hurt,” you whisper. “And you did.” 

His thumb strokes over your unblemished knuckles and he lifts your hands to his mouth to kiss the very same spot he just brushed. “I’m sorry to make you worry, darlin’. I meant nothing by my words. We’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

The bur of his beard tickles the back of your hand. His acquiescence brings some of your candor back. “Well, only if you want to.”

“Don’t get smart with me, wife—”

He stops short when you giggle, his eyes widening infinitesimally. You wonder if it’s the first time he’s ever heard you laugh. It’s not something you can help though. The joy spills up from you unbidden. 

John sighs. “We’ve been making a right mess of things, haven’t we?”

You go to say something, but all that comes out is a soft hum of agreement. 

It’s in front of you again. An opportunity to tell him everything, to make things right. To land in the soft sediment of truth and come out unscathed and better for it. All you need do is open your mouth and say it; say that there was a man back east that tried something untoward and you did what you had to in order to protect yourself. You think on some level John would understand that. 

Again you open your mouth. Again nothing comes out.

There’s love and then there’s thinness, words preserved in amber. He takes your whole world in his hands and you want to say, is it safe here? Can I call this a home?

There's love and then there's a heaving mass of recollection. It is an ancient thought: to love and be loved in verity, in one's own sphere of understanding. You don’t yet know if that’s possible for you, but you’re starting to think that maybe here is something close to that. Something gentle like wildflowers springing up from beside train tracks, the sprawling emptiness of the plains on either side. 

Still, it is not enough to make you tell the truth. Maybe now the consequences are different. You think less of a jail cell and more of being deprived of this man that holds your hands tenderly and looks up at you with such clear affection. 

If love has a way of speaking, it is marbles in the mouth; it masticates its own words. It chokes them back out of fear, out of longing to keep things right. 

So instead, you ask, “Can we just put it behind us and move on?”

John lifts a hand and slides it around the back of your neck, drawing you in for a kiss that makes your heart melt in your chest, caramel-rich. You moan into his mouth when his tongue traces over your lips, hands dropping to sink into the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer to you.

When he pulls back, the folds around his eyes are crinkled, lips pulled up into a fond smile. “Already forgotten.” 

You exhale. This is reconciliation. It comes home limping and bruised, but it comes home to you. 

[allforhee]

— 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐒! (ONESHOT) | LEE HEESEUNG

୨୧ pairing — secretary-general!lee heeseung x delegate!fem!reader

synopsis: decelis high's academic weapon, future valedictorian, model un prodigy especially in the crisis council, and top-notch secretary-general of the mun club, lee heeseung has it all. from earning constant "best delegate-s" left and right, no one dared to go against his stances in any debate. until a student like you transfers into decelis high. as a soon graduating senior, you were a newbie to press. but with your endless love for writing, you'd managed to steal the hearts of your peers. it was your first mun, and you didn't expect much. but when heeseung finds out about an article you've wrote about his arrogant performance in a recent committee session, he is set to strike you down.

୨୧ genre — kinda angsty but with happy ending, high school au, secgen/crisis delegate!heeseung x press delegate!reader, academic rivals to lovers, dumbasses in denial, a brief moment of rivals in public but lovers in secret, one sided rivalry

୨୧ warnings — a lot of model un terms (hope you guys can understand), cursing, hurt no comfort, heeseung highkey hates reader, reader is a bit feisty and could care less but she lowkey has parental issues, featuring all the other enhypen members, aespa's winter aka minjeong, txt's yeonjun and beomgyu, stray kids’ i.n, gidle's shuhua, and ive's wonyoung, one bed trope, forced proximity

୨୧ word count — 13.3k (not proofread, but will slowly edit/make changes to tiny minor mistakes found)

୨୧ author's note — dear readers, i'm back from a long overdue hiatus with a new layout and theme! this fic is long as HELL i didn't expect it to reach this long omg. i also changed up a couple details so it will be quite different from the teaser! i’m so sorry for the long overdue wait, senior year of high school has been so hectic, and i’ve been finally able to finish this so enjoy :) omg holy shit y’all are finally reading my full length fic i’ve been harboring since what? february?

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆 had it all.

the walls of his room were littered with delegate lanyards from conferences across the globe, "best delegate" certificates framed all over his house (and a couple crumpled up inside his desk to fit the space), and a collection of trophies stood in every nook and cranny.

no one at decelis high dared to go against his stance. whenever it was, whether it was a moderated caucus or unmoderated, he'd always have his country or character's placard raised high, ready to speak, or leading whatever bloc was being formed.

there was no doubt that no one had ever beat him. it was no doubt that he was decelis high's mun club's secretary-general, and those who chose to go against him either got crushed in fear or knew when to step back.

even with his "best delegate" status, he wouldn't have gone far without his best mates, park jongseong, sim jaeyun, and park sunghoon.

park jongseong or jay, most known for his cold stares in the debate room, ready to make a delegate tremble, would always chair crisis. he was decelis high's deputy secretary-general alongside heeseung. and although being heeseung's best mate, he never favored him when it came to awarding. it's just that he was naturally talented.

sim jaeyun, known for his popular slogan around the school; "jake it till you make it!", was the strongest when it came to knowing what a country or character believed in. his research skills were like a pirate on the hunt for lost treasure, he had all the facts, the data, and the proof to back up any stance. whatever heeseung needed to know, jake already had his back.

and park sunghoon. even though he was the quiet one of the bunch, his position papers never ceased to appeal to any chair. even if he wasn't as strong in speaking out during committee sessions, his fingers were his weapon. the guys would always ask him why'd he chair press and not join in the heat with them, he'd always answer with "my words are stronger than my actions." where jay would always respond with "isn't that the other way around bud?"

the four were unstoppable when it came to model un. lee heeseung was unstoppable. he was. until you came along.

you were quiet at first. everyone just saw you as the new girl who transferred for her senior year. nobody cared. until decelis high's annual mun conference, which happened to take place a couple weeks after the first day of school.

students from all over the country gathered at decelis high once a year to join in on the fun. various councils were presented at decelis mun, from heeseung's favorite council, crisis, and multiple others like unhrc, who, unsc, disec, unicef, and your favorite, press.

without a doubt, you registered yourself for press, opting that you didn't have the guts to join any other council. you feared you'd tremble listening to another delegate question your stances and ideologies.

your parents would always encourage your writing. as a child, you loved to write little imaginary stories about your life as a princess. writing stories about the love you've seen in your parents, you were set to write a book. but when your mom passed away a few weeks before your senior year of high school, and your dad constantly traveling for work, you had resorted yourself to watching the news all summer long, spiking your interest in being a journalist, where all you had to do was report whatever was going on, spit out what had to be said, and done. you didn't need to think long and hard on what your character was supposed to do next to support the storyline, no opinions, no biases.

as you stepped into your assigned council's room, you felt a gush of wind. the nervousness had gotten to you more, seeing all the socially bright journalists with their laptops open and chatting amongst each other happily.

"hi! you're a new face! oh and you're cnn! me and you will be best buddies! bbc here!" a girl squeals, she has a bright smile and a oh-so friendly demeanor. no doubt a popular trait amongst the press council.

"minjeong! don't scare her off. we're so sorry, she sometimes comes off a bit too much to new people. i'm wonyoung, the co-chair for press." she introduces herself.

"oh, hello. i'm y/n. i just transferred to decelis this year. it's my first time at press." you smile. you lost all your socialite cheerfulness over the summer, but meeting minjeong and wonyoung felt like you've been recharged. "oh and i'm the journalist for cnn?"

the girls take a glance at your nametag, examining you, before wonyoung cuts, "first time? don't worry sweetheart, we'll tell you all about it! right hoonie?"

a tall figure walks up to the three of you, no doubt a intimidating face. "y/n right? i'm sunghoon, the chair for press." he asks.

"yes yes this is her! oh we've got to tell her all about press! first timer alert!" wonyoung beams, before entangling her hand with sunghoon's. there was no doubt that the two were a couple.

"ugh, okay you two cut it off! we're journalists, we gotta be professional!" minjeong argues, playfully slapping wonyoung's arm, causing her to let go of sunghoon's.

at first, you had no idea what you were stepping into. but when chair sunghoon welcomed you to press with his icy-blue eyes and quiet demeanor, the other journalists supporting each other when it came to writing their articles, you felt right at home.

it didn't feel like it, but two days of endless debates went on, countries arguing left and right, and articles written on the current hot topic. the tension was surely rising, and your fingers were tired.

you were glad it was all over.

at every post-conference social, before awards were handed out, the articles the journalists from press wrote would be released to the conference for the other delegates to read. besides their usual gossip box, the articles the press wrote were always the fuel to the fire.

one article stuck up to heeseung. it read; "secretary-general heeseung's love for crisis interferes chair jongseong's chairing process, now who's really chairing crisis?"

heeseung swore to himself that he's never seen a girl like you. so quiet yet so powerful in her writing. hearing rumors that you've only just recently transferred to decelis high. even sunghoon himself was surprised to meet a talented journalist like you, a first-timer at press.

"it was her first time?" heeseung protested, "i mean- she's so quiet and reserved, if she had been doing press for years, i wouldn't be surprised. but this is her first time?!"

"what do you mean she's quiet? look at hoon, he never says a word in comses, but look at him chairing press. and i would never mind you tagging along in crisis, you always give out good insights." jay interrupts his thoughts.

heeseung complains, "i understand that, but her innocent face says nothing to what she wrote about me!"

"her articles were critical. they were precise and to the point. there was never a single weak spot in her articles. i think she's gonna make a run for my position." sunghoon defends.

"it's just one article hee, it won't affect your entire track record anyways." jake compliments, giving him a pat on the back.

heeseung believed what jake said was true. he did have an outstanding track record. "best delegate"s here and there, one silly little article wouldn't ruin his entire reputation.

as the clock strikes seven, social night was slowly coming to a close. decelis high's third annual mun was coming to an end. all that was left was to hand out the awards.

heeseung made his secretary-general speech as usual, a couple thank you-s here and there, before he handed it over to the chairs to announce the awards.

as he was walking down the stage, he felt a couple stares from mostly the press council linger. fixing his tie, he shook it off before taking a seat in the front row.

awards were handed, from best position papers, verbal commendations, honorable mentions, most outstanding delegates, and of course, best delegates.

the press council was saved for last. sunghoon asked heeseung if he could be given more time to rethink his options for the awards, and as his best mate, he let him. in reality, sunghoon didn't need time to rethink his options. he and wonyoung knew who was going to win best journalist. sunghoon just wanted to save the best for last.

when heeseung hears sunghoon's announcement for best journalist, it clicks.

"and the press council's best journalist award goes to none other than... l/n y/n!"

cheers could be heard from across the conference room. minjeong practically jumping on you when they heard your name mentioned. you rushed to the stage with a red face and a still shocked reaction, receiving the certificate along with the medal. wonyoung gave you the biggest bear hug known to man, whilst sunghoon gave you a firm handshake.

you felt the cameras flashing at you, taking pictures from what felt like every single angle. unbeknownst to you, heeseung was glaring at you from the front row.

best journalist. best journalist? his mind was running all over the place. how could he? how could sunghoon, his best friend, let such a writer like you, who wrote a devious article about him, win best delegate?

a single glance at the other delegates of the press council only angered him more. amongst them were laughs and snickers. he swore he heard a journalist say; "looks like mister secgen is upseeet!" but decelis mun only happened once a year. he wouldn't have the need to care about you every other day.

or so he thought.

heeseung felt like you were everywhere. at every lunch break, you were always sitting across his and the boys' table, laughing at nonsense with yunjin and wonyoung. during free periods, you'd be at the library, hunched over your laptop or head deep in a book. and at mun club, you just had to be there.

he hated that you were gifted like him. he hated that his friends favored you. he hated that sunghoon would always send you to their rival school's muns to participate in their press councils. he hated that you always won. he hated that you were clouding his mind every single day.

you hadn't but uttered a single "thank you," to lee heeseung. as decelis high's secretary-general, you didn't think he'd care about you. you were just a writer. you had no strength in the debate field, no reason for lee heeseung to care. but why was he being so cold?

it started when you applied for the harvard model congress. you were ecstatic to find out you'd be attending the conference. obviously, you told minjeong and wonyoung all about it. even striking up small talk with sunghoon.

"that's amazing y/n. i mean, harvard model congress? that's big!" his tooth-rotting smile bringing a cheerful mood.

"you went from winning best journalist in schools across the state to varsity level in just a few months!" minjeong squeals, as she hugs you. you were really lucky to have such caring best friends.

laughing along in the mun club room, you could feel heeseung's glare from his desk. headphones on and focused onto his laptop screen, you felt a strange feeling resonating off of him.

heeseung was fuming. the entire club applied for harvard model congress. heeseung got in. his mates did. and of course, you also did.

it was supposed to be a three day long weekend with his mates full of debate, laughter, awards, and getting drunk on social nights. but no. you and your friends would be there too.

heeseung didn't understand why everyone was so trusting of you so easily.

even jay, was friendly with you. "well y/n, i think you're going to make a run for hee's job!"

wonyoung rolls her eyes at jay. "he should be scared. you've rose up through the ranks like jake's receeding hairline."

"hey! my hair is perfectly fine, thank you!" jake cuts, huffing at the ridiculous comment about his hair.

"yo hee! we gotta work out the letter to the school so we can get a few days off. come over here, you look like you're burning holes into your laptop!" jay chuckles, receiving a smack on the arm from jake.

a quick but surprising slam! from heeseung's laptop emitted a low echo throughout the room. followed by a ruffling of him throwing his decelis almameter over his shoulder, and another loud slam! of the mun club room's door. lee heeseung just stormed out.

"oof, what's got into him?" minjeong asks, her face contorting into an anxious look.

"i don't fucking know, he's been at it since decelis' annual mun. throwing temper tantrums left and right." jay sighs, concerned for his best friend.

"well i guess that temper is living up to my article." you suggest, letting out a huff and a subtle eyeroll.

sunghoon takes a deep breath before realization hits. "now that i think of it, he's been at it since you've joined our core team." while he points at you.

"what does that have to do with me? i didn't do shit. all i do is sit, join muns, write, and win awards for us. would he rather i'd be getting verbal commendations instead?" you sigh. you've done nothing but bring pride to decelis high's reputation.

wonyoung laughs, patting you on the back. "it's not about winning verbcom or bestdel, it's about heeseung finally finding his match."

"exactly! he's gone on and on about constantly winning at every mun. he's always complained about needing more of a challenge. and no shit he's been jealous of your achievements." minjeong pipes in.

"that's ridiculous. i don't understand crisis as much as he does, i'm just a journalist on the press council! he's basically just being an ass to me, that's all." you confessed, you and heeseung were basically on different levels. he was secgen and lover of crisis councils, whilst you were just one of the head journalists and co-editors of the press division.

"maybe he likes you? i don't know!" jake squeals, lifting his shoulders in question. jay and sunghoon gives him a slap on the shoulder each, a glaring stare between the three.

"no no, lee heeseung is a cold-hearted son of a bitch with an ego to feed every other day, there's no way he can feel shit." minjeong debates, a hint of anger in her voice.

"woah girl, what's got you mad? i get you two grew up together but that's a lot to say about heeseung." wonyoung asks her.

"i know it's a long story, but y/n deserves to know. right?" minjeong asks, waiting for you to nod to continue. "every single day of my life, i was my parents' star girl. i love my parents for supporting me. but ever since heeseung moved in next door, i was demoted from best girl in the neighborhood to second best to heeseung. ever since we were eight, heeseung didn't like to lose. to a boy he'd be a good sport. but when he lost to me in a mere storytelling competition, he'd throw a tantrum. that's heeseung to me. he's nothing but an egotistical ass who has to win everything."

you sigh, hearing minjeong’s words. "and you know what y/n?" she continues, "he's never lost it since we were 13. and you, y/n, have officially made him lose his mind. again."

this year's harvard model congress was held at seoul national university, the dream university of many korean students. the seven of you stayed at a hotel nearby, settling in.

sunghoon picks up the keycards at the check-in counter, "okay so there's three rooms in total, the girls are sharing, me and jake are in one room, which leaves heeseung and jay—"

"i'm sorry sir," the hotel staff interrupts him, "but the rooms are already divided by the hotel and cannot be changed. it says here, room 745 is for miss kim and miss yang, room 746 is for mister park, mister sim, and the other mister park— mister jongseong, and room 777 is for—"

"great. thank you. alright, let's settle in and get ready for opening night." heeseung sighs, grabbing his suitcase and your shared room's keycards before heading to the elevators. you gave the rest of the group a shaky smile before following heeseung.

the moment you two entered the lift, and as heeseung tapped the keycard and pressing the button for the seventh floor, you could feel the tension.

as the lift begins to move upwards, heeseung lets out a sigh. "look, l/n. we're sharing a room by casuality, so don't make it a big deal."

you huff shakily, "a big deal? you're the one who's been avoiding me all year! i barely disturb you and all i do is win awards for decelis. what else do you want from me?" your voice slowly getting angrier.

as heeseung opens his mouth to answer, the lift comes to a halt as its doors open, signaling that they've reached the seventh floor.

heeseung holds the lift doors open, so you can exit it with ease. you were surprised with this gesture. coming from him who could care less about your presence, you were baffled.

as you both reach at your hotel room, heeseung gave you one of the three keycards given before tapping his at the hotel room's door.

and as if your romance stories came to life, you spotted an oh-so familiar trope sitting in the middle of your hotel room. there was only one king-sized bed.

"shut the front door." you sighed, looking at the clear situation in front of you.

heeseung entered behind you, "i clearly have, what are you talking abou—"

"no dumbass, it was a metaphor. i'm talking about this." you exclaimed, pointing your finger at the bed.

"great. i'll call up room service and get this sorted—"

"no it's fine, it'll be too much of a hassle and social night is in two hours. besides, we're civil adults, and we're here for only two nights. we can bear 72 hours living through this stupid one bed trope."

"fine. just so you know i'm taking the left side."

heeseung dropped his bag near his side, as he was trying his best to keep his composure. sharing a room with you was bad enough (that's what he keeps telling himself), but a bed as well? he'd rather win verbal commendation than share a bed with you.

you were unpacking your necessities before you decided to break the ice. "heeseung just so you know—"

but before you could finish, heeseung was already out the door. before the door closed, you could hear a mere; "i'll go down for social night. you do you." and a click! of the door.

you scanned the room that was once filled with such tension, spotting your room keycard on the bedside table.

you took off your sweater and switched to something a bit classier for social night, changing to a blood red dress you had packed to match harvard's colors. minjeong and wonyoung had helped you choose it a couple days prior, the conversation reappearing in your mind.

"harvard's got nothing on you with that dress! watch out best journalist!" minjeong hypes you up as you're trying it on in the changing room.

"are you sure it's not a bit too much?" you questioned, feeling insecure in the dress.

"too much? my guess is heeseung would drop dead seeing you in that dress. after all, he is in love with you." wonyoung giggles, which earns her a slap on her arm from winter.

"just own it y/n. maybe layer it with a leather jacket if you get cold?" minjeong suggests. you look at yourself in the mirror once more. maybe this would be the turning point between you and heeseung's rivalry. maybe he'd look at you and decide that he no longer hated you and instead loved y— no. enough of those thoughts.

as you touched up your makeup from earlier this morning, you headed out to find wonyoung and minjeong waiting at the lobby.

"there you are— oh that dress looks, damn!" minjeong exclaims, covering her mouth with her hand to hide the utter shock.

"i just know heeseung's going to gape at that dre—" before wonyoung could finish her sentence, she earns a smack on her arm from minjeong. "ow minie! i don't want my arm to be black and blue at social night! which starts in... thirty minutes. we should get to campus and fill in our registrations so we're set."

opening night was a blast. harvard model congress knew how to throw a goddamn banger of a opening night.

there were so many things to see. a karaoke booth, a photobooth station, a merch station, even a snack booth filled to the brim with various snacks and drinks.

after receiving your lanyards and a couple papers where you'd find your assigned councils for the next day, you, wonyoung, and minjeong, were set to let lose one last time before you were head deep into your laptops, writing articles for the next three days.

entering the room littered with decorations and other delegates, you and the girls entered the ballroom hand in hand, in awe with the decor.

wonyoung spotted the boys immediately, already saving a table for the seven of you. the three of you walked to the table, which had name plates for all your names. wonyoung next to sunghoon, jay next to jake, minjeong on your right next to you, and heeseung on your left.

sitting at the assigned seats and listening to the opening remarks by harvard model congress' secretary-general, the food was served and you all dug in.

although this was only the first of two social nights, you and the girls had to make the best of it. from abusing the “free photobooths!” booth, and filling the room with echoes of musical ballads, your first night at harvard model congress was deemed memorable.

before you knew it, you were dragged to the back of the room, as wonyoung pulled out a small paper bag—which turns out to hold a couple bottles of liquor, you grabbed your glasses and started pouring.

you could see out of the corner of your eye—the girls downing shots of tequila (in secret, cause you didn't want to get caught), and the guys coming along to take a shot or two. but heeseung looked, tense.

jake slapped him on the back, giggling, “come on man, loosen up a bit! mun isn’t all about the awards and the roles, it’s about the memories!”

“and the friends we make along the way, am i right?” jay chimed in, with a teasing tone.

before you knew it, heeseung grabbed an entire bottle and downed what was equivalent to maybe 4 shots, wonyoung squealed, arguing the fact that it was a very expensive bottle of liquor.

“dude! that’s from my dad’s cabinet, it’s at least 500.000 won!” she argued, grabbing the bottle out of his hands.

as you tried to ignore his gaze, minjeong gave you your first shot—which you downed immediately, but it only made you feel like heeseung’s gaze was burning holes into you more.

heeseung sighed, “give me another one.” holding his hand out for someone to pour him a shot. “come on, i don’t got all day.” before sunghoon poured him another shot—which he downed immediately.

you hated the feeling of his stare. it felt, uncomfortable, but you liked it? the more he stared, the more you downed more shots. before you knew it, opening night came to a close, and you were stumbling your way down the hallway with wonyoung and minjeong, before finally finding your room. and in your drunken state, you passed out.

burning pain. your eyes couldn’t handle the bright light emitting from what seemed to be all around you. as you open your eyes, head spinning, you flopped back down onto your bed, exhausted, and with the hotel room ac, you felt frozen.

but as you get comfortable onto the bed once more, you feel a sense of warmth engulf your body. it felt welcoming. comfortable. maybe a bit too comfortable for your sake. but the warmth was soothing. it was, moving?

you shot back out of the bed, trying to rub your eyes to focus back onto the warmth, but that warmth pulled you back into its embrace. as if it needed you to survive.

as you try to recollect the events of last night, your usual 7am alarm rung. what a great way to ruin the moment.

a groan echoed from that warmth you once clung to, a familiar sound, a familiar… voice?

“l/n, what time is it?” it asked.

fuck.

"chill y/n, you'll be fine." you whisper to yourself, walking to your assigned council's room. from the rest of the journalists in your gang, you had been assigned to report on different councils. while wonyoung and winter were assigned to report on the ASEAN council, sunghoon to report on the UNHRC council, you were unfortunately assigned to the crisis council. just to your luck. your mind was still stuck in what happened this morning. you met your chairs, shuhua and beomgyu, role call was held, and your first committee session began.

while you were typing away a starting paragraph for an article, a bright face comes to greet you. "oh hello, l/n y/n right? i'm jungwon, the journalist for KBS! i sit right next to you in our council room."

"oh hello! i'm y/n, reporting for the new york times, it's nice to meet you." you smile, offering a hand out for him to shake, which he accepts.

"so, you got assigned to crisis too huh?" jungwon asks as you nod, "honestly it's one of the worse councils to report on because everything is moving... too fast." he sighs.

"i don't mind the speed, it gives me inspiration to write. but everyone has their capacities right?" you try to reason, whilst jungwon gives an agreeing nod.

not long after some small talk before you could enter crisis' council room, another boy tags along. his bright smile clearly infectious as you and jungwon couldn't help but smile at his bright appearance.

"annyeong! nice to meet you i'm sunoo!" he smiles, his blonde hair reflecting the lights in the room.

you shake his hand as a boy with blonde hair and black streaks tags along behind him before slapping the blonde’s arm, "i'm nishimura riki, you can call me riki. can’t believe i flew all the way from tokyo for this."

“yah! your writing is fine riki, your good shots will steal the show.” sunoo assures him, before looking back at you, and smiling.

riki sighs, before turning on his camera “i wanna get the redhead over there, heard he’s super good at mun or something..”

you blink as you realize riki was talking about none other than—heeseung.

"oh him? yeah he's my secgen." you tell him, the sentence floating out of your mouth. jungwon and sunoo turn to you with gaping mouths.

"wait- what? he's YOUR secgen? THE lee heeseung?" jungwon exclaims.

you furrow your eyebrows, "um, yeah? what's the big deal about him?"

sunoo's face lights up, as he prepares his words. "girl, he's the most highest ranking student in the high school mun circuit! his countless awards and times he's chaired makes him a legend. he's a literal model un weapon, even delegates with the veto powers are scared of him." he explains.

as you open your mouth to respond to his comment about heeseung, one of the chairs of the crisis council exits the room to greet you.

"ah hello journalists, you're here. i'm yeonjun, the head chair for crisis. we currently have unmod going on right now so you're just in time. we'll give you guys a couple opportunities to interview the delegates, but please be mindful." he explains.

you and the three boys smile back at him, before he opens the council room door and lets you in.

"delegates! i'd like to introduce to you all the journalists from the international press institute council, who will be observing our committee session. we have yang jungwon from KBS, kim sunoo from associated press, nishimura riki from NHK, and y/n l/n from the new york times. please treat them with the upmost respect.

a couple delegates say their greetings, and even explaining the current debate going on, as the four of you smile back at them. the crisis council was a popular council, and you can tell that from the amount of delegates in the room.

as you return your laptop back into your messenger bag and pulling out a notepad, a pen, and some sticky notes, you look back up only to lock eyes with heeseung. his gaze was deadly. you give him a slight smile, which he responds with an eyeroll.

the only thing you hated about being a journalist was the interviews. you needed to research, but having to interact with people you don't know? you'd rather kill yourself. it just happened that heeseung's stance was interesting enough for you to pass a post-it note to him, which he threw away.

so you were surprised to see him walk towards you during break, as you had thought he had rejected your interview offer.

"l/n, you wanted to interview me?" he'd asked you, no bad tone in his voice.

you looked at him surprised, kinda shocked, "umm, yeah? are you okay with that."

"i'm good. just, make it quick."

you open your notes to find your question you wanted to ask him, "um, do you mind if i record?" you asked, which he nodded. "okay, so as the delegate of colombia, what steps would you take to face the ongoing drug trade happening in your country? as a journalist, we have not seen you speak up much lately, so i'd like to know your thoughts."

"um, thank you for the interesting question, well i think—"

it was unlike him to treat you like this. unlikely for him to keep his cool. as you try to remember the words he was saying as you hold out your phone to record him, nothing was catching on. it was as if words went in one ear and out the other. 

he was so professional. the way he walks, and the way he talks—the way his lips move when he talks, the way he explains his stance—the way he’s saying the words—the way his lips move to pronounce it, oh and the way he-

“l/n? are you done? i’m wasting my precious break time here.” heeseung asks you, breaking you out of that trance.

you compose yourself, hitting the stop button on the voice recorder app, “oh yeah, sorry, i was thinking of another question to ask you—got carried away…”

heeseung rolls his eyes at you, before thanking you and scurrying away.

what had gotten into you? you’ve never seen heeseung in that way before. he’s always been just a secretary-general to you. who also happens to hate you. you think. 

but as the unmoderated caucus comes to a close, you return back to your council room, ready to write an article on heeseung’s stance. after all, you still had a day’s left worth of committee sessions, as well as a press conference held at the crisis council. 

the press council room was chiming with the clicks and clacks of keyboards, journalists writing articles left and right. you were in the middle of writing once again another filler article, as you had no idea what to write for your mandatory article. as you look through your gallery, observing pictures you took earlier for your articles, you can't help but notice heeseung in his element.

as you're typing a possible title for your mandatory article, you hear from beside you, "hey, what's going on with you and heeseung?" sunoo asks, as you turn to him in shock, as you were in the middle of writing an article.

you laughed nervously, "what? nothing's going on between us. he practically hates me." you sigh.

jungwon pulls his chair over to you, placing his laptop on your table in the process, "i don't think so. not from what i saw last night."

you gasped at what he said, "and what i saw this morning! i could practically feel the tension emitting off the two of you as you were interviewing him. i've never seen a man so intrigued before." riki chimes in.

"this morning? nothing happened, i was interviewing him on his stances and whatsoever for a possible article! that's all to it!" you defend yourself, trying to get back into your article.

"y/nie, sweetie, i've seen way too many kdramas to tell that the way he's looking at you, is a look of love~" sunoo teases, smiling as if he knew something more.

jungwon and riki laughes at your expression, which seemed to resemble a disgusting look, but underneath that, you felt a sting in your heart. not a bad sting, a good sting.

"but hey you two seemed pretty cozy last night, i wonder what that was for?" jungwon asked.

riki gasps, "hey i took a picture! wait let me find it..." as he pulled out his camera, going through the camera roll. "here! you guys were dancing together a lot, and he basically was carrying you back to your room. what, did you guys get drunk or something?"

you choked on your water, as the events of last night start piecing together. "i remember taking a couple shots, he did too, but all i remember after that is falling asleep on my bed... i assumed my friends helped me to get back but now that i think of it... they were pretty drunk too."

taking another closer look at the pictures riki happened to capture, you saw two beaming smiles, and from the looks of it, it looked like you two were having fun. you've never seen him smile this much, let alone around you. the other picture resembled like a married couple. it was as if heeseung was trying to pick you up, but by the looks of your drunken states, it wasn't really working.

"wouldn't it be really funny if you guys accidentally fucked or something? that would explain the tension!" jungwon jokes.

you shake your head, before putting your face in your hands, "no way, not in a million years. our tension is, well, our tension! it's what happens normally!" you try to defend.

"no you're right won, they totally fucked. i mean the floor you guys are on? most of the rooms have king or queen sized beds. what would you guys be doing other than that? snuggling into each other till the sunrise?" riki assumes, scoffing afterwards.

your eyes widened in shock, as if jungwon cut your brain opened and took out the events of what happened this morning. you put your head in your hands once more before beginning to cry.

riki saw your reaction, "hey i didn't mean it that way! i mean it's- um... great? if you fucked? but if not then that's like, totally okay! i mean sex isn't for everyone—"

sunoo cut him off, shooing him away, "stop making it worse, ki-yah! y/nie? will you tell us what happened?"

you sniffed, not knowing why you suddenly burst into tears, maybe it was the frustration? you grabbed a tissue to compose yourself, "i don't know... all i remember is i woke up this morning, in his arms, and i just jumped out and got ready. we didn't even talk about it. all of a sudden he's back to his old self and he's being mean to me again."

you take a deep breath, sunoo rubbing you on the back, trying to calm you down. "he's been like this ever since i transferred. i was just the new girl who was a press prodigy, that's what they called me back at decelis, and i don't know, he's hated me every since. no reason whatsoever. i've tried to win his attention by winning muns and stuff but, it doesn't matter. he looks at me as if i disappoint him."

jungwon and riki both comfort you as well, before jungwon has a strike of realization. "you know, it's not that i wanna stir up delusion in your mind, but it's quite common for guys to hate someone because they like them. what if he has a crush on you?"

riki realizes as well, "yeah what if? what if all this time he's been trying so hard to hate you because he actually likes you?"

hearing the words likes you come out of their mouths makes you shudder in fear. no way he likes you. right?

before you knew it, your chair returns to announce that press conferences are due to start soon. and up first? was the crisis council.

stepping foot into the crisis room, with the information in mind, you start to notice the tiny little characteristics that match with the fact. the fact that the lee heeseung might as well have a crush on you. as you, sunoo, and two other journalists were guided to the front of the room, your chair explaining to the crisis delegates how the press conference was going to work, before giving the floor to the journalists.

you keep your head hung, distracting yourself by re-reading the questions you’ve written on your notepad, peeking through your hair, trying to take a glimpse of heeseung.

heeseung was in his element as always, head deep in his laptop, a couple volunteers passing by to give him a post-it note, filled with scribbles of other delegates wishing to be on his side. but as per usual, his critical self crumples the notes and puts it aside to his pile of other crumpled notes.

sunoo, on your left, nudges you in the arm, trying to snap you out of it. the moment you lift your head to look at the delegates and compose yourself, you catch heeseung looking at you.

with your bloodshot eyes, your usual smile fading, heeseung can’t help but notice what happened. you were fine last break. your eyes which used to be sparkling with curiosity had been traded for puffy eyes and a fake smile.

he wanted to come up to you, wanted to ask what’s wrong. but as your chair introduced the journalists, he’d wonder if it was just an impulsive thought.

each journalist had to share 10 minutes worth of press conference time to ask questions, a tight amount of time. as the journalist on your far left begins, the clock begins to tick. being the last journalist to ask, you begin to feel worried.

but as the mic is passed to you, and mere two minutes left on the clock, you scramble to compose yourself and your questions. “this journalist would like to open the question to the floor, with the excessive drug trade impacting the economy of your countries, what is an effective solution you’d have to decrease the drug circulation, but at the same time, would not damage your economy?”

placards were raised, and amongst them, were heeseung’s. you could see the colombian flag on his placard raised high, but as the journalist of the new york times, your work came first. therefore, you chose someone else. “yes, delegate of the united states?”

the delegate of the united states stood up, and you finally saw the name on his nametag. yang jeongin. he smirked at you, sending a wink. “thank you madam journalist for the intriguing question, as the drug trade across our country begins to increase…”

as you held your hand forward holding your phone out to record his answer, continuing to talk for the next minute. it felt like a lifetime. but in the corner of your eye, you could feel his gaze burning holes. heeseung held his placard high, glaring dead straight at jeongin even if he was still speaking. but as you thank jeongin for his answer, you open the question once more to the floor.

you hear a screech of the chair as heeseung, the only one holding his placard up, stands up to answer. but you don’t discern anything he says. you just stare at him. before you knew it, the clock rang, signaling that time was up.

sunoo nudged your arm once more, trying to snap you out of it. “you okay?” he asked, worry written all over his face. you nodded to tell him you were okay.

as you were escorted out of the room to head to the hotel restaurant for lunch break, you couldn't help but feel the same feeling of heeseung's gaze at the back of your head. you ignored him, walking out with sunoo by your side.

but you were stopped briefly by someone, none other than the delegate of the united states. "hey, that was a very interesting question you asked earlier at press conference. i was wondering if you need my insight on anything? given as i'm usa and you're the new york times." jeongin suggests, his usual smirk returning from before. sunoo winked at you, before leaving the two of you alone in the hallway.

you blink at him, "oh! yeah, i was thinking about gaining insight from, well our country's side of the story. so what can you tell me?"

your notepad flips open along the click of your pen, ready to jot down his words, before out of the corner of your eye, that sharp gaze returns. the burning stare heeseung emitted was back. you gulped and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. "hey, um jeongin? could we find somewhere a bit more quiet so i can record the interview? i need to make sure everything is clear because i need to submit the questions to my chairs."

jeongin smiled, "of course sweetheart, i know just the place." before he took your hand and led you away. unbeknownst to you, heeseung was fuming.

as the two of you walked away, heeseung couldn't help but wonder. what's so great about yang jeongin anyways? compared to himself, his track record was not all that. yeah he may have won most outstanding or honorable mention a couple times, but never best delegate. consecutively.

heeseung felt a tap on his shoulder, before briefly turning around. jay was standing there with a cup of coffee. he grabbed it out of his hands before immediately drinking out of it.

"that's! hot coffee..." jay protested. but to heeseung, his rage burned hotter. "what's got your panties in a twist?" jay asked, sipping his own cup of coffee.

"nothing, just pissed at a delegate. per usual." heeseung lied. as the two begun to make their way to restaurant to eat lunch.

jay chuckled, seeing his pissed face, "dude, i've known you for over eight years, you don't get pissed at a delegate for no reason. this is harvard model congress for god's sake, everyone here? they're basically professionals. mun legends. i wouldn't have afford this shit if i wasn't good at it. the awards and prizes helped fund this hobby."

heeseung sighed, "it's not just a delegate. it's someone else."

"it's y/n, isn't it?" heeseung snapped his head to glare at jay, as if he grew three heads. "chill dude, i can tell. you're painfully in love with her."

"no no no, you don't get it, she's a menace to my track record. do you remember back at decelis mun before she transferred? her article basically ruined my record the next five muns? i basically had to avoid chairing so the rumors wouldn't be deemed true." heeseung argued, reminiscing the times.

"but you'd argue she's a damn good writer, isn't she?" jay defended, "i mean no one from decelis has won consecutively aside from you. and she comes in to make the decelis name proud. aren't you glad? you're secgen after all. you're just in denial."

heeseung sighed, looking at his cup of coffee, once full, now empty. "i'm not in denial! i'm just stressed with a couple delegates in committee session, unmoderated caucus was, stressful."

entering the restaurant, their eyes landed to the corner booth, where you sat face to face with jeongin. jay turned his head to look at heeseung staring deadset at the two. "well, whatever floats your boat man, i'm gonna get some lunch. unsc might as well go to crisis next comses." jay pats him on the back, joining sunghoon, jake, wonyoung, and minjeong.

heeseung stood still. he couldn't help but wonder. is this what love feels like?

"so, yang jeongin, what can you tell me about the united states' stance on the current illegal drug trade? i assume that the country is fully aware of it happening?" you ask, pressing record on your voicenotes app.

jeongin looked around, before reaching over and pressing the stop recording button on your phone. before you could protest, "okay cut the crap, what's going on between you and lee heeseung?"

you looked at him strangely, not expecting the sudden confrontation. "well, nothing? i don't know what you want me to say, this isn't part of the interview."

jeongin dug into his food, "screw that shit, i wanna know why your secgen is all on my ass. i mean i looked at you once at comses earlier, and he looked at me like i lit an orphanage on fire."

you almost choked on your pasta, "what the hell, dude. he's just like that. he hates my guts so much he has to make me feel uncomfortable everywhere i go. i literally bring home decelis as many awards as he has in the past two years. i don't get him."

"nah, i don't think that's hate. he looked at me as if he was clyde and i was trying to steal away his bonnie. that's a look of love."

you sighed, "the thing is jeongin, he doesn't care. i've done everything to pique his attention, best journalist awards left and right, i was supposed to run for deputy secgen but he didn't let me. he said i wasn't a true decelis muner yet. i mean 8 muns in the span of a couple months? and i've never lost a single one? he probably hates me because i chose the lamest council."

jeongin swallows his food before he comes to realization, "hey weren't you the journalist who wrote on heeseung back at decelis' mun? i remember felix-hyung, my friend, that he went feral over it. he was chairing unicef, and in the chairs' room, he overheard heeseung talking about your article. how it was going to ruin his track record, or something."

"i mean, i do remember briefly. wonyoung, my chair, said i was allowed to write about the chairs or staff, even if they were filler articles. i wrote about heeseung and jay out of interest, i didn't know their history." you confessed, feeling quite bad about the outcome. "i didn't want my article to end up being gossip or shit talk, i just wrote what i wanted to."

"freedom of the press, am i right?" jeongin laughed, "speaking of the devil." signaling heeseung heading towards your table.

heeseung stood at your table. "yang. l/n." before scooting next to jeongin's side of the booth. you couldn't help but move your eyes between the two. after what sunoo and the boys told you earlier, and jeongin's confirmation that basically people could tell, you sit there in silence.

heeseung clears his throat, "well i'm not seeing much interviewing going on, delegates."

you scoffed at him, "it's none of your business heeseung. we're all delegates, it's lunch break. you don't have to boss around all the time."

"our decelis guidebook strictly confers to not confide in the enemy. and here you are, with the enemy. you know if you spill precious information regarding us we'd be dead?" he scolded you.

a laugh escaped your throat, "the enemy? jeongin is far from the enemy to me. matter of fact, heeseung, you've been more of an enemy to me rather than a secgen."

jeongin whispered, "keep it down y/n, it's okay."

you stood up in anger, "no it's not okay! i've been trying my hardest to do everything i can, i've won consecutively since my first mun at decelis, i've done everything you ask for. i've done nothing but make the decelis name proud, but i just can't happen to make you proud. what do i have to do next? i do everything and all i do is fall at second best. if you hate me so much then kick me off the goddamn team! wouldn't want me tarnishing your precious track record by having a traitor on the team, would you? all this over a stupid article i wrote months ago." you walk away from the table, returning to your room.

heeseung was speechless, the rest of the room was in awe, normally delegates would be able to stay professional. even if there was a break up or something. even wonyoung and minjeong looked at heeseung in anger, meanwhile jake, jay, and sunghoon looked at him in disappointment. jeongin stood up and left the booth, avoiding any more anger out of heeseung. "if i were you, i'd apologize. that girl has done nothing but try to please you and make you proud. start there." jeongin added before leaving.

out of habit, heeseung hung his head low in embarrassment. this was worse than the time you wrote that article about him. as he stood up to confide in the boys for advice, he spots a small leather notepad in the corner of the booth. it was yours. he'd have to find you, face you and give it back. it wouldn't hurt to read a bit of what's inside, right?

running back to your room, you couldn't dare return till next comses. the fact that an entire room full of delegates and chairs had heard you scream at heeseung's face. and returning back to the bed you woke up from this morning, limbs tangled with heeseung, didn't really help.

hiding your face in your bedsheets, tears flowing freely, you couldn't help but smell the familiar cologne he had left behind. the smell stung your nose, and made your eyes water more. the scent that once plagued you, now had lulled you to sleep.

a blurry facade appeared, the sound of heavy noise music remained muffled. your feet were cold on the hotel floor, destination? room 777. you were swaying side to side, but thankfully you were able to hold on to a pillar, which was moving with you.

"we shouldn't have drunk this much, right l/n? i'm not even sure i'm prepped for comses tomorrow morning." the pillar said.

"you have it easy, lee. you don't have to write 4 pieces worth of mandatory articles and observe other council's committee sessions." you replied, a clear slur in your voice.

it, who turned out to be heeseung, laughed, and it was like music to your ears. "i thought you journalists just copy-pasted shit off google or something, didn't get why you'd have to sit in the back of council rooms."

you scoffed at him, "well, as secretary-general, you should've known better. if only you noticed what i've been doing all this time to get your attention, maybe you would've understood."

"you think i haven't been paying attention? i've had my eyes on you ever since you wrote that silly article about me back at decelis mun. 'who's really chairing crisis?' you do know me and jay have been friends since primary, right?" he argued.

"that i know know, lee. the fact that you caused all the fuss over an article that was purely for mun, and had no ill intention is just stupid. i just wanted to be able to express myself." you confessed, feeling underestimated.

he sighed, pressing the up button on the lift, "it's not that i fussed over an article, it's that you wrote about me. i don't see many people brave enough to write about a secretary-general." before he could continue, the doors to the lift dinged and opened, allowing the two of you to walk in.

"i mean," he stuttered, clicking the number seven on the lift's buttons, "you amazed me. i've never met a person who could express themselves so much through their writing. no one paid attention to me enough to write such a critical piece about me."

you smiled at him, "so i'm special? i was the first to write about you, right?" he chuckled at your cheeky comment, "yes you're a first. i wouldn't mind if you kept writing about me."

"but why'd you hate me? i've done so much for decelis to make you proud, but you still have a way to butcher me. i just wanted to impress you." you'd sighed into his chest, the world beginning to spin.

luckily, heeseung had caught you before you fell, right on time as the lift reached the seventh floor. he basically carried you out, trying not to drop you.

"if i hated you so much, i wouldn't be helping you get back to our room, nor would i be making sure you get back safely." he assured you, holding you in his arms.

you groaned in protest, "but you do, don't you? i'm never enough for you, after everything i've done. all the things i did—"

you were shut up by his lips on yours. out of the blue, with no warning signs, he had kissed you. out of habit you kissed him back, lips molding against each other as if you had been waiting for years, as if you couldn't live without each other. all hatred you held against him dissipated. your arms crawling towards the back of his neck to pull him closer, his own pulling on your waist.

he pulled away to take a breath, but you couldn't breathe. he was your oxygen. you connected the two of you together, chasing his lips, his touch, his presence. it was the sweetness, the flavor of love and lust hanging. you’ve been craving his attention, hell, even his touch for months.

but your lungs craved oxygen, forcing you to pull away, hiding your face in his chest. as you were taking in the moment, he chuckled, "i wouldn't have done that if i hated you, would i?"

waking up with a jolt, the memories of last night came rushing in. you thanked yourself that the two of you hadn't fucked, but the idea of kissing him and liking it gave yourself insight. you wondered if heeseung remembered too.

opening your phone and seeing the time, you rushed out of your room as you were late to your next editorial meeting. it being the last committee session of the day, all you had to do was submit your mandatory articles of the day, and you'd be done. running back to your council room, knocking slightly on the door, you rushed back to your seat.

"journalist, you're late. why is that?" shuhua asked, beomgyu beside her, taking notes.

you sat down and composed yourself, "i'm sorry chairs, i slept in during break. it won't happen again."

the chairs nodded at you, letting it pass. the room discussed about how press conferences was, reminding the journalists of the upcoming deadline, but your mind was in the gutter.

you touch your lips, and you feel the lingering taste on your tongue. you were shocked out of your trance with the knocks of the chairs' gavel hitting the sound block. with only an hour left to finish your mandatory article, you begin to type.

social night was an mun tradition. after a full day of committee sessions, all councils, no matter what their council was, it gave a chance for all the delegates to mingle amongst each other.

free from the deadline of your first mandatory article, you had the whole night to party it out before tomorrow, where you had to finish your final mandatory article.

social nights usually had themes, and tonight, harvard model congress' was inspired by bridgerton, along with masquerade masks were in array. you had packed a a black dress, which belonged to your mother. she’d always tell you to save it for a special occasion, a moment you wouldn’t want to forget. and for tonight, as you miss your mom's touch, you wear your dress with pride.

walking to the venue, and right before you could even enter, you’re immediately greeted by wonyoung and minjeong. "oh my god sweets are you okay?" wonyoung asked, holding your face, clear worry in her eyes. "we heard and saw what happened at lunch, good for you to finally confront the bitch." minjeong commented, which earned her, once again, another slap on the arm by wonyoung.

you nodded at the two, holding their hands, "i'm fine, don't worry. i just needed to get it out of my system, that's all."

"to think of it, i haven't seen him since. normally when you pass by the crisis room, you'd hear his voice bouncing off the walls..." wonyoung confessed, "that's very unlike of him."

minjeong scoffs at her comment, "who cares? he's been downplaying y/n's achievements for the past couple months, i wouldn't be able to stay quiet if i were you."

you sighed at the two bickering in front of you, "guys, i just want tonight to be about us. this is harvard model congress for god's sake, i want to make the best out of it. so can we stop the heeseung talk and have some fun? please?"

the two nodded at your request, not pestering you any further. you all walk into the venue, being handed masquerade masks. the venue was decorated to the nines, and it felt like a ball straight out of bridgerton. the three of you were guided to your delegation table, which seated you, the girls, jake, and sunghoon. but heeseung? he was no where to be found.

"where's heeseung? it's not like him to miss out on social night." jake asked you.

you sat down on your assigned seat, and the seat on your right, which was supposed to occupy heeseung, was cold and empty. "why are you asking me? he hates me, remember?"

jake shrugged, "i don't know, i just reckoned that since the two of you are sharing a room, you'd know where he is."

minjeong scoffs, "who cares? y/n got ready at me and wony's room anyways, so no, we don't know where he is."

"jay said earlier today that he's been looking for him. wonder where he went. and if he found him..." sunghoon tells the table, sipping on his glass of water.

stuck in your trance, you were snapped out of it by a screeching of a chair, one, being jay, and the other was right next to you. heeseung. he was in his usual suit and tie, a couple buttons on the top were unbuttoned. you glanced at his tired eyes, hidden underneath the masquerade mask.

"dude? where've you been?" jake asked jay, slapping him on the shoulder.

jay sighed and drank a gulp of his water, "looking for this asshole over here." while pointing at heeseung, "took me a while to find him literally on the rooftop. i swear seoul uni has the most crazy hideouts. i'm not even sure i can even find my way back."

"how'd you find your way there anyways?" sunghoon asked heeseung.

he sighed, "don't know. just, found it." his demeanor slipping away as you begin to see the raw brokenness. you didn't hurt his ego that much, right?

as the clock struck seven, waiters all around the room began laying out the meals. you took a glimpse of the dinner courses in front of you, not really having an appetite for anything. but you still tried to eat, tried not to waste your food, tried to seem okay in front of him.

heeseung, on the other hand, was trying his best not to combust. sitting next to you was hard enough, but the fact you were wearing such a beautiful dress had him awestruck. he also lost his appetite. he couldn't help but stare at you.

after dinner, your friends stood up and ran over to the dance floor, and you were unfortunately dragged along. a remix of many famous hits were played, before you sang your hearts out to iris, by the goo goo dolls. you felt someone tap you on your shoulder, which to your surprise you see jeongin.

"could i have this dance?" he asked, hand out for you to grab, iris still playing in the background.

you nodded and grabbed his hand before you two danced foolishly to iris, heels discarded, his suit as well, just dancing your hearts out. but you had your limits, you were tired and excused yourself to grab some water. before you felt a nudge on your right, as heeseung leaned towards your ear. "can we talk later? don't say no just yet, just follow the green post its."

he walks away, as you look at him in confusion. feeling bad for what you said at lunch, you decide to meet him and see what he has to say.

following the pins of green post-its he left behind, you find yourself at the hidden rooftop jay was talking about at dinner. you open the door to be shocked at the view. the stars twinkling in the night sky. and stood there near the edge, was heeseung.

you broke the silence, clearing your throat, "you wanted to speak to me?"

heeseung looked at you and your dress, his mind going places. "yeah. i did. i'm not expecting an apology. i deserve it."

"but why'd you hate me so much, heeseung?" you whined at him, sick of his jokes.

"the thing is l/n, i don't!" he shouts, walking towards you, "it's not that i hate you, it's that i hate the way you make me feel. i hate the way you're so good at writing, i hate the way you win everything to make me proud, i hate the way you know my weaknesses, i hate the way you never gave up. you're on my mind every fucking day."

you walk up towards him, pulling his suit to pull him down, and him not expecting anything, you slap him across his face.

heeseung immediately pulled back, "ow! what was that for?"

"that was for not telling me about how you felt. you didn't have to bottle it up, you know?" you scoffed.

"and you didn't have to either!" he protested back, pulling out a familiar journal. your journal.

you grabbed it from his hands, "how'd you find this? i didn't even realize it was missing..."

heeseung sighed, "you know for a smart writer like you, you're very forgetful." a smile beginning to emerge.

"what did you read, heeseung? tell me." you asked, afraid that your secrets would spill out.

heeseung walked towards you, "enough to know that you're too stubborn to even tell me the truth. if you'd been feeling this way for months then you should have told me."

you gasped at him, "i would have told you about it if you weren't such a dick all the time? and then you kissing me last night just added more fuel to the fire." not realizing what you said, heeseung cupped your face, which was full of confusion.

"you remember last night?"

you blinked. "everything."

he laughed, "then you'd know i wouldn't hate you as much if i was doing this, would i?"

the familiar taste of his lips returned as he kissed you. you held onto his hands as he caressed your face. the oxygen you once craved had been fulfilled. you strung your arms around his neck, clinging onto him for dear life. you could feel the burst of sparks just surrounding the two of you, a moment you both craved.

the wavering facade between the two finally faded, unleashing the raw desire the two of you had, rushing through your veins.

you pulled away, heeseung leaning his forehead onto yours, before he gave you his best smile. you blushed out of nervousness and proximity the two of you held, not used to this view.

"you still hate me now?" you joked, smiling at him. his eyes softened, before he laughed, and kissing you once more, not wanting to let go. and as the stars glimmered under the night sky, you forgot time ever existed. forget the committee sessions due tomorrow, it was the two of you against the world.

surely, waking up on the final day of the conference would give you a sense of peace, right? wrong. you had spent so much time last night making out and talking with heeseung that you forgot your final mandatory article was due soon. waking up from the bed the two shared, limbs tangled once more, this time, you weren't ashamed.

you kissed heeseung's forehead to wake him up, and despite heeseung's wishes to stay in and make out some more, you declined and got ready.

"can't you just stay? a bit late to the first comses of the day won't hurt your awards." heeseung groaned, asking you to return.

"i was late at yesterday's comses post-lunch, so i think i'm going to be a good girl and come early to this one." you replied, fixing your tie.

heeseung basically stood up and tried to pull you back to bed, "come on, just be my good girl. i promise you will be awarded with all of my kisses in the world."

you shook your head, "missing out on a couple kisses won't be the death of me. come on, you need to prep for comses too."

heeseung moaned in complaint, "no, i'd break my streak for you, i don't care. i just want to stay in with you, away from everybody."

you were able to crawl your way out of his touch, "nope! i'm not letting you lose your streak just over me. come on, get ready. i'm going down for breakfast."

"can i at least have a goodbye kiss before you go?" he pouted, and the way his eyes resembled bambi, you gave in.

you tried to just give him a quick peck, but his touch was so fragile and welcoming, that if you didn't stand your ground, you'd probably be pinned down till the rest of the day. but you didn't want that, so you let go of his touch, assuring him that you'd spend more time with him after the conference.

now, here you were, back in your conference room with a giddy look on your face. you couldn't help but dream of last night. even sunoo, riki, jungwon, along with wonyoung, minjeong, and sunghoon, were even surprised to see you better all of a sudden.

"okay is this some weird process girls do the cope with sadness, cause if so how do we fix her?" sunoo asked, concerned.

wonyoung was staring at you like you were beaming, "it looks like pregnancy glow."

riki basically spit out his coffee, "wait so they actually fucked?"

minjeong snapped at riki, "who fucked?"

"we had speculation that, y/n and heeseung fucked the first night, hence why she was out of it the next day..." jungwon explained to the rest.

sunghoon, the only person out of the group who happened to know heeseung the best, commented that; "no there's no way he fucked her. if they fucked, they wouldn't have been here."

"could you stop speculating that me and heeseung fucked?" you snapped at the group. not out of anger, but annoyed that you couldn't concentrate.

"sorry, but did you?" riki enquired, earning him a riki! from the group around him. "what? i just wanna know."

you sighed, standing up and packing a couple things, "who cares if we fucked or not? just leave us alone." as you head out of the council room, heading to the crisis room for some final details.

contrary to how you first felt when you walked into the room, your heart felt full of hope. that this time, heeseung wouldn't be staring at you with hatred, instead of love. you hoped you wouldn't distract him.

as you walked into the council room, you nodded at chair yeonjun, before taking a seat at the prepared seats for the journalists. you sit down, open your laptop as you're typing your final mandatory article. you tried to glimpse towards heeseung, but you were returned with the same feeling as yesterday. the sharp gaze was back. maybe it's because he's in is element? mun is important to him... you thought, and busied yourself to writing your article. since it was your final committee session, you just had to submit your article and return for the closing editorial meeting. quickly clicking submit, and the chairs deeming the final committee session over, you wanted to sneak a quick kiss before returning for your meeting.

you stood up from your seat and walked towards heeseung. he stood up and saw you, walking your way. instead of being greeted by a hug or a kiss, he brushed past you to talk to his fellow delegates. you felt a pang in your chest, the way heeseung ignored you like that. you thought everything was okay. the kisses you shared, the conversations you had. you looked back at heeseung only to see him busy talking with the other delegates, barely sparing you a glance. you left the room quickly, not looking back.

unbeknownst to you, heeseung saw you leaving, his heart barely surviving after treating you like that. you deserved better than him. he couldn't have it all.

the final editorial meeting of press councils should be a joy to you. no more deadlines, no more press conferences. but you were stuck in your head. repeating the interaction over and over in your head, you didn't understand a single thing.

after the comments and input from both the chairs and the journalists, chair shuhua decided to pull out the gossip box. you'd been informed prior about the gossip box filling at social night, but since you ran off with heeseung to make out the night away, you didn't have time to fill it in.

as shuhua and beomgyu begin to read the entries, earning laughter all around the room, a certain entry snaps you out of your trance.

"oh this is a good one! new york times from press and colombia from crisis actually fit really good together! hope the enemies finally turn into lovers! wait is this about y/n and heeseung?" chair shuhua asks, causing the whole room to look at you.

you looked at everyone strangely, "what? there's nothing."

chair beomgyu shook his head, "no no no, i don't think there's nothing. come on spill the tea, something must've happened the past three days."

everybody was waiting on your response. waiting for you to tell everyone what happened. you just wanted them to shut up. "okay well. we kissed."

the group of six who were pestering you earlier, gasped loudly. earning you a rumble of no shit's, wait actually's, and a loud jinjja?!

you couldn't help but sink back into your seat, still upset about the way he treated you earlier. "yeah, but he's treating me like shit again today, so. that's that."

the entire room aww'ed in disappointment, before the chairs read out a couple more entries, and adjourns the final editorial. you stand up to clean your table, taking out a pen to begin signing each others' placards. signing everybody else's, photo sessions were in array, and after you were finally allowed to have some free time before awarding ceremony.

awarding ceremony was one of those moments where you have hope, but at the same time you don't. you start rethinking choices you made during the conference, wondering if you made the right option. you headed your way to where the press council was sat at, where you met a couple other delegates, even bumping into jeongin, wishing each other a good luck!

you sit down between wonyoung and minjeong, which earned you an endearing hug from the two, assuring your problems with heeseung didn't matter. stuck in your head, you didn't notice the boys' absence in the room. and awarding had begun. the secretary-general of harvard model congress came up and made their speech, thanking all the delegates for participating and giving their best. chairs from other councils begin to come up to give their awards.

meanwhile, outside of the room, was heeseung cornered by jay, jake, and sunghoon.

heeseung, not caught up with the situation, looked at the three with confusion. "what did i do?"

jay scoffed, "what did you do? you managed to fuck it up again? what did i tell you?!" shaking the life out of him.

heeseung shook his head in confusion, not knowing what to do, when sunghoon came up to him, "look man, your little feud with y/n has to stop. i don't get you anymore. i thought you'd be good at this after helping me and wonyoung get together..."

"nah dude you're in denial. what do you mean you two basically confessed to not hating each other and then made out a bunch of times, only for you to leave her and ignore her like so? that's crazy." jake protested. that was the truth.

"i don't know what to tell you, but me and jake have got to get back for unsc awarding, but please think about it? i know you feel scared of this whole love thing, but i assure you, it's okay to feel this way." jay says, leaving with jake, which left sunghoon with heeseung alone.

heeseung didn't know what to do. for the first time in his life, everything was out of his control. he craved you and needed you, but he felt like he didn't deserve you. it was as if a crisis was happening in his own mind.

as he hears the cheers of the room with every award that is given out, his heart races. he hears the announcement where jay and jake both won best delegates, which they had been double delegating in.

sunghoon kept trying to comfort heeseung, not knowing what to say to him. "look, i may not understand the way your mind works, but i assure you that you deserve her. you've put yourself through it all for decelis, and the track record that we have wouldn't have been what it is now if it wasn't for you. i don't know what plan you're cooking up, but whatever it is, win her back." heeseung looks at sunghoon with sheer nervousness in his eyes. "press and crisis are left, so whatever you want to do? do it now. before its too late."

leaving heeseung alone outside the room, sunghoon walks back in, returning to where the press journalists sat. he saw you picking on your nails out of habit, nervous for the next awards. as your chairs walk up to the podium, sunghoon just hopes heeseung would do something.

as names begin getting called out, sunoo winning best pre-conference video, then riki and jungwon winning verbal commendations, wonyoung and minjeong winning honorable mentions, you held on tight to the tiny string of hope left. it was probably between you and sunghoon left. as you look around the room, heeseung is still nowhere to be found. you had hoped that maybe with this win, you'd make him proud once and for all.

"the final two journalists were a tight match. these two shown impeccable talent in their articles and presence the past three days." shuhua announces. "it is with our great pleasure that the most outstanding journalist goes to, park sunghoon!"

wonyoung, who was on the stage prior, basically screams in joy. you high five sunghoon before he winks at you, knowing you'd win best journalist. but a part of you still thinks you won't.

beomgyu gives sunghoon his award, before adjusting his mic. "this final journalist has pure talent in her writing, and have awestruck the both of us with her work. without further ado, we would like to present that the best journalist award goes to none other than... l/n y/n!"

relief. that's all what washes towards you. yes you've heard your name and the words best journalist go along too often, but every time it happens, it always feels euphoric. as you walk up the stage to receive your award, earning smiles from the other awardees, you couldn't help but look to the crowd.

you see jay and jake basically jumping up and down in joy, but heeseung was still nowhere to be found. a pang of disappointment burns in your chest as you walk down the podium with your certificate in hand. an array of congratulations! are heard, as you sit back down for the final awarding. crisis.

zoning out, after feeling the euphoria of your win, your mind drifts off to heeseung. how would he feel? was he proud?

as chair yeonjun announces the awardees, you are cut out of your trance with every round of applause. you see jeongin win most outstanding, and you cheer for him.

as yeonjun clears his throat for the final award, he begins his speech. "this final award goes to a delegate who really deserves it all. although this mun may have not been his best run, he deserves so much more than the title: prodigy. i'd like to present this best delegate award to none other than... you know what? lee heeseung get up here, get your award, and get your girl!"

with pure shock, you watch as heeseung bursts through the doors, run up to the podium, quickly shake his chairs' hands, grabs his certificate, and runs down. and he's running to you.

he drops his certificate on the floor, before engulfing you in the biggest hug he's ever given in his life. spinning you around, you squeal in excitement. he whispers in your ear an array of i'm so proud of you's, before putting you down, and kissing you in front of everyone.

you cling onto him, parting your lips allowing him to kiss you deeper and deeper, and the feeling of sparks flying around you made it feel like it would last forever. your ears muffle all the cheers surrounding you, only focusing on heeseung, and heeseung only.

he puts you down and rests his forehead on yours, exactly like how he did on the rooftop the night before. "how'd you pull this off?" you ask him, still on cloud nine.

"eh, had some help from chair yeonjun. didn't expect the bestdel though." heeseung laughs, holding you by the waist, tighter, and tighter.

you held his face closer, wanting to feel his touch, "why'd you do that? why'd you run?"

"y/n. i love you. i never knew how to say it all this time, because it's a feeling unlike any other. to the point it made me feel as if my life was in crisis. but that's when i realized i never had it all. not until i found you."

taglist; @riekiss @sesameoil721 @desistay @capri-cuntz @beomluvrr @shawnyle @tya0 @heexoolio @sunghoonsgff @spiderhanzzz (crossed out = i can't tag you)

back to my masterlist?

disclaimer: this, in no way, reflects the idol. this is purely fiction.

© 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐇𝐄𝐄, est. 2024 | do not plagiarize, modify, translate, or repost my works on any platforms.

[science-hoes]

Charlie Reid Thot: Charlie brings you into the station where his office is under guise of giving you a tour but really it's to show you off and fuck you on his desk.

Oh, yes, absolutely. Maybe it’s under the guise of working too late on date night, so he tells you to come on up to the station all dolled up. He’ll even give you a little tour of the department before you leave for the dinner reservations. When you walk onto the floor, every head is craned in your direction, every pair of eyes riveted on the goddess gracing the room. I mean, you look fantastic. All lotioned up, makeup skillfully applied, hair cascading in perfect form, strappy heals, the dainty “C” necklace that hangs from your neck, and the satin dress he bought you a week ago that hugs your frame in all the right places.

When you arrive, you don’t expect that many people to still be in the office. Maybe they were all working late? You don’t think too long about it because Charlie greets you with a kiss and a hand resting low on your hip, marking his territory to everyone else who can see. He takes you to each corner of the floor, introducing you to department heads and longtime coworkers, every one of them with jaws on the floor when they meet Deputy Chief Reid’s hot and controversially younger girlfriend.

After making rounds with you, Charlie shuts the door to his office, and you miss the click of the lock as you gaze around the room, marveling at his accolades and awards. He sits in his chair at his desk, reclining a bit as he stares at you, nearly salivating at the sight of you in that dress he knew would fit you so damn well.

“C’mere, doll.” He husks, patting the polished wood of his desk.

You obey, sitting down on his desk in front of him, crossing your legs like a lady, posture impeccable, but the way his eyes rake across your body sends a shiver down your spine. “Are you ready to go?” You ask genuinely because that look he’s giving you is all too familiar.

Charlie’s signature smirk pulls to the side of his face as his thick hands slip under your knees, pulling them apart until your thighs are comfortably spread against the cool mahogany of his desk. “Whatcha got under there?” He asks, and it’s a test.

You smile sweetly, shrugging to feign innocence. “It’s a satin dress. Can’t have lines showing, ya know?” You answer.

And Charlie already knew that. It’s the reason why he bought the damn dress. The muscles in his throat shift as he swallows hard, letting his index and middle fingers investigate as they trailed up your thigh. When they were met with hot, gooey slick from your core, he growled, using his free hand to push you onto your back against his desk, knocking over cups holding pens, his name plate, and other items that meant nothing to him in this moment.

“You come to my office with no panties on?” He mumbles, shoving his fingers deep into your pussy, curling them with precise speed. “And you think you’re just gonna get away with that?”

Eventually, you do make it to your dinner reservation, but it took a lot of blotting your makeup with tissues and brushing your hair to fix the mess of a woman that Charlie transformed you into in his office.

[gildedwillow]

just keep sucking while i handle everything - emily prentiss - 18+

.

you’re beneath her desk, glossy pink lips wrapped around her cock while she speaks calmly on the phone. she strokes your hair gently and mouths, “good girl,” when you take it deep.

.

g!p emily prentiss x fem!reader

You’re on your knees, tucked under Emily’s big FBI desk, cheek resting on her thigh while her cock smacks softly against your lips, already heavy with spit and precum. You’ve been down here a while, your makeup smeared to hell, mascara streaked down your cheeks like war paint, and your lipstick? Long gone—most of it’s clinging to the base of her dick or lost somewhere in the mess of spit all over your mouth and chin.

And god, her cock is fucking perfect. Thick, real, and mean-looking. Long and weighty, easily eight inches, with that slight curve that hits everything just right. Her veins bulge just a little under the skin—hot and firm in your hands, twitching every time you moan.

The head’s fat and swollen, already a dark pink from how hard she is, slick with precum that’s been dribbling down and mixing with your spit for minutes now. You swear she leaks like she wants you to taste her before she even fucks your throat.

She’s sitting back in her chair like this is just another Tuesday, one hand scrolling through emails, the other lazily gripping your hair, guiding your head up and down like you’re just a fleshlight with a pulse. “C’mon, sweet thing. Don’t slow down now. Thought you said you were good at this,” she murmurs without even looking down, smirking like the cocky bitch she is.

You groan around her, choking slightly as the head hits the back of your throat, and your whole body twitches. Your hands grip her thighs for balance, nails digging in, spit and precum running down her shaft in thick strings, soaking your fingers.

You pull back for a second just to breathe, and a strand of spit clings between your bottom lip and her cockhead—thick, shiny, obscene. You blink up at her, eyes glassy, mouth wide open and dripping, tongue out like you’re begging for more.

Emily finally glances down, and fuck, the way she looks at you? Like you’re the most beautiful mess she’s ever seen. Her lip curls into a little smirk. “Yeah... just like that. Sloppy. Dumb. That mouth was made for me.”

Then her phone buzzes, and instead of stopping, she just answers it. Her voice shifts into that cool, controlled FBI tone while her cock’s still buried in your mouth. “Prentiss,” she says sharply. “Yes. I reviewed it. The case is solid.”

You're choking again, eyes watering hard as she guides your head down, taking her all the way until your nose is shoved against her pelvis, inhaling the warm, musky scent of her arousal. Her cock throbs on your tongue.

You gag and try to breathe through your nose, tears streaming freely now. But she doesn’t even pause her call—she just strokes your cheek with her thumb, comforting like she’s not actively throatfucking you while on a call with some deputy director.

“She’s handling it now,” she says into the phone, and you swear she’s talking about you. “Everything’s under control.”

God, she knows exactly what she’s doing.

When she finally hangs up, she tosses the phone on the desk and leans forward, looking down at you like she’s about to ruin you.

“You’re such a fuckin’ mess,” she growls, both hands gripping your hair now. “Drool everywhere, eyes all teary, and you’re still beggin’ with that dumb little face.”

She slaps her cock against your tongue a few times, the head flushed and angry, shiny with spit. “You want me to fuck your throat, baby? Want it rough?”

You nod like a desperate whore, whimpering, lips glossy, tongue hanging out. You can’t talk—you don’t need to talk.

Then she gives it to you.

Hard.

Her cock slams back into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with every rough thrust. Her hips roll with precision, fucking into you like she knows exactly how far she can push you before you break. Your jaw aches, throat stretching wide around her thickness, spit bubbling up and spilling down your chin, soaking your tits and her thighs. The sounds—wet, gaggy, disgusting—fill the room, along with her low, guttural groans.

“Fuck, baby… fuck. Gonna cum,” she grits out, pulling you down until she’s fully buried.

Then she goes still.

You feel her cock throb once… twice… and then she explodes in your throat—hot, thick ropes of cum pumping straight down while you moan around her. You can barely breathe, barely swallow fast enough. Her cum floods your mouth, some of it leaking back out and mixing with the mess already coating your face.

She holds you there while she empties every last drop into your throat, hips twitching, breath ragged. When she finally lets go, you pull back slowly, her cock slipping out of your mouth with a filthy pop. A final stream of white drools from your lips and drips to the floor.

You’re panting, face a disaster, throat sore, tears drying on your cheeks. You look up at her, dumb and blissed-out, mouth still open in case she wants to feed you more.

Emily strokes your jaw, thumb swiping a bit of cum from your lip, then pushing it back into your mouth.

“Swallow,” she commands. You do.

“Good girl.”

Emily leans back in her chair, still breathing heavy, her cock wet and glistening with your spit and her cum, resting against her toned stomach. You’re still on your knees, mouth swollen and lips shiny, staring up at her like a dazed, needy slut—because you are. But then she shifts, sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she glances toward the office door.

“Stay right there,” she murmurs, standing slowly, towering over you with her blouse half-unbuttoned and her cock still hard, dripping. She stalks to the door, heels clicking quietly on the tile, and double-checks the lock—clicks it once, then tests it again just to be sure.

Then she turns back to you with a dark grin that makes your thighs clench.

“Good. Now come here and ride this cock like the dumb little bunny you are.”

You scramble to your feet, dizzy and aching between your legs. She sinks back into her chair and spreads her thighs wide, cock twitching, precum leaking from the flushed head and sliding down the shaft in sticky beads. She wraps a fist around it and strokes herself lazily, watching you climb into her lap like it’s your goddamn job.

And it kind of is.

Your hands rest on her shoulders as you hover above her cock, your slick folds already soaked, practically dripping from sucking her off like a good girl. You line her up, and she just smirks, one hand gripping your hip.

“Don’t tease,” she growls, voice low and dangerous. “Sit the fuck down.”

So you do.

You sink onto her, slow at first—feeling the fat head stretch your entrance wide, making your breath catch. She’s thick, and your pussy flutters around her as she pushes in deeper, inch by inch, until she’s fully inside you, buried to the hilt. You choke out a little moan and cling to her shoulders as your thighs tremble.

“God damn,” she groans, hands gripping your ass tight. “So fuckin’ warm and tight, baby. You missed this cock, huh?”

You can’t even speak. You’re full. Stuffed. Her cock hits so deep, every little twitch inside you makes your whole body shake. You try to move—just a little roll of your hips—but she grabs your ass with both hands and starts to help you grind on her.

Up. Down. Slow, deep thrusts, the kind that drag against your walls and make your eyes roll back. Her cock presses right against your g-spot, making you see stars with every bounce. Her hands guide you like she’s in total control—even though you’re on top, you’re not in charge. You’re just her toy, her dripping little fuckdoll.

And you love it.

“Look at that dumb face,” she murmurs, one hand sliding up your spine to grip the back of your neck. “You’re cockdrunk already, huh?”

You nod frantically, mouth open, tits bouncing with every grind. Her cock glides in and out of you with filthy wet sounds—your slick coating her with every thrust, mixing with the mess from earlier. You’re soaked, and it’s everywhere—on her thighs, down your legs, pooling on the chair. You’re riding her like a bitch in heat now, hips slapping, cunt gripping her cock like it never wants to let go.

“Bounce, baby. That’s it. Ride it. Show me how bad you need it.”

You’re moaning now, whining, whimpering her name every time she hits that perfect spot deep inside. Your clit grinds against her pelvis, and your thighs start to shake.

“Gonna cum for me?” she says, low and smug, sweat beading on her chest. “Gonna cream all over my cock like a good little whore?”

You nod, desperate and barely holding it together. Your body’s already tipping over the edge. And when her fingers find your clit—pressing down, rubbing tight circles—you shatter.

You cum hard, pussy clenching around her like a vice, back arching, legs twitching. You scream her name, hips jerking as the orgasm rips through you. Your juices gush out, dripping down her cock in sticky streams, soaking her thighs and the chair beneath you.

Emily groans, grabbing your hips and slamming you down hard.

“Fuck .. gonna fill you up again,” she growls, eyes wild, cock throbbing deep inside your fluttering cunt.

She cums with a loud grunt, hips snapping up as she spills deep inside you, pumping thick, hot ropes of cum into your pussy. You can feel it—feel every pulse, every twitch of her cock as she fills you to the brim. It leaks out around her shaft almost instantly, mixing with your own mess and dripping onto her thighs in creamy streaks.

When it’s over, she holds you there, impaled on her cock, her hands stroking your back as you collapse against her chest, boneless and wrecked.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” she whispers, kissing your temple.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere, baby. Not until I see that pussy leaking all over my chair.”

[wandasaura]

EVEN STATUES CRUMBLE

summary — when exhaustion creeps up on you after a long week, you find yourself coming undone quickly. luckily, maria’s there to hold you close and put all of your broken pieces back together

warning(s) — hurt/comfort, elements of fluff, domestic maria hill, platonic blackhill, brief mentions of battle, civilian casualties, and death, sleepy natasha being a softie, maria fixing all of your problems because that’s just what she does

The keycard attached to the waistband of your pants got you into pretty much anywhere aboard the helicarrier; one of the very few perks that came with being a Level Ten agent alongside Nicholas J. Fury. You adored your livelihood, that wasn’t even a question you graveled over on your busiest days – you wouldn’t sacrifice so many nights if you didn’t – however, with being so high on the ladder of ranks came the inevitable burnout when paperwork and mission reports piled up; which they inevitably always did despite your meticulous schedule and borderline obsessive work ethic. You delegated the workload of ten other agents on the daily, usually without so much as breaking a sweat, but a particular mission report from a Level Six had gotten to you in a moment of exhaustion. 

Your boots were the same Shield issued footwear that everyone else wore around the helicarrier, clunky and steel toed with near indestructible black laces, but your footsteps were light as you padded down the dimly lit hallway toward an office you’d practically adopted as your own since the director had found himself another right-hand woman. There was no point in knocking when you reached it after what felt like hours of slowly trudging down void hallways, you were the only one with clearance to enter without being physically let in, other than Fury himself, but he’d never turn up to her office, especially not so late into the night. The soft glow of a desk lamp creeping beneath the crack in the door alerted you of life inside the spacious room, and a faint smile pulled at your lips despite your exhaustion and wary emotions. 

A small light on the side of the metal door flashed green for only a millisecond before it faded and the latch clicked tellingly. You bristled at the assault of frigid air that swept past you when you pushed inside tiredly, but steeled your expressions quickly when your eyes trailed over the room and noted not one, but two bodies. A displeased huff fell off of your lips when you noticed Maria behind her desk, a mountain of paperwork practically hiding her from view entirely, and Natasha sprawled out on her couch with a solemn glaze over her green eyes. 

“She’s in my spot.” You sighed, no real malice behind your words, but exhaustion put a damper on your typically lightspoken banter with the redhead. It seems both you and Natasha, a woman that had somehow wormed her way into the heart of the Deputy Director despite her bloodied past, had sought refuge in Maria’s quiet presence tonight, and you weren’t quite sure how to feel about it. You held nothing against the reformed assassin, she’d seen you at some of your worst moments, but you’d been holding out hope that a few stolen minutes with Maria alone would heal the ache you carried deep. 

Natasha, who was always quick with her wit, didn’t seem to have it in her either, and softly she allowed her voice to break the silence that had been light over the office prior to your entrance. “I can leave.” You shook your head dismissively, kicking the door closed behind you in favor of stalking over to Maria’s desk. 

Out of habit, the Commander tilted her screen away from your gaze, her dark yet meticulously kept eyebrows furrowing as you came behind her desk without hesitation. “I’m higher clearance than you, and Natasha’s been able to see everything you're doing from the couch, Ria.” You rolled your eyes fondly, hands bracing themselves on the back of her chair that you pulled away from the desk without taking her responsibilities into account. She had the same deadlines as you, only hers weren’t so structured and rigorous. You knew that anything she was doing could wait until morning, even if she liked to be overly prepared and considered anything but early a direct hit to her reputation. “Just hold me.” 

You fell into her lap without another word, curling up against her battered and stiff uniform that had definitely seen better days. Your head tucked itself into the pocket of darkness and warmth between her chin and shoulder, your fingers already working at the hair tie around her thin chestnut strands, wanting them free from the confines of her tightly secured bun. With the black elastic around your wrist, you sighed contently, absentmindedly pulling your fingers through the loose knots that had formed from your ungraceful removal of her hair tie. It was an apologetic gesture, the tips of your fingers soothing the skin of her scalp that had definitely been snagged with your quick movements, but Maria had become accustomed to your endearing quirks that almost always followed a vicious panic attack. 

“Romanoff, if you move from that couch, I will have you on Clint clean-up duty for the rest of the month.” Even if you couldn’t see the Russian from behind your eyelids, even if you were pressed so tightly against Maria’s neck that even with open eyes all you’d see was darkness, your body could practically feel her silent movements. It was a valid response, however you held her to a higher standard than you did other agents. Your girlfriend trusted her with her life, you’d made something of a friend out of her since her first year at Shield, it was slightly insulting that she thought she had to flee at the first sight of vulnerability from you. “I just… I just need a minute.” 

Even as you tried to pull rank, tried to command her obedience, Natasha could tell that your heart wasn’t in it. Whether to humor you, or simply because she didn’t really want to retreat to her own quarters, she sank into the couch once more, throwing her arm over her eyes as she succumbed to the same darkness that you sought out. A shaky breath fell off your lips when Maria’s thumbs dug into your shoulder blades, applying pressure to all of the knots and tension that had accumulated over the grueling week. You’d been unintentionally ghosting her, although neither of you really counted missed lunch dates and empty beds to mean anything significant, but the premise was all the same, even if she held no resentment toward your work ethic that was too similar to her own. 

“Diaz?” Maria’s voice was soft, understanding even, as she asked. Even the name of the agent had you going rigid in her clutches, a choked whimper falling off of your lips as you tightened your grip on her hair and worked feverishly to weave little braids into the silky chestnut strands that could do for a wash and deep condition. You’d have to remember to remind her next time she had a slow morning, but that wasn’t coming anytime soon for either of you. 

You nodded wordlessly against her neck, pinching your eyes shut even tighter if that was at all possible. You loved your job, adored the livelihood that you’d found a family in, but no amount of experience made reading civilian death counts easier. No amount of experience made loss any lighter. “Seventeen, Ria. Seventeen people died. It just– I haven’t seen a civilian death count that high since Sokovia.” 

In retrospect, seventeen people wasn’t a lot, not when you put it up against the battle of Sokovia that had earned Shield another foreign agent and an inconsolable migraine for months to follow, but when you analyzed the mission objective, when you stripped back everything that it was up against, it was still seventeen innocent people that had been caught in the crossfire. “We can’t save them all, mi alma.” It was a weak condolence, Maria knew that, but it was what you needed to hear, even if you detested it. Shield had saved twenty from a Hydra base in Madripoor, all of them no older than nineteen years old, but still seventeen people that were in the wrong place at the wrong time had died. Shield had saved twenty children, but still parents, and siblings, and people had lost their lives to do so. Was any good really done if the children who got to go home didn’t have a mother to help them through the trauma? Had any good really been done if a daughter didn’t have a father to come home to? 

“Eleven.” To Natasha, the number that fell off your lips was entirely random, but for Maria, who knew everything about you, down to the way you liked to tie your shoes, always starting with the left one first, it meant something more. Eleven people had died in an ambush the night that Nicholas J. Fury had swept you away from the rubble and into the empire that hadn’t been so publicly known at the time. Eleven people that you’d known, some loosely and some deeply intimately. Your single mother that had worked four jobs just to keep the electric on in the biting cold of winter had died, and you’d held her hand as she took her final breath, entirely helpless and terrified. Seventeen people had died in Madripoor, and depressingly, you could only picture yourself in the aftermath of such a tragedy. 

How many kids were going to come home from school without a parent? How many parents were going to come home from work without a child? The guilt of surviving weighed heavily on your heart, but it was exhaustion that pushed you past the point of thinking rationally. Madripoor had sung its praises to Shield after the initial battle just under a month ago. You’d seen the headlines, manned the press conferences, talked with the families that had wanted to reach out, but seeing that number in pristine black ink had rattled you fiercely. 

“When’s the last time you slept, bebé?” The softly spoken pet name was usually enough to bring a smile to your face no matter the conditions you faced, but it only had you sinking deeper into Maria now. Your heart felt so heavy in your chest, your bones felt so dense in your body, everything that you’d been managing had finally crushed you; just like the rubble had crushed your mother’s unsuspecting body on a side street in Manhattan when all she’d wanted to do was show you her new favorite coffee shop. 

“Don’t know… the last time I came home?” Your voice was meek, distant as you trailed through your memory trying to locate the date in your mind. You’d been home that Wednesday night, sank into bed beside Maria and held her close until she’d gotten up for her own shift, and had continued to sleep for another two hours before sunlight brought on more assignments and deadlines, but that was so fuzzy now, so long ago. You barely knew the date, but Maria did, and she sighed softly in confirmation. 

“It’s Friday, sweetheart.” She informed, her thumbs still digging into the spots of tension in your back, working out the knots and kinks that had you stiff beneath her touch. “You’re exhausted.” 

“And you’re not? I check the entry logs, Ria.” Your defiance was softly muttered, and Maria sighed her resignation. She hadn’t been home either, not since Thursday morning when she’d slipped out of your arms and left you to rest a while longer in a stiff bed dressed in scratchy sheets, but she’d taken the breaks she knew her body needed, even if it had been begrudgingly. The couch that Natasha was draped across had seen a similar form from her multiple times since then, even if the longest consecutive rest she’d gotten was merely half an hour. That was the difference between you both. Maria knew when she had to come first, even if she often waited until the very last second to actually step away from her tasks. You, on the other hand, saw everything else as a priority. That was what got you so high on the ranking ladder. That characteristic was one of many reasons why you alone shared the same ranking level as Fury. When shit needed to be done, he knew that you’d do it, no questions asked. But that blindsided work-ethic was going to kill you eventually. 

“You’ve slept once in the last week, mi amor.” Maria sighed, knowing that she was arguing with a wall at this point, but willing to put the effort in anyways. She was always willing to put the effort in for you, even if you couldn’t do it for yourself. Her hands caressed your back affectionately, slipping away from your shoulder blades only to put pressure on your spine, cracking the bones and notches in your back soothingly without spoken word. You sighed, deflating in her lap once again, craning your neck only to release some of the ache and tension in your jaw before you burrowed into her neck once more, still keeping fistfulls of her soft hair between your fingers that had been stained black from smudged ink. 

At some point, you must’ve fallen asleep against her, never slackening your grip on her chestnut tresses but grabbing onto the neckline of her uniform at an undisclosed moment. She hadn’t tried to move you, hadn’t tried to wake you, hadn’t tried to move at all. She’d simply sat in the silence of her office with Natasha’s easy company, shuffling through paperwork and mission reports, but getting no real work done, distracted by your warmth against her chest and the weight of you draped across her lap for the first time in days. When you woke a handful of hours later, the warmth of the sun and the light of a new day rousing you from an uneventful sleep – the level of exhaustion you faced preventing dreams from even playing out – you didn’t stiffen in alarmed surprise when you realized that strong arms were looped around your waist and keeping you steadily upright. Maria was a distinguishable presence even when you were half delirious, and a warm smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you laid a gentle kiss to the neglected patch of skin behind her earring-less earlobe. She really needed to start wearing her cartilage cuffs again, but the last one you’d gotten for her had been lost to a bloodied battle in Argentina. You made the mental note to get her another one sometime soon, but for now, you simply basked in the presence of her company that was so painfully warm and inviting. 

“You had Romanoff on edge last night.” Maria mused, her fingers tightening around your waist in a sweet wordless greeting, prematurely ending the reign of silence that you’d been enjoying, but you didn’t complain. The sound of her voice was just as inviting, if not more intoxicating than silence ever could be. 

“Even statues crumble every now and again.” You huffed against her neck, tightening your grip on her uniform if that was at all possible, allowing your gentle fingers to tickle the skin hidden from view that still carried the lingering scent of your body wash. “She’ll get over it.” 

“You really have to stop referring to yourself as a statue. The rookies are going to start thinking an alien attack sucked the emotions out of your body..” She chortled, breathy laughter twinged with traces of mental exhaustion jostling both of your bodies, and you couldn’t help the smile that twisted your dehydrated lips upward involuntarily in response. How you could spend so many days away from her never made sense when you were wrapped up in her presence, but it was reassuring to know that no matter the length of time that separated your passionate love, she would always be there to crawl home to. 

“As soon as you stop feeding into being called Hard-Ass Hill, I’ll stop fucking with the rookies.” Another chaste kiss was laid onto her skin, the second in too many days to count, but you’d make up for your absence before you inevitably returned to your own office to continue drowning in paperwork that never ended. “Te amo tanto.” You signed your unarguable admiration, but she wouldn’t be Maria Hill if she didn’t have a sharp comeback to silence your efforts. 

“Te amo mucho mas, mi alma.”

[tortillamastersblog]

Where Light Bends Wrong - Part 6 | Wednesday Addams

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: You’ve kept your secret buried and your power quiet, until Wednesday Addams came to Nevermore and turned your whole world upside down.

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆ ⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧

I blink tiredly and prop my chin up on my hand, trying to pay attention to Thornhill who’s babbling on about some carnivorous plant.

The memory of Rowan’s screams kept me up most of the night.

I still can't believe what actually happened. Throughout the night I heard a search party go through the woods, with the dogs whining and barking and officers shouting orders every now and then, but whether they found Rowan or not, I have no idea.

I knew there were rumors about this supposed monster roaming around lately, but I thought it was just a bear or something. But what I saw yesterday despite how comically grotesque and weird it looked scared the shit out of me.

The classroom door opens right as Miss Thornhill is about to feed a dead mouse to one of her plants which is already reaching its greenish tentacles for it.

A police deputy I've seen around Jericho before pokes her head inside and looks around making everyone shut up and stare curiously as she points at me.

I stiffen and feel Ajax and Enid who are sitting next to me shoot me questioning looks.

“L/N please come with me,” she says and I look at Thornhill for permission which she gives with a nod slightly wide-eyed.

I get out of my seat avoiding everyone's eyes even Enid and Ajax’s and hurry toward the door.

Deputy Santiago, as I read on her little name plate, closes the door behind me and tilts her head before starting to walk, silently telling me to follow her.

I do, hearing Thornhill's class continue all the way until we make it to Weems’ office where Sheriff Galpin Weems and Wednesday are already waiting for us. Deputy Santiago ushers me inside before closing the door again, choosing to stay outside herself.

“What’s going on?” I ask, “Has Rowan’s body been found?”

I see a muscle twitch in Weems’ jaw but she stays silent. Wednesday also looks displeased for some reason, her eyes harder than usual, and when Sheriff Galpin answers I know why.

“No, we haven’t found a body as I’ve already told Miss Addams here.”

“What?” My eyes dart between Wednesday Galpin and Weems. “That can’t be. We saw I saw…” I trail off, feeling a shiver run down my back at the memory of the gurgling sound Rowan made when he was literally gutted by the monster.

“Yeah well we didn’t find anything. No blood, no footprints, no sign of a struggle. Nothing. Our search party looked all night,” he says, sounding almost annoyed.

“Well your search party must have left their seeing-eye dogs at home,” Wednesday deadpans and were it not for the circumstances I’d actually snort at that.

Weems glares at her while I just stand there absolutely speechless.

I know what I saw, so how did they not find anything

As if reading my mind Wednesday goes on, “We saw that monster kill Rowan right in front of us. Right?”

She looks at me expectantly and I’m about to nod, but then I catch Weems’ eye over her shoulder. She shakes her head subtly.

Don’t cause any trouble. Stay under the radar.

I swallow thickly. “I-I’m not sure what I saw to be honest,” I lie which makes Wednesday’s face crumble with disbelief for a second before it hardens again.

She straightens up and goes to say something, probably accusing me of lying, but then Weems speaks up. “My guess is Rowan ran away. An alert has been put out and I’ve contacted his family but they haven’t heard from him yet”

Wednesday keeps her piercing eyes on me a little longer and I can tell there’s a lot of emotion brewing underneath the surface, but then she turns to Weems and snarks, “Maybe that’s because dead people are notoriously bad at returning calls.”

Sheriff Galpin sighs and sinks into one of the leather chairs in front of Weems’ desk, taking off his hat and running a hand down his face. “What were you two doing out in the woods with him?”

Wednesday neatly folds her hands in front of her and answers evenly. “I heard a noise in the forest and went to go investigate. That’s when I stumbled upon the attack.”

My eyebrow quirks slightly because that’s not what happened at all. Well, maybe the first part is true, but definitely not the second.

I quickly school my features back to neutral though when Galpin looks at me expectantly. “I saw Wednesday leave the fairgrounds and wanted to make sure she didn’t get lost so I followed her,” is all I say which is close enough to the truth and the story I told Wednesday.

Galpin looks back at Wednesday, seeing that I’m not going to elaborate and Wednesday is obviously the more vocal one out of the two of us. “And then what happened?”

“Then we ran into Bianca Barclay and told her to go for help. Next thing I remember I was waking in my dorm,” she says and even though that last part sounds unbelievable I believe it because I also can’t really remember what happened after telling Bianca what happened. It's all a blur, and the only thing I can vaguely remember is the bus ride back to school with the others. I’m sure Wednesday was also occupied with whatever happened between her and Rowan before I interfered.

“Okay, so just to be clear this monster wasn’t a bear or something?” Galpin asks.

Almost bored now, Wednesday stares at him, her hands still neatly folded in front of her. “I’ve hibernated with grizzlies. I know the difference”

Of course she did, I think, but I don’t speak up.

Weems seems to think this is a good place to end things. She puts her hands on her desk and gets to her feet. “Thank you Sheriff. I think Miss Addams is done now. And of course Y/N, too”

I dip my chin in acknowledgment and turn to leave, but then Wednesday speaks up again. “Actually I would like to speak to Sheriff Galpin. Alone.”

Weems narrows her eyes her gaze briefly meeting mine before she looks back at Wednesday and the Sheriff who looks mildly intrigued by Wednesday’s request. “I’m not sure I can allow that.”

Galpin puts his hat back on and crosses his arms, going on about how he could just take Wednesday to the station with him and get a formal statement, which is what makes Weems ultimately agree to a private conversation between the two.

“Fine. You have five minutes and everything is off the record,” she says, stepping out from behind her desk and joining my side. “Play nice or I’ll call the mayor.”

Galpin tilts his head in understanding though there’s a challenging glint in his eyes.

“Come on Y/N,” Weems says, brushing past me, and I go to follow her but then Wednesday’s voice stops me.

“Y/N.”

I turn and meet her eye, biting the inside of my cheek. I know what she wants from me. She wants me to be honest and tell Galpin what I really saw now that Weems isn’t looming over us but I just can’t do it.

Not causing any trouble and staying under the radar is what I’ve been told repeatedly since getting here and I know if I don’t I’ll get found out and I’ll have to leave again and I just can’t do that. Not again.

I exhale shakily and ball my hands into loose fists at my side. “I-I have to get back to class.”

I know it’s a lame excuse because Wednesday should be in class too, but I don’t know what else to say.

A flicker of something unreadable flashes through Wednesday’s eyes and I feel a tiny spark of guilt blossom in the pit of my stomach for leaving her out to dry, but I just I can’t do this.

So I turn without another word and leave, wondering briefly why Weems isn’t outside the office when she just left a moment earlier.

Deputy Santiago is still there though and I nod at her, earning an acknowledging little smile before I make my way to my room.

I know I said I had class, but I know I just wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway. And I don’t want Enid or Ajax asking any questions. They already did that on the ride back to school last night and earlier before class.

If I wasn’t unnerved before by what I witnessed last night, I sure am now. Because what does Galpin mean they didn’t find a body?

It’s all so confusing and messing with my head. And to make matters even worse, I know there’s no way in hell Wednesday is going to want to run away again now. Not if there’s a mystery to be solved which means I’m still in danger. I can just hope she’ll focus on the monster from now on and kind of forget about me, but I doubt that’s going to happen because I’m once again somehow in the middle of that too.

I spend the rest of the morning catching up on my schoolwork and actually studying in an attempt to distract myself. I get quite a big chunk of work done, finishing two essays and a presentation on vampires all while listening to some music.

After about two hours though, a knock breaks through the music and I set my pen down and get up, taking my headphones off and letting them rest around my neck.

I'm mentally still occupied by my next paper I just started on Thornhill's carnivorous plants, which is why I don't register who's at the door until I've actually opened it and my eyes land on Wednesday.

Thing is on her shoulder and lifts his index finger in greeting, which I return with an awkward wave myself.

I go to say hi too, but then Wednesday beats me to it. "Why did you lie to Weems and the Sheriff?"

Straight to the point, like always.

I go to reply, maybe come up with a believable lie, but then, much to my surprise, she actually brushes past me and enters my room unbidden.

I blink in surprise and close the door behind her before turning around to catch her taking in my room.

Her eyes wander over my desk, and the scattered papers on it. Then over my neatly made bed, the gray sheets folded and tucked under the mattress around the edges. Then, the small wooden corner bookshelf next to it, filled with dog-eared books and one wrinkled photograph I taped to it.

It's a little blurry, but you can clearly see a younger version of me in it, giving a little girl a piggyback ride.

Lara.

It's unmistakable that we're close, and I can see Wednesday focusing in on it, so I clear my throat which actually makes her start ever so slightly and then her eyes snap to me and her face hardens. "We both saw how that monster killed Rowan," she states matter of factly.

I avert my eyes. "I know."

"Then why did you lie?" she steps closer, her tone now lower, almost menacing, but I sense no anger beneath the veil she has over emotions. It's more like... disappointment?

I look back up to find her crossing her arms while Thing skedaddles around the room exploring, flipping through my books and climbing onto the window seat of the wide and arched window that allows for a view of the courtyard and the forest beyond the school grounds.

"I just..." I trail off and play with the hem of my uniform's sweater vest. "I can't get dragged into this, Wednesday."

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, I have enough stuff going on as it is, I don't want to get involved," I say honestly and for a moment, I think Wednesday might actually accept that because her face softens just the slightest bit.

Then it hardens again though, and I see her grip on her upper arms tighten. "That is absurd. You just lied because you're Weems' little pet and she doesn't want anyone to get to the bottom of this, just like Galpin."

I clench my jaw and lessen the distance between us with a step, looming over her while she just looks up at me with defiant eyes. "I am not Weems' pet," I hiss through gritted teeth.

Unperturbed, Wednesday snaps back with, "Someone is trying to cover Rowan's murder up."

I eye her incredulously, bothered that she didn't say anything else about the pet thing, before taking a step back again when I realize I'm actually so close to her I can pick up on the smell of fresh linen that clings to her. "So?" I ask, irritated. "Murders get covered up all the time and if it means things will quiet down, I don't care. I don't want anything to do with this. You should honestly—"

"I saw Rowan earlier."

That makes my mouth snap shut before an unbidden, "Excuse me?" escapes me.

This time Wednesday takes a step forward and I try to ignore the way my pendant heats up at the proximity. "Right after you left, Deputy Santiago opened the door and there he was."

What. The. Fuck.

"Now, I don't know how that's possible because you and I both know what we saw which makes me believe one of two things. Either, we're both simultaneously losing our minds, which is highly unlikely and honestly not as enjoyable as I hoped it would be. Or the person I saw wasn't actually Rowan, which seems like the more plausible of the two options, but once again begs the question, who would go to such lengths to cover it up, and why."

"I... don't know, and I honestly don't want to know either," I say, which makes her let out a sharp exhale. Her eyes dart between mine, frustrated and clearly searching for something.

"Fine," she says after a moment, then lets her bag fall off her shoulder and drop to the floor.

I frown and glance at it, only to realize it's actually my bag, the one I left in Thornhill's class when Deputy Santiago came to get me.

Enid must have taken it to her room with her, which is probably where Wednesday found it. She must have grabbed it and brought it to me so she would have an excuse to come see me.

"Thing."

The hand stops looking out of the window and jumps off the window seat, scrambling to Wednesday's side.

She turns to leave, bubbling with irritation and frustration underneath her mask of calm indifference. But then she stops when my necklace pulses gold underneath my sweater vest and shirt. It's barely visible through all the fabric, but Wednesday sees it and freezes, her eyes zeroing in on it.

I raise my hand defensively and clutch it through the fabric, hating how the curiosity I saw in Wednesday's eyes after she threw her knife at me sparks up again.

She doesn't say anything. She just meets my eyes again, then they flick to her knife, perched on my desk beside my laptop, before she finally turns and leaves with Thing on her heels.

He taps a goodbye on the door before slipping out, but I don't bother to return it, feeling my knees weaken slightly.

Why is this stupid pendant acting up the whole time?

I have half a mind to take it off right then and there, but I don't have the heart to do it. The fear of losing it is too great.

I've had it since I was dropped off at the orphanage as a baby. Not once in my life have I taken it off because it reminds me that I came from somewhere--that I'm not just another orphan.

I've also known it's somehow connected to my powers since I discovered them. But until Wednesday showed up, it has never acted like this before. Which reminds me I should really go and check out that book Weems hid in the Nightshades' library.

I never actually read it completely. She showed it to me once, but it overwhelmed me so much I couldn't finish it. I'd just been dumped at Nevermore, but now I really need some answers.

So I grab one of my books off the shelf next to my bed and pull out the small little note I wrote down after Weems gave me a riddle-like description of where to find the book in the library.

Why she couldn't just tell me I don't know. Maybe she did and I can't remember. I just remember writing down this riddle in a haze after I learned about what I am.

Seek where silence is etched in stone And light bends wrong when left alone What you search for is out of sight Until you ask the dark for light

I remember she said something about only being able to retrieve it at night and it's only half past twelve now, so I tuck the piece of paper into my pocket before leaving the room to go and find Enid.

She's been dying to talk to me since this morning, and it's lunchtime now, so even though I don't want to talk about Rowan and the rumors that have already spread around the school because of Bianca, I do crave her company. Her energy, although a bit much sometimes, always manages to make me feel better.

Also, she's got the Poe Cup coming up tomorrow, and I actually want to be there for her while she spirals about Bianca probably winning again.

I've already been roped into helping paint the canoe last year, and I can see that happening again this year, but I don't mind. Not only because it's actually kind of fun, but because I just know Wednesday won't come near me there.

‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆ ⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧

This is around 3k words. The last part was like 1.7k, so what are we feeling, people? Is this long enough or do you want even longer chapters?

Tag list: @sunshinez4 @protozoario @automaticpatroltragedy @mamas-evil-hag @theallseer97 @hellenheaven

[fluentmoviequoter]

Strikes to Die By

Part 2 of Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

Pairing: (FBI!)Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

Summary: Months after you kissed Tim, you have to save him and yourself without letting your emotions get in the way. His past follows him to the FBI, and you must decide if you want to be part of his past or his future.

Warnings: angst, canon-typical content, violence, near-death experiences, fluff and banter, literary references and spoilers for Revival by Stephen King, canon-divergent Monica Stevens

Word Count: 10.6k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

The air buzzes as a hooded figure walks through the dewy grass. Hair stands on end as the city seems to shake within itself. A door closes silently, and less than an hour later, the figure returns to the static-filled wilderness of Teague, Texas, leaving wreckage in his wake.

Quantico, Virginia

“That’s great, baby girl, but it’s too long,” Derek chides gently.

“No, it isn’t,” Penelope argues. “This is a correct sentence.”

Derek clicks his tongue, then straightens from Penelope’s side.

“Historically, the longest sentence ever printed was 823 words long,” Spencer interjects from his desk. “Victor Hugo put it in Les Misérables.”

“Well, I’m going to be more miserable if we don’t cut some words out of this,” Derek complains. “Where’s the bookworm?”

“Me?” you ask from Hotch’s doorway.

“No, Frankenstein,” he deadpans.

“Actually,” Spencer says, “Frankenstein is-“

“The doctor,” everyone in the BAU bullpen finishes together.

Spencer raises his hands in a dramatic surrender, and you heed Derek’s beckoning and walk to his desk. He points at his screen, and Penelope sighs as she pushes his chair back. You drop your chin forward to read the briefing on the screen and then look at Penelope with your brows furrowed.

“What’s the problem?” you inquire.

“It’s too long. That sentence takes up four lines!” Derek exclaims.

“It’s a report,” Hotch calls. “Not a contender for the Pulitzer.”

You shake your head at Derek’s dramatics, then point to an accurate but lengthy transition phrase. “Remove this, add a period, and fix the capitalization on the right side.”

Derek lifts his arms in victory as Penelope does as you instructed. She hums, pleased, and submits the report to Hotch.

“You’re the best reader in the world, sweetheart,” Derek tells you.

“Careful, Penelope’s right here,” you warn.

“We can share him,” she assures you. “For now.”

“Iceland is probably home to the best readers,” Spencer tells JJ. “They have the highest per capita book reading rate in the world and a literacy rate of about 99%.”

“I bet Iceland is quiet,” Derek muses. “What with all the reading, not so much time to talk.”

“Was that aimed at me?” Spencer replies.

“Conference room!” Hotch barks. “Now.”

You abandon your post beside Derek’s desk and follow him into the conference room. As you lower into your seat, Hotch leans over the table and puts the phone on speaker.

“SSA Hotchner,” he greets. “I have the BAU here with me.”

“Pleasure,” a man with a moderate thick southern accent says. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Neilson of Teague, Texas. This morning, we discovered a man dead in a hotel room.”

“Murdered?” JJ asks.

“We’re not sure,” he replies. “ME took a preliminary look and reckons the victim was electrocuted. But we’re having… We have reservations about actually entering the crime scene or moving the body.”

“Why?” Hotch says.

“The room is spotless. By which I mean, it’s too clean.”

“Do you have CSI photos? Any photos?” Spencer inquires.

“Emailing those now. Photographer got in and out pretty quickly, but the photos should show you how odd this seems. Even the vents are clean, as far back as you can see.”

Penelope types something on her laptop and then casts the images onto the large television screen behind Hotch. He steps out of the way and listens to Neilson’s account of the distressed 911 caller: a housekeeper who entered the room with a master key.

“It’s way too clean,” you murmur.

“That’s beyond what any hotel maid is trained to do,” Spencer adds.

“Or paid to do,” Derek says.

“Penelope, can you go back?” you request after she clicks another image.

You stand and round the table to view the wide-frame photo of the hotel room. There’s something off about it – even more than the cleanliness.

“Is there another picture of the nightstand?” you ask. “Closer?”

Penelope exits the full-screen view and scrolls through the files before she finds one. After it loads on the television, you point to the Bible on the nightstand.

“That should be in the drawer,” Hotch says. “Nielson will call back in a few minutes. I gave him the go ahead to have CSI process. I doubt there’s any physical evidence left to disturb.”

“The Bible should be in the drawer, yes,” you agree. “But that’s not what I noticed.”

“Is that bed frame waxed?” Derek interrupts, peering over your shoulder.

“You’d notice,” Penelope jokes.

“Hotch, I can call the cleaning staff to find out if there’s a reason the room is that level of clean.”

“Sure,” Hotch agrees. “Make sure you ask about the air vent, too.”

Derek salutes as he exits the conference room. After he leaves, you point to the Bible's top and bottom edges.

“The pages aren’t big enough,” you point out. “Whatever is in here, I don’t think it’s the Bible. I think it’s a paperback in a Bible binding.”

“Why would someone do that?” JJ asks. “Aside from the obvious.”

“In a scene this clean, it has to be a signature,” Hotch answers.

“We need to know what book it is,” you say.

Hotch calls Nielson back while you, Spencer, and JJ look through the rest of the pictures. It’s a weird scene, something you haven’t seen before, but it’s carefully constructed. As close to perfect as you’ve ever seen a criminal come.

“Hey, where’s your boyfriend?” JJ asks you.

You turn your head slowly, then scoff. “Tim is not my boyfriend.”

“No, they just use my office to makeout sometimes,” Penelope interrupts.

“That was one time,” you argue. “And we’ve barely seen each other since then.”

“Because he’s moving to the FBI and across the country,” JJ points out. “For you.”

“Not for me.”

“That’s not true,” Spencer states.

You, Penelope, and JJ turn toward him together. He shrugs and continues examining the photos. Spencer’s comment doesn’t change your mind, though. Tim Bradford is part of your life; you have feelings for each other, but it ends there. It has to.

“We would’ve done something already if we were going to,” you admit softly.

“You did. You pulled him out of the bullpen and into a rom-com worthy smooch fest,” Penelope says.

“Who did what?” Hotch asks as he returns.

“Uh, Spencer found a loose screw on the bed frame,” Penelope lies.

“No, I didn’t,” he defends, standing to his full height.

“Oh, then I misheard.”

“I’ll assume I did too, then,” Hotch deadpans. “CSI said you were right. It’s not a Bible. It’s an annotated copy of Stephen King’s Revival.”

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fantastic.”

“That means something to you then,” Derek muses as he returns. “Hotel said there is absolutely no way their cleaning staff did that. Bonus, the hotel was closed for two weeks before it reopened four days ago, when our vic checked in.”

“Why was it closed?” Spencer asks.

“Let me guess. An ant infestation,” you say.

Derek’s brows raise as he begins to clap slowly.

“Revival is a nod to horror classics like Frankenstein and Lovecraft,” you begin. “It’s the story of a Methodist preacher who discovers ‘secret electricity’ that can heal people. Jacobs decides that it can take him into the afterlife and – as in most Stephen King novels – loses his mind in the process of trying to get there.”

“How do ants play into this?” Derek asks.

“How does murder play into this?” Hotch amends.

“Jacobs has an unhealthy obsession with Jamie, a boy he met while he was still a preacher, before his family died and his decline began. When they meet, Jamie is playing with toy soldiers on an ant hill. When they open the door into the afterlife, neither heaven nor hell greets them. Instead, it’s something called ‘The Null.’ Inside, ant-like creatures serve ‘Mother,’ who takes over dead bodies and uses them for her purpose: to bring more souls into The Null.”

“That answered half of the question.”

“Jacobs kills with electricity in his attempt to go to the afterlife.” You glance at the map showing Teague, Texas, and tilt your head. “Is the hotel the tallest building in the city?”

Penelope’s fingernails click against the keyboard for several seconds before she replies, “Tallest building, second tallest structure. There’s a decommissioned water tower that stands taller.”

“Why was it decommissioned?” Spencer asks.

Hotch raises the phone to his ear and raises his finger for Penelope to wait. A moment later, Deputy Sheriff Nielson is connected to the call and brought into the conversation.

“Why was the water tower decommissioned?” Spencer asks him.

“It was struck by lightning one time too many,” Nielson answers. “Teague is the lightning capital of the world, if you didn’t know, and over the years, we’ve had to learn to adapt to that.”

“Hotch,” you whisper.

He turns around, facing you with his back to the phone and the team.

“In the book, Jacobs goes to the tallest place he knows of, where’s there’s a big metal flagpole, and that’s where he makes his final kill.”

“You think this guy will do the same?”

“Without looking at his notes in the book, I can’t be absolutely sure, but if he has enough of an infatuation with the book and electricity to stage the scene like he did… it’s likely.”

Hotch nods once, then turns back toward the table. “Deputy Sheriff Nielson, our team is inbound. We’ll be there in a few hours to assist your department with the case.”

Nielson exhales, sounding like it would make him physically lighter. “I can’t thank you enough, SSA Hotchner. We’ll be waiting for you.��

Someone knocks on the open conference room door as you gather your things. You don’t look up until JJ elbows you in the ribs.

“I couldn’t help but overhear the last part,” Tim Bradford says, not even sparing a glance at you. “I can lead the tactical apprehension team.”

“I’ll work on finalizing the assignment,” Hotch agrees.

“We don’t need a tactical team,” you interject. “He’ll get spooked too easily for that.”

Tim keeps his eyes on Hotch, but you can see his jaw working as he tenses his facial muscles.

“All due respect,” Tim begins.

“No, Tim,” you snap, turning toward him quickly. “This is not a storm the castle operation. This guy isn’t limited to electricity, and he will kill anyone who gets in his way.”

Hotch looks between you and Tim and surveys his tight fists and your short breaths. The final decision is his, but he respects your opinion. Then, he remembers that Tim saved you and Spencer on his first day with the FBI. You bring different skills to the BAU, and he doesn’t know which he may need in the Lone Star State.

“Your team will accompany, Bradford,” Hotch agrees. “But you are on standby until further notice. You don’t say or do anything without my instruction, is that understood?”

“Understood, sir,” Tim agrees.

He leaves the conference room first, and you follow Hotch into his office and close the door.

“Hotch, I trust Tim,” you explain. “But if you want to solve this case without losing more lives, you need to tread lightly. If he gets to close, it’s over.”

Hotch nods once, and you step backward, preparing to leave.

“You said the guy in the book had an unhealthy obsession with someone,” Hotch remembers. “Think that affects our investigation in any way?”

You consider the possibility of a Jacobs and Jamie-type conspiracy. It wouldn’t shock you to learn that the killer wasn’t working alone, but something about the efficiency of this particular kill makes you think it was just one man: one man who could somehow control all of the variables in that hotel room.

“Not yet,” you answer carefully. “It took Jacobs a while to actually bring Jamie in as an adult. For this case, I’d say he’s more likely to recruit a former cell-mate or small-time criminal from his past to assist him in the big kill.”

“Victim?”

“There’s only one person in the world who knows that, and he won’t be in any mood to talk to us.”

“Penelope is looking into the town’s residents. If she finds anything, I’ll let you be the first to look.”

“Thank you, sir. Oh, and one more thing. The book isn’t just about faith and the nature of reality. It’s about addiction and morality. Drug addiction, healing addiction, someone turning away from God to make a deal with something worse than the Devil. Whoever this is, there’s more to him than meets the eye. We need to be careful.”

“We’re all coming back from this,” Hotch assures you. “We’re wheels up in twenty.”

Tim splashes water in his face, then grips the edges of the porcelain sink as it drips from his chin. He doesn’t look up in the mirror and doesn’t want to see anything except you. Since you walked into Mid-Wilshire nearly a decade after dropping out as a rookie, you have consumed Tim Bradford’s thoughts, his time, attention, and – most terrifyingly – his heart.

“Regretting arguing with her, aren’t you?”

Tim stands up at the sound of Derek’s voice. He snatches a paper towel from the dispenser and wipes his hands harshly, then wipes his face before he tosses it into the trash can.

“I didn’t come here for her,” Tim defends.

Derek smiles. “Nobody said you did. Nobody except you.”

“I’m not doing this with you.”

Tim begins to walk toward the door but stops when Derek says, “If you didn’t come for her, you need to tell her that.” Tim’s head turns toward his shoulder, so Derek continues, “Coming back into your life wasn’t easy for her, and don’t let her think there’s a spot in it for her if there isn’t.”

“I’d never lead her on.”

“Maybe not on purpose.”

Tim pushes the bathroom door open too hard and walks out.

“What’d the door do to you?” you question from the hallway, your go bag slung over your shoulder.

“It was in the way,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, they tend to do that.”

You look at each other silently for a moment, then speak simultaneously.

“No, go ahead,” Tim insists.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I overstepped earlier. The situation, this killer, it’s all very volatile and I don’t want to see anybody else get hurt.”

“I get it,” Tim responds. “And I’m sorry I stopped reaching out after I went back to LA.”

“It’s okay.” You smile and say, “A taste of my own medicine won’t kill me.”

“It was different.”

You nod, then lead Tim to the plane. It’s a few hours to Texas, and you have over 400 pages of literary research to review on the way. Plus, whatever fun facts Spencer can tell you about lightning.

Hotch’s phone rings as you begin your descent into Texas. He answers it, his brows pinching as he listens to the caller. Extending his hand, he says, “It’s for you.”

Tim glances at you as he takes Hotch’s phone. He introduces himself, then shifts so that his gaze is directly on you for the duration of the call.

“Where?” he asks after listening for several breaths. Then, he says, “Thanks… I’m not, but I can… I’ll let you know.”

He hangs up and returns Hotch’s phone, ignoring the intrigued looks from the rest of the BAU as he stands to speak to you.

“That was Angela,” he says. “Oscar filed a new residency and employment with his parole officer. Then, he got a new parole officer.”

“What are you saying? He moved counties?” you clarify.

“He moved states.”

Tim steps his right leg back into the aisle of the jet to address your team. He concludes, “He moved to Teague, Texas.”

“And you think this Oscar is our killer?” Hotch asks. He looks at you, but your eyes are on Tim.

“If Oscar is the Reverend Jacobs in this scheme, then he’d have another contact in California either with him or coming right behind him,” you point out.

“Or he is the co-conspirator,” Spencer adds.

“In either case, we’d have to comb through decades of Oscar’s criminal history," Hotch says. "Tim? Do you think he’s the mastermind or the recruit?”

“I think he’d used somebody long before he let himself be used,” Tim decides.

“I can’t imagine him being this cold-blooded, though,” you say. “He’s a narcissist, not a psychotic murderer trying to open the gates of Hell.”

“If he’s a narcissist and he found someone to look up to, it could get dangerous very quickly,” Spencer offers. “His narcissistic tendencies would return and likely be worsened. He’d…”

“Have a god complex?” Derek guesses.

“More or less, yes.”

“Then we need to find Oscar and find out what is going on,” Hotch instructs.

“I can do it,” Tim offers. “He knows me.”

Hotch looks at you, and you nod, which ends the discussion. Tim is running headfirst into danger for a case you didn’t even want him to work. It’s a very good thing he isn’t your boyfriend, you tell yourself, even as your hands shake at the mere thought of losing him.

Teague, Texas

“Deputy Sheriff Nielson, this is my team. Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau,” Hotch introduces before he gets to you.

You each shake the Deputy Sheriff’s hand before you enter an oversized office with a large wooden table centered inside. A cardboard box of evidence is on the table and two folders bearing the case number rest atop it. You expected as much - or as little - with such a pristine scene, but seeing how little you have to go on is disheartening.

“Are there any people in your jurisdiction that you think are capable of something like this?” Derek asks Nielson. “Any motive?”

Nielson taps the table in thought, then tips his head to the side. “Kid named Nicholas just got back from a stint in Texas State Pen. He started in high school, little things like petty theft and peepin’ tom charges and worked his way up to manslaughter. Thinks he’s hot stuff around here.”

“What’s Nicholas’ full name?” JJ asks. “We can run him through the federal database and work from there.”

“Hutchinson.”

You look away from the nearly empty evidence box. “Hutchinson? Do you know if he’s related to Oscar Hutchinson?”

“Sure, he mentioned a cousin named Oscar once or twice. Seemed close, but Oscar doesn’t live around here.”

“Wait, Oscar?” Derek repeats. “Oscar who-”

“Tim is going to see?” you finish, unlocking your phone to warn Tim. “Yeah, that Oscar.”

“I take it you have a profile, then?” Nielson asks Hotch.

“One better,” Hotch answers. “We have a suspect.”

You ignore their continued conversation as the phone rings.

“C’mon, Tim,” you mumble as the dial tone trills in your ear. The line finally connects, and you ask, “Tim? Tim, you there?”

“I haven’t seen your name in a while.”

You take in a sharp breath as you wave your hand toward JJ.

“I didn’t know Bradford had gotten his little rookie back.”

“What do you want, Oscar?” you demand.

Your words catch your teammates' attention far quicker than your actions, and Derek rushes to your side. He wraps his arm around your shoulder and lays his head atop yours to listen to your phone call.

“Oh, you misunderstand!” Oscar exclaims with a laugh. “This is about what I can do for you.”

“You know exactly what I’d like you to do,” you reply darkly.

“The BAU has jaded you, dear. Tim is perfectly safe. Aren’t you, Sergeant?”

“Everything is fine,” Tim calls. “Just like the last time we split duties.”

“That’s enough small talk,” Oscar interrupts. “I assume you know about my cousin, Nick.”

“No, I don’t.”

Oscar takes several breaths before he hums. “You’re a good liar. But you’re a better cop, so I’m sure you know exactly who I’m talking about. He was released from Texas State Penitentiary last week and then poof! he disappeared. He’s in Texas, you’re in Texas… you catching my drift?”

“He went missing?” you clarify. “Immediately after being released from prison?”

“There it is. You understand my concerns. Now, to give you a little incentive to release him unharmed, I’ll promise to keep Daddy Cop here unharmed.”

Tim makes a noise of protest, but there’s a roaring in your ears that you can’t ignore. You don't even notice Derek lift his head long enough to repeat Oscar's nickname for Tim.

“Oscar, have you read Stephen King?” you ask.

“No. Live enough horror and you don’t want to read it,” Oscar answers.

“I think your cousin is in danger,” you tell him, looking up at Derek.

“Well, that’s a new play.”

“Oscar, I’m not playing. We’re not here for you or your cousin, we’re here because someone was murdered last night.”

“Sure, because the LAPD cares about that.”

“I’m FBI now,” Tim corrects.

The line goes silent. Your heart races, pounding in your chest, and you prepare to run out of this station and look in every building in the county until you find Oscar and Tim.

“My plan may need some slight adjustments,” Oscar muses.

“Oscar, listen to me. Tell Tim what you know, let him come back to the station, and I promise you that we will find your cousin and get him home safely.”

“I’m not big on the first two points. I’ll tell your boy what I know, and then I leave him here. A baseless arrest is the last thing I need.”

“Oscar do not try to find Nick alone!” you implore. “Let us do this; there’s more at stake than you realize.”

“You have no idea.”

The line clicks, and you clasp your phone between both hands to keep yourself from throwing it at the wall. Derek rubs his hand along your back as he looks at Hotch.

“What can we do to help?” Nielson asks.

“He won’t hurt Tim,” you assure your team. “He’s full of himself, not stupid. Give him a few minutes, and if we haven’t heard back, I will hunt him down myself.”

“You said Nick is in danger,” JJ says. “What does that mean?”

You lean into Derek’s touch and explain, “I was looking at it backward. Nick isn’t Jamie, he’s Mary. He’s the sacrificial lamb. Whoever our killer is, he plans to offer Nick up for whatever his purpose is.”

“Picked the wrong state to deal in religious symbolism and the deadly sins,” Neilson murmurs. “Dallas SWAT, Texas Bureau of Investigations, and Fort Cavazos have teams on standby ready to assist you in any way you need.”

“Excellent,” Hotch responds. “Considering our tactical leader is currently being held hostage.”

You blow out an amused breath and argue, “I told you not to let him come.”

“What can we do while we wait?” Derek asks.

“Find out when the next lightning storm is,” Spencer answers.

“Yep, that’s all you, Pretty Boy, get to work.”

Spencer rolls his eyes but opens a laptop regardless. On the plane, he found out that the estimated time of death aligned perfectly with a cloud-to-ground lightning strike within a few miles of the city. Considering the killer’s infatuation with the book, you support the opinion he’ll time his next kill with another lightning storm.

“We also need to look for places he might choose to commit the murder,” you say. “Between the first mention of the ants and the ultimate sacrifice, Jacobs took more lives. Granted, some of them took a while. I… I don’t think he’ll take that route, actually.”

Your phone lights up, you answer it before the first ring ends, then place it on speaker.

“Hello?” Penelope asks.

“Oh, hey,” you greet, setting your phone on the table.

“Whoa, don’t sound so disappointed that it’s me,” she replies.

“Tim was abducted,” Spencer tells her. “We’re waiting for a call with his whereabouts.”

“Speaking of which,” JJ begins. “Is no one going to mention what Oscar called him?”

“It’s an inside joke,” you say. “What’s up, Garcia?”

“I got the property records for the land surrounding the old water tower,” she explains. “It’s on public land, but everything around it is private.”

“Right,” Nielson agrees. “You can’t get to it without going through someone’s yard now.”

“But, the lot east of the tower was just rented,” Penelope continues. “To Nicholas Hutchinson.”

“No way he can afford something like that fresh out of prison,” Derek argues.

You nod but then consider the idea of land plots. “How many acres?”

“Seven,” Penelope reads.

“Tim said that everything was fine, like the last time we split duties, right?” you ask.

“Yes,” Spencer answers. “Does that mean something to you?”

“Maybe,” you murmur. “He’s either giving us a clue or talking about something I don’t remember.”

“The last time you worked together was in LA,” Hotch reminds you.

You stare at the table, thinking. You spent most of that trip trying to separate your life and work from the past. It didn’t work, and you and Tim were held at gunpoint by a man trying to save you from everything except himself.

“We didn’t work together much,” you say. “I worked with Lucy, he went with Derek, and then we stayed together until we were in the townhouse with Riley.”

“No, you weren’t,” Hotch says.

You turn quickly, your brows raised.

“When we went to the last scene – the one where we found the novella about you – Tim was at the station. Pissed off enough that people stayed away from him, from what I’ve heard.”

“Whoa, watch your language Hotch,” Derek chides. “This is a work trip.”

“I’m still your boss, Morgan.”

“But a big teddy bear of a boss,” Penelope interjects.

“Regardless of who remembers what,” JJ says, “what does that mean to you?”

“I made him stay at the station,” you reply. “He was mad, obviously, but… he was fine. We thought I was in danger because I jumped the gun.”

“And we found two bodies,” Spencer mumbles.

Your breath catches, and you lock eyes with Derek before you look at JJ, then Hotch.

“What?” Spencer asks, looking up from the looping radar on his laptop.

“Hutchinson wouldn’t kill people right in front of Tim, would he?” JJ asks slowly.

“Deputy Sheriff,” you call, “have you had any double murders here recently?”

“No murders, no, but there was a car accident that killed two young girls about a week ago,” he replies. “Out on County Road 650.”

“Any structures near it?” Hotch asks.

“A couple outbuildings a few hundred feet from the curve where it happened.”

“Is there any way our abducted agent would know something had occurred there?”

“There’s a collection of flowers, stuffed animals, stuff like that. And… yeah, there’s a large picture of the girls, the family put it up.”

“We need to get out there, Hotch,” Derek urges.

“I’m going with you,” you say.

“How far is that from the water tower?” Spencer asks.

“A few miles,” Nielson replies. “Faster if you cut through a field.”

You slide your phone into your pocket and follow Derek and Hotch out of the police station. For the first time since you met Tim Bradford, your roles have reversed, and you may be the only thing standing between him and something he’ll never come back from. He’s saved you more than once, and you plan on returning the favor.

“Slow down,” Penelope instructs, her voice clear through Hotch’s speakers. “You’re approaching the curve where the accident happened.”

“Guys,” you say. “Oscar’s calling.”

Hotch slows, steering the SUV onto the grassy shoulder beside the road. He keeps his eyes up, but Derek turns in the passenger seat to watch you as you answer the call.

“You have one chance to save yourself, Oscar,” you remind him.

“He’s unharmed,” Oscar grumbles. “But I’d like to offer a trade.”

“We had a deal.”

“Yes, but this one involves a better outcome for me.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you where I am, and you can come get me and your boy. In exchange, I want to assist in the search for Nicholas.”

“And then you’re going to jail for abducting a federal agent,” Derek interjects.

“I’m not bartering with you,�� Oscar replies.

You meet Hotch’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and when you exhale shakily, he nods.

“You’ve got a deal, Oscar. But you’re on thin ice,” you respond.

“Excellent, that’s where I do my best skating. We’re in some nasty barn off 650.”

Hotch pulls back onto the road, hitting his blinker to turn onto a dirt path that travels straight toward the outbuilding Nielson pointed them toward.

“We’re here,” you tell Oscar. “We’re coming in and you-”

“Better not have a weapon, yes, I know.”

Derek pulls the large sliding door open, and you enter behind Hotch, who raises his gun. Oscar lifts his hands lazily, and Tim stares at you from the back corner of the barn. You walk around Hotch and straight toward Tim.

“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching up to release the knotted rope holding his hands above his head.

“You can apologize later,” he replies. “Oscar’s not our guy.”

“We know. That’s what I was calling to tell you. I had it all wrong.”

“And now?”

You lift your brows quickly, silently acknowledging that you aren’t sure what you have now. You push higher onto your tiptoes before you stumble and place your hand on Tim’s chest to right yourself just as his hands fall from the pole above him. He catches you, his hands firm against your waist as you tip toward him. Looking into his eyes, you don’t move back. At least not until Derek clears his throat.

“Oscar has an idea of who might consider Nicholas as a perfect sacrifice,” Hotch says. “If you’re ready.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” you agree, stepping back.

As you exit the building, you notice the air is growing uncomfortably humid. With your hand against your forehead, you look up at the sky. Thick, dark clouds are gathering in the north, and the wind shifts to blow against your right side.

“There’s a storm coming,” you point out. “A bad one.”

“You think it’s time?” Derek inquires.

“Time for what?” Tim asks.

You drop your voice and say, “Whoever has Nic is going to kill him in some grand display.”

“Where?”

Shrugging, you admit, “Maybe the water tower, maybe somewhere else.”

Tim lifts his brows, then says, “Sounds like you need to do your job instead of worrying about me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you suffer me,” Tim deadpans. “Let’s go.”

“Without a solid lead, we’re going to have to split up,” Hotch explains back at the station. “There are three potential targets for the killing site. The water tower, the top of the hotel - again, or a barn out towards the lakes.”

“But there’s only five of us,” Spencer points out.

“Six,” Hotch corrects. “Bradford’s team was called up to Salt Lake City for a counterterrorism case, but he’s still here.”

“So, we’re sending two people out, so the lucky couple gets to fight a crazed psychopath who kills people with electricity,” Derek reiterates snappishly.

“During a lightning storm,” JJ adds.

“We really can’t narrow this down more?” you inquire. “What about the lead Oscar gave us? Lev Davids?”

“I’d recommend going that route,” Tim interrupts, entering the private office. “Oscar finally told me why he suspects Lev.”

“A criminal he looked up to?” you guess.

Tim nods, and his eyes remain locked on yours as he says, “Monica Stevens.”

The rest of your team turns to look at you, and you stand.

“Tim,” you begin. “I have no idea who that is.”

“Right, sorry, after your time. She’s a corrupt lawyer, she worked for Elijah Stone and Abril.”

“Now those names we know,” Derek announces, smiling again. “I’ll get Penelope on their trails, see what she can find.”

“We only have fifteen minutes before the storm is here,” Spencer says. “Not much time to find someone and get there. And if we’re wrong, we’ll be too late.”

“Then we split up, as planned,” Hotch replies. “If Garcia finds something or someone gets a better lead, we reconvene. For now, it’s our only choice.”

“Why don’t we ask Nielson for officers to help us?” JJ asks.

“We can, but they’re not trained in hostage negotiations and don’t understand the psychology of someone who would do this. There’s too much risk leading them in all the way.”

“We’ll take the water tower,” you say, walking toward Tim.

“I was going to send you with Derek,” Hotch argues.

“Send him with Spencer,” you suggest. “You know we can do this, Hotch. Besides, he may not even go to the water tower.”

Hotch sighs, shaking his head with a hand on his hip. He looks more like a father of five than someone leading a highly trained group of federal agents, but he trusts you. So, he lets you go.

“What are the chances we’re walking into the middle of a storm?” you ask, bracing yourself against the wind as you exit the station.

“You’re talking metaphorically, right?” Tim checks, opening the door for you. “This is going to be awful.”

“That’s not comforting!”

Tim prepares to close the door as he says, “It’s true.”

Your phone buzzes as Tim steers the car around a large rock. The water tower looms above you, tall and imposing against the dark storm clouds. Thunder rumbles in the distance, growing closer as the car shakes with its intensity.

“Garcia hacked into Stevens’ computer; Lev is planning to use the water tower,” you communicate. “She isn’t sure what their connection is or what Stevens’ motivation is for encouraging him to do this, but she’s still working.”

“We can’t wait,” Tim says, glancing at his watch. “The storm’s about to intensify.”

You reach for the door handle and say, “Then let’s do this.”

The wind closes the car door harder than you intended, and you draw your shoulders up, hoping Lev didn’t hear the noise. As you approach the water tower, you adjust your holster so your gun will be accessible even as you climb 150 feet into the air while the wind blows nearly 60 miles an hour.

“Any words of encouragement?” you ask Tim, looking up the metal ladder that seems to reach far past the clouds.

“The chance of tornadoes is low,” he replies over the wind.

Looking over your shoulder, you exclaim, “That is not encouraging! Or comforting!”

Tim lays his hand on your back, leans forward, and promises, “I’m right behind you.”

You nod, take a deep breath, and wrap your hands around the ladder rung. Tim boosts you slightly, and you can feel the metal shift in the wind. Climbing up, you remind yourself not to look down and keep moving as fast as possible without compromising your safety or Tim’s.

“Cavalry is here,” he says as you near the halfway point.

“I really hope they brought a sniper,” you grumble.

Lightning flashes brightly, striking nearly to the ground in the not-far distance, and you hold the ladder tighter as thunder follows it. You’re nearly out of time, and if Lev is ahead of schedule or planning for more lightning, you may be too late to save Nic. Worse, you realize, is that you may be unable to save yourself. Climbing onto a giant metal lightning conductor during a severe thunderstorm was a job requirement today, but it may not have been your best idea ever. You and Tim are on your own, and you have to save a life, keep yourselves safe, and then find a way off this tower before the storm worsens.

Nearing the top, you slow, attempting to gauge where Nic and Lev are. Before you can guess, you hear footsteps. Tim sees the shadow of someone approaching the ladder and climbs several rungs. His chest presses against your back as he wraps his arms around the side of the ladder. You trust him to hold your weight as you let go of the ladder and pull your gun from its holster.

“You need to go!” Lev yells.

“Not going to happen,” Tim replies. “Put your hands where we can see them, and this gets easier.”

“I have to finish! My mission is nearly complete!”

“Your mission?” you repeat. “Or Monica’s mission?”

Lev doesn’t reply, and his shadow remains in place.

“Don’t do this for someone who doesn’t care about you, Lev,” you implore. “There’s more in this world. There’s better people. You can have a life. But not if you do this.”

“You don’t know what I can have,” Lev argues.

He walks toward the top of the ladder, and you aim up and ahead of you before you pull the trigger. Lev drops to the metal balcony as the bullet whizzes by. It cracks loudly when it impacts the tank.

“Go, go,” Tim instructs in your ear.

You slide your gun into the holster quickly and pull yourself up the last few rungs. When you grip the handrail and spin onto the balcony, Lev is gone. Tim joins you, pulling his rifle off his back and into his hands. You duck when another lightning strike flashes, but you can’t focus on the storm now.

“The storm is coming from the north,” Tim reminds you, whispering as he leans toward you. “That means he’s probably on that side.”

You nod, looking over his shoulder quickly before you point toward the north, the opposite side of the tank. He gives you hand signals as the rumbling thunder softens. You will lead the way, and Tim will ensure Lev doesn’t sneak up behind you. It’s a dangerous game of cat and mouse you’re caught in. There is no choice but to play, however, and you distantly wonder if this is what Jamie felt like in the book. But Jamie didn’t have his own gun, you remember. Or Tim Bradford watching his six.

 The first raindrop landing on your cheek is an omen, a reminder that even when you get to the other side of the balcony, this is just beginning. As the sporadic drops become a steady downpour, you fight the urge to lower your gun and wipe your face. Tim moves silently behind you, and you wish you were back in Quantico. You wonder what you’d be feeling right now if you had just told you care about him when you had the chance. It’s gone now, and nothing you can do will change that. If you survive this storm, you’ll face Tim Bradford, unafraid and determined. The rain may saturate your clothes as you hear someone screaming in pure fear, but Tim has the unrivaled power to transform your life like heavy rain, cleansing and shaping you just by being near you.

“Steady,” Tim murmurs behind you.

He taps your left shoulder, and you look in that direction. Your eyes widen when you see the large metal pole extending from the side of the tower. It wasn’t in any of the pictures you reviewed of the city, so you know Lev is deviating from the book, no longer trusting nature to do the job for him unassisted.

“He’s scared,” you whisper.

“That’s not comforting,” Tim replies.

“Lev,” you call, pressing yourself against the tank. “Do you like Revival?”

“There has to be more,” he says, raising his voice over the rain. “This is only the beginning.”

“Did Monica promise you that?” Tim asks.

“This isn’t about her!” Lev screams. “It’s about me and what I deserve!”

“Life in prison?”

“No! Vindication!”

You glance at Tim, and his expression mirrors yours. Lev is having a mental breakdown, and you don’t have the time to pull him back to reality.

“Last chance to surrender,” Tim tells him. “If you don’t, we will drop you.”

Lev barks a laugh. “You’re too late!”

At the bottom of the water tower, Hotch looks up, covering his brow with his hand as he attempts to find you and Tim. Derek argues with Spencer about whether or not someone should go up after you, but JJ remains in the car.

“Garcia,” she greets when her phone rings.

“Monica was taken into custody,” Penelope says. “She alluded to the fact that Lev didn’t know the entire plan and that she intended for him to die on that tower too.”

“He’s just a pawn?” JJ clarifies.

“Something like that. The tower is a death trap.”

JJ ends the call and rushes out of the car. “Hotch!” she yells over the thunder. “Stevens expects Lev to die up there!”

“I’m going up,” Derek decides.

“No, you aren’t,” Hotch replies. He looks up again, rain falling on his face. “We’re too late to change anything.”

“Then we should at least warn them!”

“Are you crazy?” Spencer inquires. “Cell phone usage is inviting a lightning strike. At their altitude and the current barometric pressure, they’d die before the line connected.”

“We can’t just stand here!” Derek exclaims.

“I understand you care about her,” Hotch says. “We all do. But… Whatever happens now is in her hands.”

Derek steps toward Hotch with his hands fisted at his sides. “If she doesn’t come down, it’s on us.”

“And we’ll all have to live with that. If- If she doesn’t come down.”

Spencer ducks and Hotch turns toward him before something hits the ground. Derek glances toward the sky and then retrieves it. He holds up two cell phones before tapping the screens to wake them.

“Either they’re alive and taking precautions or Lev is crazier than we thought,” he muses.

“Crazy is a generic term,” Spencer points out.

“Which the FBI frowns upon,” Hotch continues. “But this psycho has two FBI agents up there in a deadly storm, so let’s make an exception, Reid.”

You shake your hand after tossing your phone over the railing. Your gun has metal in it, and your back is against a giant steel plate, but limiting the dangers on your person seemed like a good idea when Tim whispered the suggestion. Lightning strikes in a nearby field, and Tim turns toward you, pushing his arm over your torso. It won’t make a difference when the storm is directly above you. Yet, the idea that he’s still protecting you after everything you’ve done and said makes you wrap your hand around his forearm.

“Tim,” you murmur. “If we die up here, I need you to know that I never meant to hurt you. Leaving was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I don’t regret joining the FBI, but I do regret leaving you without an explanation.”

“I never blamed you,” Tim replies. “I- I still-”

“Don’t,” you interrupt. “We can’t change it.”

“But I can say it now.”

You look into Tim’s eyes, rain running down both your faces. If you weren’t in immediate peril and convinced today is the day you’ll die, you might find it somewhat romantic.

“Let’s finish this,” Tim whispers.

You nod and step forward, raising your gun toward Lev.

“Drop it!” you demand as he pulls a long chain toward the rail.

“Help!” someone calls, his voice muffled.

“Nic?” you ask.

He hums, and you lower to your knee, giving Tim a clear shot of Lev. Moving forward, low against the tank, you round the valves on the northwest bend in the balcony. Nic comes into view, and your heart drops. He is wrapped in chains, and secured to a metal chair against the side of the tank. The metal rod you saw earlier extends into the sky, anchored between Nic’s feet.

“What are you doing?!” Lev screams.

He pulls the chain tighter before he lunges toward you. Another loud thunderclap nearly drowns out Tim’s gunshot. You stand as the world seems to slow, reaching forward as Lev stumbles back. He topples over the balcony rail, and you are several inches short of catching him.

The chain stops unraveling, suspending Lev as he hangs from the tower. Tim pulls the strap on his rifle so it’s against his back once more before he pulls you away from the rail.

“We have to get the rod down!” he reminds you.

You nod, letting the rain wash away the guilt of not catching Lev. He had every chance to surrender, and he was going to hurt you. Tim did what he was supposed to do, exactly what you would have done.

You pull the rod at the base, and it slides up through the grating of the balcony with a sharp screech sound. Tim takes it from your hands, tipping it over the edge just before a nearby tree cracks, struck by lightning.

“We don’t have time to get him freed and down,” Tim points out.

“Go,” you implore, holding Tim’s wet vest. “I can free him, and we’ll hunker down. You can get down.”

“I’m not leaving you up here!”

“Tim, if one of us-”

Tim raises his hands to your face, holding you as his eyes bore into yours. “I’m not leaving you.”

You nod slowly, then step back and search for the end of the chain. The metal links are wet, your hands are wet, and the air turns eerily still and quiet as rolling thunder echoes against the metal.

“I can’t find it!” you exclaim, your hands pushed into the metal.

Tim stands above you, his legs against your back while he begins pulling the chains up over Nic’s head. “This is going to hurt,” he warns.

“I don’t care,” Nic replies through chattering teeth. “Just get me out of here, please.”

You shift to reach the loops around Nic’s legs. You don’t notice that the chains have been filed while you pull the tightened chains over his feet. Sharp points line the outermost links, and they dig into Nic’s skin and yours.

“Go, go,” Tim exclaims as he drops a heavy bundle of chains onto the balcony.

You stand as Nic does, and he limps past Tim as he moves toward the ladder. Rather than following, you’re distracted by a black shadow in the other direction.

“What are you doing?” Tim calls.

“There’s a rubber mat,” you reply.

Tim’s eyes widen as he calls Nic back, but you turn to look at the sky.

“Tim,” you say.

“Yeah, we’re coming.”

“No, it’s too quiet.”

Tim moves to your side as Nic stands atop the rubber mat. He follows your gaze, but there’s nothing to see besides fields, sparse houses over the land, and trees swaying in the wind.

“Please don’t be a tornado,” you say to the sky.

Tim grips your upper arms and steers you to the mat. On it, you have a better – though admittedly not great – chance of surviving a lightning strike. The insulation will help, but it may not be enough.

“It’s not big enough,” you realize as Tim stops.

He looks down at your feet and Nic’s. There isn’t room for him to join you on the safer material, so you step back onto the metal.

“Get on it,” Tim demands.

Shaking your head, you make up your mind. Wherever Tim is, that’s where you’ll be. He puts his hands on your waist and attempts to push you back. Your tears mix with the rain, but when you lay your hands on his chest, he hears your breath catch as you cry.

“I can’t do this,” you admit, gripping his shirt at his collar.

Tim hesitates, then turns so that you’re facing the mat. He steps back onto it, then pulls you forward. Against his chest, he directs your legs so that they’re bracketing his. Your left foot is between Tim’s, and your right is against the side of his boot. Nic shifts slightly to make room for you. Only then do you notice the blood.

“Nic, are you okay?” you ask.

He nods, then raises his hand to his neck. “It’s just a scratch. The chains,” he explains.

You glance at your hands and notice that they’re similarly marked. Holding tightly to Tim, you brace yourself as the tower sways gently in the strengthening wind. Tim glances at his watch and cradles your head against him.

“It’s here,” he murmurs.

Closing your eyes, you pretend that you and Tim are hugging for any other reason. Try to pretend that tomorrow is promised and that Tim will believe anything you confess.

“In the car,” Spencer demands. “It’s not safe out here.”

“JJ, call the fire department,” Hotch requests as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “We need them here as soon as the storm passes.”

“Do you think they’re okay?” Derek asks, glancing out the window at the man hanging from the tower.

“That’s not Tim,” Spencer reminds him. “Different build; it has to be Lev.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

Derek’s phone rings, but he sends Penelope to voicemail. The car brightens with the next lightning strike, and the bright red flash at the water tower’s highest point isn’t promising.

JJ covers her mouth while Derek drops his head into his hands. Hotch sighs, looking at the wheel rather than the tower beside them.

You groan before you open your eyes. Tim’s hand moves slowly across your lower back as Nic mumbles.

“I feel like I’m buzzing,” you murmur.

“Storm’s moving,” Tim says. “Do we try to get down on our own or wait for the fire department?”

You look at Nic, the most injured member of your party.

“I’m ready to go,” he answers. “I don’t ever want to see another water tower.”

You smile as you stand straighter. Tim holds you steady as he taps his boot against the metal platform. Nothing happens, so he drops his hands to your hips as you step off the rubber.

Nic walks beside you, but as you near the ladder, he stops walking.

“I- I can’t feel my legs anymore,” he says.

His eyes roll back before he tips, losing consciousness. Tim catches him, lowering him gently to the balcony.

“I guess we’re waiting,” you mumble as you kneel beside him. “No burns. Indirect strike, I’d guess.”

“You can head down if you want to,” Tim tells you. “I’ll stay with him.”

“And I’ll stay with you.”

Tim nods. He offers his hand, and you squeeze it tightly as you move to sit. He sits beside you, and you lean against his shoulder.

“I want to tell you something,” you say. “But not now. I don’t want you to think that I’m just saying it because we could have died.”

“Will you answer a question?”

“Sure.”

“Was there ever a chance of starting something between us back in LA?”

You consider the question, rubbing your hands on your pants. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Ask me another question,” you request.

Tim notices your constant movement and lifts one of your hands. He brushes his finger along your wrist as he looks at the cuts and darkening bruises lining your skin.

“Why did you kiss me at the BAU?”

As you breathe together, the thunder grows quiet even as the sky remains dark and rain falls in steady sheets.

“I acted too fast,” you answer finally. “I tried to seize a second chance that I don’t think was there.”

“Is that why you stopped talking to me after?”

“It scared me,” you admit. “I messed up before. It kept me up at night for years, Tim.”

“Me too. But… Never mind.”

Your hand is still in Tim’s when you see first responder lights approaching. Some look like police, two or three firetrucks, and at least four ambulances.

“Care for a question?” you ask.

Tim smiles as he answers, “Sure.”

“Is there a chance of starting something between us now?”

Leaning forward, Tim looks into your eyes and says, “There never stopped being a chance after you came back.”

Smiling, you whisper, “I love you. I’ve loved you since I walked into Mid-Wilshire again.”

Before Tim can reply, a police cruiser siren sounds once. Derek speaks through the loudspeaker to threaten, “If you survived, I’m going to kill you.”

“What’s he going to do if we didn’t survive?” Tim asks.

“Kill Monica.”

Tim purses his lips and lifts one brow. “Might not be the worst thing.”

“Derek,” you groan. “Thank you for caring about me, but my head is throbbing, so could we save the lecture for later?”

He stops talking, and when you think he’s about to stomp his foot and start again, he wraps you in a hug.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, gorgeous,” he implores.

“I won’t,” you reply. “Although, it wasn’t on purpose this time.”

“Shh.” He tightens his grip on you, then steps back and salutes with a smile.

“Do you have a minute?” Hotch asks. “It’s not a lecture.”

You nod, then stand from your seat and join him at the back of the jet. Tim is in Los Angeles for a few days to work on the Monica case, and when he returns to Quantico, you have a lot to discuss. He isn’t aware of your new symptoms from being indirectly struck by lightning, but Spencer assured you they’re temporary.

“Are you okay?” Hotch asks softly.

“I’m… almost fine,” you reply. “That was terrifying, but I’ll be okay.”

“Well, you know the bureau offers counseling if you need anything, and I’m here, too.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What did you tell Bradford on that tower?”

Your eyes widen, and you search for the right words. “Just some shared history stuff.”

“You thought you were going to die. In that situation, people tend to say something they don’t mean or speak the truest statements in their lives.”

“Yeah,” you agree carefully. “Lots of confessions, real and imagined.”

“So,” Hotch continues, crossing his arms. “Which was yours?”

“You’re a profiler, you tell me.”

Hotch shakes his head at your smile but moves his arms to lay a hand on your shoulder.

“Be sure he meant what he said before you do anything you can’t take back,” he advises.

“You think he would speak emotionally?”

“In the right circumstances, we all can. Even a stoic like Bradford.”

“Are you speaking from experience, sir?”

“This is me giving you advice, not an interrogation, agent,” Hotch replies.

You nod, hiding your smile. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the advice.”

Hotch turns away, then looks over his shoulder. “One more thing. There’s a bet in the unit about whether or not you kissed up there, so maybe keep the specifics to yourself.”

“What do you think happened?” you ask.

“I know everything.”

“Even the art of romance?”

“I’m leaving now.”

You smile as you trail Hotch until you reach your seat. Derek watches you, then leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. JJ’s computer chimes before she tells you that Monica’s court date has been moved up.

“Bradford isn’t listed as testifying,” she adds.

“Is Lopez? Grey? Chen?”

“Yes, as well as Nolan and a few other officers from the division.”

“Then he’ll be there,” you reply. “Which means, Hotch, you may need someone to fill in for him and keep me safe.”

“You were a lot less reckless before daddy cop showed up,” Derek muses.

“Did you tell everybody about that?!” you exclaim.

He shrugs, practically admitting his guilt before he closes his eyes again. Tim texts you that he is staying in LA for a few more days. The following text, which says he’ll see you when he gets back, is the one that surprises you.

It’s just past 2 a.m. when someone knocks on your door. You roll over, pulling a pillow over your head. Unfortunately, the knocking doesn’t stop. You groan and retrieve your gun from your nightstand as you walk out of your room. At the door, you lean against it and press one eye to the peephole. Suddenly, as if you drank straight espresso, you’re wide awake and pulling the door open.

Tim’s hand raises to knock again, but he stops when you open the door and wrap him in a warm hug.

“Good morning,” he grunts as you collide with his chest.

“Morning,” you reply, your voice carrying traces of sleep.

Tim moves his right arm around your waist and carefully maneuvers back into your living room. He kicks the door closed behind him, drops his bag, and then notices your gun on the table by the door.

“Expecting someone else?” he asks, smiling.

“Not expecting anyone,” you reply, stepping back. Your hands remain on Tim's shoulders as you continue, “It’s a good surprise.”

“Sorry to wake you. I couldn’t wait to see you.”

“It’s fine. This one time.”

“How are you?” Tim asks, pushing your hair out of your face. He slides his fingers into your hair, pushing it up toward your roots gently. He watches your face as if he’s memorizing it, worshipping it. “Headaches gone?”

“How do you know about that?” you ask, tipping your head toward his hand. “Derek?”

“Spencer,” he corrects. “I got a lengthy message about letting you rest and not giving you a reason to be on your phone.”

“They’re good coworkers but they’re nosy.”

“They care about you.”

“Just them?”

Tim raises his other hand to your neck as he steps toward you. In the low light of your living room, only the streetlight outside illuminates your face and the space around you, and it’s as if you are the only people in the world. Tim looks at you like you alone matter. Like this moment is specially made for the two of you.

“They care about you,” Tim repeats. “I think I do a bit more than that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt sooner,” you say. “I… I know our relationship isn’t typical, but you deserved the truth.”

“I didn’t know, no, but I still would have fought for you. I didn’t know what I had until I lost it, and the decade I spent without you taught me that some things- that some people are worth fighting for.”

“You weren’t this nice to me as my TO,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over a scar on Tim’s neck.

He got it protecting you, although he yelled at you the entire time he was treated and bandaged. Tim shivers at your touch yet doesn’t shy away or attempt to hide behind the persona he wears to protect himself.

“What you said on the tower,” Tim says. “Ask me.”

“Do you love me?” you whisper.

“I fell in love with the idea of you the day we met,” he admits.

You recoil from his touch briefly, but he holds you close. “And then I realized that everything I felt, all of the bitterness and disappointment I associated with you, was because I wanted you, desired you, more than anything. I didn’t think I loved you because I’d never been in love like this before.”

“Do you love me?” you repeat, softer. As you step toward him, pressing your chests together, soft rain begins to fall outside.

“Yes,” Tim answers. “Of course I love you.”

His smile grows as you hug him. One arm wraps around your waist as the other remains in your hair, gently curling and uncurling his fingers. Using the hand in your hair, Tim tips your head so he can see your face. He leans forward and stops with a single breath between you.

“Who needs lightning when you’re here?” he jokes.

You roll your eyes and scoff. Before he says anything else, you move your arms over his shoulders and kiss Tim. It’s different than the kiss in Penelope’s office. This moment is slow, meaningful, and full of love, history, and new beginnings simultaneously. Tim lets his hand fall from your hair, trail over your side, and slip beneath your arm to hold your hip.

Tim takes slow steps to move you against the couch and then lifts you to sit on it. Once you settle, Tim breaks the kiss just long enough to take a breath, squeezing your hips as he breathes.

Diving back into you like you are oxygen at the bottom of the ocean or a safe haven in a lightning storm, Tim cradles your face in one hand as he splays his fingers across your back and holds you upright.

“Tim,” you say, repeating it several times before he presses his forehead against yours and lets you speak. “I meant what I said in the storm. That wasn’t my emotions. I’ve felt like this for a long time.”

Tim smiles. “Stop profiling this,” he grumbles before he lowers you onto the couch and hovers above you.

“There’s also a bet running about what we did on the tower.”

Tim lifts your head and moves your hair so it isn’t pulled or trapped beneath you. “Let them wonder,” he whispers before trailing kisses along your jaw and hairline.

“What have we got?” you ask as you enter the conference room.

“Wannabe Bonnie and Clyde,” Spencer answers.

You nod and sit beside Penelope, who narrows her eyes at you.

“What?” you whisper.

“You kissed daddy cop,” she accuses. Your brows raise, and she speaks up to add, “He came to see you as soon as he landed, didn’t he?!”

You look at Derek and mouth, You’re dead, but he smiles and blows you a kiss.

“In line with the theme,” Hotch says, drawing attention back to the case, “this couple is heavily armed.”

“Which our tactical sergeant would know something about,” Derek muses, smiling as he looks at the door.

You turn and see Tim standing in the doorway, wearing an FBI t-shirt.

“Thanks for coming, Bradford,” Hotch says. “We’re going to need backup for this one.”

“Of course, sir,” Tim replies.

After Hotch dismisses you, you wait until you’re alone in the room with Tim.

“Would telling them make the teasing stop?” he asks.

You lean against the table and cross your arms. “You’ve met them, right?”

“We could always pretend to hate each other.”

“Easier for you than me,” you argue.

Tim shakes his head as he takes your hand. He rubs his thumb over the nearly faded marks from the chains.

“We don’t have to tell them,” you say.

Tim’s brows raise as he asks, “You want to keep a secret from your team?”

“They’re outside the door.”

Tim glances toward the door as you stand from the table and pull it open, unsurprised when Derek stumbles inside as he tries to catch himself.

“Secret’s out,” you say flatly. “We good?”

“What about the bet?” Derek asks.

“Morgan,” Hotch warns.

“I mean, what bet? Who said anything about a bet?”

“My office is off limits,” Penelope says, pointing at you.

“Can we get back to work?” Tim asks.

“Excellent idea,” Hotch replies. Nobody moves, so he adds, “Now. Everybody.”

The room clears, and, this time, your team members return to their respective desks.

“Not you two,” Hotch says. “I had an idea to run past you.”

“Sure,” you answer, closing the door.

“Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Yes?” Tim presses.

“They’d be threatened by another couple.”

“Us?” you clarify, pointing between yourself and Tim.

“Only if it’s something you’d be comfortable with.”

You look at Tim, who tips his head toward you, giving you the final decision. It wouldn’t be much different than what you did in Los Angeles a few months ago or some of the lies you played into during your short time as a rookie. Besides, when else will you have a chance and an excuse to be that close while working?

You smile, and Hotch nods. “Pack your bags then,” he says. “You’re going back to California.”